“Fortunately for me, as it gave me my li_Public and Private Life of Animals Adapted from the French of Balzac, Droz, Jules Janin, E. Lemoine, A. De Musset, Georges Sand, &c.

done for himself, my gifted master, at the sound of the strife of

Grecian insurrection, determined to leave England, resolved to seek

a brilliant tomb. Some days before his departure, wishing to make

a last appearance in London, he profited by the representation of

Hamlet, one of his favourite plays, to show himself once more to

the British public. We drove to the theatre in an open carriage,

and found the place crowded as we seated ourselves in a stage-box.

Our appearance {315} created a tremendous sensation, all eyes and

eyeglasses were turned towards us; the ladies, bending over the

balconies, recalled lovely flowers peeping out from rocky clefts. All

were eager to get a glimpse of the great poet; so worshipful indeed

was this well-dressed crowd, that the play was totally disregarded

till the ghost of the prince stalked across the stage, and as a

tribute to Shakespeare, the great character of the phantom was

received with profound respect. The details of the tragedy appeared

to be of a nature to familiarise the spectators with our presence,

like the appropriate music which introduces and accompanies the hero

in an opera. But the ghost was too signal an evidence of creative

genius to be lightly passed over. This wonderful performance supplied

all the metropolitan journals with a glowing leader. It is to these

papers, for the past twenty years, we have been indebted for all the

political, philosophical, religious, and literary achievements of

learned Europe.

“Next day we embarked for France, and as good-luck would have it, my

master made a roundabout journey to visit some ruins.

“One evening when he was seated at the foot of an old tower, I

profited by the reverie in which he was plunged to make my escape.

For four days and nights I fled from mountain to mountain without

once looking behind. At last, on the evening of the fifth day, I

again found myself in the Pyrenees. In an excess of joy I knelt down

and kissed my native soil, after which I made for the cavern where

I first breathed the air. It was inhabited by an old friend of the

family, who told me that my parents were dead. After shedding a few

tears to their memory, I took up my abode on Mount Perdu, and made

myself a happy home.

“Although I am a poet in a small way, I love my wife, and find my

children perfect; they are moulded very much after their father’s

image. We do not see much company, almost none, save one or two

desperate duns, who thought so well of me as to come over here all

the way from London to “look me up,” as they say. Their excuse for

intruding on my privacy is that they frequently pass my way, and it

suddenly occurs to them they have each a trifling bill for Mr. Bear.

These scraps of paper are the tender links which bind me to the past,

and recall the licence of poetic inspiration. Happy is he who dwells

at home, and who has never drifted into doggerel!

“All I now require is to be left alone to the use of my natural

instincts, which have ripened under affliction, and to the enjoyment

{316} of the attributes with which nature has endowed me. I have

been long in discovering my true self. Now that I have found the

rascal, I will keep watch over him, and prove to the world that my

wandering life has not been wholly spent in pursuits of vanity.

[Illustration]

“What more do I require? Does not the naïad of the rock distil from

the elements an exhaustless store of water to quench my thirst? {317}

The beloved tree of Cybele, does it not shelter my dwelling with

its evergreen boughs? Above all, when the day’s toil is ended and I

return laden with the trophies of the chase, have I not a devoted

partner to welcome me home?

“I have now no ambition save one, and that is to make the

acquaintance of that heavenly constellation which bears our noble

name.”

{318}

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN.

_VOYAGE ABOVE THE CLOUDS._

CHAPTER OF DREAMS.

[Illustration]

I was dead.

Dead as one perhaps dies when uncertain whether it is better to

live or to die; dead without knowing when or how. I had indeed died

painlessly, pleasantly, and mysteriously.

So easily had my life left my body, so little had it suffered in

quitting the form of clay, that at first my body did not perceive the

change.

Of the precise moment when from a living Turtle-dove I became a

corpse, I remember nothing, unless it be that before death the moon

shone brightly in a cloudless sky; and when my astonished spirit

made out that it had fulfilled its duty on earth, the moon had not

ceased to shine, and the sky was still cloudless. Probably my death,

far from quenching the light of the moon, or sending the sky into

mourning, had made no visible change in earth or heaven. What can it

matter to fruitful nature whether a creature like me lives or dies?

Yet after all, we are assured that a Sparrow shall not fall to the

ground without its heavenly Father. {319}

II.

I have no doubt my spirit rejoiced at finding itself free, since it

could have no real love for a body so impotent to respond to its

lofty aspirations. In truth, many times in the days of their union

my poor flesh had been almost left alone to look after itself, while

my spirit dreamt at ease of some peculiar mythical world. Is it not

possible during dreams that the body is quietly left to slumber

while the spirit roams about in ethereal realms of its own? First it

carefully lays a telegraphic line from its slumbering solid dwelling

on earth, and in an instant traverses space, sending back to the

living brain flashes of strange intelligence from other spheres.

III.

Yet the spirit mourned, seeing its old tenement, whose strength and

weakness, beauty and deformity, were all so familiar, falling into

decay, marking the dissolution that had already set in, and would

before long yield up the materials to the four winds of heaven and

to the earth that supplied them. The spirit exclaimed, “Why was I

thus released without a moment’s warning? The light has left the

bright eye, nor will the wings respond to my wish. I cannot bear this

parting! Awake, mute form! awake! cast a loving glance across the

bright scene! Wake, and tell me our union was not a dream! Alas! then

it must be farewell.”

IV.

For the first time the appeal of the spirit remained unanswered. Why

love that which must die? Since we cannot enjoy the hope of eternity,

let us part!

Of men alone it is written that their spirits after death shall at

some future time reunite with the body, when the soul shall recognise

and reanimate its ancient dust. Nevertheless, I have dreamt that the

Dove shall again rise from the dead.

The silence of night was alone disturbed by the falling leaves—for

they too must die—and by the distant approach of a bird of prey.

{321} Tender flowers, green leaves that once sheltered my poor

frame, bend over it now and screen its beauty from the impious

Vulture.

[Illustration]

Alas! the dread sound came nearer and yet nearer, and the deep shadow

of the bird of doom fell on the peaceful remains.

VI.

A musical voice hailed me from the air and bade me follow.

Instinctively I floated upward with my spirit guide, who seemed to

bear me on invisible wings far beyond the range of earth.

VII.

In a moment the past was severed from the future, all memory of my

former being vanished. I soared through space without an effort,

obeying my new condition implicitly, just as on earth one loves and

thinks without knowing why one does so, or how thought and love have

come to form so important a part of our earthly lives.

VIII.

I had floated away so far from the world that it seemed nothing more

than a bright speck in an ocean of immensity. For a moment I recalled

my loss, the body I had left behind, and exclaimed, “Shall the joys

of my future banish regret, or is sorrow also eternal?”

IX.

Is there no link in heaven to bind one to what is dear on earth? Has

my life among mortals been a dream? Still I was wafted upward and

onward to a region full of stars, where I passed from one orb to

another. Bright stars, whither am I going? But the stars, yielding no

response, noiselessly ranged themselves to light me on my way.

I was floating in a realm of light. Space spread out before me like

an azure veil studded with diamonds. But the light of the stars was

eclipsed by a greater refulgence. Filled with awe, I paused, and

the voice—more silvery than the sweetest tones of earth—whispered,

“Follow me, we shall only stop in a blissful region. You are at the

{322} gates of paradise. Follow me and fear not, doubt not. Doubt is

born of the devil, faith is an attribute of heaven.

XI.

The speaker was a purified immortal, the spirit of a snow-white Dove

that death had taken in all the beauty of its youth, unsullied by the

sight of human misery. Its mission was to receive and guide liberated

spirits on their way to the new world.

XII.

I then saw—what I had not been able to perceive before, owing to

the imperfection of my sight—many disembodied spirits, each, like

myself, floating towards some resting-place. My first sensation on

finding myself in such company was fear mingled with a vague hope

which impelled me onwards. “Sweet spirit,” I said to my guide, “the

Turtle-dove’s paradise, is it far?”

“See,” he replied, smiling at my impatience—“see yonder orb alone.

There is the seventh heaven, where our arrival is awaited.”

Who can want me there? I thought. Is it still alive?

XIII.

Ascending beyond worlds and spheres without number, we alighted at

a gate whence shone the most dazzling light, eclipsing the sun in

brightness. Above the portal was inscribed in letters of fire, “Here

is the abode of undying love;” and beneath, “Here is no change save

that of ever-growing love.” The door flew open, but what can I say

of the sight revealed to my gaze? No words of mine can picture the

glorious light which, without pain or strain of vision, revealed

everything so clearly that the minutest details of the picture could

be seen and understood.

XIV.

“I now leave you,” said my guide, “at the threshold of your new

home.” The words still lingered in my ears when I beheld a pearly

cloud in the sky; it was my treasure, my Turtle-dove, winging its

flight towards me.

“Ah!” I cried, “pure spirit of my sister, do I indeed behold you,

my {323} sister?” She came, and our hearts were filled with a sacred

joy, for she knew me and loved me still.

She had not changed; yet she seemed brighter, whiter, more beautiful,

and as I looked, her beauty, like the beauty of a great painting,

only increased. “Ah! my well-beloved and long-lost sister, this is

indeed a joyous meeting. When I heard of your death the pain preyed

upon me, and I soon followed you, for grief broke my heart.” Who

dares to disbelieve in happiness? Alas! is it not a dream?

XV.

Alas! it was a dream. . . .

But why awake from such a dream? This dream that had carried me

through space and filled me with unmixed joy, had been of so short

duration that I awoke to find nothing had changed on earth. The moon

still shone in the clear sky. Nothing, indeed, proved real save the

bird of prey circling through the air near my nest.

NOTES ON THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR OF THIS CURIOUS FRAGMENT.

We deem it our duty to place before our readers some biographical

details concerning the author of the foregoing fragment, handed to us

by the governor of a lunatic asylum.

“The author of these strange imaginings was early left an orphan. His

parents without warning, without even leaving their future address,

left him one morning while his young beak was deep in slumber, buried

in his callow down. Yet these good birds, owing to the gentleness

and simplicity of their habits, left a doubtful reputation behind

them, the only inheritance of our young hero. A sympathetic circle of

friends agreed that they had come to an untimely end, nothing short

of death could have caused them to abandon their child. One or two

old Magpies there were, who, putting their heads together, whispered

among themselves that Parisian Doves were not so good as they looked,

and that they had purposely deserted the youngster, who interfered

with the pursuit of their own pleasure.

[Illustration]

“Be that as it may, the parents were never again seen or heard of,

and the little one struggled on wonderfully, being greatly indebted

to the good offices of some poor but true-hearted thrifty friends. As

soon as the orphan could leave the deserted home and trust himself

to his {325} wings, he commenced a search which only ended in

disappointment, for the lost ones were nowhere to be found. For all

that, day after day he persevered in his vain efforts, saying, ‘I

must find my parents, or perish in the attempt!’

“In one of his journeys he fell in with a young Ringdove, who at

once won his heart, first attracted by her guileless beauty and

then conquered by her sympathy. But being an honest bird, this new

sentiment in his breast could not tempt him from the path of duty;

on the contrary, it only stimulated him to greater exertion, and he

winged his flight anew. ‘I will return,’ he said; ‘my true love will

wait for me.’ So he left, and she waited till her patience was worn

out by waiting, and then wedded another.

“After many days of fruitless search our Dove returned to seek his

bride, and found her surrounded by the family of his rival. The blow

was too much for him, it broke his heart and drove him mad.

“Perhaps the Ringdove might have waited his return, had not his

rival poisoned the ear of his mistress by whispering strange rumours

about infidelity. When her first love returned she was seized with

remorse and despair. What could she do? Like a sensible Ringdove, she

continued to be a good mother, redoubling her care for her little

ones, and doing her duty towards her husband, while her sorrows were

buried deep in her own breast. No one knew her secret, even her most

intimate friends, looking on her snug home, said, ‘How happy she must

be!’ The same remark is made of a great many who have never known

what happiness is.

“As for the poor Turtle-dove, he was perfectly harmless in his

insanity, betaking himself constantly to the top of a mountain, where

he dreamed away his days. That for which he had sought in vain in the

solid realities of earth, perchance he found in dreamland, where at

times even the wise ones of the world would like to abide. But, alas!

they too must awake and be recalled to the rude realities of life.

“After his death, beneath a heap of leaves was found a manuscript

entitled ‘Memoirs of a Madman,’ ‘Happiness is made of Dreams.’ It was

really a poem in prose, written straight from the heart, free from

the fetters of rhyme.”

Some feathered wits may be disposed to smile at the poor Turtle-dove,

his misfortunes and writings. All we need say to such gaily-disposed

critics is, that they have none of the gentle attributes of our

loving but weak Ringdove. {326}

_P.S._—Out of consideration for those who dislike anything obscure in

a story, we may add that the Ringdove, having reared her brood, when

she heard of the fate of her first love, died of a broken heart.

Practical-minded Sparrows, and other common members of the feathered

tribe, may think that the story would have been better as a whole had

the lovers wedded and lived happily together. All we can say to this,

as faithful narrators, is, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

[Illustration]

{327}

LETTERS FROM A SWALLOW TO A CANARY REARED IN A CONVENT.

THE SWALLOW’S FIRST LETTER.

[Illustration]

At last, dear friend, I am free and flying with my own wings. Far

behind me I can still descry the horrible barrier of Mount Parnassus,

and the equally dreary plateau of social conformity, which I had

already crossed. In the air which I breathe, and in my freedom of

flight, there is truly an intoxicating charm. On starting I cast

a scornful glance on my companions, the Swallows who prefer the

solitude and obscurity of their deplorable existence to all the

world and all its joys. You may think me puffed up with vanity, one

of the meanest of vices, when I tell you that nature never intended

me to do the work of a builder, for which all the wretched females

of our race seem to have an aptitude. Let them spend their youth in

building, in polishing with beak and wing the inside and outside

of their dwellings. Let them, I say, continue to construct their

homes with as great toil as if the frail tenements in which they

rear families were to last for ever. My efforts to enlighten them

have been fruitless, and I leave all those to their fate who fail

to profit by the experience contained in the following account of

my travels. I perhaps ought to congratulate myself on having no

travelling companion, and never being tempted wholly to give up my

heart and independence to another. You have often told me in a tone

of friendly severity that, constituted as I am, I could never submit

to {328} the guidance of another, however much, by reason of youth

and inexperience, I was incapable of guiding myself. For all that, I

have followed my own course in spite of your sage advice, and I am

proud of it. You have cursed my craving for seeing the world, which

has carried me far from yourself and your wise counsels. It is true

I greatly esteem your friendship and value your advice. The one has

often lightened my sad heart, while the other, although good, has

rarely been followed by me. I have fully understood your dread of

adventure, but it has never influenced my pursuits. Our lives and our

ways have nothing in common, and our meeting only shows all the more

clearly the divergence of our courses in the world. Our thoughts do

not harmonize, and our hopes do not point to the same end.

You first beheld the day through the bars of a prison in which you

must live and die a captive, and the notion that beyond these bars

lie a boundless horizon and liberty has never entered your head.

Doubtless had such a thought crossed your mind, you would have

crushed it as men are said to stifle the whisperings of the devil.

I was brought forth beneath the roof of an old deserted house in the

corner of a wood. The first noise that fell upon my ears was the wind

whistling through the trees. It was a sweet sound, the very thought

of it wakes pleasant memories.

The first sight that met my eyes was that of my brothers poising

themselves on the edge of the nest before flying away never to

return. Soon I followed them.

While I was thus beginning my career, you had reached maturity,

and your faint warblings had ripened into rich melody. Those who

imprisoned you gave you food, and you blessed them for it. I should

have cursed them, my gentle friend! When the sun shone brightly they

placed your cage outside the window, never thinking that sunstroke

might cut you off. No, you were their slave, so that all seemed for

the best from your narrow point of view. As for myself, I followed

the life of my nomadic tribe, sharing its toils and dangers, and

gladly submitting to the privations experienced on our journeys. I

became strong to suffer, and so long as I had free air, I forgot

that there was little else in my lot worth having. To crown all, you

readily accepted the husband provided for you, and implicitly obeyed

his slightest wishes. It was of course necessary you should obey some

one, and perhaps as well that your master should be your husband. You

are now surrounded by a numerous family whom you love; you {329} are

a model wife and mother. My ambition does not extend so far. Were

I surrounded by a bevy of little screamers such as yours, I should

die. Your devoted and much-loved husband would also be a terrible

bore. Love, alas! has torn my poor heart so deeply during the time

it became its temporary abode, that I have barred the door for ever

against the foolish passion.

I am aware of your cruel opposition to the recital of my griefs, and

you were kind enough to attribute my fall to the slight importance

I myself attached to the duration of a union you thought should be

eternal. You are welcome to say whatever you like, but you need never

hope to find the true clue to our misery in such unions.

Society is wrongly modelled from beginning to end, and so long as the

dry-rot of conventionality is left to destroy its foundation there

will be no happiness for superior beings or loving spirits. Not until

the entire structure is levelled with the ground.

I entrust my letter to a bird of passage who will cross your

latitude; the postman is so impatient to continue his course that I

am compelled to postpone the details of my journey.

THE SWALLOW’S SECOND LETTER.

I have striven to beguile the days of absence by relating my

experiences as they occur _en route_, knowing that loving hearts find

a charm in incidents the most simple and the most indifferent to

strangers. The weather favours my progress, and nature is arrayed in

her gayest attire. It seems, indeed, as if the kindly sun shone her

brightest to cheer me on my way.

I have made a multitude of new acquaintances, nevertheless you

need neither feel jealous nor uneasy on my account. I have not the

leisure, still less the desire, to make friends, although I am

forced at times to halt and acknowledge courtesies, as my quality of

stranger has opened the hearts and homes of many hospitable tribes.

Notwithstanding the fact that pressing invitations pour in upon me,

I studiously refuse to accept them, preferring as I do my wandering

life, full of all that is unexpected and capricious, above the

daintiest fare and the finest society.

You predicted ennui and disenchantment. I still happily await the

advent of these foes, taking my amusements when and where I find

{330} them. Up to the present moment these last have come unbidden

to my door.

This morning I breakfasted _tête-à-tête_ with the most accomplished

singer I have ever heard, a Nightingale, who, willingly yielding to

my entreaties, at the close of our repast sang some of his favourite

pieces.

[Illustration]

It was not without a feeling of vanity that I thought of those who

would have given anything to fill my place. All distinctions, you

know, {331} are flattering, and the one which made me the sole

listener to harmony so divine, made me more important in my own eyes.

I was strongly impressed with the simplicity of the artist. Seeing

him so _négligé_ in his dress, so careless in his posture and manner,

no one would have thought that he was a person so distinguished, at

least I have still a strange illusion that prompts me to look for

talent only beneath a grave and dignified exterior. I have discovered

that this is simply an illusion, you will therefore admit I have made

some progress.

This remarkable tenor informed me that he lives for his pleasure,

the best mode of living one can adopt; so he said, but I doubted

the soundness of the opinion, and was careful not to be led away by

doctrine so heterodox.

A happy and useless existence is not what I dream of, I who have the

faculties of feeling and understanding. My desire is to add one more

stone to the edifice which is rising up in the shade on the ruins of

a dying civilisation. I have thought for some time of entering upon

a literary career—all my tastes lie in that direction—as it would

enable me to carry out my schemes for the regeneration of females.

This question has absorbed my attention from my earliest youth. I can

picture you smiling at what you call my folly and ambition, let me

tell you once for all, you can no more conceive the pure happiness to

which I aspire than I can accept life in your style.

But what does it matter; although we differ in opinion, our

friendship is true, lasting, and sincere. The charming sweetness

of your character enables you to overlook my faults and my extreme

vivacity, and in return I hope that my deep regard helps to render

your captivity less galling and monotonous.

I have just left my amiable songster, and, strange as it may appear,

without regret. My curiosity and thirst for knowledge increase

daily since I have at last begun to see and learn. A Jay whom I met

in the environs preceded me, and promised to warmly recommend me

on her way. In short, I can never find space to name, far less to

praise, all those who have received me with a fraternal welcome. Had

I followed your timid advice, I should have been constantly on my

guard against tokens of affection, in case they might be held out

as snares to betray me. But when I reflect on the life you lead, I

am not surprised to find you swayed by warped notions of the world

and its winged tribes. You cannot form just impressions of objects

seen through the bars of a cage, they must appear distorted and

confused. It must be so. You {332} have never left your retreat,

and your little world is filled by five or six creatures, objects

of affection; all this renders it impossible for you to give an

intelligent account of things of which you know absolutely nothing,

or to appreciate without error what you have never seen.

It is true your youth was passed in a spacious aviary, where you

respectfully received the lessons and counsels of some old fellows

reputed for their wisdom; even these venerable teachers never

breathed the air of liberty, and the sort of experience of which they

were proud they owed solely to their great age, and not to free and

independent research. I feel certain that I shall learn all these

sages knew, and more, in a single journey. Before, indeed, I can

venture to advocate reform in any shape I must travel, and read the

living books in birds of every feather. I must study the degrading

positions into which females of many so-called civilised lands have

drifted, and find out how best to befriend them. My heart is filled

by immense projects, and I need not disguise the fact that I may not

see you for many days.

Adieu, it is getting late; I continue my journey—always southwards.

THE CANARY TO THE SWALLOW.

Will this letter ever reach you, my child? It is impossible to say,

as I am ignorant of the direction of your last flight. I scarcely

venture to hope that one day your eyes will fall on these words of

maternal solicitude. Yet should fortune favour me, you will find that

my affection is still unchanged, although it manifests itself in

grumbling fears for the safety of a spirit so adventurous.

I grieved to see you set out on your journey, nor could I conceal

my apprehension for your safety. Unfortunately the union of our

hearts does not extend to our ideas, accordingly I did not succeed in

changing your plans. Far from regarding myself as infallible, I own

my mistake in wishing only for the things attainable in my sphere of

life. If this be an error, yours is surely a greater one—the ambition

which aspires to everything beyond your reach. The false inspiration

derived from books has led you into a dark road, along which your

tutors, believe me, will never follow you. Your life has become an

illusion, and the more complete the illusion, the more terrible will

the disenchantment prove. When the hour of awakening does come, as

come it will, I tremble for the result. {333}

I know that I am a mere dotard, and you are right to complain of my

persistency in heaping sermons upon your head. Complain if you will,

but allow me still to preach.

I have been told that many of our sex use their feathers for writing,

and I perceive with regret that you are yielding to the popular

mania with which they are possessed. For myself I seek nothing but

knowledge, and I should like to know what good end is served by

soiling snow-white paper. Let us handle this subject freely. Either

you have great talent, small talent, or no talent at all. I do not

see it can be otherwise. If by fatality you are favoured with great

talent, as are the males, who make laws for others and reputations

for themselves, these very males, by reason of constitutional

jealousy, will not permit you to rise superior to themselves. The

highest fame has always been, and must always be, male-fame, ill

begotten as it is at times. That being so, females are by law, and,

as males say, by nature, unfitted to fill the loftiest posts of

honour. They are essentially the potter’s clay fashioned into humble

vessels suited to adorn or to become useful in the household, whereas

the males are the marble of which monuments are made.

Apart from the public life in which you are the slave of fame, you

may wish to have a private domestic life hidden away from the world,

to which you may betake yourself when weary of triumph and tinsel.

But where will you find a partner vain or humble enough to share

your lot, to joyfully wear the ridiculous livery inflicted on him by

your success? Who would be the husband of a great female? Certainly

no one you could respect and look up to for counsel and advice. You

will remain, then, powerful and solitary. This is all very fine,

but the position is trying, and high intelligence can better serve

its God by dutifully lifting a small but compact circle to its own

level of happiness than by striving to move the world. Fame brings

many little cares of which I have not spoken; it has to bear hatred,

envy, calumny—troubles these which seldom invade the quiet nest. On

a column in sight of all, and in the full blaze of noonday light,

the flaws and defects of the finest marbles are all observed and

attacked by the critics. Let us descend from the column and come to

the nicely-poised mind that would be so charming in some obscurer

spots if only it could be schooled to perform its great feats in

the shady nooks of the world. Here I lay my finger on the root of

your malady. One makes a very good show among a circle of indulgent

friends, but the public ought not to be {334} disappointed, for they

did not complain of the want of your special talent, and did not

invite you to become their idol in the temple of fame. One must walk

upwards to this shrine with timid step, for there are more thorns

than roses by the way. When the foot grows bolder, one becomes used

to the compliments that are lavished, as well as to the curses that

are heaped, on one’s head by those over whose prostrate forms one

tramples. At last life loses its lustre, and you become the slave of

a cold, cruel, callous mind, possessed by aspiring to a glory it can

never attain. Critics, at first silent, grow tired and bite; they

rudely signify to your astonished friends that after all you are no

Eagle, but only a Swallow.

This dawn of opposition irritates you, and self-love seeks

consolation in the rapid flatteries of supporters whose pride prompts

them to sustain you at all hazards, and the clever head, which might

have been a reasonable one, is turned and lost!

I will, with your leave, now pass on to the third point in my

observations, glancing for a moment at the picture of a daughter,

wife, or mother who, in addition to all the other virtues, cultivates

literature. She must indeed be an amiable authoress who with one hand

rocks the babe to sleep, while with the other she wields the pen that

is to wake the world.

During periods of inspiration the children tear her manuscripts, and

add to her finest pages a sort of illumination on which she had not

reckoned. Here you have a faithful description of this fantastic

being whose infants are reared on a mixture of milk and ink. It is

not, however, into the ridiculous that I fear to see you fall. I know

your tastes too well, and hope they will shield you from such depths

of depravity.

What I dread most is the vanity which has led you to adopt a course

so ridiculous as advocating the right of females. It may lead you

into many grievous mistakes unless common sense comes to the rescue.

I have spoken thus freely in order that my advice may be of service

to you. Had I loved you less, my letter would have been milder and

more pleasant to read. You may find it a bitter pill to swallow, but

it will cure your malady! {335}

THIRD LETTER FROM THE SWALLOW.

A NEST OF ROBINS.

I have by the merest chance fallen in with a friend, a most obliging

creature, who will wait for this letter and deliver it to you.

He is the bearer of important despatches, and appears worthy of

the trust placed in him. While he explores the environs of my

present halting-place, I hastily take up the pen to let you know my

whereabouts, and to recount the events of my journey. Happily they

are few and far between.

As you do not seem to approve of female genius, I must make an effort

to suppress the poetry that flows naturally from my pen. When I have

finished a volume of inspired writing, you shall have a copy to study

at leisure. Then, and not till then, shall I expect justice at your

hands.

I should have delayed writing, had circumstances not forced me to

remind you of my existence.

[Illustration]

The day dawned under depressing auspices, which will account for

the sad tone of this epistle. On arriving in this delightful

neighbourhood, I made the acquaintance of a most agreeable family,

consisting of a father, mother, and two little ones, the latter still

under shelter of the maternal wings. As they had greeted my arrival

with much grace and show of kindness, I thought it my duty, on waking

this morning, to make a formal call at their nest. The manner in

which I was received raised them tenfold in my estimation, but just

as I had left them to return to my lodging, the air was suddenly

filled with cries of distress. On wheeling round, I perceived that

the situation was dreadful: one of the young brood had fallen to the

ground in imprudently trying his wings; although the fall was not

great, danger was none the less imminent. An enormous bird of prey,

after swooping through the air in ominous circles, descended like a

stone, straight to the scene of the disaster. The mother’s resolution

was soon taken; addressing a few words to her husband touching the

care of those she was leaving behind, and casting a fond look on

the loved ones, she descended to the ground. There, showing a bold

front to the enemy, she covered her little one with her wings; but

the dread foe kept slowly approaching, and at last quickened his

pace, trusting to the immobility of his victim for an easy victory.

The poor mother {336} unflinchingly met her doom; for the fierce

bird, with eyes of fire, pounced down upon her and carried her away,

leaving the little one unharmed on the ground. After a moment’s

silence, the father {337} descended and bore from the sad spot

all that had been left by the bird of prey. I laid the little one

in the hollow of the nest and took the vacant place of the mother.

My sympathy rendered me speechless, while the father was mute with

grief, he whose breast but a moment before had been bursting with

joyous song. Suddenly a dull noise sounded near, our heads turned to

the quarter whence a new danger seemed to threaten us. Imagine our

joy when, in place of danger, we beheld our oppressor felled to the

earth by an unseen hand, and the lost one returning safe to the nest.

The delight of thus meeting one whom we thought dead filled all our

hearts, and caused us to feel as one in happiness.

Yet I feared the indiscretion of remaining too long to share their

joy, and had just retired when a huge animal, one of the species

inhabiting towns called Poacher, whistling gaily, approached the tree

which sheltered the Robins. On his back he carried a bag, from which

the head of their enemy hung out, and on his shoulder the instrument

that delivered them. The poor mother could not restrain a cry of joy

on recognising her dead foe. It was a cry that might have moved a

heart of stone, but brutes, it is said, have no hearts.

“Oh! oh!” cried the Poacher, “you sing sweetly, your song is most

agreeable, but I would prefer the sound of you roasting on the spit.

The little ones would not be worth eating, still one must be careful

not to separate what God has united.”

After these words, he brought down my friends and consigned them to

his bag. That is the reason of my sadness.

THE SWALLOW’S FOURTH LETTER.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I have been suffering for some days past from

the effects of a slight accident which befell me on the road and

compelled me to rest. In spite of regrets and impatience, I see no

prospect of moving out of my narrow uncomfortable abode. Yet I ought

to feel thankful for shelter of any kind. Overtaken some distance

from my resting-place by a great storm, the wind drove me with such

violence against a wall as to fracture my leg. Nothing surprises

me more than {338} my inability to proceed, the injury seems so

trifling. A tribe of Sparrows, who, with characteristic foresight,

established themselves before the bad weather set in beneath the roof

which shelters me, have shown me great kindness. Unfortunately for

me the sun soon reappeared, and his first rays have carried off my

good-hearted hosts; even my helplessness had no power to detain them.

I therefore suffer all the more, as I had given them credit for pure

disinterested charity. What little they have left in the shape of

food will soon be exhausted, and I am still too weak to forage for

myself.

It is at such a time as this, pressed by poverty and enfeebled by

sickness, that all the true friendship I have enjoyed in life proves

a real comfort to me. Now I feel the curse of solitude and the need

of a partner’s care and affection.

Although I might have weighed before starting the dangers of so long

a journey, and accordingly felt neither surprise nor discouragement

at this first mishap, I am certain that you, who dread everything

which menaces the uniformity of your life, would have borne the

affliction with greater patience and fortitude. You have accustomed

yourself to abide contentedly in one spot, so that this enforced

repose which galls me, had you been the sufferer, would have in no

way ruffled the calm of your head and heart. We are differently

constituted, so differently that this constraint will drive me mad if

I have to endure it much longer.

Oh how it affects my temper, and tunes my ear to a painful pitch of

perfection! There is not a bird within hearing that does not sing

false. My nearest neighbour is a Magpie, the stepmother of two little

warblers, to whom she is a perfect tyrant, holding them in complete

slavery, and taking pleasure in corrupting their natural tastes by

making them sing all day long contralto airs unsuited to their voices.

This female friend is a widow who receives no one, and who spends her

days in scolding, an occupation which she varies by picking faults

and feathers out of her step-children. I flatly refused the proposal

she made through an old Crow, to replace her when she felt inclined

to leave the nest in search of pleasure. This occurs chiefly in the

evening. I think she is a person of very doubtful morality indeed.

The offer was a tempting one, but I would rather starve than aid the

dark schemes of this wicked female; for dark they must be, as she

takes no {340} one into her confidence save a blackguard-looking

Crow who, I am certain, lives by plunder.

[Illustration]

So you see I not only have the misfortune to be, but to have made,

a formidable enemy of this unscrupulous dame. I think I shall risk

destroying my bad leg, and limp out of the dilemma into pastures new

and an atmosphere more congenial.

You whose goodness once drew me out of a like scrape, will pity my

misfortunes and sigh for me more profoundly than I deserve. Still the

thought of your kind interest will strengthen me nearly as much as if

you were here to lend me a helping wing. I seem to feel as it were

your guardian spirit hovering over my head; so real does it appear

that I shall implicitly trust to its guidance. This you will set down

as a morbid fad of mine, as your spirit knows better than to trust

itself into such latitudes. Be that as it may, your influence, if not

your spirit, is ever with me.

THE SWALLOW’S FIFTH LETTER.

It is now a month since I left my last lonely retreat. A Linnet

who was wandering about without any fixed purpose promised to help

me. You may judge how eagerly I seized the proffered help, and the

glorious prospect of quitting my disagreeable neighbour, and the

still more disagreeable hole in which I had been cooped up so long.

My foot is far from well, and, although my friend tries to persuade

me to the contrary, I fear I shall be lame to the end of my days. I

ought here to quote the fable of the “Two Pigeons,” so often brought

under my notice when you lectured me on my vagabond life.

Surrounded by strangers, enfeebled by suffering, my future seems to

grow daily darker and more dim, while no opportunity offers for the

ventilation of my peculiar views. The males here, as elsewhere, are

our masters—one must own it if for no higher reason than to get one’s

share of the necessaries of life. The cause seems hopeless, unless

one could hit upon some quinine or vaccine matter that would cure us

of the weaknesses and vanities of female nature. As it is, the malady

or weakness is there, and males, as of old, continue their endeavours

to beat, kick, and govern it out of us; one day they will succeed,

when one kick too many will make us their masters. As for myself, who

{341} have not come under this peculiar bondage, I would gladly give

my life for the enfranchisement of our sex; but females will persist

in religiously following in the beaten track, pleasantly taking the

alternate love and kicks as they come, and retarding progress. They

thus maintain a prodigious inert force, against which active energy

is broken like the waves of the sea against a solid rock.

I shudder at the thought of our impotency, and know not what course

to follow that my name may receive the blessing of generations yet

unborn. I shall wait, like a true philosopher, for my good star to

light the path of this noble ambition and lead me to my goal!

My Linnet, who has no ideas, and is not accustomed to reflect,

will, I fear, soon grow weary of my company, and of the heavy task

her heart has imposed on her. I am not a very agreeable companion,

and I do not fail to notice that she endeavours to escape from the

_tête-à-tête_ of our daily life.

Although sincerely in the humour to see the world, she took me

yesterday to a meeting which at any other time would have filled me

with hope.

Our sex alone were admitted, and the end to which all my aspirations

tend was the theme the young hearts were waiting to discuss with

noble impatience. Several points as to the ways and means by which

our rights were to be secured and guarded were dwelt upon by various

speakers, after which, I am sorry to say, a number of ill-favoured

females entertained the meeting by recounting their love-experiences,

gossip, and scandal.

These absorbing topics found a patron in the mistress of the

occasion, an old Ringdove, who amiably recalled the far-off

love-adventures of her youth.

Tired and dispirited, I retired to rest, not to sleep, but to brood

over the future, till at last, weary of thinking of the where-to-go

and what-to-do of to-morrow, my eyes closed for the night. {342}

THE SWALLOW’S SIXTH LETTER.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—After so many shattered hopes, so many vain

endeavours, I determined to narrow my ambition and end my journey

with the Linnet. Were you not a grave true-hearted Canary, you would

smile at this consummation. I am completely at your mercy, and you

are too good to abuse your advantage.

Although there is something supremely ridiculous in all the fuss with

which I set out to reform society, when one considers the result, I

claim the privilege of pointing out that my scheme is none the less

sound and good because it has failed. I am not converted. Society is

not ripe for such a measure of reform. I have pleaded, solicited,

preached—to deaf ears—and urged the adoption of my views; the males

listened and shrugged their shoulders, the females refused to listen

and shrugged their shoulders, and in order to continue the struggle

single-handed, I should require a stock of patience with which nature

has not seen fit to endow me.

Above all, I am lame, and to undertake—no matter what in this

world—even to promote a good cause, one must begin with personal

attractions that will appeal to the eye. A lame Swallow has therefore

not much chance of success in this fast age.

The spring will again find me in Paris, when I shall present my

little companion, who I am sure will please you, notwithstanding her

gaiety. She may even seem to you giddy. All I can say is, she is

genuine and good-hearted. I must tell you she fell in love the other

day with a young fop, with whom she would have decamped had I not

caught her in time to arrest her fate. I gave her a page or two of my

own early experience, which produced a deep and, let us hope, lasting

impression.

She wants looking after, guiding, and controlling. Yet why should I

speak thus in opposition to my doctrine of freedom for the female

sex, and lay my plans for her guidance? Can it be that my principles

are gradually changing? It cannot be! Soon you will see me, my

friend, sad but submissive, having found the world bad, and being

unwilling to force it to become better. You will find me, as you

would say, disenchanted—as I would say, reasonable, although, to tell

the truth, the two expressions may mean one and the same thing. I

have travelled far in search of that wisdom which I might have {343}

obtained without going out of my way. In my narrow view of life I

had only been willing to notice the shortcomings of what is, and the

advantages of what is not.

These advantages are still manifest, so also is the danger of any

change, even though it might bring a certain measure of amelioration.

It seems, indeed, better to keep and improve a defective form of

government than to change it for something new—however good—and

untried.

My only ambition now is to end my days near you.

[Illustration]

{344}

MEDICAL ANIMALS.

[Illustration]

A venerable Crow announces the approaching death of one of our

colleagues; he flatters himself on being able to foretell the event.

His prognostication is, we should say, certain to be verified, for at

that moment the poor sufferer enters; he was a Dog—we say was, for

he is now, alas! nothing more than the skeleton, the shadow of that

long-suffering animal. We tenderly inquire how he feels.

“Ah,” he replies, “my only feeling is pain; they tried to cure

me—that is, my illness—and behold the result. Ah, my brothers, what

have you done? what is the world coming to? You have provoked the

animals to write, your counsels have been pushed too far, many of

us poor brutes have been forced to think. That is not all, some

even dream of poetry, painting, and science. These fools would

have us believe that such mad courses raise us above ourselves and

our sublime instincts. Nightingales imagine themselves birds of

prey, Donkeys masters of song, while Cats conceive they discourse

the sublimest, sweetest harmony. Civilisation does it all; it is a

muddle, my friends, a fearful muddle. But the last notion is by far

the most dreadful. Our brothers, weary of dying a natural death, have

resolved to found chairs of medicine and surgery. Already they have

begun their work; behold me, the result of their experiments—skin

and bone, gentlemen! skin and bone! I have just been ordering myself

crutches and a coffin. Dear me, how faint I feel!”

“Have a drink?” said the Fox.

“Most thankfully,” replied the Dog, who had been a very jolly Dog in

his day. {345}

The Fox, preparing pen and ink, requests him to write down his

mischances for the good of posterity. The Dog obeys—it is his nature

to do so—only he requests the Fox to write at his dictation.

“Being honest,” he commenced, “I have no desire to conceal anything.

There have been for some time amongst men certain individuals called

Veterinaries—most damaging rascals; one is no sooner in their

clutches, than they bleed, purge, and put one to the direct straits,

bestowing a diet not fit for a Cat. I object to this most strongly,

to this last phase of their treatment. They imagine that disease

has a craving for food, and determine to kill it by systematic

starvation; the result is too often the death of the animal, and not

the disease, which lives and spreads to others. I was one of those

who proposed a commission to inquire into and state facts. You would

hardly conceive, gentlemen, on what fools—pardon—I mean on what

creatures the choice fell; on Linnets and Moles—the one for clear

sight, the other for seeing in the dark. The commission set to work,

taking it for granted that the poor never complain without cause,

and examined everybody as they would convicted felons. I do not know

what happened, but soon a majority of the enlightened commissioners,

who had discovered nothing, decided that the affair was understood.

A compiler produced a work for which, in common with all the other

members of the commission, he was handsomely rewarded, and that was

all. As for me, I barked, howled, and manifested my disapproval;

many of my friends thinking they ought to do the same, the agitation

became general.”

“Let that pass, my friend, let that pass,” said the Fox; “everything

has an end. Prudence and generosity forbid our dwelling on this

subject.”

“In short,” replied Médor, somewhat crest-fallen (Médor was our

hero’s name), “we agreed to form schools of secret medicine, and

faculties of clandestine surgery, under the presidency of the Cock of

Æsculapius and the Serpent of Hippocrates.

“Every animal, part of whose flesh or intestines had been used as

a medicine, laid claim to the invention of the science, and all of

them, from the least to the greatest, held that they each had been

used by man-doctors as universal panaceas. Would you believe it,

these biped physicians dared to prescribe Tortoise broth for languor,

and jelly of Viper for impurity of the blood!”

“Médor, you are wise, and if ever we add an Academy of Sciences to

our journal, you shall belong to it.” {346}

“To the Academy, Prince?”

“No, to our journal; who do you take yourself for? Continue.”

“You have not forgotten, gentlemen, that your humble servant objected

chiefly to the diet, not to the science”——

“Is it much longer?” inquired the Fox.

“I must finish my narrative, sir; that is all I can conscientiously

say.”

“You are honest, but that is an useless quality nowadays.”

“My brothers,” continued Médor, “if we confine our attention to the

remedies prescribed by men, we shall only foster sickness and hasten

death. I once heard the remark made by a man, that the sublimest

philosophy was that which stood the test of common sense. I am

inclined to think that the sublime in the art of healing would be

to return to and trust to instinct. These words are simple, but

profound; think over them, although they will meet only with the

world’s scorn.”

“Decidedly,” said the Fox. “It is most unreasonable, when one wants

to found a science, to begin with common sense; that is a vulgar

natural gift which can only stand in the way of science.”

“That is quite evident,” murmured a Bear, who had come forward with a

subscription.

Médor scratched his ear and proceeded in a lower tone. “My opinions

were blamed, I was cursed, beaten, and treated as an incendiary. When

I wished to raise my paws to heaven to protect my innocence, one of

them was broken, and my colleagues ironically inquired what remedy

instinct and common sense suggested to me under the circumstances,

and if any to apply it. But as they had taken care to knock me on the

head before asking the question, I was unable to reply, and so stood

convicted of insanity.”

“Herein is logic!” said the Fox.

“I was put to bed—on straw—and the chamber was soon filled by a

Leech, a Crane, a heteroclitic animal, a Spanish Fly, and a dignified

idler, who seated himself as soon as he arrived. The heteroclitic

creature, a dry, cold, carefully-dressed personage, declared the

_séance_ open, the object of which was to effect my cure by purely

scientific means. I thought I was dead, but a Sow who acted as my

nurse reassured me by saying—

“ ‘Do not be afraid; the good die, the bad remain.’

“ ‘Old mother,’ I replied, ‘you were not placed here to poison my

ear, on the contrary’——and I turned on my miserable couch. {347}

[Illustration]

“The Leech then pronounced me delirious, and intimated his

intention of sucking out the malady through a blood-vessel in my

throat. Happily the Spanish Fly noticed that my tongue protruded

in token of exhaustion, and proposed to apply what he termed a

counter-irritant—that {348} is, to set up a most painful competition

between disease and remedy.

“ ‘My dear sir,’ said the Crane to the Fly, ‘neither your treatment

nor your opinion can have the least weight; it is a well-known

fact that six thousand four hundred of you weigh only a miserable

half-pound. Half a pound weight, think of that.’

“ ‘What is your opinion, Mr. Idler?’ inquired the Heteroclite.

“ ‘I practise the leisurely science of meditating on the mysteries

of life and death. We must consult together, and weigh the situation

before we can hope to arrive at a just diagnosis of this important

case. As a consulting physician, I’——

“ ‘My opinion is,’ gravely continued the first speaker, ‘that the

abnormal humidity of the feet, head, chest, and all the members, is

one of the gravest symptoms of this case.’

“The Seal shrugged his shoulders.

“ ‘Humidity I hold to be most dangerous, whether in the shape of

rain, dew, or the saturation of a heated atmosphere. An umbrella or

waterproof may ward off its influence, our patient is beyond that

stage and requires more subtle remedies. As for myself, I am obliged

to observe the greatest caution. I never travel without my carriage,

and to walk over a cold flagstone without a carpet would be to court

death. I have done: that being so, I make it a rule to inquire who is

to pay me?’

“ ‘And us,’ cried a voice outside.

“ ‘Who are you?’

“ ‘We are the animal surgeons who alone can effect a cure; open, or

we will cut our way through the door, just as we would to the heart

of a disease.’

“The door was opened, and the Saw-fish entered, followed by its

attendants. The operator showed his teeth, felt my pulse, and soon a

circle formed round the couch. Under the circumstances it was natural

to faint, and I did my best to do so; but as extremes sometimes

meet, and there is but a step from fainting to delirium, I became

mad. Dark scenes of dissecting-room practice passed before me. My

name had changed from Médor to No. 33, just as if I had become a cab

on a stand or a watchman. I was no longer a solitary invalid, but

one of many stretched on beds in a long ward. My neighbour No. 32

had passed away, or rather his remains had been conveyed to a sort

of dining-room at the end of the ward. The sole ornaments of this

chamber were skeletons and bones. What had become of the flesh?”

{349}

“ ‘My friend, these hones were doubtless fossils. You are slandering

your fellow-citizens. But you are free, continue.’

[Illustration]

“I wished to raise my voice against this profanation, this brutality,

this sacrilege, but the Shark, biting my ear till it bled, advised me

to be calm, resolute, and happy.

“ ‘You must not puzzle your brain about the mysteries of clinical

surgery,’ said he. {350}

“ ‘I have already done that,’ I replied.

“ ‘Hush! I am about to describe your case to these gentlemen, who

are only too anxious to see you on your legs again. It is necessary

they should be made acquainted with the prognostics, diagnostics, the

symptomatology, the dietetic and, shall we say, numismatic details,

not one of which shall be overlooked. If you are not instantly

cured, we will not waste precious time by following in the footsteps

of physicians from whom we are separated by the _strictum_ and the

_laxum_, humours, mucous membranes, pores, not to name the 66,666

sorts of fever which specially attack the animal organisation. We

will not occupy ourselves with Aristotle, Pliny, Ambrose Paré, a

miserable idealist, who has said, “I dressed your wounds, but God

healed them.” No, that is not our business. Our patron, our hero,

is Alexander; our practice, to tighten or relax the tissues—oh no!

Alexander knew better than that, he cut them.’

“ ‘Long live Alexander!’ said the Vultures, Rats, and Crows of the

audience.

“ ‘You have understood me clearly,’ said the speaker. ‘I have now

the honour to ask the opinion of the Saw-fish, my colleague, whose

doctrines I hold in the highest esteem, although I have my own way

of applying them; and now, gentlemen, we will proceed to incise the

muscles, saw the bones, and in fact cure our patient,’

“They are bound to kill me, I thought; a thousand times death rather

than vivisection.”

“And you played the dead Dog?” said the Fox.

“Just so, and some good little fellow said that it would be unwise to

operate owing to my weakness: it often happens that the most trifling

incidents delay the greatest events.”

“Say that again,” said the Fox with a tinge of irony, “it seems good.”

“Sometimes, sir, the smallest incidents delay the greatest events. It

so happened that the orator fell not on the one who had interrupted

him, but on his neighbour, whom he accused of lifting the hospital

lint and bearing it off to line his nest.

“A large Vulture, a provincial student, as might easily be seen

from his huge cloak and cap stuck on the back of his head, dared

to remark that the profession of surgery was one of liberty, and

that professors had no right to interfere in the private affairs

of their pupils. In this way the question of the missing lint was

satisfactorily disposed of, and the lecturer proceeded. {351}

“ ‘Gentlemen, as the operation must be postponed for to-day, permit

me, in the interests of science, to make a few remarks on the subject

of morals.’

“That was flattering you,” remarked the Fox.

“Perhaps it was, at any rate, the little sermon which I here abridge

was lost on me.

“ ‘Dear pupils, the true student of science is to a certain extent

invested with a God-like nature; our profession is a priesthood, for

you know the healing art in ancient times was only exercised by the

priests: it requires therefore more than talent, it demands virtue.’

“ ‘Oh! oh!!’ exclaimed several students of the same year.

“ ‘Medicine will again become a priesthood, or, if you prefer it,

a social function; doctors will preside over the public hygiéne.

The fewer maladies there are, the more will medicine be honoured

and recompensed. But in order to arrive at this desirable end it

is necessary to raise the qualifications of the profession, and

to exclude many aspirants, otherwise each family will have its

physician. What, then, would become of us when there is a doctor to

each floor and another to each attic? The study of our science is

painful and costly. It must be rendered doubly so to check the influx

of those who either by talent or morality are unfitted to enter our

ranks.’

“ ‘But, my master,’ said the Vulture, ‘you are not reasonable; what

you dread is the ability of the young generation which threatens to

eat up your sinecures. Your paternal solicitude is misplaced!’

“Another student objected to slandering misery and privation, the

true attributes that alone by strengthening and purifying genius

render it serviceable to the world.

“ ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I myself have known that life is a hard,

bitter struggle, but God is still all-powerful. The snow that covers

every blade of grass and every seedling beneath its chill mantle,

never caused me to doubt, even for an instant, that spring would

come arrayed in its blossoms, or that autumn would again fill the

storehouse with fruit and grain. I have known hunger, but never

despair. What matters the numbers pressing forward to compete with us

in allaying pain? There is room for all who honestly strive to make

the world more joyous!’

“ ‘Long live joy!’ cried the Crow. ‘Misery is the poetry of the

cottage, just as the garret is the palace of students. If life

becomes still harder, why, to-morrow we will move up a story higher

nearer heaven—go to the roofs. Now, my friends, here is the whole

truth in {352} a nutshell, the houses of Paris must be viewed thus:

our lofty attics contain the head, and therefore the brain, of this

large city, something too of the heart. It is there one thinks, it

is there one dreams, it is there one loves, while waiting to descend

to the first floor, to meditate on ambition and riches. Our master

may talk; for all that, he himself is a living proof of success—of

the fact that very little merit indeed is frequently rewarded by much

wealth and fame.’

“ ‘Ah!’ replied the Shark, ‘you forget that one successful career is

the product of a thousand failures. Only lofty qualities can bring

the successful to the surface, while thousands sink into misery and

obscurity. Some one said that the sun smiles on our successes, and

the kindly earth throws her mantle over our failures. The truth is,

the sun shines on a host of ungrateful convalescents, and the earth

too soon receives our most astounding surgical cures!’

“The discussion was becoming too learned, I therefore slipped out by

the foot of the bed—but not before they had resumed the discussion of

my case—and left them in the thick of it to come here.”

Saying this, the poor cripple made his bow and disappeared, totally

regardless of the future of his important revelations.

We beg any one who may know the whereabouts of Médor to keep the

secret to himself; being unable to help our fellow-creatures in

distress, we wish them kept out of our way, or taken to our next-door

neighbour, who has probably more time and money at his disposal.

[Illustration]

{353}

THE GIRAFFE’S TABLETS.

_JARDIN DES PLANTES._

LETTER TO HER LOVER IN THE DESERT.

[Illustration]

Praised be the good spirits that protect Ants, Giraffes, and probably

men! Before many days we shall meet, never to part.

The learned men of whom I shall presently speak, who in this land

make the weather—bad weather, as a rule—have decreed in their wisdom

that it is not good for Giraffes to be alone, as the social habits of

our race can never be truly ascertained from the study of a single

individual. How this happens I cannot explain. I have, however, put

you in possession of the fact that you may know as much as I do

myself.

Here I am transported to a land one finds it hard to get used to,

{354} a land where the sun is pale, the moon dim, the wind damp, the

dust dry and dirty, and the air icy cold. Of the three hundred and

sixty odd days which make up the year, it rains during three hundred

and forty, when the roads become rivers unfit for the dainty foot of

Giraffes. During winter the rain becomes white, and covers all things

with one uniform dazzling carpet, which wounds the eye and saddens

the heart. The water becomes solid, and misery waits upon birds and

beasts, who perish on the banks of the streams without being able to

quench their thirst.

The species of animal that rules in this region is the most

ill-favoured of all God’s creatures. His head, instead of conforming

to our graceful model, is nearly round like a melon, and partly

covered with short hair like hogs’ bristles, only thicker, darker,

and not so clean looking; his neck is almost hidden between his

shoulders, and only develops by becoming thicker and shorter; his

skin is of an earthy colour; and to complete this ridiculous picture,

he has got into the stupid way of walking on his hind-legs, and

swinging those in front to maintain his equilibrium. It is difficult

to imagine any figure more vulgar or absurd. I am inclined to think

that this poor animal is afflicted with a painful sense of his

deformity, for he hides as much of his figure as possible. He uses

for this purpose an artificial covering fabricated out of the bark of

plants and skins of animals. This device does not mend matters, as it

renders him an ugly piece of patchwork. The first sight of a man—that

is the name by which this hideous animal is known—will cause you to

be thankful you were born clothed by the Creator in matchless attire,

and that you have never fallen into the hands of a Parisian tailor.

We express our sentiments and needs in simple sounds and looks;

they, on the other hand—who appear formerly to have enjoyed the same

privilege—carried away by a fatal instinct, or, if one must believe

the wisest of them, subject to a destiny of incomparable punishment,

supplanted nature’s simple language by an almost continuous

grumbling. They have invented sounds in abundance to signify what

they don’t want and can’t get, and spend half their days in gabbling

over the limited nature of their moral and physical appetites. These

sounds sometimes express wishes, but more frequently what is called

ideas. Ideas are in themselves nothing, although they are the key to

all that is deficient, cross, and hostile in what these creatures

call conversation. When two Men separate after conversing for hours,

we may rest assured {355} that the one ignores all that has been

said by the other, and hates him more thoroughly than before.

It is also necessary for me to tell you that this animal is

essentially ferocious, and feeds upon flesh and blood. This need

not frighten you; either from his natural cowardice, or from a

horrible refinement of ingratitude and cruelty, he only devours

poor defenceless timid beasts, easy to surprise and kill, and who

have often clothed him with their wool or enriched him with their

service. Again, it is his custom to rear these victims in his own

country. An animal from a strange land inspires a sort of religious

respect, which is shown in the utmost care and homage. He lays out

parks for the Gazelle, embellishes the Lion’s den, and digs a pond

for the Hippopotamus. As for myself, he had planted rows of trees

with nourishing leaves; beneath my feet is a mossy sward and belt of

fine sand, a miniature desert, while my dwelling is kept at a uniform

temperature. His poor fellow-creatures would only be too delighted if

he took the same care of them. He cares for them at a distance, and

at times, without warning, breaks out into a frenzy and slaughters

them right and left.

These massacres are said to be caused by some high-sounding

nothing called a word or an idea. Men—being by nature harmless or

unarmed—have invented destructive weapons of the most formidable

kind. When they cannot agree about any given idea they bring out

their weapons, and the side which works the greatest destruction of

life and property is always right. Right is built upon the wreck of

empires, so Men say, until some giant power proves right to be wrong

and dethrones it, showing that right is a sort of weathercock that

changes with every wind of government.

There are Men, and there are also extraordinary Men—that is, a class

called Scholars. The grubs of these creatures are bred in books. Many

of them die while yet buried in printed leaves, in the chrysalis

state, from which they never emerge; but the Book-worm, after many

days, ought, full fledged, to soar away into the light of science.

It is the duty of Scholars to pay more attention to the words in

which ideas are expressed than to the ideas themselves, as well as

to invent words, which few will understand, to denote the commonest

things. When speaking, the Scholar is careful to use words so seldom

pronounced, that it would be better if they were not pronounced at

all.

[Illustration: ALL THE MEETINGS ARE MORE OR LESS ALIKE.]

Above all, the most interesting human type is Woman, a poor, soft,

{357} elegant, timid, delicate creature, who became the slave of

Man. I do not know where or when, but he has trained her to submit to

him like the Horse, either by force or cunning. I tell you she is by

far the most graceful form in nature, yet Man spoils her appearance;

she is seen to greater perfection without him. She has few sentiments

save love; the need of loving some one or something shows itself

early, and never leaves her. During her youth the hours are spent in

conjuring up in her mind some ideal Man with whom she is to live a

blissful life. She after a time becomes the wife of some one in whom

she thinks she has found the lover of her dreams. Alas! too often the

illusion soon passes away, and she learns that the fond image of her

youth was a being of a higher sphere.

You will be surprised at my giving you so many details regarding this

country and its animals, but as yet I have told you nothing about the

way they govern themselves. Politics pure and simple is the science

most talked about and least understood in France. If you listen to

one person on the subject of politics, his ideas seem obscure; if

to two, they are confused; if to three, they are chaotic. When the

number of speakers increase to four or five, they are prepared to

strangle each other. Judging from the universal favour in which I am

held by all classes, it has once or twice crossed my mind that all

their political sentiments had found a calm centre in myself, and

that they would at last elect me their king. This seems all the more

likely since Frenchmen are utterly unable to agree as to the exact

moral and intellectual qualities which should adorn a prince, and it

may be they have in a friendly way resolved to choose their masters

according to height. By adopting this plan, party spirit would be

demolished, and all questions settled by measurement.

Last week I resolved to be present at a meeting of deputies to

be held nearer to the river than my abode. I accordingly bent my

steps that way, and soon arrived at a sort of palace filled with a

tumultuous throng.

The members of the Cabinet only differed from other men in

characteristic ugliness, the result, it is said, of grave habits of

thought, and of the manner in which they snatch their pleasures from

the cares of office. What surprised me most was their activity, which

never permitted them to rest for an instant in the same spot, for I

was witnessing by chance one of the stormy meetings of the session.

They tossed themselves about, jumped and mixed into a hundred

confused {359} groups, apostrophising their adversaries with cries

and menacing gestures, and showing their teeth with the most hideous

grimaces. The object of most of them seemed to be to raise themselves

above their fellows, and there were those who compassed this end by

mounting on the heads and shoulders of their neighbours.

[Illustration]

Unfortunately, though well pleased to witness the gambols of the

assembly, owing to my superior stature I failed to catch a single

word in the confusion of voices, and I retired sickened and deafened

by the vociferation, grinding of teeth, whisking of tails, whistling

and howling, without being able to form a conjecture as to the

subject under discussion.

For all that, something was carried, and the speeches, it is said,

appeared in the official organ next day in most harmonious prose.

There are those who say that all the _séances_ resemble this one

in a greater or less degree, so I shall dispense with witnessing

another.[2]

[2] It is evident that the Giraffe falls into a mistake, which

is scarcely an excusable one were she not quite innocent.

Confined in the Jardin des Plantes, she could not visit the

Chamber of Deputies, which she imagines she is describing. What

she did see was the Monkeys’ palace.—ED.

I had proposed to give you, before closing my letter, some specimens

of the language now used in Paris. You will be able to form your own

notions of it from the following sentences, which have just been

exchanged between a young man with a Bison’s beard, and a young woman

with the eyes of a Gazelle, to whom he was trying to justify his long

absence:—

“I was preoccupied, beautiful Isoline, with sublime ideas, of which

your woman’s heart has the noble intuition. Placed by the capacities

which they have been willing to accord to me at the zenith of the

adepts of perfectionabilisation, and long absorbed in philosophic,

philanthropic, and humanitarian speculations, I was tracing the plan

of a political encyclism which would moralise all peoples, harmonise

all institutions, utilise all the faculties, and develop all the

sciences; but I was not the less drawn towards you by the most

passionate attraction, and I”——

“Say no more,” solemnly interrupted Isoline; “do not think me a

stranger to those lofty aspirations, and pray do not suspect my

spirit capable of being charmed by the baits of a coarse nature.

Proud of your destiny, dear Adhimar, in the sentiment which unites us

I only see an elective affinity which the instinct of cohesion has

confounded {360} with a sympathetic individuality, or, to express

myself more clearly, the fusion of these isolated idiosyncrasies

which feel the need of becoming simultaneous.”

Here the conversation was continued in a low voice, and I think I may

suppose that it became more intelligible, for the young philosopher

was beaming with pleasure when he left Isoline.

THE GIRAFFE.

[Illustration]

{361}

THE CROAKINGS OF A CROW.

The inferiority of man to the lower animals of the world does not

admit of the faintest shadow of doubt, at least that is my belief,

and in making it known, it must be understood that it is done

honestly and without malice. I am one of the few creatures against

whom man is powerless to do harm, happily considering me beneath his

notice, as my flesh is too tough even to make soup for paupers. I am,

in fact, a Crow, and consequently view the world and its inhabitants

from a noble elevation.

Men themselves are conscious of their deplorable condition, and fully

aware that their complex bodies are frequently impotent to respond

to the wishes of their active brains. Poor architects are they who

design impossible structures which no hands can build. Pitiable!

pitiable!! Does any one believe that they are unconscious of their

inferiority? If so, what can account for their eternal complaints,

their incessant misunderstandings and litigations?

Mock, write, invent fables of moustached men. You shall never be able

to render us animals ridiculous unless you first endow us with human

vices, passions, and aspirations. You compel my pity, poor pariahs

of the world; you who could not live for a day without us—without

the wool of our friend the Sheep to make your attire, the silk of

the Worm to line your coats or cover your umbrellas, for rain is

often fatal to you, while the refreshing wind penetrates your thin

pink skin and chills you to the heart. You doubtless wish you were a

Crow like myself, to fly through the air in place of crawling along

with your too solid bodies through slimy city streets. I dislike

you least on horseback, and you yourselves are proud of borrowing a

certain dignity from a brute; but the dignity belongs to the Horse,

not to the rider, although the latter accounts it all his own, and,

strange to say, thinks himself superior to the animal that carries

him. Are you not weaker than the Ox or the Elephant? Does not the

smallest insect become a burden to you? A Fly tickling your nose

drives you mad, {362} and in place of setting the misguided insect

free, you take its life. The sting of a Gnat swells and deforms your

face, and spoils the image of the God that made you; while the bite

of a reptile a hundred {363} times smaller than yourself proves

fatal. Moreover, you cannot deny that you have spent whole nights in

a bloodthirsty search for the Flea that has banished sleep from your

pillow, and the little offender has after all evaded you. Tell me

why do you grow pale before a caged Lion? It is, alas! his gentlest

caress would break every bone in your frail body.

[Illustration]

“Ah, well! We own our physical infirmity; it is of no consequence, as

we are princes by our intelligence, and on that ground we defy you,

Master Crow.”

You flatter yourselves, gentlemen. Do you suppose for a moment you

have more ingenuity, ability, and patience than the Spider, who

unaided produces the silken material and weaves the most marvellous

fabric in the world? You cannot even make lint compared to it,

although the cotton is grown ready to your hand. Who, like the

Spider, can prevail upon his food to come to his door, and secure

it so cunningly? and who so deftly can escape danger? Again, are

you more crafty than the Fox, more subtle than the Serpent? You

boast of your heart, and yet when you want a symbol of tenderness or

devotion it is among our ranks you look for it. Show me the human

mother who, like the Pelican, would daily pierce her side, or, like

the Kangaroo, bear the constant burden of her little ones. Talk as

you like of your paternal kindness, and the sacrifices you make to

bring up your children; in short, you parade everything that will in

any way minister to your own vanity. You are careful to publish your

good deeds with assumed humility, that the world may trumpet them

abroad. But for constancy and unobserved devotedness to her offspring

the meanest bird will put mankind to the blush. Show me the father

who, while attending to the duties of his office, would prepare his

children’s food and rock them to sleep.

We, the birds and brutes of creation, do naturally what costs you

an almost superhuman effort. We have no need of moral and religious

institutions to teach us how dutifully to fill our allotted

spheres. Natural instinct is our teacher, and we obey its faintest

whisperings. We have no schools of music, the arts, or sciences; for

all that, the Nightingale’s notes are true and harmonious, and the

comb of the Bee continues to be constructed with matchless beauty and

precision.

You live in families, so do we; but supposing a human family were

compelled to spend an entire winter, like the poor Marmots, shut up

in one dark chamber, what would be the result? I fear some broken

tempers and more fractured bones. {364}

You are proud, so is the Peacock; but the latter lives on his pride,

while you frequently die of it—it chokes you.

[Illustration]

What can I say about human courage?—simply nothing. My own good

nature prompts me here to draw the veil, only adding a word on the

subject of mendicity.

[Illustration]

In our beastly kingdom mendicity is unknown. We would rather starve

than mimic all the ills of life in order to gain a beggarly living.

{366} When we have performed our allotted tasks in life, and are

unable to provide for ourselves, we die. Not so with men; they

are doomed to cling to the last shreds of life when all its joy

and lustre have gone, and live on as if overtaken by some fearful

retribution. But here I touch upon a large and mysterious question,

and being a modest Crow, I shall leave it, as I fold my wings to

sleep, for the night is falling and the ink has dried on my quill.

The twilight hour of love is passing, and the Nightingale is tuning

his lute.—I have the honour to salute you.

[Illustration]

{367}

SOUVENIRS OF AN OLD ROOK.

_FRAGMENTS FROM AN ALBUM OF TRAVELS._

“Non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.”—HORACE, Epistles.

SUMMARY.

Why does one travel?—An old castle.—The Duke and Duchess.—The

Terrace.—An old Falcon.—The hosts of the Terrace.—Make yourself a

Grand Duke.—A magic Carp.—How an Owl dies of love.—How Madame Crow

ends her story.

. . . . . To begin, why does one travel? Is not repose the greatest

blessing in the world? Is it, after all, worth one’s while going out

of one’s way to see or to avoid anything? Can one honestly say that

any advantage is gained by travelling?

[Illustration]

Some pursue happiness, and the pursuit invariably ends in the grave;

others flee the evil which no one escapes. The Swallows follow the

sun and flit with its beams, while Marmots close their eyes on all

his wintry glory and court repose, having faith that nature will

again awake at Phœbus’s bidding. There are many creatures who leave

their {368} homes to face unknown dangers, but few return, for space

is vast, and the insatiable ocean cries for ever, “Give! give!” Many

more go to sleep and few awake, for sleepers are near to the death

that broods over them. The Butterfly travels because he has wings.

The Snail, rather than remain in one place, shoulders his house and

moves along; the unknown is so attractive. Hunger wounds these, love

woos those; for the former some happy region teems with food, for

the latter with sentiment. Those alone who travel without aim are

burdened with satiety. As for the Squirrel who turns in his cage, we

may say, “S’agiter n’est pas avancer.”[3] Unfortunately, like him,

many move, but few make progress. Thus it is said that the wise ones

of the world prefer peaceful misery to active happiness; they are

content to live on in the spot where they were born without troubling

their heads about anything beyond the limits of their horizon, and

they die, if not happy, at least tranquil. But it may be that this

wisdom comes from the coldness of their hearts, and the weakness and

powerlessness of their wings.

[3] S. La Valette, Fables.

No one has answered the question, Why does one travel? better than a

great writer of our sex, George Sand, who said, “One travels because

no one is happy here below.” It must be that motion is everywhere,

nothing is perfect, therefore there is no repose. As for me, I have

travelled not because I had a liking for motion, for I loved my nest

and the short walks over the village green.

“What is the good of these interminable speculations and questions

at the beginning of your tale?” said an old friend and neighbour,

whose advice I sometimes ask, always reserving my right to do as I

please. “It is not because you occupy yourself with philosophy,

&c. &c., that you must bore your readers. You will be accounted a

pedant. Are you going to favour us with the particulars of all you

have seen and thought during the century you have been in the world?

Do you intend, after the mistake of living so long, to add the folly

of travelling interminably over paper? Believe me, if you really

want to be thought a bold adventurous spirit, a travelling genius,

write a book of travels. The century of Columbus has passed, one has

no need to discover new lands, one may now set up as a traveller at

less cost and no risk. Discover, if you will, the spot where you

were born, your neighbours and your neighbours’ affairs, yourself,

or nothing, and write about them. Relate—what does it matter how

you relate, so long {369} as you do relate something? It is the

time for stories. Imitate your contemporaries, those illustrious

travellers, who, in the four corners of the globe, bravely write

down their impressions while reclining on the straw or down of the

paternal nest. Follow their example, I say, jot down everything

about yourself, your friends, your servants; the time you dine, and

all about your appetite. Detail the dishes you have, and those you

have not, institute a comparison between the feathers of different

birds, taking care never to dip beneath the surface, confine your

descriptions to dress and manners. Whenever you come across an old

tale, colour it freely and serve it up as new, and I shall promise

you a great success. You will fall into many grave errors. What of

that? they will never be discovered till after you are dead, when it

may amuse your children to defend your reputation.”

These reflections had a certain fascination for me, the advice might

be good, or bad, it was at any rate easy to follow. But my conscience

kept me out of harm’s way, and I replied—

“One cannot always follow one’s own inclination, as for me, I am an

honourable Rook, and will do my best at all times. If what you have

just said is intended for advice, it is so precious you ought to keep

it to yourself.”

“Be it so,” he said, bowing gravely.

I returned the salute and again took up my pen. I am undoubtedly an

old Rook. Old as I am I have no notion of concealing my age. I was

once young, that I can well remember, young as the Starlings yonder,

and less giddy, having a proper notion of the respect due to age. Old

age, in spite of all its infirmities, would meet with greater marks

of tenderness and reverence if we thought a little more of the silent

grave, on whose brink the feeble steps are tottering.

As far as I can remember I was married then; yes, when I was young,

that is true, it is some fifty years ago, and I seemed to grow old

in a day when I lost my dear husband. How strangely the scene comes

back to my poor old head. It was a dreadful day, the wind was moaning

dismally through the crevices of the old tower, while the thunder,

bursting in terrible peals from the dark sky, shook the foundations

of the grim cathedral, making its grey stones tremble as if with

fear. Chill rain fell in torrents, and for the first time menaced our

nest, though it was well protected under one of the doorways of the

Cathedral of Strasbourg. “I am dying!” said a feeble, yet resolute

voice. That was my husband, poor dear; he made up his mind to die

{370} and he died. He was always a very determined bird. “Mind the

young ones, love!” These were his last words, and I did mind them, at

least I tried to, but they, all of them, died within a week.

[Illustration]

Worst of all, I could not die myself, and a sort of consolation did

{371} steal into my widowed heart, that made me feel I would not be

justified in dying.

“Travel,” said an old Stork, who had nursed my husband. “You will

start inconsolable, you will return calmed if not consoled. Many

griefs have been starved out and left behind on the king’s highways.”

This Stork was esteemed as a very sensible creature, but the world

had hardened her heart: I would sooner kill my children than stifle

grief! My children, alas! where are they? A number of friendly Crows,

our neighbours, lent weight to the Stork’s advice by urging me to

leave the old scenes, and I did leave the place, although I almost

felt certain that my husband and little ones would reappear some day.

Talk of travelling! why, I have travelled without halting almost for

the last fifty years, but it did not take me a fiftieth part of that

time to find out that the worldly old Stork was right.

From the moment of entering seriously on my journeys, I was reminded

of this proverb by a celebrated moralist.—“One travels in order

to relate one’s travels.” I determined to follow this maxim, and

accordingly, armed with note book, set out to explore the world. As

occasion presented itself, I related my adventures, and was fortunate

in securing listeners who, however, were afraid to applaud what

might prove unpopular. At last a bird (in truth no friend of mine),

well-known in fashionable circles, hazarded his patronage, saying

aloud with the most perfect assurance, that my tales were decidedly

good. That made my fortune, not that my tales were improved by this

notice, but they became sanctioned, so to speak. Soon my stories

flew from beak to beak; I found them everywhere. However little one

deserves praise, it is always flattering, I therefore continue.

AN OLD CASTLE.

There was once an old castle—I begin story-telling after the good old

fashion, it somehow gives one a fair start, and it is expected—

There was once an old castle, the castle of . . . it neither matters

what nor where.

At a time when France boasted almost impregnable castles, this one

had often resisted the fiercest onslaughts, although it had been

taken and retaken times without number, when the loves of valiant

knights for maidens fair caused many bitter feuds. The castle during

troublous {372} times had been overthrown little by little, so that

almost nothing remained of the original building.

It is sufficient to say, it was taken and pillaged during the

Revolution of ’93, which demolished many old strongholds; after that

of 1815 it was about to be restored, and its fortune was visibly

brightening when overtaken by the Revolution of 1830, so ably

described by the Hare in the opening pages of this book.

The old fortress was then deprived of its rank and ancient

aristocratic fame, and in its degradation, sold to a banker, an

individual who, although rich, was ignorant of the archæological

fitness of things. So it turned out that the purchaser while devoting

wealth and ambition to his new property, gave it the final blow.

Masons were seen at work everywhere, filling up holes, plastering

and whitewashing walls; just as if seeking to impart a delicate

grace and refinement to a rugged old rock. A terrace was built

(_renaissance!_), supposed to be in keeping with the old remaining

parts of the castle, and the chapel became a billiard room. The old

place was thoroughly rebuilt, and the new owner satisfied. There was

a little of everything about it. Every style under heaven figured

in the edifice, the heterogeneous mixture being hideous enough, to

disturb the reposing dust of ancient Byzantine architects. For all

that, the restoration was much applauded by the courtiers of this

king of bullion.

Some parts of the building were happily overlooked, or rather saved.

Thus it came about that the poor old castle was renewed, decked with

a painted and plastered mask, as inferior to the genuine original as

the mask of a harlequin to the face beneath.

As I have already said, I was born in Strasbourg Cathedral, that gem

of Alsace, beneath the classic sculptured stone in the great porch.

When one has had such a cradle, reared as I was to venerate antiquity

and all its triumphs of art, it is natural to protest against the

impunity of those who destroy the noble works of the ancients.

The restored portion was tenanted—the terrace, I mean—by barn and

other Owls, comical creatures who gave themselves the airs of the

first lords of the soil, dukes and duchesses forsooth.

One evening after a long day’s flight I arrived at this castle,

wearied and in the worst of tempers; out of tune with the world and

myself. I was haunted by ennui, and one of those unskilful sportsmen

who respect neither age nor species, and to whom nothing is sacred.

{373}

By chance I alighted on the balustrade of the terrace, from the midst

of which a group of half-dead cypresses was waving as the hour of

midnight sounded through the chill air. In romances this hour is

never allowed to strike with impunity, but in the true tale I am

relating, events must follow their natural course. The hour struck

and nothing particular happened. It occurred to me to go to roost

so as to be ready for a fresh start in the morning. I accordingly

settled myself.

THE DUKE AND DUCHESS.

I was just going to sleep when the pale moonlight revealed an Owl

sheltering with one wing an Owlet of rather striking appearance,

while with the other he draped himself as would an operatic hero with

his toga. I soon overheard them talking about the moon, the weather,

&c., or rather singing sentiment to a very lame tune.

“Poor pale moon, if one only believed lovers, its light was made for

them!”

I always shrank from intruding myself upon the hospitality of others,

so I whispered to a passing Bat, “My dear, would you be so good as to

tell your masters a centenarian Rook seeks shelter for the night.”

“Who are you addressing?” replied the Bat; “I am neither nurse nor

lackey. I am in the service of the Duchess, and have the honour of

being her first maid-in-waiting. But who are you, Mrs. Rook of a

hundred summers? Where do you hail from? How shall I announce you?

What is your title?”

“My titles to consideration are my age and need of rest.”

“What a silly old crone,” said the stupid creature as she left me.

“Nobles are never tired. Weariness is no title, it is the common

attribute of the vulgar!”

Soon I came across the third maid-in-waiting, who proved herself two

degrees less impertinent. “Do you know,” she said, “the first maid

has just been scolded on your account? The Duchess was just singing a

nocturnal duet with my Lord, when she remarked, ‘How dare you? I am

invisible to the poor.’ Besides, she only entertains titled persons,

and it seems you have no title.”

“What do you say? have I not eyes to see that your Grand Duke {374}

and Duchess are simply Owl and Owlet, on whom those airs sit badly?”

[Illustration: A NOCTURNAL DUET.]

“Hush!” whispered the Bat, who was rather talkative. “Speak lower.

Were it known that I listened to you, I would be drawn away and

perhaps eaten. Since leaving the place of their humble birth they

only dream of grandeur, and hope one day to become real aristocrats

{375} in the midst of these old tokens of nobility. Bah! the cowl

does not make the monk, any more than the castle does the prince. Fly

over there, my old friend, to the right, and you will find a better

shelter in the ruins of the castle.”

“Show me them; lead me to the souvenirs of departed greatness, out of

sight of this sickly, spurious, howling waste of plaster and paint,

sham, and shoddy. Thank you, my dear, your mistress was only natural

when she was rude.”

Very little remained of the old castle, yet I would have given fifty

restored ones for a single wall of the old pile.

Is there anything more touching in the world than ruins which bear

witness, so eloquently, to the greatness of the past?

How can we hesitate between old and new? The great present is but the

mimicry of the greater past.

AN OLD FALCON.

This venerable wall enclosed a court as old as itself, and decked on

one side with the green shoots of a vine. Lilies and wild tulips were

growing between the stones of a dilapidated flight of steps partly

covered with ivy. Sweet-scented wall-flowers and a variety of weeds

were disputing the spaces with mosses, lichens, grass, briars, and

nettles.

Parsley, tufts of samphire and poppies, found a home among the

debris, the bright flowers rivalling flames of consuming fire.

When the art of man has ceased to usurp the soil, nature slowly but

surely demolishes his handiwork, and recovers her domain.

The court belonged to an old Falcon who was ruined by the

revolutions. He was a most hospitable bird, who spent all his income

in entertaining, thus the court was the resort of creatures of

every fur and feather; resourceless Rats, Shrew-Mice, Mining-Moles,

Crickets, and other musicians, some of whom had even taken up their

permanent abode within its walls.

Alas, the chivalry and hospitality of the noble Falcon have vanished,

and the old genuine sport in which he used to delight is mimicked by

a troop of modern sportsmen whom the birds despise. They blaze away

pompously with pellets and powder, secretly filling their bags at the

nearest market-place. {376}

During my stay at this ruin I had occasion to study the habits of a

Chameleon, whose character interested me greatly. I therefore hasten

to publish my observations on this peculiar type of reptile.

[Illustration]

{377}

WHAT ANIMATES THE HEART OF A CHAMELEON.

In one of the most picturesque niches of the old wall dwelt a

Chameleon, one of the handsomest, most distinguished, and most

amiable creatures in the world. His figure was slight, his tail

slender, his nails curved artistically, his teeth white and pearly,

and his eyes quick and animated. His changing colours were all of

them most agreeable to behold, indeed the whole aspect of this

charming creature was delicate and bewitching.

[Illustration]

When he ascended the wall, twisting his body into a thousand elegant

forms, or when running through the flowering grass, one never tired

of looking at him. Besides no one could be more simple or unaffected

than this king of Lizards. He had no experience of the world, at

least he only once had occasion to go into society, into the little

world of Lizards, which is a hundred times less-corrupt than the

world of Snakes, or of men. Yet he determined never to return to it,

as the single day which he spent from home seemed to him a century.

His contact with the world had left no taint, he lost nothing of that

natural candour born of the freedom of the fields, where one sees the

budding flowers opening to their fullest, to court the scrutiny of

the midday light.

II.

In vain did a crested Jay assure him of his descent from the famous

Crocodiles of the Nile, and that his ancestors were thirty-four feet

in length. Finding himself so small, and feeling assured that the

greatest of his ancestors had not been able to add a single line

to his tail, he never troubled himself about his origin. It was

sufficient for him to {378} know that he had been brought into the

world somehow, and to feel thankful for it. He was alike devoid of

aristocratic weaknesses and vulgar vices. The most singular phase of

his character was complete indifference to the sentiment of love. The

most attractive female Lizards knowing this, had disposed of their

hearts and affections to others.

III.

The truth was he had given his heart away, unknown to his friends.

Love had stolen upon him without he himself knowing how—it is

thus that the passion makes the heart captive. Love had so taken

possession of him, that he could not get rid of it if he would. This

is how one loves well and wisely.

He loved the sun. When it was out, he was in it, and could think of

nothing else. He slept while yet awake, realising the sweetness of

noonday dreams.

IV.

Our hero held that Lizard-love was a sentiment unknown, yet beneath

the stone on which he sunned himself, a pair of bright eyes feasted

upon his every look and action, and a little heart throbbed for him

alone. This romantic worshipper feeling that she might just as well

lavish her love upon a stone, that her adoration was unobserved, and

her passion unrequited, sank into a state of despondency. Haunted by

dark doubts, she at last thought of death as the end of her sorrows.

In her extremity, she inquired of an old Rat, whether it was better

to live and suffer, or to die and be done with dreams and delusions?

“Die, of course,” said the Rat, “if you cannot make yourself

agreeable.”

“I will die!” she exclaimed; “but he shall know the reason, he shall

know all!”

Such is the force of a noble resolution, that the little Lizard who

had never till now dared to look her loved one in the face, came

forward. But her approaches were met by the gradual retreat of our

hero, for he was naturally timid in the presence of females.

“Stay,” cried the little one in a tone of despair. “I love you, and

you do not even know that I exist. I must die.”

“Don’t die, my dear,” he kindly replied; “that would be highly {379}

improper. What do you mean by saying you love me? I am a stranger to

you, yet a joke comes well from those pretty lips.”

[Illustration]

He instantly perceived, for he was an honest fellow, that his cold

doubts wounded her sensitive nature, and a light warmer and brighter

than the sun flashed from her eyes and took possession of him. He was

conquered—he proposed, and they were married. {380}

It always happens so with bachelors. It is the last straw that breaks

the camel’s back, in love as in life.

Our hero still glories in the sunshine, and takes his ease stretched

out before his own doorway.

[Illustration]

HISTORY OF THE HOSTS OF THE TERRACE—_Continued_.

The Duchess was by nature a person born to be plump and healthy;

to eat her food with the appetite of a country clown, and to enjoy

drinking and dining with a savage relish. But she crushed and curbed

these tendencies before the world, gratifying them only in secret.

In token of her exalted station she professed sensitiveness and

delicacy. She was frightened by the fall of a leaf, the flight of a

bird or insect, and above all, by her own bulky shadow.

Before folk she uttered nothing but plaintive, feeble cries,

reserving the full blast of her lungs for the ears of the Duke. The

purest air was too heavy for this ethereal Owl, who detested the

sun—the God of paupers, as she termed it—Her husband, astonished

at the fine carriage, grace, and society-refinement of his poor

barn-Owlet, exhausted his resources in efforts to keep pace with her.

Alas! his highest flights left him far behind, so far, indeed, that

his faithful spouse bemoaned and bescreeched her fate in being wedded

to a person so hideously vulgar.

The Duchess eloped with a Kite, and no one pitied the Duke, for the

fall brought by pride never begets pity.

As a finishing blow the lady left a perfumed note for her husband

{381} on the spot where they performed their moonlight duets on the

terrace. It ran as follows:—

“THE DUKE,—It is part of my destiny to be misunderstood, I shall not

therefore attempt to explain to you the motive for my departure,

“(Signed) THE DUCHESS OF THE TERRACE.”

The Duke stood petrified for some moments, after which, seized with

a fit of despair, he rushed down to the edge of a dark pool, to

ascertain whether the water would inspire him with courage to drown

himself. First, he cautiously dipped his beak into the pool to feel

its temperature, just as the moon stole out from behind a cloud, and

he beheld his image on the surface. His mind at once grasped the

frightful picture of his ruffled plumage, and he found sweet solace

in arranging his toilet. The notion crossed his mind that the Duchess

might repent, if she knew her Lord had died dressed in a style

becoming his station.

Bracing his nerves for the fatal plunge, he bent over the pool at

an unhappy moment, when it occurred to him, that birds about to die

should think twice before they leap, and feel satisfied they have

sufficient grounds for the sacrifice. Stepping backwards a few paces,

he read his wife’s letter for the hundredth and first time.

“What a fool I am!” he exclaimed, “it is possible after all, I am

imputing a wrong motive to my wife. There is no knowing; she may

have simply gone to the country for a week’s repose, and will soon

return.” In his doubts he determined to consult a Carp, reputed for

her knowledge of past, present, and future, and many things besides.

The misery of the world is the making of these sorcerers. Approaching

the river he cried out, “Tell me my fate old fish famed for finding

out facts of the future.” Slowly the Carp rose from the water—until

her body was half way above the surface—and summoning a troop of

piscine spirits, disposed them in a ring. Above floated circles

of winged insects in the air, gleaming in the phosphorescent glow

reflected from the scales of the water-witches. Dense clouds darkened

the atmosphere, rendering the lurid light all the more intense; a

profound stillness reigned, so hushed was the scene, that the Owl

heard nothing, save the beating of his heart. The sorcerer placing

herself in the centre of the ring, sent the spirits wheeling in a

mad dance. After the third round, the Carp dived and brought up this

reply,

“Your beloved wife is not dead!” {382}

That said, she bent herself like a bow, kissed her tail, and bounding

into the air, disappeared.

[Illustration]

“She is not dead,” repeated the chorus. “Owl, it is said you must

die!” {383}

“She is not dead!” repeated the Owl.

“She must be!”——

“Well, never mind. To sacrifice a life so valuable as my own would

not mend matters,” so he consigned the Carp and her oracle to the ——

water.

I have been told that soon after these events, this rich, but

weak-minded Owl poisoned himself with a Frog. That is how an Owl dies

of love.

My tale ends here. I have plucked and used my last quill, and nothing

remains but the stump. Age is telling on me, the effort to write

seems too great. I must, therefore, see my physician.

[Illustration]

{384}

LAST CHAPTER.

In which it will be shown that with beasts, as with men, one

revolution follows another, and that they are all more or less alike

in fair promises, and failures to fulfil them.

The Animals were once more assembled, and the tumult of voices worse

than ever. Each and all of them were clamouring for reform.

[Illustration]

“Of what do you complain?” cried the Fox, addressing the crowd.

“If we only knew our grievances,” they replied, “we should not

complain.”

“We do not know,” said a voice, “but if we examine we shall find out.”

“Examine them, by all means,” cried the Fox.

“What good have you done,” shouted the voice, “by compiling a

one-sided history? Too much here, and too little there. Let us fight.

A revolution will purge the kingdom.”

“That is all very well, my friend,” replied the orator, “but reason

is better than haphazard revolution. You must have learned that by

experience.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Weasel, coming to the aid of his accomplice,

the Fox, “it is by practising deceit, we become perfect. Let us begin

again.”

[Illustration]

“I could have said so,” cried the Mocking-bird, “ink, ink, always

{386} ink; it blots out a multitude of sins where good actions would

prove of no avail.”

[Illustration]

“Bravo!” from all sides. “Down with the editors!”

There was only one ink-pot in the room, and it was smashed.

“It is not good for us to be here,” said the Weasel to the Fox;

“people invariably stone their prophets. Let us go hence!” {387}

The volume was closed, the animals dispersed, for the keeper appeared

on the scene to lock the door.

The Ringdoves mounted to their clouds; the Bear departed with his

cubs; the Doves ascended heavenward; while Tortoises, Beetles, Bats,

Shrimps, and Apes danced round a bonfire of rejected manuscripts.

[Illustration]

THE END.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

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Page 61. On this page occurs the second heading 〈IV.〉. This and

subsequent headings have been retained.

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fox.’ ”〉 Added right double quotation mark after 〈Bashi-Bazouk in

Bulgaria.〉.

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of a ship, &c.?’〉.

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face〉 and in 〈make life happy!”〉. Added left single quotation mark

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right double quotation mark after 〈of her lover.〉.

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quotation mark after 〈of red-royal blood.〉.

Page 292–293. Four signatures 〈BÉBÉ.”〉 or 〈MINETTE.”〉 were originally

printed inset and right-aligned in the last paragraphs of the

relevant letters. Due to the inability of html code to accomplish

that reliably in the epub or mobi editions, these signatures have

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Page 337. Removed right double quotation mark after 〈reason of my

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End of Project Gutenberg's Public and Private Life of Animals, by J. Thomson

Public and Private Life of Animals Adapted from the French of Balzac, Droz, Jules Janin, E. Lemoine, A. De Musset, Georges Sand, &c. · 第 9 / 9 章

“Fortunately for me, as it gave me my liberty, whatever it may have