THE SYMBOLIC-DIDACTIC GROUP
We now turn to a set of stories with a new basis, the symbolic-didactic
narratives: fables, parables, and allegories. By the word "symbolic"
we shall understand that the stories mean something more than appears
on the surface. By "didactic," the fact that the narratives are told
for the purpose of teaching a lesson. The hearer no more believes in
the mere literal occurrence than does the narrator himself. The meaning
is the concern of both. For the time being, the story-teller has set
himself up as a preacher, or the preacher as a story-teller. His object
is to make vivid and dramatic a lesson in manners, morals, religion,
politics, or art.
I. The Fable
[Æsop]
The fable is a very old type of narrative, so old that critics are not
sure of the place of its origin. Some think that it rose at the court
of Crœsus with Æsop and spread eastward and westward. Others maintain
that it came from India to the court of the Lydian king, and was
adopted by Æsop, the king's state orator, as a most convenient device
for impressing political lessons on a restless people in a scattered
empire. Others say that there never was a man Æsop at all. But legend
goes into detail to the effect that this ancient politician was once a
slave and that he rose from his servile condition to be the counsellor
of kings by the sheer force of his brains and an appreciation of
practical problems (much as our self-made men of today have risen).
Once even, when sent as a royal messenger to a rebellious and distant
part of the empire, he quelled a mob and saved his own life by his
ready wit in telling a story and applying the moral. He wrote nothing
himself, legend goes on to admit, but he scattered his practical
narratives far and wide, and they were finally collected as a distinct
species of literature.
[Other early fabulists]
Whatever the truth of the legend may be, it is certain that there were
in the Greek language early collections of fables called "Æsop." More
than three hundred years before Christ, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle
translated stories from "Æsop." Plutarch and Lucian, in the second
century after Christ, remade them. In the thirteenth century Marie de
France versified a hundred of them, using an old English source which
we cannot now find. She called her collection Ysopet, or "Little Æsop."
Finally in 1447, Planudes, a monk of Constantinople, put forth in prose
a collection of about three hundred stories, which bears the name of
"Æsop."
[Hitopadesa and Panchatantra]
The East never stopped to cavil about the source of fables. It has
always loved the type. The Hindoos have two very ancient Sanscrit
collections of fable-like discourses--the "Panchatantra" (Five Books),
written in prose, and the "Hitopadesa" (Friendly Instruction), in
verse. These differ from ordinary sets of fables in having the
principle of connection throughout and in being, instead of mere
brief tales, rather romantic and dramatic dialogues and expositions
designed as text-books for the instruction of princes and those called
to govern. Many selections, however, have been taken out, translated,
modified, and used either as whole stories or as elements of larger
ones.
[Reynard the Fox and beastiaries]
The very widely read and extensively translated eleventh century
"Reynard the Fox" is a beast-epic, and not a fable in the technical
sense of the term. As likewise the bestiaries are not fables. Those
quaint medieval collections of false lore, modeled probably on
some earlier Greek or Latin _physiologus_, were meant as doctrinal
expository allegories rather than zoological treatises or than
narratives which would fall within our present classification. Yet they
are allied to this group in that they are symbolic and didactic and
permit unnatural natural history.
[Some more writers of fables]
There have always been men who wrote of their own times original
satires in the form of fables, exposing vice and folly. Phædrus, a
freedman of Augustus, wrote five such books in the reign of Tiberius.
Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Poggio knew and used the type. The
greatest name in modern literature in connection with the fable is that
of the Frenchman Jean de la Fontaine, who lived at the court of Louis
Fourteenth. He expressed in exquisite verse-narrative very high social
maxims. Many of our finest well-known fables are paraphrases of his
lines. His own favorite was the "Oak and the Reed." He is supposed
to have drawn his inspirations from Phædrus. Our own English writers,
Gay and Pope, Addison and Prior, Steele and Dodsley, Moore, Goldsmith,
Cowper, and others, wrote fables both in prose and verse. Indeed,
worthy old Henryson, of "Robin and Makyne" fame, wrote in the fifteenth
century a book of "Morall Fables of Esope the Phrygian" in Chaucerian
stanzas. One of these poems he calls the "Uplondish Mous and the Berger
Mous." Kriloff, the Russian fabulist, who died in the middle of the
nineteenth century, disputes the highest place with La Fontaine in the
minds of many critics, especially for his originality. A twentieth
century humorous set of rational apologues is George Ade's "Fables in
Slang."
The popular "Uncle Remus" stories are negro animal-myths rather than
fables. Though Kipling's first "Jungle Book" narratives are in effect
_sui generis_, they belong with fable typically if anywhere, as the
unnatural very natural beast philosophy evinces. "His Majesty's
Servant," the last of the volume, is easily classified. Some of the
later tales are animal-myths, however--to wit, "How Fear Came" and
"How the Camel Got His Hump;" and some, like "The Miracle of Purun
Bhagat," are legends; but the talk and actions of the animals in all
are fable-wise. The French, it seems, have lately pushed the type
the farthest, though in a logical direction. They have retained the
animal talk and the satire, but have cast away the narrative. Under the
patronage of Rostand, Sir Chanticler has come before the footlights.
This play happens to be an anomalous union of the two old distinct
meanings of the word "fable"--one, the undelying story of a drama; the
other, a symbolic, usually satiric, didactic tale.
[Working definition]
In the narrative sense of the term, a fable is a very brief invented,
double-meaning story in which a lesson of every day practical morality
is taught. The kind of lesson is one of the points that distinguish
fable from parable and allegory. The fable never aims higher than
inculcating maxims of prudential conduct--industry, caution, foresight,
and the like--and these it will sometimes recommend at the expense of
the higher, self-forgetting virtues. A typical fable reaches just the
pitch of morality which the world will approve. In spirit the fable
is often humorous, often ironical. In diction it is always simple,
forceful, and appropriate.
Three classes of fables have been noticed: (1) the rational--in
which the actors and speakers are solely human beings or the gods
of mythology, (2) the non-rational--in which the heroes are solely
animals, trees, vegetables, or inanimate objects, (3) the mixed--in
which the rational and non-rational are combined.
[Classes of fables]
Now what distinguishes all these from myth and legend is the presence
of the evident and acknowledged didactic purpose. What distinguishes
the first class, the rational fable, from a parable is the low plane
of the motive. Above the utilitarian the fable never rises. If the
fable teaches honesty, it teaches it merely as the best policy. What
distinguishes the non-rational and the mixed fables from allegory is
both the limitation of the moral and the kind of hero. The lesson of
the fable is always piquant, single, and clear. The actors in a fable
are always things concrete in nature as well as in the story.
The most popular, and hence the most typical of the three classes of
fables, is the second, often called also the "beast fable." The beast
fable departs somewhat from the laws of nature. In the dialogue,
animals and inanimate objects act like human beings. A fox and a bear,
for instance, will philosophize on politics. A lion and a mouse will
exchange courtesies. But it is a remarkable feature of this type of
story that we do not resent the incongruity. And that we do not resent
it is because there is a truthfulness that is more interesting to us
than is the natural order of the universe--namely, the truthfulness of
characterization. Here the verisimilitude must be complete. Although
acting the part of rational beings, the animals must be true to our
accepted notion of their animal nature--a fox must be foxy; a bear,
bearish; a lion, haughty; a mouse, timid; a cat, deceptive; a monkey,
mischievous; a canary, dependent; an eagle, lofty; and so on, and so
on. It is not necessary that they have no other characteristics, but it
is necessary that they possess the commonly ascribed ones.
[How to write an original fable]
To write what is strictly a fable, a person will need to observe the
distinctions of the type in general as cut off from parable on the one
hand and allegory on the other, and to observe the distinctions of the
subdivisions within the type. Then he must decide, of course, which
subdivision he is going to follow, must select his moral, pick out his
actors, think over their characteristics, and finally narrate a brief
occurrence in a vivid, homely style. The dialogue, while correct,
should be very colloquial. It is well for one to pay especial attention
to author's narrative, likewise, that it may be informing though
limited. After all is told, the writer may or may not affix a maxim at
the end, definitely and neatly stated. In either case, however, the
lesson taught should be unmistakable. Original and spirited fables
could be written in the field of civic morals, about which the world
has just begun to think seriously. Despite the good work that is being
done in the name of charity, there is room surely for pleasant satire
when a Happy Childhood Society gives elaborately dressed dolls to naked
babies.
If one chooses to write a rational fable, where the actors are human
beings, one must be careful not to write a parable. The lesson of a
fable is always unsentimentally practical--not spiritual. Where the
actors are gods, or gods and men, the student-writer must distinguish
fable from myth. He should not aim at explaining a universal
phenomenon, but simply at teaching a single, acute, work-a-day lesson.
=Armenian proverbs that might be used for fable maxims=
1. When a man sees that the water does not follow him, he follows the
water.
2. Strong vinegar bursts the cask.
3. Dogs quarrel among themselves, but against the wolf they are united.
4. Only a bearded man can laugh at a beardless face.
5. Make friends with a dog, but keep a stick in your hand.
6. One should not feel hurt at the kick of an ass.
7. Running is also an art.
8. He who speaks the truth must have one foot in the stirrup.
9. Before Susan had done prinking, church was over.
10. When you are going in, first consider how you are coming out.
11. The ass knows seven ways of swimming, but when he sees the water he
forgets them all.
12. A shrewd enemy is better than a stupid friend.
13. Because the cat could get no meat he said, "Today is Friday."
14. A goat prefers one goat to a whole herd of sheep.
15. A near neighbor is better than a distant kinsman.
16. When I have honey, the flies come even from Bagdad.
_RATIONAL, WITH THE ACTORS GODS AND MEN_
=Jupiter and the Countryman=
Jupiter, to reward the piety of a certain countryman, promised to
give him whatever he would ask. The countryman desired that he might
have the management of the weather in his own estate. He obtained his
request, and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine among his
several fields as he thought the nature of the soil required. At the
end of the year when he expected to see a more than ordinary crop, his
harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neighbors. Thereupon he
desired Jupiter to take the weather again into his own hands, for the
countryman knew that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself.
--Spectator No. 25.
_NON-RATIONAL--INANIMATE OBJECT_
=The Drop of Water=
A drop of water fell out of a cloud into the sea, and finding itself
lost amid such a countless number of its companions, broke out in
complaint of its lot. "Alas! what an insignificant creature am I
in this vast ocean of waters! My existence is of no concern to the
universe; I am reduced to a kind of nothing, and I am less than the
least works of God." It so happened that an oyster, which lay in the
neighborhood of this drop, chanced to gape and swallow it up in the
midst of its humble soliloquy. The drop lay a great while hardening in
the shell till by degrees it was ripened into a pearl. The pearl fell
into the hands of a diver, after a long series of adventures, and is at
present the famous ornament fixed on the top of the Persian diadem.
--Persian fable. Adapted in the Spectator No. 293.
_POLITICAL SATIRE_
=The Grandee at the Judgment-Seat=
Once in the days of old a certain Grandee passed from his richly dight
bed into the realm which Pluto sways. To speak more simply, he died.
And so, as was anciently the custom, he appeared before the justice
seat of Hades. Straightway he was asked, "Where were you born? What
have you been?"
"I was born in Persia, and my rank was that of a Satrap. But, as my
health was feeble during my lifetime, I never exercised any personal
control in my province, but left everything to be done by my secretary."
"But you--what did you do?"
"I ate, drank, and slept; and I signed everything he set before me."
"In with him then at once to Paradise."
"How now, where is the justice of this?" thereupon exclaimed Mercury,
forgetting all politeness.
"Ah, brother," answered Eacus, "you know nothing about it. But don't
you see this? The dead man was a fool. What would have happened if
he, who had such power in his hands, had unfortunately interfered in
business? Why, he would have ruined the whole province. The tears
which would have flowed then would have been beyond all calculation.
Therefore, it is that he has gone into Paradise, because he did not
interfere with business."
I was in court yesterday, and I saw a judge there. There can be no
doubt that he will go into Paradise.
--Kriloff.
_BEAST FABLES_
=The Lion and the Old Hare=
On the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named Fierce-of-Heart,
and he was perpetually making massacre of all the wild animals. The
thing grew so bad that the beasts held a public meeting, and drew up a
respectful remonstrance to the Lion in these words:
"Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage of us all? If it may
please you, we ourselves will daily furnish a beast for your Majesty's
meal." Thereupon the Lion responded, "If that arrangement is more
agreeable to you, be it so;" and from that time a beast was allotted to
him daily, and daily devoured. One day it came to the turn of an old
hare to supply the royal table, who reflected to himself as he walked
along, "I can but die, and will go to my death leisurely."
Now Fierce-of-Heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger, and seeing the
Hare so approaching, he roared out, "How darest thou thus delay in
coming?"
"Sire," replied the Hare, "I am not to blame. I was detained on the
road by another lion, who exacted an oath from me to return when I
should have informed your Majesty."
"Go," exclaimed King Fierce-of-Heart in a rage; "show me instantly
where this insolent villain of a lion lives."
The Hare led the way accordingly until he came to a deep well, whereat
he stopped, and said, "Let my lord the King come hither and behold
him." The Lion approached, and beheld his own reflection in the water
of the well, upon which, in his passion, he directly flung himself, and
so perished.
--Hitopadesa. Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold.
=The Fox and the Crab=
The Fox and the Crab lived together like brothers; together they sowed
their land, reaped the harvest, thrashed the grain and garnered it.
The Fox said one day: "Let us go to the hill-top, and whoever reaches
it first shall carry off the grain for his own."
While they were (starting) to mount the steep, the Crab said:
"Do me a favor; before we set off running, touch me with your tail, so
that I shall know it and be able to follow you."
The Crab opened his claws, and when the Fox touched him with his tail,
he leaped forward and seized it, so that when the Fox reached the goal
and turned around to see where the Crab was, the Crab fell upon the
heap of grain and said: "These three bushels and a half are all mine."
The Fox was thunderstruck and exclaimed:
"How did you get here, you rascal?"
This fable shows that deceitful men devise many methods and actions for
getting things their own way, but that they are often defeated by the
feeble.
--Turkish Fable. Translated by Epiphanius Wilson.
_RATIONAL, WITH THE ACTORS MEN_
=The Fool Who Sells Wisdom=
A certain fool kept constantly passing through the streets of a town.
"Who will buy wisdom?" he cried in a loud voice. A citizen met him on
his way, accosted him, and presented him with some small pieces of
money.
"Sell me a little wisdom," he said.
"Here it is," replied the other, cuffing him heartily, and immediately
putting into his hands a long thread.
"If you wish in the future to be wise and prudent," said the hawker to
him, "always keep as far away from fools as the length of this thread."
Moral: We should avoid all connection and communication with fools and
cranks.
--Ibid.
_ALMOST A PARABLE_
=The Archer and the Trumpeter=
The Archer and the Trumpeter were travelling together in a lonely
place. The Archer boasted of his skill as a warrior, and asked the
Trumpeter if he bore arms.
"No," replied the Trumpeter, "I cannot fight. I can only blow my horn,
and make music for those who are at war."
"But I can hit a mark at a hundred paces," said the Archer. As he
spoke, an eagle appeared, hovering over the tree tops. He drew out an
arrow, fitted it on the string, shot at the bird, which straightway
fell to the ground, transfixed to the heart.
"I am not afraid of any foe; for that bird might just as well have been
a man," said the Archer proudly. "But you would be quite helpless if
anyone attacked you."
They saw at the moment a band of robbers, approaching them with drawn
swords. The Archer immediately discharged a sharp arrow which laid low
the foremost of the wicked men. But the rest soon overpowered him and
bound his hands.
"As for this trumpeter, he can do us no harm, for he has neither sword
nor bow," they said, and did not bind him, but took away his purse and
wallet.
Then the Trumpeter said: "You are welcome, friends, but let me play you
a tune on my horn."
With their consent he blew loud and long on his trumpet, and in a short
space of time the guards of the King came running up at the sound, and
surrounded the robbers and carried them off to prison.
When they unbound the hands of the Archer, he said to the Trumpeter:
"Friend, I have learned to-day that a trumpet is better than a bow; for
you have saved our lives without doing harm to anyone."
This fable shows that one man ought not to despise the trade of
another. It also shows that it is better to be able to gain the help of
others than to trust to our own strength.
--Ibid.
=The Courtship of Sir Butterfly=
It was a beautiful May morning. The air was soft and balmy, still
retaining the freshness of the evening. Sir Butterfly woke up very
early to go to the garden and pay a visit to the beautiful flowers
that grew there. The garden looked inviting. For there was already
Miss Sampaguita, fresh as the morning with little drops of dew on her
cheeks; there was the tall and graceful Miss Champaka; there was Miss
Ilang-ilang, giving perfume to the balmy air that kissed her; there was
Miss Sunflower with her face toward the Eastern Gate--all of them were
expecting early and courteous visitors.
However, Sir Butterfly was a shrewd critic, and could find faults in
each one of these beauties. But when he came before Miss Rose, he
found himself at a loss what to say. In fact, he was fascinated by her
beauty, and soon began to flutter about her. After a while he addressed
her in this way:
"Fair Rose, thou art the queen of flowers;
This throne I give alone to thee;
And this I'll say at all hours,
The sweetest nectar thine must be.
"Thy garment of the purest green
Befits right well thy being a queen;
And this I have to say to thee,
The sweetest nectar thine must be.
"Thy cheeks are rosy, lips are red
With tints of freshness never dead;
Come, give me a kiss, sweet Rose,
Of thine own nectar sweet, a dose."
Here Miss Rose interrupted him. "Nay, nay, please do not flatter me,"
she said in a tone of affected coquetry.
But Sir Butterfly continued his recitation:
"Thy graceful form invites me
A dear embrace to give thee."
Saying this, he drew near her and passed his arms around her body.
But what an embrace! The thorns held him fast; he was now a wounded
prisoner. In a tone of anger and despair he cried: "Let me free, you
ugly, ugly Miss Rose!"
MORAL: The seemingly desirable is not always desirable, or
circumstances alter estimates.
--Máximo M. Kalaw.
=The Hat and the Shoes=
Once a man owned two faithful servants, a hat and a pair of shoes. The
shoes had always been jealous of the hat: in the first place, because
the master carried the hat instead of the hat's carrying him; secondly,
because the hat was given a great deal of care and had a regular place
where it was put; while the shoes, who carried both the master and the
hat, were just thrown anywhere after their service.
Of course the shoes did not feel satisfied with such partial treatment,
and had long wished to have a short talk with the hat to discuss this
matter of importance; but they had always been put far apart.
One day, while their master was asleep and while they were having a
rest, a child got hold of the hat and the shoes as playthings. The
shoes were then glad of this; for they could have a hearty chat. Soon
afterwards, the child grew tired of playing and feel asleep. They then
discussed their respective positions.
"Why is it, my friend," asked the shoes, who began the discussion,
"that you are always carried by our master and taken good care of?"
"Don't be envious of my position, my friend shoes. Our master takes
such good care of me because I protect the most important part of his
body, while you, you just serve his feet," replied the hat.
"You are mistaken. Yes, you are entirely mistaken. I serve not only his
feet, but his legs, body, and hands, and head too, and what is more, I,
a servant, also serve you who are like myself," argued the shoes. The
hat was ashamed because of what the shoes had expounded and was unable
to continue the discussion.
MORAL: When you occupy a position of dignity, don't think that those
below you are your servants and their work is of little value; for
generally those men are the ones who support you, and their services
may be of more importance than yours.
--José R. Perez.
=The Crocodile and the Peahen=
Once there lived a young crocodile on the bank of the Pasig River. He
was so fierce and so greedy that no animals dared to approach him. One
day while he was resting on a rock, he thought of getting married. He
said aloud, "I will give all that I have for a wife." As he pronounced
these words, a coquettish peahen passed near him. The naughty crocodile
expressed his wish again. The coquette listened carefully, and began to
examine the crocodile's looks.
She said to herself, "I will marry this crocodile. He is very rich.
Oh, my! If I could only have all those pearls and diamonds, I should
be the happiest wife in the world." She made up her mind to marry the
crocodile. She then alighted on the rock where the crocodile was, who
made his offer again with extreme politeness, as a hypocrite always
does. She thought that the big eyes of the crocodile were two beautiful
diamonds and that the rough skin was made of pearls, so she accepted
the proposal. The crocodile asked the peahen to sit on his mouth, that
she might not spoil her beautiful feathers with mud. The foolish bird
did as she was told. What do you think happened! He made a good dinner
of his new wife.
MORAL: Be attracted by quality rather than wealth.
--Elisa R. Esquerra.
=The Old Man, His Son, and His Grandson=
In olden times, when men lived to be two or three hundred years old,
there dwelt a very poor family near a big forest. The household had but
three members--a grandfather, a father, and a son. The grandfather was
an old man of one hundred and twenty-five years. He was so old that
the help of his housemates was needed to feed him. Many a time, and
especially after meals, he related to his son and to his grandson his
brave deeds while serving in the king's army, the responsible positions
he filled after leaving a soldier's life; and he told entertaining
stories of hundreds of years gone by. The father was not satisfied with
the arrangement, however, and planned to get rid of the old man.
One day he said to his son, "At present, I am receiving a peso daily,
but half of it is spent to feed your worthless grandfather. We do not
get any real benefit from him. To-morrow let us bind him and take him
to the woods, and leave him there to die."
"Yes, father," said the boy.
When the morning came, they bound the old man and took him to the
forest. On their way home the boy said to his father, "Wait, I will
go back, and get the rope." "What for?" asked his father, raising
his voice. "To have it ready when your turn comes," replied the boy,
believing that to cast every old man into the forest was the usual
custom. "Ah! if that is likely to be the case with me, back we go, and
get your grandfather again."
--Eutiquiano Garcia.
II. Parable
[Parable contrasted with fable]
The parable, like the fable, is a short didactic story; but the
lesson of the parable is always spiritual, though not necessarily
religious. The fable never rises above the common-place: it preaches a
worldly morality. Self-interest and prudence are its tenets; it often
satirizes; it laughs at mankind. The parable, on the contrary, is
always serious: it is earnest and high in its purpose. It tries to win
mankind to generosity and self-forgetting, or tries to shame him for
his neglect by presenting good deeds in contrast with his, or tries
to drive him forth to an awe-struck repentance by a representation of
righteous anger.
The actors in a parable never violate the laws of nature. If animals
appear, for instance, they do not talk. They follow as the friends
or subjects of man, as in actual life. Man's dominion over them is
spiritual; hence they may have a place in the parable along with him
but not without him.
[Characteristics of parables]
Where the parable departs from the true story is in the fact that the
men in the parable are types, and the deeds are symbolic. We have not
Mr. John W. Richards, a particular farmer and an individual, plowing
a field of corn in Mason County, Illinois, on July 3; but instead we
have such statements as these: "The Farmer went out to plow his corn,"
"The Sower went out to sow the seeds," "A Householder hired laborers
for his vineyard;" or "Once a King had two servants," or "The Prodigal
sat among the swine in a far country." If the name of an actor is ever
individual--like that of Abraham, for instance, in Franklin's prose
parable, or Abou Ben Adhem in Leigh Hunt's poem--the actor himself is
nevertheless representative. Abraham stands for the whole Jewish people
in its exclusiveness; and Abou Ben Adhem, for all doubters who yet love
their fellow-men. A character's seeing of angels or hearing of the
voice of the Deity does not break the versimilitude of parables; for
these matters are readily taken subjectively.
The spiritual truth of a parable is generally independent and separable
from the story, which can always be read as narrative of actual events,
though it is meant to be symbolic. The interpretation comes from
without. It is either left to be inferred by the reader or is written
before or after the narrative in the form of a summarizing figure of
speech or a detailed collated exposition. You remember that Christ took
his disciples aside and explained his parables to them.
[Tolstoy]
Count Tolstoy has written many parables. He combines his teaching with
virile realism until he is as enthusiastically read as are the popular
and less spiritual authors. "What Men Live By" is an exquisite example
of his teaching, and, while it embodies a church legend, is a regular
parable in form. It has the requisite generic atmosphere about it: the
shoemaker and his wife, the rich purchaser, the kind foster-mother,
and the children are all types. The intense realism comes in in the
representation of Russian life. The lesson is given in an orderly
exposition after the narrative of events is finished.
[Suggestions on writing parables]
In writing an original parable, one should avoid the diction of
the Bible, that is, should avoid phraseology archaic or especially
religious; but it would be well to imitate the simplicity and
straightforwardness of the Biblical narrative. A modern parable writer
to be successful would avoid mawkishness, and what is popularly
designated as "preaching,"--but he would shadow forth nevertheless
very clearly a high, spiritual truth. He would study living examples
carefully so as to express inevitable actions in a few luminous words.
There are many noble lessons to be taught by the actions of typical men
in typical situations.
[Working definition]
The adjectives symbolic, serious, spiritual, typical, and natural might
be embodied in a working definition thus: A parable is a narrative of
imaginary events, a symbolic didactic story, wherein the actors are
always types of men or types of men and animals (never exclusively
of animals), and whereof the lesson is always spiritual, single, and
separate, and the tone is always serious, and the events always appear
natural and customary.
A list of proverbs that might be expanded into parables
1. God understands the dumb.
2. What a man acquires in his youth serves as a crutch in his old age.
3. Begin with small things that you may achieve great.
4. He who steals an egg will steal a horse also.
5. One can spoil the good name of a thousand.
6. One bad deed begets another.
7. The grandfather ate unripe grapes and the grandson's teeth were set
on edge.
8. What is play to the cat is death to the mouse (modern, political
parable).
9. When a man grows rich, he thinks his walls are awry.
10. Better lose one's eyes than one's calling.
11. What the wind brings it will take away.
12. No one is sure that his light will burn till morning.
13. The scornful soon grow old.
14. A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.
15. Love ever so well, there is also hate; hate ever so much, there is
also love.
16. To rise early is not everything; happy are they who have the help
of God.
17. By asking, one finds the way to Jerusalem.
18. When God gives, he gives with both hands.
19. Until you see trouble you will never know joy.
20. We are intelligence, that we may be will.
21. Act only on that maxim which thou couldst will to become a
universal law.
=The Three Questions=
It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right
time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to
listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what
was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he
might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed
throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one
who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who
were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most
important thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions
differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time
for every action, one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months
and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said
they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared
that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every
action; but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes,
one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do what
was most needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the King
might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide
correctly what is the right time for every action, but that he should
have a Council of wise men, who would help him to fix the proper time
for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait
to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide
whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must
know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know
that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action,
one must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said,
the people the King most needed were his councillors; others, the
priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the
most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation:
some replied that the most important thing in the world was science.
Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was
religious worship.
All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and
gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to
his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his
wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none
but common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching
the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard
behind, went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front
of his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging. The
hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the
ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit,
to ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right
thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom
should I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And what
affairs are the most important, and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on
his hand and recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work a while
for you."
"Thanks," said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat
down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions.
The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for
the spade, and said:
"Now rest awhile--and let me work a bit."
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour
passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the
King at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:
"I come to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can
give me none, tell me so, and I will return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned around, and saw a bearded man come running out of the
wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was
flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on
the ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the man's
clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed it
as best as he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a
towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and this
King again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and
washed and rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing,
the man revived and asked for something to drink. The King brought
fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had
become cool. So the King with the hermit's help, carried the wounded
man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man
closed his eyes and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk
and with the work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold,
and also fell asleep--so soundly that he slept all through the short
summer night. When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could
remember where he was, or who was the strange bearded man lying on the
bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that
the King was awake and was looking at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who
swore to revenge himself on you because you executed his brother and
seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I
resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did
not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon
your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from
them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I
wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now if I live, and if
you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid
my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and
to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said
he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and
promised to restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the porch
and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more
to beg answer to the question he had put. The hermit was outside, on
his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said:
"For the last-time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man."
"You have already been answered," said the hermit still crouching on
his thin legs, and looking at the King, who stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had not pitied my
weakness yesterday, and had not dug these beds for me, but had gone
your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented
of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you
were digging the beds; and I was the most important man, and to do me
good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to
us, the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if
you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made
peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for
him was your most important business. Remember then: there is only one
time that is important--Now! It is the most important time because it
is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary man is he
with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings
with any one else: and the most important affair is, to do him good,
because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!"
--Count Leo M. Tolstoy.
"Twenty-Three Tales from Tolstoy," translated by L. and A. Maude
(Oxford Press).
=A Master and His Servant=
Once a rich man was riding on horseback over a desert. He was going to
the palace to be knighted by the king. With him was his trusty servant,
who was to take care of their baggage and their food. As the master's
horse was stronger than the servant's, the master went very far ahead.
At last he came to a lonely tree by the road. He intended to stop in
the shade, but when he got there, he found a poor trader almost dying
of hunger. He had pity on him, so he threw him a piece of cake, which
fell on his breast. Alas! the poor man could not move his hands to pick
it up. The master, however, would not dismount and help the wretched
man, but started on, leaving him about to die.
Soon the servant came to the same place. His heart was greatly moved
upon seeing the traveler's pitiful appearance. As the servant was about
to drink a few drops of water that still remained in a bottle, the
suffering man looked at him. Therefore, he dismounted from his horse,
and poured the water into the man's mouth. After a while the man could
move his body a little. The servant thought that with a cup of pure
warm water the poor traveler would recover his strength. But no water
could be found in the desert. So he killed his horse, took the blood
from its heart, and gave it to the traveler. The servant did not leave
the traveler until he could get up without help. At last the servant
started on his journey with the baggage on his head, leaving his dead
horse and the traveler in the middle of the desert. He left to the
traveler some bread, clothes, the saddle and his hat.
It was evening when he arrived at the palace. His master had been
waiting for him impatiently. Without asking a question, the master
began to whip his servant, because he had lost everything except their
baggage. The servant would have suffered more had not the king chanced
to see him. Both were brought before the king, who asked the servant
what the matter was. The poor servant knelt before the king with his
hands crossed over his breast, and then told the whole story. Seeing
that the servant was as respectful, brave, and kind as a knight ought
to be, the king made him a noble instead of his master.
--Eusebio Ramos.
=The Parable of the Beggar and the Givers=
"Good people, alms! Alms for the poor!" whined an uncouth beggar who
stood huddled close, to the cold stones of a shop wall, and there
sought shelter from the wind.
Two brothers, well clad and warm, walking homeward together, turned
and looked to see whence the appeal came. The elder carelessly tossed
a silver piece into the out-stretched palm, and muttered, "Odious
beggars!" Then he hastened on. The younger man, however, stopped and
asked how such willing pauperism had gained ascendancy over pride.
The alms-seeker then told a story of search for employment, of
repeated failures, and of the final surrender of self-esteem. The youth
pitied the vagrant, and offered to furnish him a method of gaining
independence. He readily accepted the help and a new worker began to
labor in the vineyards of the brothers.
Some years later, when the time arrived for the people to send a new
burgher to the capital to represent them, men came from the city to
ask the fruit-gatherers which of their employers should be the choice
for the office. Then the chief of the workmen spoke out, "The elder
will fling you a coin and a curse. The younger will give you laws and
improvements for your city. He will teach you to earn the coin for
yourself."
The next year the giver of charity went to the great council in Berlin,
while the giver of alms superintended the vine-growing and envied his
brother's good fortune.
--Dorothea Knoblock.
III. Allegory
The word allegory is used widely to signify any figurative and symbolic
writing (proverb, parable, metaphor, simile, or allegory proper); but
we are going to use it in its distinctive and academic sense as a
rhetorical and narrative type.
[Characteristics]
Like the fable and the parable, the allegory teaches a lesson; like
them it is a story, but longer than either, more detailed than either.
Connected with the actors in it are generally abstract ideas used
figuratively, directly personified as people on adventures or used to
form the atmosphere, the goal of attainment, the place of destination,
the road over which the hero travels. For instance, Youth sets out
from the House of Innocence over the Road of Life and strays into
the Path of Temptation that leads through the Wood of Error. Here he
meets Falsehood and Shame, and overcomes them, for the time at least,
and passes through the clearing of Experience toward the Castle of
Perseverance, grim and dark and uninviting, that stands hard by, yet
beyond, the House of Mirth, etc., etc.
When you write an allegory, you will not be so trite as this
illustrative example, but will get a good idea, a good spiritual
lesson, and will teach it with a unique and original plot in which
the adventures themselves are interesting. The world's greatest prose
allegory, "Pilgrim's Progress," has always been read for the story.
The "Faerie Queene" as a metrical romance and a triple allegory of
religion, Elizabeth's court, and the perfect man, has been a storehouse
for prose narrators as well as for poets for three hundred years.
Practically all the old morality plays were allegories. "Everyman," the
best extant, is very vital indeed when put on the stage.
[Plato's "Vision of Er"]
Plato's great myth-allegory in the "Republic" was designed by him to
teach his people his theory of the transmigration of souls and how they
might safely pass over the river of Forgetfulness without being defiled
and might hold fast to the heavenly way and follow after Justice and
Virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure
every sort of good and every sort of evil. Popularly the story is known
as a vision; but Socrates, Plato's literary character who tells the
story, calls it a tale, a tale of a brave man Er, the Son of Armenius,
who, on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral pile, returned
to life and told what he had seen in the other world.
This device of a vision was widely adopted, doubtless indirectly from
Plato, as a good framework for allegory. We find the medieval poets
dreaming dreams and letting their souls depart from their bodies pretty
generally.
[Modern Allegories]
The romance and the allegory were the prime medieval types, and we
find them persisting together or apart in our own English literature
from William Langland's "Piers the Plowman" with its Tower of Truth,
Conscience, Envy, Advice of Hunger, and the like, to Henry Van Dyke's
"Blue Flower" with its crystal river flowing from a mysterious source.
"The Hunter" and the "Artist's Secret" by Olive Schreiner and "Poems
in Prose" by Oscar Wilde are exquisite modern examples. Nathaniel
Hawthorne wrote scarcely anything that is not inlaid with allegory. The
"Great Stone Face" is a fine instance of how concrete pure allegory
can be. It teaches a beautifully spiritual truth by the portrayal of
American customs and everyday human shortsightedness. A good German
prose allegory is "Peter Schlemihl: or, The Man Who Sold his Shadow."
Stevenson's tremendous study, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde," is really allegory.
A review of the names of the older but famous allegories will be
perhaps more interesting and suggestive than the perusal from beginning
to end of any one of them would be, for they are for the most part
long and tedious.
[Some famous English allegories]
In early Anglo-Saxon verse we find appearing the favorite device of
allegory, the vision. In the "Dream of the Rood" the author tells of
how he saw a strange Tree, the gallows of shame, now the glorious Tree
of the Savior, and how it told its life-history. "The Address of the
Soul to the Body" is a grim allegorical dialogue. In "The Phoenix," the
fabulous bird represents Christ, as does also the Panther in the other
poem, the sweet-breathed, lonely, harmless beast. These are all verse,
and with the exception of the "Dream of the Rood" hardly narrative. The
last two are really English bestiaries. "The Romaunt of the Rose," the
greatest medieval allegory, in its English form, contains seventy-six
hundred ninety-eight lines. You will find all these included in
Chaucer's work, but only seventeen hundred five are his.[1] The
"Parlament of Foules" and the "House of Fame," however, are his, but
not "The Court of Love," "the Flower and the Leaf," "The Cockowe and
the Nightingale." Between Chaucer and Spenser come Dunbar's "Thistle
and the Rose" and "The Golden Targe;" Lydgate's "Temple of Glass;"
Hawes's "Pastime of Pleasure;" Douglas's "Palace of Honour" and "King
Hart;" Lyndesay's "Dream" and "Complaint of Papingo;" Barclay's "Ship
of Fooles;" Sackville's "Induction" to the "Mirror for Magistrates."
After Spenser, besides Phineas Fletcher's "The Purple Island" and
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," come Addison's "Vision of Mirza,"
Parnell's "Paradise of Fooles," Thomson's "Castle of Indolence,"
Johnson's "Journey of a Day," Collin's "The Passions," and Aikin's "The
Hill of Science."
In the beautiful Elizabethan English translation we have also the
allegories of the Bible, of which the "Twenty-third Psalm" is doubtless
the best known example, as it is perhaps the best loved quotation
from the Old Testament. All the psalms put their truths allegorically
in the broad literary sense. Ezekiel, Isaiah, and the other prophets
often speak in strict allegorical narratives, which they explain either
immediately or later. The great literary beauty of the "Revelation"
depends on the exquisite use of allegory; the leaves of the tree of
life are for the healing of the nations; the water of the river of life
is for everyone that thirsteth.
[Allegory and parable distinguished]
Mention of Hawthorne's use of allegory calls to mind the distinction a
student of narrative types must make between parable on the one hand
and a particular kind of allegory on the other, that kind in which
there are no abstractions. He asks himself, What is the difference
when both narratives have only people for actors? He finds the answer
in the fact that the actors of the parable are always representatives
of a type, doing nothing outside the type, nothing individual, while
the actors of that sort of allegory in which there are no personified
abstractions are always individual men even though they may have
universal vices or virtues; that is, they perform individual deeds
and go through peculiar experiences, that not all the men of their
class could perform and go through. But although more individual,
the allegory is less human than the parable; for the happenings of
the parable are always probable, while those of the allegory may be
probable, improbable, or so fantastic as to be wholly impossible.
The allegory is usually longer also than the parable. Besides, unlike
the parable, the allegory demands no interpretation from without, but
carries its interpretation along from name to name. Hence the allegory
can be said to be an extended metaphor, and the parable, a long half
simile. On the other hand, many proverbs are concise parables and many
are also brief allegories.
[Allegory and fable distinguished]
Allegory meets fable on the fact that both may be satiric; but stands
aside from fable on the fact that allegory is much longer and employs
personified abstractions as characters. Hawthorne's "Celestial
Railroad" is an example of humorous-satiric allegory. Parable, we
recall, is always spiritual, allegory often so, and fable never.
[Working definition]
When you set out to write, therefore, you will have in mind a general
summary somewhat like this: An allegory is a narrative of imaginary
events designed to teach a series of utilitarian or spiritual
truths--the actors in the events being either individuals with typical
follies, vices, and virtues, or personified abstractions that go
through individual and particular experiences.
[How to write allegory]
To proceed to write original allegory you will need to pay especial
attention to (1) the series of lessons you mean to teach: Shall it be
in the realm of politics, trade, education, or general morals? (2) The
tone of your teaching: Shall it be humorous or grave? (3) The kind
of personages: Shall they be real persons made more-or-less typical
and abstract, or shall they be abstractions made more-or-less concrete
and individual? (4) The course of the action: What shall happen? There
must be something a-doing that is in itself interesting and that has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. You must not fall into the error of
merely enumerating and cataloguing. You must have a definite action
going forward in which your personages take a necessary part. Allegory
fell into disrepute in the past because of the attempts of lazy and
careless writers. There is evidence of its revival as a popular type. A
present-day writer in the _Atlantic Monthly_ has shown us how vigorous,
informing, and pungent it may be: "The Novelist's Allegory" is
entirely worth while with its good old-fashioned flavor. (5) You must
pay attention to the characterizations: you must see to it that the
speeches you put into the mouths of your creatures could be delivered
by them in the world or society you have got together. Everything in
the action--the time, the place, the characters of the persons--must
conform to the ideal nature of the subject. The laws of the actual
universe you may violate, but not the laws of your imaginary universe.
Moreover, the nearer the actual and the imaginary come together on
essentials, the more effective your preaching will be. What you write
as author's narrative must be vital and contributive.
Make your description of dress and gesture so vivid that it will
quicken the imagination of your readers. Never yourself think of your
personages as abstractions. Let them live and move before you as real
beings; then tell about them.
A testimony to the return of allegory into good favor is its use on
the stage. We no longer are afraid to see that Ibsen's "Peer Gynt" is
an allegorical satire and not the bucolic love tale that some persons
try to make it, and that even the wonderful scene of Ase's death is
pathos serving satire. Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird," which is unmistakable
allegory, has pleased the latest theater-going public high and low.
[Present-day interest in primitive types]
This thought leads to a word in general on primitive types. Although
it is becoming the fashion to be interested in them, and hence many
poor specimens both in prose and verse will get into print, yet the
writing of such simple and idealistic things by way of reaction from
our intense and often hectic realism, is surely in the main wholesome,
regardless of the value of the individual pieces. Years ago Count
Tolstoy said, "The artist of the future will understand that to compose
a fairy-tale, a little song which will touch, a lullaby or a riddle
which will entertain, a jest which will amuse, or to draw a sketch
such as will delight dozens of generations or millions of children
and adults, is incomparably more important and more fruitful than to
compose a novel, or a symphony, or paint a picture of the kind which
diverts some members of the wealthy classes for a short time and is
then forever forgotten. The region of this art of the simplest feelings
accessible to all is enormous, and it is as yet almost untouched." Of
course the hope of literary excellence for such an epoch, if it comes,
will lie in the possibility of the pieces being kept as Tolstoy's own
are, very near to the naïve.
=The Artist=
One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of
_The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_. And he went forth into the
world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.
But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in
the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze
of the image of _The Sorrow that endureth Forever_.
Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and
had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the
tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his
own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that
dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth forever. And
in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this
image.
And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace,
and gave it to the fire.
And out of the bronze of the Image of The Sorrow that endureth forever,
he fashioned an image of _The Pleasure that abideth for a moment_.
--Oscar Wilde.
"Poems in Prose" (Fortnightly Review, July 1, 1894).
=The House of Judgment=
And there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked
before God.
And God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast
shown cruelty to those in need of succor, and to those who lacked
help thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee
and thou did'st not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry
of my afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou did'st take
unto thyself, and thou did'st send the foxes into the vineyard of thy
neighbor's field. Thou did'st take the bread of the children and give
it to the dogs to eat, and my lepers who lived in the marshes, and were
at peace and praised me thou did'st drive forth on the highway, and on
mine earth out of which I made thee thou did'st spill innocent blood."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I
have shown, thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden, thou
did'st pass by. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and
from the bed of thine abominations thou did'st rise up to the sound of
flutes. Thou did'st build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and
did'st eat of the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy
raiment was broidered with the three signs of shame. Thy idols were
neither of gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth.
Thou did'st stain their hair with perfumes, and put pomegranates in
their hands. Thou did'st stain their feet with saffron and spread
carpets before them. With antimony thou did'st stain their eyelids and
their bodies thou did'st smear with myrrh. Thou did'st bow thyself to
the ground before them, and the thrones of thy idols were set in the
sun. Thou did'st show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And the third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Evil hath been thy life, and with evil did'st
thou requite good, and with wrong-doing kindness. The hands that fed
thee thou did'st wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou did'st
despise. He who came to thee with water went away thirsting and the
outlawed men who hid thee in their tents at night thou did'st betray
before dawn. Thine enemy who spared thee thou did'st slay in an ambush,
and the friend who walked with thee thou did'st sell for a price, and
to those who brought thee Love, thou did'st ever give Lust in thy turn."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man and said, "Surely I will
send thee to Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee."
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and
for what reason?"
"Because in Hell I have always lived," answered the Man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, "Seeing that I may
not send thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto
Heaven will I send thee."
And the Man cried out, "Thou can'st not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven and
for what reason?"
"Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,"
answered the man.
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
--Ibid.
=The Chain That Binds=
It was morning when the youth started out from his father's house and
sought the highway. Those the young man met on the road inquired of
him, "Where are you going? What do you seek?"
He answered, "I seek Freedom!"
"Freedom!" exclaimed his questioners. "Are you not free? Are we not all
our own masters?"
The young man smiled. "I do not mean freedom of thought and speech.
That you may have. What I seek is liberation from heredity and
environment, from the physical, intellectual, and spiritual laws that
tyrannize over us and make us slaves."
His listeners turned away, some laughed, and some scorned, and some
wept, and the young man traveled on. But all along the road he met
those that scorned him and laughed at him, and soon his steps lagged,
and his feet seemed leaden. Looking down, he saw a chain binding his
ankles--the chain of Public Opinion. Now he must delay. Angrily he tore
at the chain until the hasps broke, and he stood unbound.
Then he made haste; for he had already lost much time. Soon he met a
vender of goods, and the vender stopped and besought the youth to buy
a jewel. The young man desired the jewel, and he thought, "Why can I
not beat this man and steal his jewel?" But lo, his hands were fettered
with the chain of Conscience, and he wrenched the chain till it fell
apart. Then he beat the man and took his jewel and went on his way.
Ahead of him he saw a cloud, and from the cloud arose a mist, and the
mist formed itself into many shapes, strange signs and symbols, the
like of which he had never seen before. The youth cried out, "This is a
new faith; I will embrace it." But his arms were bound behind him with
the chain of Superstition; and he strove to break the chain, but when
the lock gave way, the cloud and mist had disappeared.
Thus year after year sped on; the youth became a man; the man grew old
before his time. When he broke a fetter, a new one took its place. The
chains that bound him were innumerable. One by one he broke the laws
that society and the ages had formed for him, but each wish that he
gratified gave place to another.
The chains that he had worn and wrenched weighed on him. His flesh and
spirit were chafed and sore. Weak and disheartened he sank down, and
the memory of his fruitless life recurred to him. A voice arrested him,
and looking up he saw a man older and more withered than he was.
And the stranger said, "Behold the chain that binds you now." The
Seeker-after-Freedom looked down. His ankles were encumbered by the
heaviest chain he had yet worn.
The old man continued. "You flaunted yourself in the face of your
fellows. You boasted that you were greater than they. You are, in that
you are the arch-sinner. You have sought to destroy those gifts with
which the Almighty endowed you. You found it easy to break the fetter
of Love, of Conscience, of Remorse. This chain you cannot break. You
welded it yourself. The strength of an armed force cannot tear it
asunder; the fires of Perdition cannot melt it."
The traveler died, bound with the chain of Insatiable Desire.
--Elizabeth Sudborough.
=The Love Which Surpassed All Other Loves=
The girl's heart was lonely. She had never had the comforts of a home.
And there was a yearning for some love which would fill her life. So
she determined to set out in search of such a love. In her wanderings
she met many hardships, and was scorned by everyone as a simpleton.
After she had wandered a year, one day a great eagle flew to her, and
said, "I know what you are seeking. I can satisfy your wants. I am the
governing force of the world; I am Love of Gold. Take me, and while I
am with you, all will be well with you."
For a moment the girl was dazzled by the comforts which seemed
stretched out before her if she would accept this Love. But her heart
was not satisfied, and she shook her head. The eagle flew away with a
taunting laugh.
Another year passed and still she had met nothing to quiet her longing.
But one day as she was walking through a village, she saw a happy
family seated on the door-step of a neat cottage. While she was looking
at this group, she heard a voice, and, glancing down, saw a beautiful
little wren.
"I am the Love of a Mother's Heart," said the little bird. "When all
others fail, I still remain true. Take me and hide me in your bosom,
that your mother's heart may be tender to you."
Tears came to the girl's eyes, for the little bird had touched a wound
in her life, the neglect of her by her mother. But her longing was not
yet satisfied, and so she passed on.
At the end of another year she was walking along the side of a quiet
pond. She stopped and looked at the water, envying it its peace. A
blue-jay was perched on the branch of a tree nearby, and soon he spoke
to her. "I am the Love of Man for Woman. I have been known since the
beginning of time. Let me be with you, that you may be a good wife."
The girl was strongly tempted to take this Love of which she had heard
so much. Perhaps this was, after all, the Love she was seeking. As she
meditated, the old longing came back with redoubled force. It would
not do to make this Love a part of her life, so she sadly left the
blue-jay, and went on.
The next year came, and the girl had become a woman, but her heart
was still empty of love. She entered a quiet grove one evening, and,
wearied, sat down on a log.
A lovely nightingale came and perched itself on her shoulder, and in
a sweetly comforting tone said, "Many have had the same longing which
you have had; but few have possessed the courage to resist temptations
offered by other loves. I am the Love of Woman for Woman, the Love of
True Friendship. I am greater and more enduring than any other love.
Take me and hide me in your heart. You will be happy then as few are
privileged to be."
The girl was comforted, and she took the beautiful bird and placed it
next her heart. At last her longing was satisfied, and she praised God
for His Gift.
--Florence Gifford.