MODERN FABULISTS: LA FONTAINE, GAY.
'Lie gently on their ashes, gentle earth.'
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
It is a remarkable circumstance in connection with the literature of
fable, that those who have excelled in it are comparatively few. The
principal names that occur to us are Æsop, La Fontaine, Gay, Lessing,
Krilof; 'the rest are all but leather or prunello,' if we except a few
rare examples from Northcote and Cowper. The composition of fables
seems to call for the exercise of a talent which is peculiar and
rare. La Fontaine says[54] that the writing of apologues is a gift
sent down from the immortals. Not even those who have practised the
art have always succeeded in it to perfection. Gay, who is esteemed
the best of the English fabulists, is often prolix and lacking in
point. La Fontaine, sprightly as are his renderings of the ancient
fables which he found ready to his hand, is weak and commonplace in
his attempts at originality. Dodsley is too didactic and goody-goody;
Northcote is stilted, and often unnatural. Even Krilof, admirable as he
generally is, is sometimes darkly obscure, and his moral difficult to
find. Lessing comes nearest to the terseness and concentration of the
Æsopian model, but many of his so-called fables are better described as
epigrams and witticisms. True, all these writers have sometimes, like
the Phrygian, 'hit the mark,' but oftener they have missed not only the
bull's-eye, but the target itself; and the arrows of their satire are
frequently lost in the mazes of verbiage. Æsop alone is in the fable
what Shakespeare is in the drama, a paragon without a peer, and all
competitors with either of these master minds must be content to take a
lower place--to stand on a lower plane.
Excellent as many modern fables fare, full of instruction and
entertainment, it is but few of them that spontaneously recur to us in
connection with the affairs of daily life.
Amongst modern fabulists, La Fontaine stands in the front rank. Jean
de la Fontaine was born at Chateau-Thierry on July 8, 1621; died in
Paris, March 15, 1695,[55] in his seventy-fourth year; and was buried
in the cemetery of St. Joseph, near the remains of his friend Molière.
He was one of the galaxy of great men and writers that adorned the
age of Louis XIV. His fables, as is well known, are in verse, and
include the best of those from ancient sources, with others of his own
invention. He may be said to have turned Æsop into rhyme. The happy
spirit of the genial Frenchman inspires them all. They are written with
a vivacity and sprightliness all his own, and these qualities, with the
humour which he infuses into them, make their perusal exhilarating and
health-giving.
'I have considered,' says he, 'that as these fables are already
known to all the world, I should have done nothing if I had not
rendered them in some degree new, by clothing them with certain fresh
characteristics. I have endeavoured to meet the wants of the day, which
are novelty and gaiety; and by gaiety I do not mean merely that which
excites laughter, but a certain charm, an agreeable air, which may be
given to every species of subject, even the most serious.'[56] He had
attained to middle age before he found his true vocation in literature,
his first collection of fables in six books being published in 1668,
when he was forty-seven years of age.
La Fontaine is well known in this country by the English translations
of his work. A version containing some of his best fables was
published anonymously in 1820, but is known to be from the pen of John
Matthews of Herefordshire. In his preface, Matthews states that the
fables are not altogether a translation or an imitation of La Fontaine,
because in most of them are allusions to public characters and the
events of the times, where they are suggested by the subject. These
allusions are largely political. The fables, apart from these ephemeral
references to personages and events, are written with great cleverness
and vivacity, full of humour, and in many instances are well suited for
recitation.
_The Fox and the Stork_ is a good example of his style:
'For sport once Renard, sly old sinner,
Press'd gossip Stork to share his dinner.
"Neighbour, I must entreat you'll stay
And take your soup with me to-day.
My praise shall not my fare enhance,
But let me beg you'll take your chance;
You're kindly welcome were it better."
She yielded as he thus beset her,
And soon arrived the pottage smoking
In plates of shallow depth provoking.
'Twas vain the guest essay'd to fill
With unsubstantial fare her bill.
'Twas vain she fish'd to find a collop,
The host soon lapp'd the liquor all up.
Dame Stork conceal'd her deep displeasure,
But thought to find revenge at leisure;
And said, "Ere long, my friend, you'll try
My humble hospitality.
I know your taste, and we'll contrive--
To-morrow I'm at home at five."
With punctual haste the wily scoffer
Accepts his neighbour's friendly offer,
And ent'ring cries, "Dear Stork, how is it?
You see I soon return your visit,
I can't resist when you invite;
I've brought a famous appetite.
The steam which issues from your kitchen
Proves that your pot there's something rich in."
The Stork with civil welcome greeted,
And soon at table they were seated,
When lo! there came upon the board
Hash'd goose in two tall pitchers pour'd--
Pitchers whose long and narrow neck
Sly Renard's jaws completely check,
Whilst the gay hostess, much diverted,
Her bill with perfect ease inserted.
The Fox, half mad at this retorter,
Sought dinner in some other quarter.
Hoaxers, for you this tale is written,
Learn hence that biters may be bitten.'
Matthews adds this note: '_Hoaxers, for you, this tale is written._
The word "hoax," though sufficiently expressive, and admitted into
general use, has not, perhaps, found its way into the dictionaries.
It is, however, of some importance, as it serves in some measure
to characterize the times we live in. Former periods have been
distinguished by the epithets golden, silver, brazen, iron.
Notwithstanding the multiplicity of metals which chemistry has now
discovered, none of them may be sufficiently descriptive of the manners
of men in these days. Quitting, therefore, the ancient mode of
classification, the present may not be unaptly designated the hoaxing
age. The term deserves a definition. A hoax may be said to be _a
practical joke, calculated more or less to injure its object, sometimes
accompanied by a high degree of criminality_. This definition, which
is much at the service of future English lexicographers, includes not
only the minor essays of mischievous humour, which assembles all the
schoolmasters of the Metropolis at one house; the medical professors
and undertakers at another; the milliners, mantua-makers, and mercers
at a third; whilst the street before the victim's door is blocked up by
grand pianofortes, Grecian couches, caravans of wild beasts, and patent
coffins; but also the more sublime strokes of genius, which would
acquire sudden wealth by throwing Change Alley into an uproar--which
would gain excessive popularity by gulling the English people with
a show of mock patriotism--which can make bankrupts in fortune and
reputation leaders of thousands and tens of thousands, so as to
threaten destruction to the State. The performers of all these notable
exploits may be denominated hoaxers, most of whom may, in the end, find
themselves involved in the predicament expressed in the concluding
couplet of the fable.'
We are tempted to give another very fine example from Matthews,
containing as it does an interesting reference to the two mighty men of
letters of the first quarter of the present century--_The Viper and the
File:_
'A Viper chanc'd his head to pop
Into a neighbouring blacksmith's shop.
Long near the place had he been lurking,
And stayed till past the hours for working.
As with keen eyes he glanc'd around
In search of food, a File he found:
Of meats he saw no single item
Which tempted hungry jaws to bite 'em.
So with his fangs the eager fool
Attack'd the rough impassive tool;
And whilst his wounded palate bled,
Fancied on foreign gore he fed.
When thus the File retorted coolly:
"Viper! this work's ingenious, truly!
No more those idle efforts try;
Proof 'gainst assaults like yours am I.
On me you'd fracture ev'ry bone;
I feel the teeth of Time alone."
Thus did a Poet,[57] vain and young
(Who since has palinody sung),
His fangs upon a Minstrel's lay[58]
Fix hard. 'Twas labour thrown away!
On that sweet Bard of Doric strain
This venom'd bite was tried in vain:
His flights, thro' no dark medium view'd,
Derive from fog no magnitude;
But bright and clear to charm our eyes
His vivid pictures boldly rise.
In painting manners, arms, and dress, sure
Time show'd him all his form and pressure.
Bard of the North! thou still shalt be
A File to Critics, harsh as he.
Tho' Time has teeth, thou need'st not fear 'em;
Thy verse defies old Edax Rerum!'
It must be confessed that the general moral here is not very obvious,
though the special application of the fable to the circumstances of
Byron's attack on Scott, and his subsequent recantation--with the
fabulist's eulogy of the 'Bard of the North'--are expressed in charming
and faultless verse.
John Gay, who was born in the parish of Landkey, near Barnstaple,
Devonshire, in 1685, and died in London, on December 4, 1732, aged
forty-seven, is, without question, the best of the English fabulists.
Unlike most writers in this department of literature, his fables are
almost all original. His language is choice and elegant, yet well
suited to his subject. His rhymes are perfect, and at times he almost
rises into poetry. His fables, however, are lacking in humour, and they
have not that abounding _esprit_ and _naïveté_ which characterize La
Fontaine.
Gay was a writer of much industry,[59] producing during his lifetime
almost every species of composition. His 'Beggar's Opera' is yet
occasionally seen on the stage, and this, after his fables, is his
best-known work.
He was essentially Bohemian in disposition and habits, and lacking in
business capacity; a man of culture, however, a pleasant companion,
and a warm-hearted friend. He was on intimate terms with Pope, Swift,
Arbuthnot, and other distinguished men of letters and wits of his day,
and the eccentric but kind-hearted Duchess of Queensberry was his
patron and friend. Unfortunately, he was too much given to dangling
at the skirts of the great, and sueing for place at Court instead of
depending on his own genius, which was unquestionably of no mean order.
Notwithstanding this failing, he was no sycophant or flatterer, but
exposed the follies and vices of human nature, as exemplified in the
characters of the rich and great, as in those of the humbler ranks,
without fear or favour. His best-known fables are probably _The Hare
and many Friends_, and _The Miser and Plutus_.
Many of Gay's lines, both from his fables and plays, have become widely
popular, for example:
'Princes, like beauties, from their youth
Are strangers to the voice of truth.
Learn to contemn all praise betimes,
For Flattery's the nurse of crimes.'
'In every age and clime we see
Two of a trade can ne'er agree.'
'While there's life there's hope.'
'Those who in quarrels interpose
Must often wipe a bloody nose.'
'When a lady's in the case
You know all other things give place.'
'And what's a butterfly? At best
He's but a caterpillar dressed.'
''Tis woman that seduces all mankind.'
'How happy could I be with either
Were t'other dear charmer away.'
And his own epitaph, written by himself:
'Life's a jest, and all things show it;
I thought so once, and now I know it.'
In the letter to Pope in which this distich is given, he says: 'If
anybody should ask how I could communicate this after death, let it be
known it is not meant so, but my present sentiments in life.'
Gay was buried in Westminster Abbey. The monument which marks his grave
bears the well-known lines composed by Pope:
'Of manners gentle, of Affections mild,
In wit a Man, simplicity, a child;
With native Humour, temp'ring Virtuous Rage,
Formed to delight at once and lash the Age:
Above Temptation in a low Estate,
And uncorrupted, e'en among the great.
A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,
Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy End.
These are thy Honours! Not that here thy Bust
Is mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy Dust:
But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms,--here lies Gay.'
The piece we have selected, _The Miser and Plutus_, as an example
of his work as a fabulist, is in his best style, and the moral is
irreproachable:
'The wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the Miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks,
Looks back, and trembles as he walks.
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner pries;
Then opes the chest with treasure stor'd,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard:
But now with sudden qualms possest,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;
By conscience stung he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares:
"Had the deep earth her stores confin'd,
This heart had known sweet peace of mind.
But virtue's sold. Good gods! what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice?
O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold sow'd the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill.
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!"
He spoke, and sighed. In angry mood
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The Miser, trembling, locked his chest;
The Vision frowned, and thus address'd:
"Whence is this vile ungrateful rant,
Each sordid rascal's daily cant?
Did I, base wretch! corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abused,
Must I be censur'd, curs'd, accus'd?
Ev'n virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;
And power (when lodg'd in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
Thus when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,
And ev'ry shocking vice beside;
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dews of Heaven;
Like Heaven, it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay?
Let bravos, then, when blood is spilt,
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt."'
FOOTNOTES:
[54] In his dedication to Madame de Montespan.
[55] Geruzez gives February 13 as the date of La Fontaine's death.
[56] Preface, 'Fables,' 1668.
[57] Byron.
[58] Scott's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.'
[59] The opposite of this has been said, but without good reason. The
number and variety of his productions attest his industry.