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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
“You unwelcome rubbish!” said the mothers; “now that we have
had all the trouble of bringing you into the world, some one must
nurse you—we are otherwise engaged. We will return and spoil you
later on, if we think of it.” Guardians are found. A Weasel displayed
the deepest interest in the eggs, an Adder watched them tenderly
as they were about to break, while Wolves feasted on the young to
keep them out of harm’s way.
 By far the most telling scene was met with in the schoolroom.
There we saw bloated-looking Boars prosecuting their studies by
lying on their bellies, or rolling over on their backs. Oxen, that had
abandoned the plough, and Camels striving to make their
neighbours carry their humps.
Those who were not asleep were yawning, or going to yawn, or
had yawned. All of them seemed profoundly dull. Near the centre
sat a Monkey nursing his knee, who, with his head thrown back,
seemed to be absorbed in his reflections.
“Sir,” I said, addressing him, “are these dejected-looking
creatures around you happy?”
“I fear not,” was his reply; “although their sole pursuit is
happiness, some of them are miserable enough. As for myself, I
feel supremely uncomfortable on this confounded stool, but as
governor I must keep awake.”
On our way we passed in front of the shop of a blacksmith, who
was fitting a pair of carpet slippers to a tender-footed horse.
Suddenly I said to my travelling companion, “I have had quite
enough of this ‘Happy Island,’ let us continue our voyage.”
 IX.
P ENGUIN I SLAND.
Two days later we reached Penguin Island. “What does that
mean?” I said, on perceiving some two hundred individuals of my
kind ranged as if in battle-array along the shore. “Are these troops
intended to do us honour, or to prevent our landing?”
“Fear nothing,” said my friend, “these Penguins are our friends.
It is the custom of their country to parade the shores in flocks.”
We were received with much kindness, and conducted with
great ceremony towards an old Sphemiscus, the King of the island.
This good King was seated on a stone, which served as a throne,
and surrounded by his subjects, who seemed to be all known to
him.
 “Illustrious strangers,” he exclaimed, as soon as he perceived us
ap­proach­ing, “we are delighted to make your acquaintance,” and as
the crowd around him barred our way, he continued: “My children,
range yourselves on one side, and allow the strangers to pass.” The
ladies stood on his right, and the gentlemen on his left. “You, sirs,
are welcome to enjoy the freedom of our kingdom.”
I ventured to say, “Sire, your renown is the talk of the whole
world, and the hope of seeing you alone sustained us through the
perils of our journey.”
 “Good!” whispered my friend; “you are a courtly liar for one so
young; but be careful, else you may die a diplomatist.”
My speech so pleased the King, that he cast off his Phrygian
cap, descended from his perch, and clasped me to his breast,
saying, “You are, for one so young, a bird most fair and honest.
Remain with me to aid me in my old age.”
“Noble sir,” I replied, “your knowledge of Penguin character is
truly worthy of your fame. I will gladly accept your generous offer,
trusting that my youth and inexperience may excuse my many
shortcomings.”
“Stay, are you married?”
“No, your Majesty, I am a bachelor.”
“He is a bachelor!” cried the King, turning towards the ladies,
who at once, and for the first time, overwhelmed me with their
fond gaze.
“A bachelor! a bachelor!” cried a chorus of voices, “what a
dreadful creature!”
“Hush!” said the King, “we have cured worse maladies. There is
my daughter.”
“But, Sire,” I protested, “my heart is lost to another.”
“The remark is worthy of your modesty. You shall wed my
daughter; the notion suits me; it is a question of privilege, not of
heart.”
I so little expected this proposal, that I remained mute with
amazement.
“He who says nothing, consents,” said the King. Before I had
time to decide, my eyes met those of the princess. It was but for a
moment. The god of love had kindled a perfect conflagration in her
breast. Everything was arranged before I could say no, so
engrossed was I with my own reflections. That momentary glance
had evidently sealed my fate. So far as one’s after-life is concerned,
it had more effect in neutralising my happiness than if I had, from
my earliest infancy, set myself the task of inventing the best means
of blighting my peace.
“Well,” said the monarch, “look at your future wife. Are you not
delighted? too happy to find words to express your joy? Is she not
lovely?” The poor old potentate looked tenderly on his daughter,
and with tears in his eyes, continued—“You cannot know what I am
offering, she is a good child, a good child! and will make a dear
wife. Not a single subject in my realm boasts smaller eyes, yellower
beak, rounder form, or larger feet. She is indeed beautiful!”
The wedding was arranged, and we were married in great state.
My wife’s father paid all the expenses; for in Penguin land kings as
well as subjects have enough to marry and dower their daughters.
This was how I became the King’s son, and how foolish marriages
are made. My real troubles date from the close of the ceremony, as
my wife was neither very handsome nor very good.
 X.
I might finish here, but as I have gone so far, I may as well
relate the bitter end.
I dreamt one night that I beheld my first love, and that she
beckoned to me to follow her. The whole scene was so vivid that
when I awoke, I felt I could recognise the spot if it existed in any
part of the earth. In a weak moment I resolved to start in search of
this heaven and its goddess. At last, I left the Penguin shore,
ostensibly on a diplomatic mission. For two whole years I searched
the world over; but in vain, until, just as I was giving up hope, I
discovered the object of my solicitude on a sandbank, stooping
over the filthy remains of a stranded Whale, in the society of a
ragged, vicious-looking Cormorant, the meanest of birds. This then
was the Gull of my dreams! the spirit of the air! the ideal of beauty,
the Peri, the sylph, whose seductive image had cursed my life. My
eyes opened, but too late to discover how the fool mistakes the
glitter of the basest metal for the lustre of pure gold. What would I
not have given to crush the memory of my folly out of my heart; to
begin life anew, and ponder well the first false steps. Yet I
reflected, all may be well, better far the bitterest truth than the
sweetest falsehood.
Setting sail for Penguin Island, I resolved never again to quit its
shore, and to become a good husband, father, and prince.
 XI.
On landing, I first visited the people, who were well, next, my
father-in-law, who, thank God, was better than the people. I then
began to look for my dear wife and child, and—good heavens! I
found my family had increased to four. My wife, poor soul, had
taken another husband, thinking I had deserted her.
 I at once repaired to my old friend and travelling companion,
whose ability the King had sought to reward by making him Prime
Minister; but he refused to add to his cares that of office, and
retired to live as a hermit on the top of a rock. He had chosen the
highest rock in the realm, whence, far above the turmoil of the
state, he bent his philosophic gaze on the lower world which he
had abandoned to its fate. I felt much in need of sympathy and
advice. After recounting my woes, the answer of the recluse sent a
thrill of despair through my heart.
“Bah!” he said, “I am sick of all the affairs of life. Each hour
wounds, but happily, the last kills us. Forget your troubles. Arm
your heart against the malignant influences that mar the peace of
brutes and men. Why the devil should you be happy? (he was a
profane bird). What have you done to merit happiness? How fared
you in your journey? Have you seen enough of the world—sinned
too much? Hah! hah! Is your punishment greater than you can
bear? Poor deluded Penguin! you have been the football of our old
enemy, fate. It must have been great fun for the old rascal, to mark
your abortive attempts at heavenward flight with these half-formed
wings. Hah! hah! what a capital joke!”
“You seem merry, my friend,” said I, “your levity wounds me
deeply.”
“Listen, my child,” he replied. “You have spent the best of your
days in vain pursuit of the unattainable. Depend upon it, the
nearest approach to happiness is found in paths obscure and
humble. Paths of duty along which kind Providence will ever act as
our guide.”
 “You puzzle me,” I remarked, “your language is as changeable
as English weather. At one moment you are a wicked bird, at
another a moral philosopher.”
“Nay, friend,” he said, “these are but the passing moods of the
mind. I am told that men as well as birds have their moods. Even
some most religious men, they tell me, wear a sombre cloak to
conceal the sinful thoughts that are always present with them.
They resemble the shells they employ in warfare; harmless enough,
until thrown to the ground by some sudden shock of passion which
fires the fuse and destroys them. It seems to me, in order to
succeed in the pursuit of happiness you must prefer clouds to
sunshine, rain to fair weather, grief to joy. You must possess
nothing, and yet find yourself too rich, take all that is done as well
done, all that is said as well said, believe nothing, and yet know
everything. Dream while you are living, live in your dreams. After
all when you feel really happy, have patience, and time will surely
destroy the illusion.”
Here the philosopher paused for breath.
Reader, if you are unhappy, let me counsel you to take warning
from the life of a poor Penguin, who blighted his hopes by
worshipping at the shrine of a false goddess.
 T HE L AST W ORDS OF AN E PHEMERA.
IT was the opinion of the savants of our race who lived in ancient
times, many minutes, indeed, before we came into being, that this
vast world would dissolve and disappear within eighteen hours.
That this hypothesis is not without foundation, and at the same
time worthy of the erudition of the ancients, I hope to be able to
prove. The great luminary travelling through space has, during my
own time, sensibly declined towards the ocean which bounds the
earth on all sides. If, therefore, we base our calculation on the
space traversed by the sun per second, it will be found that, before
eighteen hours have elapsed, his fire will be quenched in the
ocean, and the world given up to darkness and death. He has
already passed the zenith. For all that, the moment when the bright
disc will dip beneath the waves seems distant as eternity, when
measured by the span of our lives. I myself have enjoyed several
moments of existence, and feel age creeping on apace. I see
children and grandchildren around me dancing in the joyous light. I
may live a few seconds longer, and witness many changes; yet my
life has been so full of sad experiences, as to convince me that, in
the course of nature, I must soon follow those who have gone
before. In reviewing my past existence, while clearly discerning its
failures and follies, I venture to hope that it has not been
altogether misspent. My researches have contributed not a little to
solve some of the problems connected with the most curious
phenomena of hedge-rows and ditches, keeping altogether out of
account the facts which I have established connected with the
duration of the earth. I have applied the most refined analysis to
discover the true constituents of the atmosphere, and the
meteorological conditions which promote or destroy insect life. I
could reveal secrets to mankind, to which their microscopes and
spectroscopes can never afford the faintest clue. These are certain
elements necessary to our existence only known to ourselves, as
also the important functions we perform in carrying out the wise
economy of nature.
Men are blind to everything that does not, as they conceive,
bear directly or indirectly on their own interest, and in their folly
they imagine that our lives are worse than useless. They cannot
perceive that we are ministering spirits of the air, sent by an all-
wise Creator to correct abuses of which they themselves are the
authors. But life is short; all too short for the labour it implies. Alas!
my end draws near, and my friends console me by saying that I
have done enough to earn lasting fame, and to promote the
happiness of my race, until the eighteenth hour witnesses their
destruction, and the wreck of this great plain which men call the
earth.
 T HE S ORROWS OF AN O LD T OAD.
MY father was already well up in years
and corpulence, when the joys of
paternity came upon him for the last
time. Alas! his happiness was of short
duration. My poor mother’s strength
was overtaxed with a dreadful laying of
eggs, and, in spite of the tenderest
nursing, she at last succumbed to the
effort of bringing me to the light. I was
brought forth in sorrow, and to this fact I attribute the deep shade
of melancholy which has clouded my existence. I was always of a
dreamy, contemplative nature. This, indeed, formed the basis of my
character. The early days of my Tadpole life are wrapped in gloom,
so dense as to render them void of incident. I can just dimly
recollect my father, squatted beneath a broad leaf on the bank of a
stream, smiling benignly as he watched my progress. He had
always a soft, liquid eye, in whose depths I could read the love of
his tender heart. His eyes were of a greenish hue, and protruded.
This, taken together with his noble proportions, his enemies
attributed to high living. He was in reality a contemplative Toad,
whose greatest success lay in the cultivation of philosophic leisure.
He carefully avoided the water, and, little by little, withdrew himself
from the scene of my exploits. I am ashamed to say that his
absence never caused me to shed a tear. I had two or three
brothers about my own age, with whom I giddily threw myself into
all the pleasures of life. It was a joyous time! What would I not
give to recall those fleeting hours of my youth, with all their happy
experiences. Where is now the lovely stream, over whose dewy
banks the reeds and grasses bent to watch the play of sunlight on
its smiling face? Where the crystal pools, the scenes of my
adventures in an enchanted world? the dark-bearded stones, ’neath
which we followed many a giddy course, our hearts throbbed with
fright as we came face to face with some motionless Eel, or
touched the silver scales of a dreamy Carp? I can recall the great
fish, troubled in his sleep, viewing us with a quick, angry glance,
until, perceiving our shame and confusion, he smiled, and we
renewed our game.
It is impossible to describe the pleasure of being rocked,
caressed and fondled by the current as it pursues its tranquil
course. Every ray of sunlight that found its way through the willows
revealed new wonders. The dull, dead sand was glorified by the
light until it shone like a bed of jewels. Myriads of creatures
seemed to spring into life. The weeds flashed with a thousand
hues, the hard-hearted pebbles flung back the rays with a
brightness that pierced the deep recesses of the stony bed.
Delirious with joy, how often have I not dived to mingle with the
light, to catch something of the fleeting charms it scattered so
lavishly around. At such times I completely lost my head. (Pardon
me, dear reader, should I seem to exaggerate; a Tadpole who has
lost his head must make the most of his tail, as he has nothing
more left to him.) We then thought ourselves indomitable, pursuing
shoals of microscopic fish that sought and found shelter beneath
the stones. But the huge Spiders, walking on the water and
devouring all they came across, afforded rare sport. Gliding
cautiously up behind, we used to lick the soles of their feet, and
dart off, amazed at our own audacity, to seek cover beneath the
shade of lily leaves. I have passed whole days under those leaves,
examining with the profound admiration of youth, the delicacy and
beauty of their configuration. In each one of their pores I
discovered little lungs, and such a marvellous organisation, that I
dared not touch them, so much was I moved by the notion that,
like ourselves, they must have feeling as well as vitality. These
reflections intensified my curiosity to such a degree, that I made
my way among the roots to try and find out the secrets of plant
life, and see for myself the source of so much beauty. It seemed to
me that the water-lily was a perfect type of goodness. It
ungrudgingly displayed its charms to the gaze of the world, at the
same time sheltering with its broad leaves the tenderest forms of
life. Flower, leaves, and root alike refused to yield up their secrets,
and yet though silent, every detail of their form was eloquent with
the praise of their Creator. Thoughts of the good fellowship
subsisting between plants and animals brought tears to my eyes,
which I suppose I must have shed and thus swollen the stream
beneath which I was submerged. All those things made a
permanent impression on my mind, although I have had my days
of scepticism, when it appeared to me that disorder and misery
were the ruling powers of the world. As my age advanced, my
powers made corresponding progress; strange longings for a higher
state of development filled my head, while my tail shortened and
responded more and more tardily to its office of oar and rudder.
Sharp pains shot through my posterior, ending in the growth of feet
and lungs. In truth, I was becoming a Toad! The transformation is
not without its moral significance. New members brought with
them obligations to which I was a stranger, hardly knowing how to
use the attributes Providence had placed at my disposal.
One day, I descried on the bank of the stream a Goose and her
family about to take their daily bath. The scene was not new to me,
but the emotions which filled my breast differed from anything I
had experienced. The Goslings were lying all of a heap on a tuft of
fine grass, and from my point of view, presented a confused mass
of down, gilded by the sun. Here and there a little yellow beak
might be seen. But the immobility of their position, and the utter
abandonment of their postures informed me of their perfect
contentment and tranquillity. The young brood was steeped in
sleep, while the mother, bending a tender, watchful eye over them,
uttered a sound so touching to their hearts, that every eye blinked,
and every beak opened with a joyous quack.
“Good morning, mother,” they seemed to say, “Is it time for our
bath?”
“Yes, lazy little ones. Do you not hear the music of the stream,
or feel the heat of the mid-day sun? Your heads are exposed to its
scorching rays.”
“O mother! don’t disturb our rest,” they replied. “You have no
notion of our comfort. The drowsy humming of the bees, the
languid nodding of the harebell, and the scent of the new-mown
hay are soothing us to sleep.”
“Hush your silly prattle and wake. A little courage, a little self-
denial, my dears, and up with you.”
 This was too much for the Goslings who slowly separated,
presenting a confusion of pink feet, plushy wings, and golden beaks
most interesting to behold. Some rolled over and over in their
attempts to gain their legs. At length they succeeded, and went
waddling, and wagging their stumpy tails streamwards. When they
reached the water’s edge, after many hesitations, strivings, and
chatterings, they at last stretched their necks and entered boldly to
float with the current.
 “Strike out, my dears,” said the dame. “Heads erect, mind. It is
supremely vulgar, my children, to bend the head unless to pick up
something to your advantage. Kick the water bravely; it is made to
serve you.”
It was a beautiful sight, and I was about to ask permission to
make one of their number, when the mother, in passing, haughtily
tossed her beak in the air, saying, “Avoid slimy toads, and all such
creatures—their presence is defiling!”
Judge, dear reader, of my pain and sur­prise. I dived into a dark
pool to drown my wounded pride. When I again came to the
surface, the interval had trans­formed me into a truly mel­an­choly
toad. A large spider, with whom I had become acquainted, passed
over my head, smiling kindly at me; but he won no respon­sive
smile. Feeling need of breath, I me­chan­ic­ al­ly sought the bank, and
was startled by a hoarse voice shouting—
“Confound you, reptile!” I turned, and perceived a gay
personage decked in blue and gold—a Kingfisher. “What are you
doing there, stupid? You with the four superfluous feet, body, head,
and eyes. You slimy scoundrel! Don’t you know your vile presence
poisons the stream? Get out, else I will swallow you like a gudgeon.
Ugh!” I thought he was going to be sick. “Make off, you frighten my
clients.” He was a fine-looking fellow, the colour of heaven itself;
but with a voice like a lawyer, or the devil. To tell the truth, I was
so afraid of him that I made for the bank. When fairly out of the
water, I leant over its surface to return thanks for all the pleasure it
had afforded me. To my horror, I beheld at my feet a strange
misshapen thing, bearing some likeness to my father. I moved my
head, it did the same; I raised my feet, it imitated the motion.
“Hah! hah!” shrieked the Kingfisher, “you lovely coquette! what
do you think of your beautiful proportions?”
“What!” I said, “is that my image?”
“Yes, my treasure; are you not proud of the picture?”
It was all too true. There I was, and the willows above me as a
frame, and the blue heaven as a background to my poor image.
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