Exhausted travellers, that have undergone The scorching heats of Life’s intemperate zone, Haste for refreshment to their beds beneath, And stretch themselves in the cool shades of Death. PERFECT FELICITY. IN A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW. I am the Raven in the Happy Family—and nobody knows what a life of misery I lead! The dog informs me (he was a puppy about town before he joined us; which was lately) that there is more than one Happy Family on view in London. Mine, I beg to say, may be known by being the Family which contains a splendid Raven. I want to know why I am to be called upon to accommodate myself to a cat, a mouse, a pigeon, a ringdove, an owl (who is the greatest ass I have ever known), a guinea-pig, a sparrow, and a variety of other creatures with whom I have no opinion in common. Is this national education? Because, if it is, I object to it. Is our cage what they call neutral ground, on which all parties may agree? If so, war to the beak I consider preferable. What right has any man to require me to look complacently at a cat on a shelf all day? It may be all very well for the owl. My opinion of _him_ is that he blinks and stares himself into a state of such dense stupidity that he has no idea what company he is in. I have seen him, with my own eyes, blink himself, for hours, into the conviction that he was alone in a belfry. But _I_ am not the owl. It would have been better for me, if I had been born in that station of life. I am a Raven. I am, by nature, a sort of collector, or antiquarian. If I contributed, in my natural state, to any Periodical, it would be The Gentleman’s Magazine. I have a passion for amassing things that are of no use to me, and burying them. Supposing such a thing—I don’t wish it to be known to our proprietor that I put this case, but I say, supposing such a thing—as that I took out one of the Guinea-Pig’s eyes; how could I bury it here? The floor of the cage is not an inch thick. To be sure, I could dig through it with my bill (if I dared), but what would be the comfort of dropping a Guinea-Pig’s eye into Regent Street? What _I_ want, is privacy. I want to make a collection. I desire to get a little property together. How can I do it here? Mr. Hudson couldn’t have done it, under corresponding circumstances. I want to live by my own abilities, instead of being provided for in this way. I am stuck in a cage with these incongruous companions, and called a member of the Happy Family; but suppose you took a Queen’s Counsel out of Westminster Hall, and settled him board and lodging free, in Utopia, where there would be no excuse for ‘his quiddits, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks,’ how do you think _he_’d like it? Not at all. Then why do you expect _me_ to like it, and add insult to injury by calling me a ‘Happy’ Raven!