The situation for a celibate was most embarrassing. I was almost tempted to seek the hospitality of some birds of my own size, as we all looked alike grey in the dark. At last perching on a branch where there was a row of different birds, and modestly taking the lower end, I hoped to remain unobserved; but I was disappointed. My nearest neighbour was an old Dove, as thin as a rusty weather-cock. The moment I approached her, the few feathers which covered her bones became the objects of her solicitude. She pretended to pick them, but as they had only a slender hold of her skin, merely passed them in review, to make sure she had her right number. Scarcely had I touched her with the tip of my wing, when, drawing herself up majestically, she said, “How dare you, sir?” administering at the same time a vigorous British push that sent me spinning into the heath, on the top of a Hazel Hen, who would have willingly made room for me, only her spare bed was taken up by a son returned from the harvesting.
I heard myself called by the sweet voice of a Thrush, who made signs for me to join her companions. Here at last, I thought, are some birds of my feather, and nothing loath, took my place among them as lightly as a billet-doux disappearing in a lady’s muff. Alas! I discovered that the dames had feasted freely on the juice of the grape, so I left them, to flee I knew not where, as the night was pitchy dark. Onward I sped till arrested by a burst of heavenly music. It was the song of the Nightingale, and dame Nature, attired in her sombre hues, stood listening in silence to the glorious lullaby that had soothed her children to sleep. The song recalled the first notes that doomed me to become an outcast. There was a touch of melancholy about the music, a mournful refrain that seemed to breathe forth a longing for something brighter, purer, holier than all life’s experiences. My resolution to live my life out seemed to melt away in the liquid strain, and at the risk of becoming the prey of some nocturnal Owl, I plunged into the darkness determined to return to my home or die in the effort. At daybreak I descried the towers of Notre Dame, and soon perched upon the sacred building, to rest for a moment before alighting in the old garden. Alas! absence had wrought a sad change. Nothing remained to mark the site save a bundle of fagots. Where was my mother? In vain I piped and sang, and called on her to return. She had left the old familiar scene. There stood the woodman’s axe that had laid low the trees and severed the ties of kindred. The shrubs of the green lane were rooted up to make way for the cold grey stones of the abodes of men.
VI.
I searched for my parents in all the gardens around, but in vain; they had doubtless sought refuge in some distant spot, and were lost to me for ever. Overwhelmed with sorrow, I lingered about the spout from which my father’s wrath had exiled me. Sleep deserted me, and I lay down to die of hunger and grief. One day my sad reflections were interrupted by the jarring discord of two voices. Two slattern dames, standing slipshod, dirty, and bedraggled in the road beneath, were disputing over some point of household discipline, when one clinched the argument by exclaiming, “Egad! when you manage, you slut, to do these things, just let me know on’t, and my faith, I’ll bring you a white Blackbird.”
Here was a discovery; probably the little unforeseen circumstance destined to turn the tide of my fortune and land me at last in Elysium. I must be a real, though rare bird of a misguided type. Thus impartial speech is sufficient to justify the conclusion. That being so, humility ill befits me. It is a mistake to cheapen what in reality are attributes as rare as they are highly prized. I am the one living illustration that in nature, as in law, nothing is impossible—that black even may become white. In law, I am told, this transformation is effected thoroughly, but at the same time at great cost to clients, and only by highly-gifted members of the bar. In my own case, natural law has been manipulated to bring about a like end, intended clearly for my gain.
These sage conclusions led at once to my assuming the airs and importance of a creature who for the first time discovers that his genius has raised him from the gutter far above all his fellows. I seemed at once to acquire a more dignified and imposing strut while parading the spout, and at the same time a capacity for looking calmly into space, towards the place of my ultimate destiny, far removed from this narrow terrestrial sphere. All this was a wonderful transformation to be wrought by the careless boast of a tawdry gossip, and clearly proves how nicely poised are the affairs of life. Such incidents are not unknown among men, as the word of a fool has been known to arrest the overthrow of a kingdom.
Among other things, it occurred to me, since Nature has gone out of her way to make me what I am, I must be a poet. I can hardly explain the process of reasoning which led to this belief; for all that, the belief became so rooted in my brain that I must needs jot down my inspiration. It is universally acknowledged that the first step to be taken towards becoming a great poet is to look like one. I accordingly studied to look genius all over, and the result was, I was accepted as my own estimate. Next I determined to go in for classical verse, and bring out a poem in forty-eight cantos, so framed as to apprise the universe of my existence. I shall deplore my isolation in such a manner as to stir up the envy of the happiest beings on earth. Since Heaven has refused me a mate, I shall utterly condemn the law which divides the bird creation into families, each having its own distinctive attributes. I will cry down everything—prove that grapes are sour, that Nightingales sing one into despair, and that Blackbirds have fallen away from their primeval whiteness. But first I must lay hold of a good rhyming companion, a handy-book to lift me out of the horrors of fishing for words of the same sound. It will also be necessary to establish about my person a retinue of needy journalists and authors as an exhaustless source of inspiration, in order to deluge the world with rhymes copied from the strophes of Chaucer, and with plays decked out from the sentiments of Shakespeare. Thus shall I ease my overburdened soul, make all the Tomtits cry, the Ringdoves coo, and the old Owls screech. Above all, one must prove one’s self inexorable to the sweet sentiment of love. In vain shall I be waylaid and entreated to have compassion on maidenly hearts melted by my song. My manuscripts shall be sold for their weight in gold, my books shall cross the seas, fame and fortune shall everywhere follow me. In short, I shall be a perfectly exceptional bird, an eccentric, and at the same time brilliant writer, received with open arms, courted, admired, and thoroughly detested by a thousand rivals.
VII.
An interval of six weeks introduced my first work to the world, which turned out, as I promised myself it should, a poem in forty-eight cantos. It was slightly marred by a few negligences, the result of prodigious fertility of brain and the inability of my pen to keep pace with my inspiration. Nevertheless, I wisely concluded that the public, accustomed as they are in modern times to all that is swift in thought and action, would shield me from reproach. The success of this, my pristine effort, was simply as unparalleled as it was thoroughly deserved. The subject of the poem was my noble self; in this respect adhering to the prevailing custom, I related my sufferings and adventures, and put the reader in possession of a thousand domestic details of the most piquant interest. The description of my mother’s nest filled no less than fourteen cantos. With the most graphic minuteness were noted the number of straws, grasses, and leaves of which it was composed, the whole being idealised by the tints and reflections of poetic genius. I displayed the inside and the outside, the bottom and the brim, the graceful curves and inclined planes and angles, gradually leading the reader up to the grand theme of the contents—the remains of flies, may-bugs, and grubs which supplied the dainty fare of our home. Thus ascending, I reserved, with true poetic art, the dramatic incidents of my life for the grand dénoûement.
Europe was moved by the apparition of my book, and eagerly devoured its thrilling revelations. How could it be otherwise? I had not only laid bare the facts of my existence, but pictured the dreams which disturbed my repose for many years, even introducing an ode composed in the yet unbroken egg. Of course I did not neglect the subject which interests every one—that is, the future of humanity. This problem, which for a moment had arrested my attention, was dealt with, and dashed off in outline, giving universal satisfaction.