Chapter XVIII: Epilogue: Chief Editor’s Note (2)

“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.”

{327}

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

THE SWALLOW’S FIRST LETTER.

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.

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.

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.

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.

{344}

MEDICAL ANIMALS.

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}

“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.’

“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.

{353}

THE GIRAFFE’S TABLETS.

_JARDIN DES PLANTES._

LETTER TO HER LOVER IN THE DESERT.

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.