At the sight of a little baby its heart was completely melted, and it would take hold of the small hands and examine them with as much apparent interest as if it had been itself a nurse. Towards other young animals it would also on some occasions exhibit the same tenderness. It had once a favourite chicken, which it was in the habit of snatching from the brood, and hugging in its arms as a child would hold a doll; and one particular kitten was at another time distinguished by the same rather questionable marks of favour. My monkey died at last from an affection of the lungs, attended with a bad cough, and every symptom of consumption. It had always suffered from cold; but, having a thick brown coat of its own, refused all artificial clothing. Determined to gain the mastery in this respect, I once made it a jacket, which it could neither tear nor slip off. It struggled to rid itself of this appendage for the space of three days, when, finding itself completely conquered, it gave up in despair, but fell into so low a condition of health and spirits, that I removed the jacket out of sheer compassion, and never tried the experiment again.
Having begun my experience, in the way of training animals, with a large bird of prey, I acquired a certain kind of partiality for animals not generally tamed. Perhaps I fancied there was more glory in taming a naturally ferocious creature, and more distinction in that affection which could not easily be won. Thus I tried the experiment upon animals seldom domesticated, and in some instances less agreeably to my friends than to myself.
On one occasion a fine badger, caught in our fields, was brought to me as a valuable addition to my menagerie; but with him I failed entirely. He hated the sight of me, as much as all my other pets hated him; and I was not sorry to find, after our acquaintance of a few months, that one moonlight night he had contrived to make his escape.
I am afraid if the whole truth were told, some of our pets would have come under the charge of “nuisance,” had we lived in a more populous neighbourhood; but dwelling as we did amongst our own people, they were, upon the whole, very patiently borne with; and perhaps the amusement they afforded repaid others as well as ourselves for occasional inconvenience. Now and then a complaint was made, in some cases more entertaining than serious: as when a farmer living at the distance of two miles made a claim upon my father for damages committed by his sparrows. He knew my father’s belief in the usefulness of birds, and he was determined to charge him with the consequences.
An old woman who lived in one of our cottages brought her complaint with a little more justice. We had a large Asiatic sheep, of the kind which afford a feast to the epicure in the mass of fat accumulated in a monstrous cushion towards the end of the tail. I do not know whether the weight of this appendage enabled the animal to operate with more effect as a battering ram; but certainly his power in this way was far from agreeable to cope with. The old woman complained that it was impossible to hang out her linen to dry in the field where this sheep was kept; for, watching his opportunity, he no sooner beheld her standing with outstretched arms holding the linen in both hands, than he advanced from behind, and pitched her into or over the hedge. But this was not the worst, at least not to the neighbours, though it might be to the old woman herself. The surrounding cottages were visited periodically by a Methodist preacher, and the good man, not being aware of any danger, was crossing the field by a footpath, when a sudden attack, as usual from behind, sent him headlong, umbrella and all, into a ditch or hollow which crossed the path. On every attempt to regain his footing, the same attack was made, until at length he gave up in despair; and had not one of the women discovered something unusual in the field, a very serious interruption to the religious engagements of the evening must have been the consequence.
But for a terror to passers by, I have known few creatures to surpass an old swan. We had one who reigned for many years the undisputed sovereign of a pond, along the borders of which there was a road sometimes traversed by persons passing from one village to another. It happened one day that two tailors walked that way, and being proverbially better acquainted with the goose than the swan, had probably stopped to admire these beautiful creatures on the water. However that might be, it is certain that shrieks were heard, and that when some of our people rushed to the rescue, one of the tailors was down on his back, and the swan flapping him with his terrible wings. Our people said one of the tailors ran east, the other west, and were never heard of again; but I doubt the authenticity of this statement.
It is a common complaint among authors and lovers of literature in Great Britain that their country does not know how to honour and reward literary eminence and service. They bid us look to France, where authors are made peers and ministers of state; and to America, where the homage which we English pay to birth is paid to literary or forensic eminence; and to some of the German Courts, where great authors may be found in the cabinets of sovereigns. In England, it is said, there are no honours for literature; no rewards except its own earnings; whereas there are no natural reasons why offices requiring intellectual ability should not be assigned as prizes in the race of literature; and the deserts of laborious and devoted authorship are surely as good a ground for grace from the Fountain of Honour—the sovereign—as the services of eminent soldiers and seamen and lawyers, if not statesmen. In England, an author who has disclosed to the people at large the history of their country, or some kingdom of nature, or some glorious realm of imagination, may be worshipped by crowds wherever he turns, may be dear to the nation’s heart while living, and mourned by all its millions
