THE RAVEN 11 



THE RAVEN 

 [F. B. KIRKMAN] 



Those who for the first time see the raven circling over its 

 native crags, and hear its deep note break the silence of the hills, 

 experience one of those rare emotions that linger in the memory 

 for a life-time. It is not that one is impressed only by the majesty 

 of the bird ; its majesty sinks before that of the eagle. Nor yet 

 by its strength and courage ; its strength is less than that of the 

 larger birds of prey and its courage no greater. But there is in the 

 raven, or rather in our idea of it, a force that imposes itself, 

 a peculiar sagacity, a deep, almost devilish, cunning that accords 

 well with its sable hues, its crafty eye and rugged form. One 

 might fancy it at times half-bird half-demon, and be moved to 

 apostrophise it as did the poet when he sat that night in dread 

 looking upon the ominous figure, perched upon the bust of Pallas, 

 just above his chamber door : 



" Ghastly, grim and ancient Raven wandering 



From the Nightly shore 

 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 

 Night's Plutonian shore." 



It is the sagacity of the raven, its craft and love of mischief, 

 that make it so interesting and sometimes so exasperating as a 

 pet. JSTo one has described its life in captivity better than Charles 

 Dickens, who kept two in succession. Of the first, he relates in 

 his Preface to Barnaby Rudge, that it so terrified a Newfoundland 

 dog by its preternatural sagacity that it was able, by the mere 

 superiority of its genius, to walk off with the dog's dinner before 

 its face. Its genius was not, however, proof against the allurements 

 of its appetite. It perished from over-indulgence in the contents 

 of a pot of paint. The second was still more gifted. "The first 

 act of this sage was to administer to the effects of his predecessor, 



