Let us make haste, then, to get back for safety to the
ornithological aspect of the subject. Here there can be no
penalties for heresy. And here I make bold to avow my conviction
that the pairing season is not the only point of interest in the
life of the birds; nor is the instinct by which they mate altogether
and beyond comparison the noblest passion that stirs their feathered
breasts.
'T is true, the time of mating is their prettiest season; but it is
very short. How little we should know of the drama of their airy
life if we had eyes only for this brief scene! Their finest
qualities come out in the patient cares that protect the young in
the nest, in the varied struggles for existence through the changing
year, and in the incredible heroisms of the annual migrations.
Herein is a parable.
It may be observed further, without fear of rebuke, that the
behaviour of the different kinds of birds during the prevalence of
romantic love is not always equally above reproach. The courtship
of English sparrows--blustering, noisy, vulgar--is a sight to offend
the taste of every gentle on-looker. Some birds reiterate and
vociferate their love-songs in a fashion that displays their
inconsiderateness as well as their ignorance of music. This trait
is most marked in domestic fowls. There was a guinea-cock, once,
that chose to do his wooing close under the window of a farm-house
where I was lodged. He had no regard for my hours of sleep or
meditation. His amatory click-clack prevented the morning and
wrecked the tranquillity of the evening. It was odious, brutal,--
worse, it was absolutely thoughtless. Herein is another parable.
Let us admit cheerfully that lovers have a place in the landscape
and lend a charm to it. This does not mean that they are to take up
all the room there is. Suppose, for example, that a pair of them,
on Goat Island, put themselves in such a position as to completely
block out your view of Niagara. You cannot regard them with
gratitude. They even become a little tedious. Or suppose that you
are visiting at a country-house, and you find that you must not
enjoy the moonlight on the verandah because Augustus and Amanda are
murmuring in one corner, and that you must not go into the garden
because Louis and Lizzie are there, and that you cannot have a sail
on the lake because Richard and Rebecca have taken the boat.
Of course, unless you happen to be a selfish old curmudgeon, you
rejoice, by sympathy, in the happiness of these estimable young
people. But you fail to see why it should cover so much ground.
Why should they not pool their interests, and all go out in the
boat, or all walk in the garden, or all sit on the verandah? Then
there would be room for somebody else about the place.
In old times you could rely upon lovers for retirement. But
nowadays their role seems to be a bold ostentation of their
condition. They rely upon other people to do the timid, shrinking
part. Society, in America, is arranged principally for their
convenience; and whatever portion of the landscape strikes their
fancy, they preempt and occupy. All this goes upon the presumption
that romantic love is really the only important interest in life.
This train of thought was illuminated, the other night, by an
incident which befell me at a party. It was an assembly of men,
drawn together by their common devotion to the sport of canoeing.
There were only three or four of the gentler sex present (as
honorary members), and only one of whom it could be suspected that
she was at that time a victim or an object of the tender passion.
In the course of the evening, by way of diversion to our
disputations on keels and centreboards, canvas and birch-bark,
cedar-wood and bass-wood, paddles and steering-gear, a fine young
Apollo, with a big, manly voice, sang us a few songs. But he did
not chant the joys of weathering a sudden squall, or running a rapid
feather-white with foam, or floating down a long, quiet, elm-bowered
river. Not all. His songs were full of sighs and yearnings,
languid lips and sheep's-eyes. His powerful voice informed us that
crowns of thorns seemed like garlands of roses, and kisses were as
sweet as samples of heaven, and various other curious sensations
were experienced; and at the end of every stanza the reason was
stated, in tones of thunder--
"Because I love you, dear."
Even if true, it seemed inappropriate. How foolish the average
audience in a drawing-room looks while it is listening to passionate
love-ditties! And yet I suppose the singer chose these songs, not
from any malice aforethought, but simply because songs of this kind
are so abundant that it is next to impossible to find anything else
in the shops.
In regard to novels, the situation is almost as discouraging. Ten
love-stories are printed to one of any other kind. We have a
standing invitation to consider the tribulations and difficulties of
some young man or young woman in finding a mate. It must be
admitted that the subject has its capabilities of interest. Nature
has her uses for the lover, and she gives him an excellent part to
play in the drama of life. But is this tantamount to saying that
his interest is perennial and all-absorbing, and that his role on
the stage is the only one that is significant and noteworthy?
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