against the glass and exploring every corner of her habitation. Towards evening she quieted down, and swallowed some food that I gave her with an air of good-fellowship that promises well for the future, I am fond of her already: I think there is more in her than in the rattlers. Not necessarily more poison, perhaps, but more depth of character,—a strange, Oriental charm. And she is certainly as handsome a reptile as ever carried death in her fang.
The rattlers, by the way, seemed to be aware of the presence of their neighbor, and showed some agitation,—especially in the region of the tail. They seemed more alarmed than irritated, however: I suppose they were awed by the superior genius of the queenly Indian. But it is part of my plan to see how they will behave to one another: so, this morning, I opened the door in the partition. The rattlers, instead of coiling themselves in position, slunk about at full length and got under the blankets. The cobra sat quiet for a time, as if she were contemplating the situation; but at last, with a slow and graceful movement, and head erect, she slid through the opening and into the other cage. She was like a queen among her subjects, and her subjects never so much as rattled. She finally made herself comfortable in their blankets; and it does not seem to occur to them to retaliate by making free with hers.
I am never tired of watching these mysterious animals. The power of instant death is a fascinating thing to meditate upon. It gives dignity to its possessor,—a dignity which is inherent, not derived from the imagination of the observer. No animal has finer manners—a more awful composure—than this cobra of mine. Human monarchs have the same power of life and death, and that, after all, is the basis of their grandeur and serenity. There is something royal in the aspect of outlaws and desperadoes who do not hesitate to kill men. There is only one thing nobler than to destroy life, and that is, to create it.
My own calling (so far as I can be said to have one) possesses neither of these advantages; for although, no doubt, a physician may often be fatal to his patient, that is not his ostensible business; and as for creating life, my science is there at one with my orthodoxy: mortal man will never accomplish the feat. This patching and mending of worn-out bodies can hardly be called a respectable employment, and, in the widest sense, perhaps not a philanthropic one. Patched people do not make good ancestors: medical skill is the foe of posterity. If I had my choice of a future incarnation, I should choose to be a Central African despot,—or a cobra! What a change from relieving the aches and pains of Mrs. Hodge in the village, and bringing Sophie Stubbs's little baby through an attack of croup!
There must be an essential discord at the bottom of my nature.
