CHAP. XVIII. A Congress of Donkeys,—and Conclusion.

You will believe my young master was not an unmoved spectator of my sufferings. It was on this occasion he expressed himself in terms which at once convinced me of his humanity, and assured me, that even an Ass by diligence and fidelity may make a lasting friend of man.

“Charles,” said Mr. George addressing master Herbert, “so long as you condescend to ride a Donkey, I make you master of this poor animal;—your Sisters will of course share him with you as usual, but I give him to you. I know I can rely on your using him well, and I recommend your preventing him from wandering, by cautiously shutting the gates. And my dear Charlotte,” turning to Mrs. Herbert, “I have a request to make of you,—never part with this faithful creature; but should he become useless have him at liberty to range about the grounds. I am persuaded you will oblige me, for you, equally with myself, loved the dear girl to whose comfort he contributed most materially.”

Mrs. Herbert was evidently affected by this reference to the sweet Caroline; she willingly acceded to the request of my master, promising she would take care of me so long as I lived.

This arrangement, threw me into raptures, and had I been as agile as formerly, no doubt I should have evinced my joy by a thousand lively antics; as it was, I could only look my delight; and if the eyes of a Donkey may be allowed to look brilliant, mine certainly did on this memorable occasion. Mr. George then turned to a livelier topic, and with great humour described my recent frolic. It appeared, that the gentleman on whose Vine I had regaled, was a friend of Mr. Manton’s; they had met since the eventful night, and Mr. Crosby when reporting the ridiculous alarm of his servants, declared he had never witnessed a more comic scene. It seems the gardener having missed some fruit (unknown to the family) slept with a loaded musket by his bed-side. My munching had been heard by this vigilant gentleman; and the frequent pulls I made at the Vine, led him to believe there must be a gang of thieves in the garden. The tinkling of the bell, he conceived to be unintentional on the part of the depredators;—but when I ran down the gravel path, he thought he had his man, and fired. Mr. Crosby, whom the report of firearms roused from his bed, instantly arose, and on quitting his room, found the male and female servants assembled on the landing-place.

“Depend upon it, it is that great Irishman, that said he was a haymaker,” said one of the women. “I tell you it’s no such thing,” replied the gardener, “it was a little short thickset man.”

“I beg your pardon Mr. Thomas, but for my part I’ve never closed my eyes to-night, which I reckon quite miraculous, and I have been listening for three hours or more, and at last I peeped through the curtains, and if ever I saw a tall, black, ill-looking fellow, he was one!”

Mr. Crosby now interfered, demanding the cause of the alarm, and who had presumed to keep loaded fire arms without his knowledge. The gardener excused his transgression by declaring the garden was robbed every night.

“But where’s the groom?” asked Mr. Crosby, “I thought this musket was in his care?”

“I begged it of him,” replied the gardener, “but Jack’s gone after the rascals, Sir;—we shall hear some’at of ’um. He would go, there was no hindering him, he got over the stables and dropped over the wall.”

Mr. Crosby thought fit to follow the dauntless Jack, making Thomas (most unwillingly), his companion. It appears, they met the groom a short distance from the house, who laughingly declared the thief to have been a poor Donkey, which he had followed all the way to Mrs. Herbert’s cow-house.—The gardener was not to be convinced:—he had seen the villain, nay more, he knew he should discover traces of blood in the morning, for he heard the fellow groan, and hobble off as if he was wounded!

Daylight, however, brought no proof of Mr. Tom’s accuracy;—there were no traces of blood, nor any print of a human footstep. The Vine was stripped to a certain height all round the house, the bell-wire bent, and the shoe-marks of some hoofed animal plentifully imprinted on the flower beds. Mrs. Herbert’s cow-herd further corroborated the testimony of the groom, by examining me, and discovering my tail to have been singed. Thus the tall Irish hay-maker, and the little fat man, dwindled into no more formidable an animal than a poor giddy Donkey, who finding himself unexpectedly placed in the way of temptation, had not resolution to resist its allurements.

As I listened to this whimsical fact, I could not help wondering at the extraordinary difference there must be in the sight of men and women, and that of Donkeys. Did all these people say what they believed to be truth; or, did fear lead them astray? From what Mr. George said in conclusion, it would appear, each of these persons maintain their assertion, and though in the hearing of their master they avoid the subject; enjoy amongst themselves that most delightful of all predilections (with the ignorant,)—“a tale of terror.” Now if we were to indulge such a taste, when conviction so palpably proved our mistake, we should be called obstinate Asses. Query—What are these gentry?

But I have done with adventures; and in this stage of my existence, when I am pressing forward as a candidate for Donkey fame, feel all the presumption and danger of attempting further analysis of the human character.

As my spirits recovered their tone, Balaam reverted to my hints respecting authorship. I hung my ears, and no doubt looked very silly as he commenced his harangue. I thought my answers, however, had their effect. He was silent for a few minutes, when, resting his nose on my fence, as was his custom, he asked, what I anticipated from the publication of my memoirs.

“Why, my dear Sir,” said I, “the writer who neither desires nor could be benefited by pecuniary emolument, has some right to be considered a disinterested scribe. I grant that our lives exhibit none of those marvellous incidents that can amuse the romantic, but surely, if a genuine history of a very useful animal was submitted to the public, it might teach that public to estimate their services more agreeably to humanity.”

“The attempt is hazardous,” replied Balaam, “in fact, my dear Jemmy, I feel so timid on the subject, so fearful of encouraging you to do that which may expose you to derision, I would rather you sought the advice of some Ass better qualified to give you counsel on a matter of such importance.”

“If you approved,” said I, despairingly, “what were the whole race of Donkeys to me!”

“I cannot apply, for I do not deserve this compliment,” resumed Balaam;—“however, not to dismiss the subject too abruptly, suppose we were to convene a meeting of the best informed Donkeys of our acquaintance, and take their opinions.—It could do no harm, and may exonerate me from that appearance of fastidiousness which I perceive has had its effect on your spirits.”

I denied this, but I fear rather awkwardly, for Balaam with a smile added, “you may ride your hobby yet Jem, younger heads, and more sanguine Asses, may see this matter in a different point of view; I think Juba must be our secretary on this occasion. Shall I depute him to apprize our friends of your wishes?”

“My dear Sir,” I replied, “if I am not asking too much, will you allow the committee to be assembled in your name?”

“That, is incompatible with my principles, dear Jem. It is a serious thing to lend one’s name in a case of this nature, nor could it be done, without in a manner, announcing me as favouring your design; and as I at present cannot give you encouragement to prosecute your plan, I would rather remain a neuter personage, in this stage of the business.”

“Then I must give it up altogether,” sighed I.

“By no means,” continued Balaam, “Juba shall intimate, that you have suggested a plan, which you conceive to be beneficial to the Donkey world at large: but that, unwilling to rely on your own judgment, you request the presence of such of our mutual friends, as are interested in the lives and fortunes of the Assinine community.”

“Admirable!” I exclaimed, “nothing can be better, we shall muster pretty strong no doubt.—But my dear Sir, you will give me your support?”

“I will broach the subject, Jemmy,” he resumed, “but recollect, it will be with the utmost impartiality.”

“Enough, my respected friend, I feel all the value of this condescension, and can never sufficiently express my gratitude.”

“I will imagine it to be such as I prize,” rejoined Balaam, “viz, sincere. But now my good fellow, compose your spirits; and as authorship is your passion, arrange your thoughts, and prepare yourself to submit them to the ears of our committee.”

We parted, and it was now I felt all the temerity of my project. Stretching my length upon the grass, I began (in idea,) to polish my language, smooth my periods and according to Donkey taste, improve my style altogether. But I found this a most unprofitable if not an endless rumination;—what I liked one moment I rejected in the next. “I believe I must trust a little to the imagination,” said I to myself,—“that is, not in point of fact, but for that colouring which a favourite subject ever receives from the fancy.”

Again, I recollected I was preparing a work expressly designed for the juvenile world, a class of readers who demand the best efforts of all who presume to address them; and perhaps in point of criticism, there is not a more formidable ordeal, than that which is sometimes instituted by these caviling young gentry. “Tush!” said I, “they cannot expect much from an Ass, a simple, self-taught Donkey.” In short though the sanction of the committee was yet wanting, I did not find my scribbling mania subside, that happy leisure on which I could now securely reckon, increased my desire of imparting my memoirs; and, when Balaam the next evening whispered me, that I might expect the junto at eight o’clock the ensuing night, I gave myself up to meditation scarcely taking food or nourishment, so completely was my every feeling absorbed in that of authorship.

At the appointed hour, I beheld the assembled group consisting of Balaam, Mrs. Scamper, Juba, Dicky, Snap, Fairy, Hob, Bobtail, Fatima and Vixen.—By a whimsical concurrence, Balaam’s field gate was unclosed,—thus I, from my green fence, appeared as if placed at the bar, before my judges. Balaam opened the sitting, in a forcible but impartial statement of my wishes. I saw some ears particularly erect, and Mrs. Vixen stepped forward and examined my countenance with deep scrutiny. Balaam proceeded, without noticing this lady’s rudeness; as he made his peroration, a silence of a few seconds ensued. Mrs. Vixen, with a grin, was on the eve of replying, when Balaam good-naturedly observed, “Seniority of age must have the preference,” bowing to Mrs. Scamper.

“Then I may take a nap,” retorted Vixen, “for I believe I am the youngest lady in the committee.”

We all smiled, well knowing madam Vixen had made an egregious mistake. Mrs. Scamper, however, advanced towards my fence, and in a voice of conciliating harmony, addressed me as follows:—

“If I am not misinformed, Mr. Jemmy, your proposed publication is designed for the use and amusement of young people; then how do you hope to benefit your species by an address to children; beings under authority; incapable of doing us service, even were they so disposed?”

“It is with the utmost deference I venture to avow a contrary opinion, madam,” I replied: “children of amiable manners, have much influence in society; particularly amongst their inferiors. A well-educated child may, in the most graceful manner, and in language at once appropriate and kind, reprove the inhumanity of the less informed, and since we have been appointed to the distinction of carrying ladies and gentlemen, drawing garden-chairs, &c. &c. this sort of interference becomes a point of some importance.”

Mrs. Scamper smiled; “I know it is a thankless office to oppose the favourite project of an ardent mind,” said she, “but until I hear something of your plan, and the incidents it is to comprise, I must continue to doubt its utility.”

“I differ from you, ma’am,” interjoined Snap; “so many rational Asses have thrust their histories on the public, I can see no reason for preventing a genuine Ass from telling his own story.”

There was such an emphasis laid on the word genuine by this petulant Donkey, that I really rejoiced Madam Luna denied us her beams; I felt that I blushed profusely, and had not the gentle voice of Fatima rallied my aroused feelings, I believe I should have retorted.

“Mr. Jemmy,” said the charming Fatima, “I applaud your intention, and sincerely hope you will carry it into execution: allow me to ask, if you propose to make your work a general or an individual memoir?”

“Individual, madam,” I replied, “but interspersed with anecdote and observations.”

“Ah!” she resumed, “to be sure you are the best judge; yet I must think our genus, from its antiquity and the honourable mention made of us in the best and most valuable of records, offers a wide field for exalting us in the estimation of the present generation.”

Here old Balaam drew nearer the fence, evidently desirous of attending to my reply.

“My dear madam,” said I, “I was fully aware of this, and would gladly have availed myself of testimonials so irrefragably convincing and distinguished; but we are no longer the animals we were! The horse has superseded us! Our very name is a by-word amongst the vulgar! And, our occupations, (though varying in laboriousness as in respectability,) yet expose us so much to the ludicrous, that I would rather forbear from quoting the proofs you mention, than blend them with matter irreverent.”

“But, Jem,” interjoined Balaam, “as you would turn author in the service of children, how can you reconcile this omission?”

“Sir,” I replied, “the children for whom my humble efforts would be exerted, must of course have some acquaintance with the Sacred Writings; and it is from them I should expect that blending of authentic record and individual history, that might ultimately prove beneficial to my species.”

“You have my free assent from this moment,” rejoined Balaam; “it was this one point which led me to oppose your scheme. I will hope your reasoning is just, for it is agreeable to principle—and that view of the human character, it has ever been my wish to entertain.”

“So then,” exclaimed Mrs. Vixen, “you expect great things from your undertaking! Well, vanity is a fine dream, till we wake and find it but a dream.”

“We shall never get a blow less, nor an additional mouthful of hay, for all the wisest of Donkeys could say in our favour,” sneered Snap.

“I think I saw you once in Kent, Mr. Jemmy,” resumed Mrs. Vixen, “at the Tunbridge Races. You may remember my husband won the saddle. You must have been very nervous at that time; it quite surprised my friends to see you frightened by a penny trumpet—ha! ha! ha!”

“Madam,” I replied, “I have not forgotten the circumstance: the penny trumpet shall be duly mentioned in my memoirs; I will neither increase its size, nor enhance its value; nor will I omit to name Mr. Vixen’s talents as a racer.”

It was in this stage of my examination that Juba stepped forward.

“I do not pretend to know any thing of books or histories of any kind,” said he; “but if you do publish your life, Jemmy, do not forget to say something of Donkey prejudices and Donkey satire.”

It is clear he alluded to Mrs. Vixen, and I was alarmed lest the junto should squabble amongst themselves, and prematurely dissolve the meeting.

“It was my firm intention to be just,” I replied; “and if a Donkey may pledge his honour, I here declare, I will not

“Then now, Mr. Jem,” said Hob, “give us a brief sketch of your intended history.”

I complied—but not without considerable embarrassment: my situation was in truth very trying. To see so many long ears stretched to catch my accents—to hear two or three (as I thought) dissentient snorts, as certain observations escaped my lips—how I got through my task, even at this moment appears extraordinary. Yet I accomplished it, and obtained a majority.

Bobtail, who was of a phlegmatic character, astonished us all by entering into the spirit of my memoirs. “What you say of soot-carrying,” said he, “is strictly true; I could almost have fancied the odious powder was under my nose: yes, I know what it is to carry bags, and chimney-sweepers too.”

Dicky and Miss Fairy evinced little interest during the first part of the discussion; but perceiving they whispered, I thought it possible timidity restrained them from offering an opinion. Therefore, addressing myself to Miss Fairy, I begged she would favour me with her sentiments.

“Indeed I have no opinion to give,” she replied, petulantly; “Mr. Dicky and I to be sure, have remarked, that you have said very little of the beauty of lady Asses, though one ought not to be offended at that; for some Donkeys are too much taken up with themselves to think of any thing else.”

This was a terrible attack upon a Donkey who had the highest respect for the fair sex.

“Madam” I rejoined, “I trust those who know me will exonerate me from the imputation of being insensible to the worth of the female Ass. If my memoir enters more largely into the sufferings of Donkeys, it is, because I hope and believe, excessive labour and hard usage are more particularly their lot. Of the utility and worth of our feminine friends, none but an illiterate Ass could entertain a doubt. That I have not attempted the language of the flatterer, is a point on which I pride myself; for though this style is said to be a favourite one with Asses, I have not availed myself of the privilege,—not less cautious of injuring the morals of my own class, than fearful of appearing as the copyist of a higher order of animals.”

The committee now dispersed; and Balaam with an impressive adieu retired to repose.

I saw the dear old Ass go out to his accustomed work next morning, and, occupied by my own projects, night again revolved ere the claims of friendship refreshed my memory. Nine, ten, eleven o’clock—and no Balaam. I lingered near the fence, cheating the tedious minutes by a thousand vague conjectures; at length, wearied with watching, I sunk into a light slumber, from which I was awakened by the well-known voice of Juba; it was day-break, and a cold rainy morning.

“Jemmy,” said my friend Juba, “you have been alarmed by the absence of our poor Balaam?”

“Yes, indeed, Juba, most seriously alarmed.”

“Alas!” he resumed, “our anxiety on his account is at an end—you will see him no more—the excellent Balaam is dead.”

“Dead!” I exclaimed; “tell me when and where he died.”

“It happened yesterday morning; I overtook his master in Tottenham-Court Road; our old friend lay extended quite senseless, and by what I heard from the crowd, his death was occasioned by a fit.”

This melancholy intelligence affected me deeply; I had lost my early counsellor, my constant friend; and the only consolation now left me, was to talk of him, an indulgence in which Juba feelingly participated.

One evening, after having enjoyed this luxury, my mind yet dwelling on his virtues, the following tribute to his memory escaped me:—

To the Memory of Balaam.

Jemmy.

Effusions of this description can never be generally interesting. The parties should be known to each other in order to excite that pleasing sympathy so soothing to friendship. As such, I shall freely forgive my readers though they criticise my poetic talents. I can only say, Juba applauded my little offering, and having a taste for recitation, has frequently gratified me by repeating them, with a pathos which had an excellent effect, according to my Donkey conception.

Shall I experience similar indulgence from my rational censors? Alas! I tremble at the idea of what may be my fate: yet, surely, the intentions of an author should have some weight with his readers, and mine, I boldly declare, are humane. I know that every living thing has feeling—that from man, who “walks erect and can contemplate the heavens,” to the “beetle that we tread upon,” each can feel;—that the great Disposer of the Universe hath placed his intelligent creatures above all the other works of his mighty hand: he has invested you with power, but that power must be tempered with mercy, or ye are no longer the servants in whom he will be “well pleased.”

If you have laughed with me through some of the preceding pages, let me hope you will not reject a brief admonition at the close of my literary attempt:—I positively assert, that I am a patriotic Ass; love my country, respect her laws, and take a lively interest in her prosperity; and though I stand up in the defence of my own class, I presume to think, the object I have in view does not, in the smallest degree, implicate us as a body. We are willing to give you our labour, submit to your guidance, and in all respects conduct ourselves as faithful servants, and the only return we ask is kindness—the simple offices of humanity. Would it were in my power to impart to your species a small portion of that habitual patience with which we are endowed! convinced as I am, that we more frequently suffer from the hasty temper than the actual insensibility of our masters. To the readers of my adventures I trust it will be sufficient to add,—that should any dumb animal fall under their temporary displeasure, I hope they will pause ere they deform themselves by cruelty, and bestow a thought on one who, having “felt persecution,” conceived himself qualified to implore mercy—one who, while he allows his fallibility as an Ass, has no hesitation in declaring himself,

The most respectful

And humble of Donkeys,

JEMMY.

Hampstead, Middlesex,

October 29th, 1814.

THE END.