On Lions, Orphans, and Other Concepts

“And in 1835 the President, perhaps thankfully, agreed to let the lady managers of the older orphanage auction off for the benefit of both asylums the Numidian lions presented to him by the King of Morocco. Each orphanage got about $1,650; who got the lions is not known.” — Constance McLaughlin Green, “Washington, Village and Capital, 1800-1878”

Dear President Jackson and the Esteemed Stewards of the orphanages of our great city, 

I hate orphans. 

No, that sounds wrong. Let me rephrase: I hate the concept of orphans. We are living, I believe, in an age of conception. No, that sounds wrong too. Not conception as in the making of a child—the root cause, I suppose, of orphanhood—but of concepts themselves. We are residents of a noble concept, a conceptual city, a new city. I’m older than this city, which is a strange concept if you think about it. As a boy, I thought every city was essentially Biblical—that is, was essentially ancient, always, constant. I thought of cities as a sort of animal, a consuming creature without beginning or end. I grew up in the North (please don’t hold that against me, Mr. President; just as an orphan does not elect themselves to that status, I had no say in the time or place of my birth), and in the North, everything already feels old and set in its ways. Every space filled up, every role already well-acted, every question already answered, or at least half-answered. I moved to this new city, this capital on a hill, at its very start when I was only on the cusp of adulthood. I am no longer young with my nine and forty years, but I still have that pernicious feeling that life has yet to begin for me—I am still on the cusp of something. You must feel that too, from time to time, that hazy little pinprick at the base of the neck that seems to say, “Not yet; not yet! Soon though, soon!”

I’m starting this proposal all wrong. Let us waste no more ink or paper or precious time.

I love lions.

Or should I say, I love the concept of lions. I’ve never seen one in person. Again, it’s an age of conception. My father—is it prudent to say that I myself am not an orphan? Are other advocates for orphans former orphans themselves? I don’t know. And I don’t think it ought to matter. My father read me the stories of Hercules and his many labors, one of which is the killing of the Nemean lion. I must admit: I don’t remember much of the actual events of the stories. I don’t remember why Hercules had to do all those tasks, or how many there were exactly—I want to say nine? twelve?—or what all the tasks even were. But I’ll never forget my father telling me about that lion, and its dark wild mane, blinding white teeth, razor-sharp claws. While he was reading the story to me, he made the lion snarl and speak in a mean voice. And we cheered together when Hercules finally plunged his sword into its heart. Secretly, though, I loved the lion, and I pitied him, and I wished—just once—that the story would be different. That is the terrible thing about stories: they are always the same. Why couldn’t Hercules and the King of the Animals figure out a way to stop fighting? Why couldn’t they just get along? Or maybe that isn’t the point of the tale—I really don’t recall. 

This is all to illustrate that I have been a great admirer of the lion—as a concept at least—for a long time, and I truly believe that I would be the best keeper of a lion here in our nation’s heart. I propose that the lions gifted by that great Sultan of Morocco should be kept in my home and bred to produce a truly American breed of lion. These Numidian lions are, I believe, of a rarified stock, straight from the litters of the Sultan himself. Look at the name: they must hail from the same awesome line as my beloved Nemean lion—for Numidia and Nemea must be very close indeed.

Morocco, the oldest and dearest friend of our young country, sent us this monumental gift to set in motion the conception—and here I do mean birth—of our national icon, our hero, our pal: the American lion. Of course, the first generation will still be lions. I know that. I hear that they are kept in chains in cages and that they are eating a week’s worth of the ambassador’s meat in a day. Sadly, these will never be truly American lions, noble as they are. But, from them will come the cubs, and these innocent creatures will be nursed and tutored by me, and they will be the progenitors of a new kind of lion: tame, docile, agreeable in every way.

I believe that we in this fine young city are on the brink of…well, something I cannot put into words right now. It’s happening. You must feel it. Visit the Patent Office on a bright spring day; listen closely at dinners and galas. This is a city of ideas, of concepts. But we are waiting, holding our breaths, about to explore. Some think it will be a great big telescope, a “lighthouse to the stars” someone said, while others argue it will come from the West, some pickled specimen, some seedling of another pretty prairie flower. But I believe the great step forward is the conception of our national animal: the American lion. Or perhaps, the Washingtonian lion, or even, the Jacksonian lion. Or perhaps that’s too bold. The People’s Lion, maybe. 

Like all great concepts, it hit me like the smell of pig defecation. I was leaning out my bedroom window when I was accosted by the reek of a passing pig. I watched it trot along the alleyway, gobbling up the garbage the landlord throws down there, and it struck me that pigs were once boars and that boars are terrifying beasts, deadly and savage—I think Hercules had to fight one of them too. And now look at them, look how they wander free among us, eating up our refuse, providing us with bacon. Imagine then a race of these Jacksonian lions taught to be good, and to know good, and to do good, and to sense good in others. By removing the nastiest bits of the lion character and exorcising the baser demons, we can render an animal truly worthy of the name Jackson, Washington, or American.

In time, we’ll be a nation of lions. They’ll roam the cities as true friends and protectors. They will work for meat and head pats, and, by my deductions, will cost markedly less than the wages of a night watchman—and without the risks of drunkenness, laziness, or corruptibility. And to the fields the lions will go to watch the sheep and cattle. And to the forests too, to hunt the foxes and the bears and wolves, making the woods again a welcome place. Might they—with their mighty claws—not dig canal basins a million miles long and eight boats wide? And can’t those claws burst through mountains and build tunnels to the infinite West, the conceptual West, that great expanding balloon? 

I get a wild feeling even writing about this dream of mine. A dream that you, Mr. President, and you, Esteemed Stewards of our parentless children, can make manifest today! 

I understand that the proceeds from the public auction of the lions are intended to support the two orphanages here in the District. And I champion wholeheartedly that cause. However, I—by misfortune and misguided speculation—am not the holder of as great a wealth as my fellow bidders. What I lack in funds, though, I make up for in concepts and civic pride. The other bidders, I very much fear, will abscond with the lions as soon as the auctioneer’s gavel hits, taking them out of our great city and into some godawful zoo or circus, to be paraded about like cheap toys. Yes, I know that their money (of dubious conception) will go toward the orphanages, and you will never find a greater enthusiast for orphans in this city as long as it exists—and I wager it will rival the great old beasts of Alexandria, Athens, and Rome. Although I am not currently in a position of monetary liquidity, fortune favors the bold, and I propose that if I become the custodian of these lions, I would not only rear them with love and proper training, not only bring forth a new species of true Washingtonian origin, but I would allow local luminaries, dignitaries, and future marble statuaries into my home to view the lions. And for this edification, they would pay a fee. That fee—in toto—would be delivered to the two orphanages in equal measure on a weekly, if not daily, basis. So great will the curiosity be for these American Jacksonian lions that it will be known the whole world round that the orphans of Washington are well-cared-for creatures! Other orphans will be jealous! They’ll whisper their prayers at night, “Oh God, I wish I were an orphan in the District of Columbia!” 

Or, I suppose, they might pray to not be orphans anymore. Either way, people will pay to see a lion. That I know! And though it might be a Herculean task to mold the proud Numidian lions into the even prouder Jacksonian lions, it is a task I am ready and willing to undertake.

In conclusion, by forfeiting a handful of dollars now, you could be investing in a dragon’s hoard of gold, both conceptually—in the great contribution to natural science and to man’s understanding of the universe and of all God’s endowments—but also quite literally. And all of that gold will go straight to the orphanages—and to the upkeep, of course, of the lions and their faithful tamer.

For Science, For God, For Country,

Mr. X

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Dear Mr. X 

We have received your rather impassioned bid for the pair of Numidian lions. We regret to inform you on three matters: one, that the lions are both males, which would make your breeding scheme quite difficult; two, that Numidia was an ancient coastal North African kingdom while Nemea was a mythological village in Greece; and three, that the lions have already been auctioned. We thank you for your interest in supporting the orphans, and we wish you the very best in all your…endeavors.

Please do not reply to this message, and have a wonderful day. 

Forever and always for the orphans,

the “Esteemed Stewards”