THE SWALLOW’S FIFTH LETTER.It is now a month since I left my last lonely retreat. A Linnet who was wandering about without any fixed purpose promised to help me. You may judge how eagerly I seized the proffered help, and the glorious prospect of quitting my disagreeable neighbour, and the still more disagreeable hole in which I had been cooped up so long. My foot is far from well, and, although my friend tries to persuade me to the contrary, I fear I shall be lame to the end of my days. I ought here to quote the fable of the “Two Pigeons,” so often brought under my notice when you lectured me on my vagabond life.Surrounded by strangers, enfeebled by suffering, my future seems to grow daily darker and more dim, while no opportunity offers for the ventilation of my peculiar views. The males here, as elsewhere, are our masters—one must own it if for no higher reason than to get one’s share of the necessaries of life. The cause seems hopeless, unless one could hit upon some quinine or vaccine matter that would cure us of the weaknesses and vanities of female nature. As it is, the malady or weakness is there, and males, as of old, continue their endeavours to beat, kick, and govern it out of us; one day they will succeed, when one kick too many will make us their masters. As for myself, whohave not come under this peculiar bondage, I would gladly give my life for the enfranchisement of our sex; but females will persist in religiously following in the beaten track, pleasantly taking the alternate love and kicks as they come, and retarding progress. They thus maintain a prodigious inert force, against which active energy is broken like the waves of the sea against a solid rock.I shudder at the thought of our impotency, and know not what course to follow that my name may receive the blessing of generations yet unborn. I shall wait, like a true philosopher, for my good star to light the path of this noble ambition and lead me to my goal!My Linnet, who has no ideas, and is not accustomed to reflect, will, I fear, soon grow weary of my company, and of the heavy task her heart has imposed on her. I am not a very agreeable companion, and I do not fail to notice that she endeavours to escape from thetête-à-têteof our daily life.Although sincerely in the humour to see the world, she took me yesterday to a meeting which at any other time would have filled me with hope.Our sex alone were admitted, and the end to which all my aspirations tend was the theme the young hearts were waiting to discuss with noble impatience. Several points as to the ways and means by which our rights were to be secured and guarded were dwelt upon by various speakers, after which, I am sorry to say, a number of ill-favoured females entertained the meeting by recounting their love-experiences, gossip, and scandal.These absorbing topics found a patron in the mistress of the occasion, an old Ringdove, who amiably recalled the far-off love-adventures of her youth.Tired and dispirited, I retired to rest, not to sleep, but to brood over the future, till at last, weary of thinking of the where-to-go and what-to-do of to-morrow, my eyes closed for the night.
It is now a month since I left my last lonely retreat. A Linnet who was wandering about without any fixed purpose promised to help me. You may judge how eagerly I seized the proffered help, and the glorious prospect of quitting my disagreeable neighbour, and the still more disagreeable hole in which I had been cooped up so long. My foot is far from well, and, although my friend tries to persuade me to the contrary, I fear I shall be lame to the end of my days. I ought here to quote the fable of the “Two Pigeons,” so often brought under my notice when you lectured me on my vagabond life.
Surrounded by strangers, enfeebled by suffering, my future seems to grow daily darker and more dim, while no opportunity offers for the ventilation of my peculiar views. The males here, as elsewhere, are our masters—one must own it if for no higher reason than to get one’s share of the necessaries of life. The cause seems hopeless, unless one could hit upon some quinine or vaccine matter that would cure us of the weaknesses and vanities of female nature. As it is, the malady or weakness is there, and males, as of old, continue their endeavours to beat, kick, and govern it out of us; one day they will succeed, when one kick too many will make us their masters. As for myself, whohave not come under this peculiar bondage, I would gladly give my life for the enfranchisement of our sex; but females will persist in religiously following in the beaten track, pleasantly taking the alternate love and kicks as they come, and retarding progress. They thus maintain a prodigious inert force, against which active energy is broken like the waves of the sea against a solid rock.
I shudder at the thought of our impotency, and know not what course to follow that my name may receive the blessing of generations yet unborn. I shall wait, like a true philosopher, for my good star to light the path of this noble ambition and lead me to my goal!
My Linnet, who has no ideas, and is not accustomed to reflect, will, I fear, soon grow weary of my company, and of the heavy task her heart has imposed on her. I am not a very agreeable companion, and I do not fail to notice that she endeavours to escape from thetête-à-têteof our daily life.
Although sincerely in the humour to see the world, she took me yesterday to a meeting which at any other time would have filled me with hope.
Our sex alone were admitted, and the end to which all my aspirations tend was the theme the young hearts were waiting to discuss with noble impatience. Several points as to the ways and means by which our rights were to be secured and guarded were dwelt upon by various speakers, after which, I am sorry to say, a number of ill-favoured females entertained the meeting by recounting their love-experiences, gossip, and scandal.
These absorbing topics found a patron in the mistress of the occasion, an old Ringdove, who amiably recalled the far-off love-adventures of her youth.
Tired and dispirited, I retired to rest, not to sleep, but to brood over the future, till at last, weary of thinking of the where-to-go and what-to-do of to-morrow, my eyes closed for the night.