boiling surge of time, and chant with one accord the anthem of the singer, lately dead at Cambridge: "Sail on, O Union, strong and great! In spite of rock and tempests' roar, Are all with thee, are all with thee." THE MAN, THE BATS, AND THE OWL. BY VICTIM HUGE-OH! E lived in the country. In an ancient house in the rural district. For days there had been a chattering in his chamber wall-grievous and incessant chattering, irradiated by a noisome odor. Mice," he fancied. Impossible mice, that chattered and stank! The man slept. A column of fresh advertisements invaded his brain. Colossal newspaper dream of the wretched. He was happy. In the midwatch of the night there was a flap upon his pillow. Ominous flap! Caused by an infant bat-bat classed by Cuvier among the mammals. Too feeble to fly, it had fallen and flapped. The man fled. Weakness of Humanity surprised by Unseen but not Inodorous-the Giant escaping from the Pigmy-Banks retreating before Stonewall Jackson. Another night and another bat, more bats. The man arose and slew them-three several bats, slain by the man with a long-handled broom, which cost 32 sous, 6 centimes at Eckloff's. Cheap enginery of war-Intellect armed inexpensively, but omnipotent in the presence of the Winged Evil. II.-24. Still the chattering continued. The man had a cup. This cup was of tin. Near this cup a bucket of water. Allies! The man smiled. Elevation of the op pressed Soul, evinced by the orbiculis oris and other risible muscles. At the junction of the floor with the wash-board, behold an aperture, crevice or crack-in a word, a slit-effect of ligneous contraction in time, sap expelled, the woody fibre closing in. Nature abhoring a vacuum. Fatal slit! The man, the cup, the bucket, the water-fortunate co-adjacency of the implements and materials of strife-the Broom discarded, the Cup in the ascendant, triumph of Water over Wood, and Man supreme in his night-shirt over all. Noah about to inaugurate the Flood! Deluded bats, ignorant of the imminent Deluge, chattering and feasting like the antique sinners of Central Asia. A splash-sudden, sharp, vengeful, abundant, inexorable-accompanied by a sardonic chuckle from the man. Whi-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z!!!!!!!! Bouleversement extreme! The besieged become the assailants. Palma cuts the dikes, but the Batavians make a sally. The broom resumed. Confrontation immense! The Individual against the Multitude -the Man immersed in a cloud of bats, plying his besom desperately in the malodorous vortex of a whirlpool of exasperated night-birds. Combat tertrific. Valor in a cotton garment lunging agonizedly with a long-handled broom into a torrent of Leatherwings. Futile courage! Wasted pluck! Inopportune grit! What's a broom to a bushel of bats? A crease against a cataract—a knitting-needle against Niagara. Denouement disgraceful. Catastrophe most sad. Conclusion verging on the farcical. The man evanishes-the Broom lies prone upon the floor-the Bats occupy the field of battle. Io Triumphe! Abject abasement of humanity, paralleled only by the exaltation of brutality. Admirable compensation of Nature-shocking flight and descent of Intelligence, balanced and atoned for by a corresponding ascent and poise of Instinct-motion in Man counterpoised by stasis of the Vespertilionidæ. Defeat of the Person, Success of the Things. Equality vindicated, Liberty achieved, Fraternity of forces in perspective. Behold the Republic of Matter! Days pass. The man, dejected, avoids his room, no longer a room, but a Castle of the Skin-winged, Donjon of the Dermaptera. But the water, splashed madly in the midnight battle, does its work-penetrates the nest and dislodges the Bats-Process of Displacements of the Pharmaceutists brought unintentionally into play, with glorious result. The Man returns. He listens, he sniffs, he fumbles with a small stick. No noise, no odor, no anything -nothing. Immense satisfaction, huge gratifica tion, enormous and unbounded exultation of the Man. Alas! How fleeting the joys of life. Its triumphs how illusory. The man rejoices. Vanity of vanities. Grin of M. Bonaparte in the morning at Waterloo; chuckle of Winfield Scott, in Washington, July 21, 1861, 12 M.; evanescent cachination of Jubal Early at Cedar Creek. As if there were no to-morrow. As if Fate were not the piston-rod of the Universe. Time an oscillating engine. Life a prodigious See-Saw! Night gathering her elements, her particles, her atoms of darkness, from the imperceptible caverns of the horizon, mobilizes, organizes, masses, precipitates them upon the earth, and again it is Bed-time. Solemn and affecting time. The man disrobes. He inserts his physique into his night-shirt. He puts out the light. That light is a small kerosene lamp. He gets into bed. There are no bats. He stretches himself at full length. There are no bats. He turns upon his right side. There are no bats. |