HUMAN HENS.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXX, Issue 4387, 12 April 1875, Page 5

HUMAN HENS.

(From the London Globe.) Everything they do or say or become possessed of—more, everything that is done to, or spoken of, or taken away from them—demands the instant attention of the world. Xhe egg may be a very little one, hut in the opinion of the Human Hen its laying was a prodigious feat, deserving the admiration of the universe. Although there is little merit and less novelty in the act, it forms a boundless _ source of astonishment to its performer. With infinite cackling the Human Hen proclaims the great event, and bids the spheres pause in their choiring to chant the praises of a_ newly-laid egg. Perhaps it may be a novel in three volumes that insists on being welcomed with a flourish of trumpets, or perchance only a new sort of toothpick. Be it what it may, the thing is the best of its kind, and its producer the cleverest of mankind. The world may not have recegnised these assertions, hut that does not disprove their truth, since if “ the gods themselves fight in vain against stupidity,” even Human Hens may be overmatched by the density of human nature. Moreover, the public are often too busy with their own affairs to give the attention' to the event that its importance demands. If they were aware that a beautiful egg, with themost delicately tinted shell in the world, had just been laid, they would, no doubt, sing prams of joy, and set all the church hells ringing ; hut being immersed in their own affairs, they might, perhaps, remain oblivious "of the glorious fact were not their notice directed to it by its anther. That is part of the Human Hen’s mission on earth. Far from hiding its light under a bushel, this fussy bird proclaims the twinkle from every wall top. Like the “ cliraenole ” of Laputa, its special duty is to flap the ears of society until people awake to the knowledge that a very wonderful event has happened. “Nothing like her afloat,” says Mr. Bantam of his new yacht, the Midge, two tons burden. “ Designed her myself on a novel principle, and expect she’ll show a clean pair of heels to most of her class next season.” But Mrs. Houdan cares not for yachts ; her eggs are altogether of a different sort. “ Quite an idea of my own, dear, and isn’t the effect charming ? For my part, I think nothing can he in in better taste than a soupcon of the supernatural one’s ornaments.” So saying, she exhibits an amulet round which diamond demons drive ruby pigs. To Mr. Cochin, however, there appears nothing to admire or wonder at in this gew-gaw. “ Have yon read my article on Billingual Billingsgate in the Commonplace ? Every one is talking about the thing, and wanting to find out the author.” Perhaps some people may be, hut not young Mrs. Brahma, who, having been recently blessed with a truculent-looking olive branch, makes as much ado as if no baby had ever before entered this weary world of woe. Since most folks have in their time been grievously -tormented with the praises of such eggs, it is unnecessary to give the ecstatic words in which Mrs. Brahma describes her bantling. Some excuse, however, is possible in this case, since young maternity is almost invariably accompanied by a sort of temporary insanity. When a few more years have passed, Mrs. Brahma will probably take quieter views of similar events, while it is to be feared her husband may almost regard them in the light of occurrences that are too ordinary for enjoyment. But it mild lunacy may be pleaded in this case, it cannot he advanced as an excuse for the self-glorification of Mr. Barndoor. Nowadays it is not exactly a proof of merit to have a picture admitted to the exhibition of the Royal Academy, and yet this has formed his boast for nearly four years. Out of many hundreds of works—good, bad, and indifferent—in the show of 1872, only one remains on his memory. “Do you remember that hit of mine—‘ Moses found in the bulrushes by Pharoah’s Daughter’ —in the Royal Academy * Some of the critics said it was the best thing of the year.” So also with Mr. Hamburgh. Having formerly published a polysyllabic poem, understood by a few and liked by less, he has ever since affected airs of sublimity, which keep his eyes in a fine frenzy rolling. Probably, if he had to write the chronology of the world, it would contain but a single record: —“ 1870. Publication of Psyche and Kosmoa.” Every event occurring before and after that date is erased from Mr. Hamburgh’s memory by the glorious creation which constitutes his claim to imperishable renown. But there is no necessity to go hack even for two or three years in quest of good specimens of these noisy fowls. Look around in this great roosting place of London, and only too many are certain to present themselves. In Brompton and Belgravia, in Westboumia and Bayswater, on the breezy heights of Hampstead, and amid the quiet solitudes of Clapham, Human Hens will be found, by day and by night, opening their beaks to the sky, and warning mankind to take notice that a very miraculous thing has just happened. There is the youth who recently obtained a commission in the army ; there is the damsel lately elected to Prince’s ; there is the senator who, after many years’ struggling, has found his way to Parliament ; there is the matron with whose beautiful daughter a duke danced twice in one night; there is the medical man who really cured one patient of a dangerous disease ; there is the exceptional solicitor, presented with a piece of plate by a grateful client; and, among an infinity of others, there is that very rare bird, the dabbler in Stock Exchange speculations who has a balance on the credit side of his account. That they should cackle over their good fortune is natural enough, and for doing so no one would blame them. But when they call on the universe to sing a laudamus every time an egg is laid, they become a nuisance deserving immediate suppression. No doubt it is true that, rightly considered, every human action is in itself miraculous, since it is performed through he agency of influences about whose method of working we know absolutely nothing. Yet, for all that, it is somewhat irritating to he suddenly summoned from Kinglake’s “ Inkerman” to the miracle involved in Mr.. Pootra’s hand having been accepted or rejected by the ingenuous Mrs. Docking. It is a wonderful event, no doubt, to the parties immediately concerned, hut not sufficient to make the world stand still.