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 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 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.