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. 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.
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.
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 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.