DINNER-PARTIES OUT OF DOORS.
Walking one wintery day along the promenade of a well-known Lancashire watering-place, a large notice-board at the entrance of the pier attracted our attention. A closer inspection showed that it bore the announcement: ‘Feeding the sea-gulls from the pier-head every day at noon.’ Curious to see what manner of performance this might be, we paid the entrance-money, took a ticket for the tram-carriage which was just about to start, and speedily found ourselves being whirled smoothly along towards the end of the ‘first pier,’ as it is called, which stretches across the sands for something like three-quarters of a mile towards the deep channel. A short walk was necessary before reaching the end of the extension pier, and there we found numbers of visitors congregated, all, like ourselves, evidently waiting for the performance to begin. Around, lay huge baskets of fish-offal; but where were the expected guests? On every side, far as the eye could reach, was a long expanse of flat sand, merging into the sea-line, with not a vestige of rock to afford foothold or shelter for wild-fowl of any kind. Yet, stay. By the margin of the waves, where it is now low water, are what look like huge glistening white boulders, forming a continuous boundary, whose snowy surface reflects the light, and glitters and flashes under the rays of a December sun, set in so blue a sky as more nearly to approach that of Italy than any we have yet seen in our sombre-tinted British Isles.
Twelve o’clock strikes; a piercing whistle sounds, and even while we are watching, these granite boulders—as, despite the geological formation of the place, we persist in fancying them to be—literally take to themselves wings, and fly towards us, a nearer approach showing them to be vast aggregations of sea-gulls, which have been waiting till the appointed signal should summon them to dine. No transformation scene in a pantomime ever took place with more startling rapidity. Round the pier-head, where all had been still and quiet, was now the bustle and whirring noise made by countless gulls, each one intent upon getting a share of the good things provided. On they come; now swooping along in graceful flight right down to the surface of the water, anon darting aloft with the coveted prize; poised momentarily in mid-air, to see where a descent may most profitably be made, or engaged in a keen struggle for the possession of some particularly toothsome morsel. The whirl and commotion and changing beauty of the scene, it were impossible to describe. Rendered tame by having experimentally proved that the food scattered is no mere decoy meant to lure them to destruction, but the outcome of an honest effort for their sustenance and protection, they come so close as to afford every opportunity for studying their free and graceful flight and the beauty of their form and colour.
Something, we know not what, unless it be the fearless confidence with which these wild-birds respond to the offered kindness, showing no dread of the many spectators, carries us back in thought to the shores of sunny Italy, and above all to Venice, that Queen of the Adriatic, who, dethroned though she be, yet casts the spell of her irresistible charm over all whose hearts beat responsive to the touch of beauty in art; and those no less impressionable spirits over whom the hallowing influence of long-past ages holds a sway so potent, that both alike are fain to acknowledge her as empress of a far wider realm than any which can be measured by mere geographical limitations. Let us take our stand in the Piazza di San Marco, with its glorious many-domed cathedral, its campanile pointing to the heavens, its ducal palace, clock-tower, Moorish arcades, and that vastness of proportion, whose impressiveness is heightened by the stillness so foreign to our modern life in other cities where horse and vehicular traffic create an incessant, deafening hum. Two o’clock sounds from the Torre dell’ Orologio. Immediately we hear the soft swish of multitudinous wings, and down from the turrets and pinnacles where they have been poised, ever-watchful, though motionless, come the gentle, fearless doves to be fed. So tame are they, that to move aside out of your path as you attempt to cross the piazza, never seems to enter into their minds; and if, in your turn, you purchase and begin to scatter a little parcel of corn, the pigeons very soon find it out, and swarm over and upon you with the utmost confidence in your friendly intentions towards them. Such a picture, we imagine, is not to be paralleled elsewhere—one, for its suggestiveness, quite equal in interest to those artistic treasures which lie so close at hand.
Yet a third scene takes us to the grounds of a country-house in the north of England. Here, during the intensely cold winter of 1878-9, when for weeks everything was ice-bound, and all vegetation hidden under a thick coating of snow, myriads of birds were saved from perishing miserably of starvation through the thoughtful kindness of the owner, who for weeks, running into months, provided, twice daily, huge buckets of ‘stirabout,’ whose contents were emptied on to a sort of wooden platform placed over the snow on the lawn. (For the information of those who are not acquainted with the term, we may say that ‘stirabout’ is nothing but coarse oatmeal mixed with water and slightly boiled.) Very pretty was the scene witnessed at feeding-time. Small birds, such as robins, finches, sparrows, tomtits, &c., would cluster on the neighbouring bushes, which were literally bent down with their weight, and reminded one of the ropes of onions so often seen in country places. These birds showed no sort of shyness, but evidently looked upon the food provided as simply their just recompense for helping to free the fruit-trees from insect pests. Large birds, too, used to come of species rarely seen near houses. Perhaps the prettiest sight of all was to watch the squirrels, which seldom, however, made their appearance until the birds had finished. Cautiously up the slope of the lawn they would come, and then very contentedly sat munching away, their bright eyes restlessly glancing here and there; but at the very faintest sound, there was a sort of twinkle, and like a flash of lightning, the squirrels had vanished from sight.
Fresh from recollections such as these, which the feeding of the sea-gulls had brought vividly to memory, upon returning slowly down the pier, we were unpleasantly roused by seeing that five out of every six ladies we met were found to wear either wings or whole birds as the so-called decoration of hats and bonnets. To say nothing respecting the very questionable taste of wearing things which bear the semblance of death, the wholesale slaughter of small birds which goes on to satisfy the requirements of recurring fashion, cannot be too strongly deprecated. On economic and utilitarian grounds, it is no less bad, than from the more humanitarian standpoint, which makes us unwilling needlessly to destroy creatures so full of life and joyousness as are these winged denizens of earth and sky. In view of the threatened injury to agriculture, an American periodical recently drew attention to the great destruction of swallows which resulted from the demand for their breasts and wings to ornament ladies’ bonnets, and called for the enforcement of those laws which our cousins on ‘the other side’ have been wise enough to pass forbidding the killing of insectivorous birds. Turning to an English fashion-book, we read the description of a fancy-ball dress where swallows formed the staple adornment. Bouquets of whole birds were to be placed upon the skirt and bodice; birds in the hair, even wings upon the shoes! Unhappily, the plumage of doves and swallows happens to harmonise with the shades of gray which were worn, just as some years since did the breast of our poor friend cock-robin suit with the deeper-toned hues which were then affected by our élégantes. The result was that, around London at anyrate, robins were for some time quite a rarity.
Surely any one who has witnessed such scenes as those we have so imperfectly tried to describe, would hardly again order her milliner to use birds as a decoration for dresses and bonnets. This special form of cruelty, like so many other of our mistaken dealings with the animal creation, probably springs more from ‘want of thought’ than from ‘want of heart.’ Its effects, however, are no less baneful than if they were the deliberate outcome of a desire for wholesale slaughter. The question is confessedly a difficult one, for it would be absurd to say that there is anything wrong per se in wearing the plumage of pheasants, partridges, pigeons, cocks, and other birds which are killed for purposes of food. The misfortune is, that when birds and wings are once recognised as ‘the thing’ to wear, all birds, songsters as well, will of a certainty be pressed into the service.
In the ‘Ladies’ Column’ of a French journal we have read: ‘Perhaps fashion has never before laid the whole animal world to such an extent under contribution. Not only are all sorts of insects, lizards, spiders, bees, &c., imitated with marvellous fidelity to nature, but the dead bodies of the creatures themselves are fastened on hats and in the hair by means of golden pins. Nor is this all—upon hats, and sometimes dresses, are seen stuffed birds, cats, mice, squirrels, and even monkeys.’ The article went on to say: ‘We must acknowledge that such innovations are more startling than graceful. On some bonnets, one sees the heads of cats nestling amidst the folds of lace; others have quite a family of mice, poking their little pink noses into knots and loops of ribbon. It is a good thing that the animals are only stuffed ones; else, if two bonnets thus adorned were placed in juxtaposition, there would assuredly be a battle-royal.’
Lately, in England, we have ourselves seen bonnets and muffs which had tiny kittens cosily reposing amidst the folds of silk and velvet. Such gross violations of every canon of good taste and right feeling lead us to ask, with something like a sigh of despair, what will the end be? In the name of Humanity, we would entreat our lady friends to spare, at anyrate, our Birds.