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THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE
_Translated From The French_
By Elizur Wright.
_A New Edition, With Notes_
By J. W. M. Gibbs.
1882
* * * * *
PREFACE
To The Present Edition,
With Some Account Of The Translator.
The first edition of this translation of La Fontaine's Fables appeared
in Boston, U.S., in 1841. It achieved a considerable success, and six
editions were printed in three years. Since then it has been allowed to
pass out of print, except in the shape of a small-type edition produced
in London immediately after the first publication in Boston, and the
present publishers have thought that a reprint in a readable yet popular
form would be generally acceptable.
The translator has remarked, in the "Advertisement" to his original
edition (which follows these pages), on the singular neglect of La
Fontaine by English translators up to the time of his own work. Forty
years have elapsed since those remarks were penned, yet translations into
English of the _complete_ Fables of the chief among modern fabulists
are almost as few in number as they were then. Mr. George Ticknor (the
author of the "History of Spanish Literature," &c.), in praising Mr.
Wright's translation when it first appeared, said La Fontaine's was "a
book till now untranslated;" and since Mr. Wright so happily accomplished
his self-imposed task, there has been but one other complete translation,
viz., that of the late Mr. Walter Thornbury. This latter, however, seems
to have been undertaken chiefly with a view to supplying the necessary
accompaniment to the English issue of M. Doré's well-known designs for
the Fables (first published as illustrations to a Paris edition), and
existing as it does only in the large quarto form given to those
illustrations, it cannot make any claim to be a handy-volume edition. Mr.
Wright's translation, however, still holds its place as the best English
version, and the present reprint, besides having undergone careful
revision, embodies the corrections (but not the expurgations) of the
sixth edition, which differed from those preceding it. The notes too,
have, for the most part, been added by the reviser.
Some account of the translator, who is still one of the living notables
of his nation, may not be out of place here. Elizur Wright, junior, is
the son of Elizur Wright, who published some papers in mathematics, but
was principally engaged in agricultural pursuits at Canaan, Litchfield
Co., Connecticut, U.S. The younger Elizur Wright was born at Canaan in
1804. He graduated at Yale College in 1826, and afterwards taught in a
school at Groton. In 1829, he became Professor of Mathematics in Hudson
College, from which post he went to New York in 1833, on being appointed
secretary to the American Anti-Slavery Society. In 1838 he removed to the
literary centre of the United States, Boston, where he edited several
papers successively, and where he published his "La Fontaine;" which
thus, whilst, it still remains his most considerable work, was also one
of his earliest. How he was led to undertake it, he has himself narrated
in the advertisement to his first edition. But previously to 1841, the
date of the first publication of the complete "Fables," he tried the
effect of a partial publication. In 1839 he published, anonymously, a
little 12mo volume, "La Fontaine; A Present for the Young." This, as
appears from the title, was a book for children, and though the substance
of these few (and simpler) fables may be traced in the later and complete
edition, the latter shows a considerable improvement upon the work of his
"'prentice hand." The complete work was published, as we have said, in
1841. It appeared in an expensive and sumptuous form, and was adorned
with the French artist Grandville's illustrations--which had first
appeared only two years previously in the Paris edition of La Fontaine's
Fables, published by Fournier Ainé. The book was well received both in
America and England, and four other editions were speedily called for.
The sixth edition, published in 1843, was a slightly expurgated one,
designed for schools. The expurgation, however, almost wholly consisted
of the omission bodily of five of the fables, whose places were, as Mr.
Wright stated in his preface, filled by six original fables of his own.
From his "Notice" affixed to this sixth edition, it seems evident that he
by no means relished the task, usually a hateful one, of expurgating his
author. Having, however, been urged to the task by "criticisms both
friendly and unfriendly" (as he says) he did it; and did it wisely,
because sparingly. But in his prefatory words he in a measure protests.
He says:--"In this age, distinguished for almost everything more than
sincerity, there are some people who would seem too delicate and refined
to read their Bibles." And he concludes with the appeal,--"But the
unsophisticated lovers of _nature_, who have not had the opportunity
to acquaint themselves with the French language, I have no doubt will
thank me for interpreting to them these honest and truthful fictions of
the frank old JEAN, and will beg me to proceed no farther in the work
of expurgation." The first of the substituted fables of the sixth
edition--_The Fly and the Game_, given below--may also be viewed as
a protest to the same purpose. As a specimen of Mr. Wright's powers at
once as an original poet and an original fabulist, we here print (for the
first time in England, we believe) the substituted fables of his sixth
edition. We may add, that they appeared in lieu of the following five
fables as given in Mr. Wright's complete edition--and in the present
edition:--_The Bitch and her Friend, The Mountain in Labour, The Young
Widow, The Women and the Secret_, and, _The Husband, the Wife, and
the Thief_. It should also be borne in mind that these original fables
were inserted in an edition professedly meant for schools rather than for
the general public.
* * * * *
THE FLY AND THE GAME.
A knight of powder-horn and shot
Once fill'd his bag--as I would not,
Unless the feelings of my breast
By poverty were sorely press'd--
With birds and squirrels for the spits
Of certain gormandizing cits.
With merry heart the fellow went
Direct to Mr. Centpercent,
Who loved, as well was understood,
Whatever game was nice and good.
This gentleman, with knowing air,
Survey'd the dainty lot with care,
Pronounced it racy, rich, and rare,
And call'd his wife, to know her wishes
About its purchase for their dishes.
The lady thought the creatures prime,
And for their dinner just in time;
So sweet they were, and delicate,
For dinner she could hardly wait.
But now there came--could luck be worse?--
Just as the buyer drew his purse,
A bulky fly, with solemn buzz,
And smelt, as an inspector does,
This bird and that, and said the meat--
But here his words I won't repeat--
Was anything but fit to eat.
'Ah!' cried the lady, 'there's a fly
I never knew to tell a lie;
His coat, you see, is bottle-green;
He knows a thing or two I ween;
My dear, I beg you, do not buy:
Such game as this may suit the dogs.'
So on our peddling sportsman jogs,
His soul possess'd of this surmise,
About some men, as well as flies:
A filthy taint they soonest find
Who are to relish filth inclined.
THE DOG AND CAT.
A dog and cat, messmates for life,
Were often falling into strife,
Which came to scratching, growls, and snaps,
And spitting in the face, perhaps.
A neighbour dog once chanced to call
Just at the outset of their brawl,
And, thinking Tray was cross and cruel,
To snarl so sharp at Mrs. Mew-well,
Growl'd rather roughly in his ear.
'And who are you to interfere?'
Exclaim'd the cat, while in his face she flew;
And, as was wise, he suddenly withdrew.
It seems, in spite of all his snarling,
And hers, that Tray was still her darling.
THE GOLDEN PITCHER.
A father once, whose sons were two,
For each a gift had much ado.
At last upon this course he fell:
'My sons,' said he, 'within our well
Two treasures lodge, as I am told;
The one a sunken piece of gold,--
A bowl it may be, or a pitcher,--
The other is a thing far richer.
These treasures if you can but find,
Each may be suited to his mind;
For both are precious in their kind.
To gain the one you'll need a hook;
The other will but cost a look.
But O, of this, I pray, beware!--
You who may choose the tempting share,--
Too eager fishing for the pitcher
May ruin that which is far richer.'
Out ran the boys, their gifts to draw:
But eagerness was check'd with awe,
How could there be a richer prize
Than solid gold beneath the skies?
Or, if there could, how could it dwell
Within their own old, mossy well?
Were questions which excited wonder,
And kept their headlong av'rice under.
The golden cup each fear'd to choose,
Lest he the better gift should lose;
And so resolved our prudent pair,
The gifts in common they would share.
The well was open to the sky.
As o'er its curb they keenly pry,
It seems a tunnel piercing through,
From sky to sky, from blue to blue;
And, at its nether mouth, each sees
A brace of their antipodes,
With earnest faces peering up,
As if themselves might seek the cup.
'Ha!' said the elder, with a laugh,
'We need not share it by the half.
The mystery is clear to me;
That richer gift to all is free.
Be only as that water true,
And then the whole belongs to you.'
That truth itself was worth so much,
It cannot be supposed that such.
A pair of lads were satisfied;
And yet they were before they died.
But whether they fish'd up the gold
I'm sure I never have been told.
Thus much they learn'd, I take for granted,--
And that was what their father wanted:--
If truth for wealth we sacrifice,
We throw away the richer prize.
PARTY STRIFE.
Among the beasts a feud arose.
The lion, as the story goes,
Once on a time laid down
His sceptre and his crown;
And in his stead the beasts elected,
As often as it suited them,
A sort of king _pro tem._,--
Some animal they much respected.
At first they all concurr'd.
The horse, the stag, the unicorn,
Were chosen each in turn;
And then the noble bird
That looks undazzled at the sun.
But party strife began to run
Through burrow, den, and herd.
Some beasts proposed the patient ox,
And others named the cunning fox.
The quarrel came to bites and knocks;
Nor was it duly settled
Till many a beast high-mettled
Had bought an aching head,
Or, possibly, had bled.
The fox, as one might well suppose,
At last above his rival rose,
But, truth to say, his reign was bootless,
Of honour being rather fruitless.
All prudent beasts began to see
The throne a certain charm had lost,
And, won by strife, as it must be,
Was hardly worth the pains it cost.
So when his majesty retired,
Few worthy beasts his seat desired.
Especially now stood aloof
The wise of head, the swift of hoof,
The beasts whose breasts were battle-proof.
It consequently came to pass,
Not first, but, as we say, in fine,
For king the creatures chose the ass--
He, for prime minister the swine.
'Tis thus that party spirit
Is prone to banish merit.
THE CAT AND THE THRUSH.
A thrush that sang one rustic ode
Once made a garden his abode,
And gave the owner such delight,
He grew a special favourite.
Indeed, his landlord did his best
To make him safe from every foe;
The ground about his lowly nest
Was undisturb'd by spade or hoe.
And yet his song was still the same;
It even grew somewhat more tame.
At length Grimalkin spied the pet,
Resolved that he should suffer yet,
And laid his plan of devastation
So as to save his reputation;
For, in the house, from looks demure,
He pass'd for honest, kind, and pure.
Professing search of mice and moles,
He through the garden daily strolls,
And never seeks our thrush to catch;
But when his consort comes to hatch,
Just eats the young ones in a batch.
The sadness of the pair bereaved
Their generous guardian sorely grieved.
But yet it could not be believed
His faithful cat was in the wrong,
Though so the thrush said in his song.
The cat was therefore favour'd still
To walk the garden at his will;
And hence the birds, to shun the pest,
Upon a pear-tree built their nest.
Though there it cost them vastly more,
'Twas vastly better than before.
And Gaffer Thrush directly found
His throat, when raised above the ground,
Gave forth a softer, sweeter sound.
New tunes, moreover, he had caught,
By perils and afflictions taught,
And found new things to sing about:
New scenes had brought new talents out.
So, while, improved beyond a doubt,
His own old song more clearly rang,
Far better than themselves he sang
The chants and trills of other birds;
He even mock'd Grimalkin's words
With such delightful humour that
He gain'd the Christian name of Cat.
Let Genius tell in verse and prose.
How much to praise and friends it owes.
Good sense may be, as I suppose,
As much indebted to its foes.
* * * * *
In 1844 Mr. Wright wrote the Preface to the first collected edition of
the works of the poet J. G. Whittier; and soon after he seems to have
become completely absorbed in politics, and in the mighty anti-slavery
struggle, which constituted the greater part of the politics of the
United States in those and many succeeding years. He became a journalist
in the anti-slavery cause; and, in 1850, he wrote a trenchant answer to
Mr. Carlyle's then just published "Latter Day Pamphlets." Later on,
slavery having been at length abolished, he appeared as a writer in yet
another field, publishing several works, one as lately as 1877, on
life-assurance.
London, 1881.
* * * * *
ADVERTISEMENT
To The First Edition Of This Translation.
[Boston, U.S.A., 1841.]
Four years ago, I dropped into Charles de Behr's repository of foreign
books, in Broadway, New York, and there, for the first time, saw La
Fontaine's Fables. It was a cheap copy, adorned with some two hundred
woodcuts, which, by their worn appearance, betokened an extensive
manufacture. I became a purchaser, and gave the book to my little boy,
then just beginning to feel the intellectual magnetism of pictures. In
the course of the next year, he frequently tasked my imperfect knowledge
of French for the story which belonged to some favourite vignette. This
led me to inquire whether any English version existed; and, not finding
any, I resolved, though quite unused to literary exercises of the sort,
to cheat sleep of an hour every morning till there should be one. The
result is before you. If in this I have wronged La Fontaine, I hope the
best-natured of poets, as well as yourselves, will forgive me, and lay
the blame on the better qualified, who have so long neglected the task.
Cowper should have done it. The author of "John Gilpin," and the "Retired
Cat," would have put La Fontaine into every chimney-corner which resounds
with the Anglo-Saxon tongue.... To you who have so generously enabled me
to publish this work with so great advantages, and without selling the
copyright for the _promise_ of a song, I return my heartfelt thanks.
A hatchet-faced, spectacled, threadbare stranger knocked at your doors,
with a prospectus, unbacked by "the trade," soliciting your subscription
to a costly edition of a mere translation. It is a most inglorious,
unsatisfactory species of literature. The slightest preponderance of that
worldly wisdom which never buys a pig-in-a-poke would have sent him and
his translation packing. But a kind faith in your species got the better
in your case. You not only gave the hungry-looking stranger your good
wishes, but your good names. A list of those names it would delight me to
insert; and I should certainly do it if I felt authorized. As it is, I
hope to be pardoned for mentioning some of the individuals, who have not
only given their names, but expressed an interest in my enterprise which
has assisted me in its accomplishment. Rev. John Pierpont, Prof. George
Ticknor, Prof. Henry W. Longfellow, William H. Prescott, Esq., Hon.
Theodore Lyman, Prof. Silliman, Prof. Denison Olmsted, Chancellor Kent,
William C. Bryant, Esq., Dr. J. W. Francis, Hon. Peter A. Jay, Hon.
Luther Bradish, and Prof. J. Molinard, have special claims to my
gratitude....
The work--as it is, not as it ought to be--I commit to your kindness. I
do not claim to have succeeded in translating "the inimitable La
Fontaine,"--perhaps I have not even a right to say in his own language--
"J'ai du moins ouvert le chemin."
However this may be, I am, gratefully,
Your obedient servant,
Elizur Wright, Jr.
Dorchester, _September_, 1841.
* * * * *
A PREFACE,
on
Fable, The Fabulists, And La Fontaine.
By The Translator.
Human nature, when fresh from the hand of God, was full of poetry. Its
sociality could not be pent within the bounds of the actual. To the lower
inhabitants of air, earth, and water,--and even to those elements
themselves, in all their parts and forms,--it gave speech and reason. The
skies it peopled with beings, on the noblest model of which it could have
any conception--to wit, its own. The intercourse of these beings, thus
created and endowed,--from the deity kindled into immortality by the
imagination, to the clod personified for the moment,--gratified one of
its strongest propensities; for man may well enough be defined as the
historical animal. The faculty which, in after ages, was to chronicle the
realities developed by time, had at first no employment but to place on
record the productions of the imagination. Hence, fable blossomed and
ripened in the remotest antiquity. We see it mingling itself with the
primeval history of all nations. It is not improbable that many of the
narratives which have been preserved for us, by the bark or parchment of
the first rude histories, as serious matters of fact, were originally
apologues, or parables, invented to give power and wings to moral
lessons, and afterwards modified, in their passage from mouth to mouth,
by the well-known magic of credulity. The most ancient poets graced their
productions with apologues. Hesiod's fable of the Hawk and the
Nightingale is an instance. The fable or parable was anciently, as it is
even now, a favourite weapon of the most successful orators. When Jotham
would show the Shechemites the folly of their ingratitude, he uttered the
fable of the Fig-Tree, the Olive, the Vine, and the Bramble. When the
prophet Nathan would oblige David to pass a sentence of condemnation upon
himself in the matter of Uriah, he brought before him the apologue of the
rich man who, having many sheep, took away that of the poor man who had
but one. When Joash, the king of Israel, would rebuke the vanity of
Amaziah, the king of Judah, he referred him to the fable of the Thistle
and the Cedar. Our blessed Saviour, the best of all teachers, was
remarkable for his constant use of parables, which are but fables--we
speak it with reverence--adapted to the gravity of the subjects on which
he discoursed. And, in profane history, we read that Stesichorus put the
Himerians on their guard against the tyranny of Phalaris by the fable of
the Horse and the Stag. Cyrus, for the instruction of kings, told the
story of the fisher obliged to use his nets to take the fish that turned
a deaf ear to the sound of his flute. Menenius Agrippa, wishing to bring
back the mutinous Roman people from Mount Sacer, ended his harangue with
the fable of the Belly and the Members. A Ligurian, in order to dissuade
King Comanus from yielding to the Phocians a portion of his territory as
the site of Marseilles, introduced into his discourse the story of the
bitch that borrowed a kennel in which to bring forth her young, but, when
they were sufficiently grown, refused to give it up.
In all these instances, we see that fable was a mere auxiliary of
discourse--an implement of the orator. Such, probably, was the origin of
the apologues which now form the bulk of the most popular collections.
Aesop, who lived about six hundred years before Christ, so far as we can
reach the reality of his life, was an orator who wielded the apologue
with remarkable skill. From a servile condition, he rose, by the force of
his genius, to be the counsellor of kings and states. His wisdom was in
demand far and wide, and on the most important occasions. The pithy
apologues which fell from his lips, which, like the rules of arithmetic,
solved the difficult problems of human conduct constantly presented to
him, were remembered when the speeches that contained them were
forgotten. He seems to have written nothing himself; but it was not long
before the gems which he scattered began to be gathered up in
collections, as a distinct species of literature. The great and good
Socrates employed himself, while in prison, in turning the fables of
Aesop into verse. Though but a few fragments of his composition have come
down to us, he may, perhaps, be regarded as the father of fable,
considered as a distinct art. Induced by his example, many Greek poets
and philosophers tried their hands in it. Archilocus, Alcaeus, Aristotle,
Plato, Diodorus, Plutarch, and Lucian, have left us specimens.
Collections of fables bearing the name of Aesop became current in the
Greek language. It was not, however, till the year 1447 that the large
collection which now bears his name was put forth in Greek prose by
Planudes, a monk of Constantinople. This man turned the life of Aesop
itself into a fable; and La Fontaine did it the honour to translate it as
a preface to his own collection. Though burdened with insufferable
puerilities, it is not without the moral that a rude and deformed
exterior may conceal both wit and worth.
The collection of fables in Greek verse by Babrias was exceedingly
popular among the Romans. It was the favourite book of the Emperor
Julian. Only six of these fables, and a few fragments, remain; but they
are sufficient to show that their author possessed all the graces of
style which befit the apologue. Some critics place him in the Augustan
age; others make him contemporary with Moschus. His work was versified in
Latin, at the instance of Seneca; and Quinctilian refers to it as a
reading-book for boys. Thus, at all times, these playful fictions have
been considered fit lessons for children, as well as for men, who are
often but grown-up children. So popular were the fables of Babrias and
their Latin translation, during the Roman empire, that the work of
Phaedrus was hardly noticed. The latter was a freedman of Augustus, and
wrote in the reign of Tiberius. His verse stands almost unrivalled for
its exquisite elegance and compactness; and posterity has abundantly
avenged him for the neglect of contemporaries. La Fontaine is perhaps
more indebted to Phaedrus than to any other of his predecessors; and,
especially in the first six books, his style has much of the same curious
condensation. When the seat of the empire was transferred to Byzantium,
the Greek language took precedence of the Latin; and the rhetorician
Aphthonius wrote forty fables in Greek prose, which became popular.
Besides these collections among the Romans, we find apologues scattered
through the writings of their best poets and historians, and embalmed in
those specimens of their oratory which have come down to us.
The apologues of the Greeks and Romans were brief, pithy, and
epigrammatic, and their collections were without any principle of
connection. But, at the same time, though probably unknown to them, the
same species of literature was flourishing elsewhere under a somewhat
different form. It is made a question, whether Aesop, through the
Assyrians, with whom the Phrygians had commercial relations, did not
either borrow his art from the Orientals, or lend it to them. This
disputed subject must be left to those who have a taste for such
inquiries. Certain it is, however, that fable flourished very anciently
with the people whose faith embraces the doctrine of metempsychosis.
Among the Hindoos, there are two very ancient collections of fables,
which differ from those which we have already mentioned, in having a
principle of connection throughout. They are, in fact, extended romances,
or dramas, in which all sorts of creatures are introduced as actors, and
in which there is a development of sentiment and passion as well as of
moral truth, the whole being wrought into a system of morals particularly
adapted to the use of those called to govern. One of these works is
called the _Pantcha Tantra_, which signifies "Five Books," or
Pentateuch. It is written in prose. The other is called the _Hitopadesa_,
or "Friendly Instruction," and is written in verse. Both are in the
ancient Sanscrit language, and bear the name of a Brahmin, Vishnoo
Sarmah,[1] as the author. Sir William Jones, who is inclined to make this
author the true Aesop of the world, and to doubt the existence of the
Phrygian, gives him the preference to all other fabulists, both in
regard to matter and manner. He has left a prose translation of the
_Hitopadesa_, which, though it may not fully sustain his enthusiastic
preference, shows it not to be entirely groundless. We give a sample
of it, and select a fable which La Fontaine has served up as the
twenty-seventh of his eighth book. It should be understood that the
fable, with the moral reflections which accompany it, is taken from the
speech of one animal to another.
[1] _Vishnoo Sarmah_.--Sir William Jones has the name
_Vishnu-sarman_. He says, further, that the word
_Hitopadesa_ comes from _hita_, signifying fortune,
prosperity, utility, and _upadesa_, signifying advice,
the entire word meaning "salutary or amicable
instruction."--Ed.
"Frugality should ever be practised, but not excessive parsimony; for see
how a miser was killed by a bow drawn by himself!"
"How was that?" said Hiranyaca.
"In the country of Calyanacataca," said Menthara, "lived a mighty hunter,
named Bhairaza, or Terrible. One day he went, in search of game, into a
forest on the mountains Vindhya; when, having slain a fawn, and taken it
up, he perceived a boar of tremendous size; he therefore threw the fawn
on the ground, and wounded the boar with an arrow; the beast, horribly
roaring, rushed upon him, and wounded him desperately, so that he fell,
like a tree stricken with an axe.
* * * * *
"In the meanwhile, a jackal, named Lougery, was roving in search of food;
and, having perceived the fawn, the hunter, and the boar, all three dead,
he said to himself, 'What a noble provision is here made for me!'
"As the pains of men assail them unexpectedly, so their pleasures come in
the same manner; a divine power strongly operates in both.
"'Be it so; the flesh of these three animals will sustain me a whole
month, or longer.
"'A man suffices for one month; a fawn and a boar, for two; a snake, for
a whole day; and then I will devour the bowstring.' When the first
impulse of his hunger was allayed, he said, 'This flesh is not yet
tender; let me taste the twisted string with which the horns of this bow
are joined.' So saying, he began to gnaw it; but, in the instant when he
had cut the string, the severed bow leaped forcibly up, and wounded him
in the breast, so that he departed in the agonies of death. This I meant,
when I cited the verse, Frugality should ever be practised, &c.
* * * * *
"What thou givest to distinguished men, and what thou eatest every
day--that, in my opinion, is thine own wealth: whose is the remainder
which thou hoardest?"
_Works of Sir William Jones_, vol. vi. pp. 35-37.[2]
[2] Edition 1799, 6 vols., 4to.--Ed.
It was one of these books which Chosroës, the king of Persia, caused to
be translated from the Sanscrit into the ancient language of his country,
in the sixth century of the Christian era, sending an embassy into
Hindostan expressly for that purpose. Of the Persian book a translation
was made in the time of the Calif Mansour, in the eighth century, into
Arabic. This Arabic translation it is which became famous under the title
of "The Book of Calila and Dimna, or the Fables of Bidpaï."[3]
[3] An English translation from the Arabic appeared in 1819, done by the
Rev. Wyndham Knatchbull. Sir William Jones says that the word
_Bidpaii_ signifies beloved, or favourite, physician. And he
adds that the word _Pilpay_, which has taken the place of
_Bidpaii_ in some editions of these fables, is the result
simply of a blunder in copying the word _Bidpaii_ from the
original. La Fontaine himself uses the word _Pilpay_ twice in
his Fables, viz., in Fables XII. and XV., Book XII.--Ed.
Calila and Dimna are the names of two jackals that figure in the history,
and Bidpaï is one of the principal human interlocutors, who came to be
mistaken for the author. This remarkable book was turned into verse by
several of the Arabic poets, was translated into Greek, Hebrew, Latin,
modern Persian, and, in the course of a few centuries, either directly or
indirectly, into most of the languages of modern Europe.
Forty-one of the unadorned and disconnected fables of Aesop were also
translated into Arabic at a period somewhat more recent than the Hegira,
and passed by the name of the "Fables of Lokman." Their want of poetical
ornament prevented them from acquiring much popularity with the Arabians;
but they became well known in Europe, as furnishing a convenient
text-book in the study of Arabic.
The _Hitopadesa_, the fountain of poetic fables, with its
innumerable translations and modifications, seems to have had the
greatest charms for the Orientals. As it passed down the stream of time,
version after version, the ornament and machinery outgrew the moral
instruction, till it gave birth, at last, to such works of mere amusement
as the "Thousand and One Nights."
Fable slept, with other things, in the dark ages of Europe. Abridgments
took the place of the large collections, and probably occasioned the
entire loss of some of them. As literature revived, fable was
resuscitated. The crusades had brought European mind in contact with the
Indian works which we have already described, in their Arabic dress.
Translations and imitations in the European tongues were speedily
multiplied. The "Romance of the Fox," the work of Perrot de Saint Cloud,
one of the most successful of these imitations, dates back to the
thirteenth century. It found its way into most of the northern languages,
and became a household book. It undoubtedly had great influence over the
taste of succeeding ages, shedding upon the severe and satirical wit of
the Greek and Roman literature the rich, mellow light of Asiatic poetry.
The poets of that age were not confined, however, to fables from the
Hindoo source. Marie de France, also, in the thirteenth century,
versified one hundred of the fables of Aesop, translating from an English
collection, which does not now appear to be extant. Her work is entitled
the _Ysopet_, or "Little Aesop." Other versions, with the same
title, were subsequently written. It was in 1447 that Planudes, already
referred to, wrote in Greek prose a collection of fables, prefacing it
with a life of Aesop, which, for a long time, passed for the veritable
work of that ancient. In the next century, Abstemius wrote two hundred
fables in Latin prose, partly of modern, but chiefly of ancient
invention. At this time, the vulgar languages had undergone so great
changes, that works in them of two or three centuries old could not be
understood, and, consequently, the Latin became the favourite language of
authors. Many collections of fables were written in it, both in prose and
verse. By the art of printing these works were greatly multiplied; and
again the poets undertook the task of translating them into the language
of the people. The French led the way in this species of literature,
their language seeming to present some great advantages for it. One
hundred years before La Fontaine, Corrozet, Guillaume Gueroult, and
Philibert Hegemon, had written beautiful fables in verse, which it is
supposed La Fontaine must have read and profited by, although they had
become nearly obsolete in his time. It is a remarkable fact, that these
poetical fables should so soon have been forgotten. It was soon after
their appearance that the languages of Europe attained their full
development; and, at this epoch, prose seems to have been universally
preferred to poetry. So strong was this preference, that Ogilby, the
Scotch fabulist, who had written a collection of fables in English verse,
reduced them to prose on the occasion of publishing a more splendid
edition in 1668. It seems to have been the settled opinion of the critics
of that age, as it has, indeed, been stoutly maintained since, that the
ornaments of poetry only impair the force of the fable--that the Muses,
by becoming the handmaids of old Aesop, part with their own dignity
without conferring any on him. La Fontaine has made such an opinion
almost heretical. In his manner there is a perfect originality, and an
immortality every way equal to that of the matter which he gathered up
from all parts of the great storehouse of human experience. His fables
are like pure gold enveloped in solid rock-crystal. In English, a few of
the fables of Gay, of Moore, and of Cowper, may be compared with them in
some respects, but we have nothing resembling them as a whole. Gay, who
has done more than any other, though he has displayed great power of
invention, and has given his verse a flow worthy of his master, Pope, has
yet fallen far behind La Fontaine in the general management of his
materials. His fables are all beautiful poems, but few of them are
beautiful fables. His animal speakers do not sufficiently preserve their
animal characters. It is quite otherwise with La Fontaine. His beasts are
made most nicely to observe all the proprieties not only of the scene in
which they are called to speak, but of the great drama into which they
are from time to time introduced. His work constitutes an harmonious
whole. To those who read it in the original, it is one of the few which
never cloy the appetite. As in the poetry of Burns, you are apt to think
the last verse you read of him the best.
But the main object of this Preface was to give a few traces of the life
and literary career of our poet. A remarkable poet cannot but have been a
remarkable man. Suppose we take a man with native benevolence amounting
almost to folly; but little cunning, caution, or veneration; good
perceptive, but better reflective faculties; and a dominant love of the
beautiful;--and toss him into the focus of civilization in the age of
Louis XIV. It is an interesting problem to find out what will become of
him. Such is the problem worked out in the life of JEAN DE LA FONTAINE,
born on the eighth of July, 1621, at Chateau-Thierry. His father, a man
of some substance and station, committed two blunders in disposing of his
son. First, he encouraged him to seek an education for ecclesiastical
life, which was evidently unsuited to his disposition. Second, he brought
about his marriage with a woman who was unfitted to secure his
affections, or to manage his domestic affairs. In one other point he was
not so much mistaken: he laboured unremittingly to make his son a poet.
Jean was a backward boy, and showed not the least spark of poetical
genius till his twenty-second year. His poetical genius did not ripen
till long after that time. But his father lived to see him all, and more
than all, that he had ever hoped.[4]
[4] The Translator in his sixth edition replaced the next paragraph by
the following remarks:--"The case is apparently, and only apparently,
an exception to the old rule _Poeta nascitur, orator fit_--the
poet is born, the orator is made. The truth is, without exception,
that every poet is born such; and many are born such of whose poetry
the world knows nothing. Every known poet is also somewhat an
orator; and as to this part of his character, he is made. And many
are known as poets who are altogether made; they are mere
second-hand, or orator poets, and are quite intolerable unless
exceedingly well made, which is, unfortunately, seldom the case. It
would be wise in them to busy themselves as mere translators. Every
one who is born with propensities to love and wonder too strong and
deep to be worn off by repetition or continuance,--in other words,
who is born to be always young,--is born a poet. The other
requisites he has of course. Upon him the making will never be lost.
The richest gems do most honour to their polishing. But they are
gems without any. So there are men who pass through the world with
their souls full of poetry, who would not believe you if you were to
tell them so. Happy for them is their ignorance, perhaps. La
Fontaine came near being one of them. All that is artificial in
poetry to him came late and with difficulty. Yet it resulted from
his keen relish of nature, that he was never satisfied with his art
of verse till he had brought it to the confines of perfection. He
did not philosophize over the animals; he sympathized with them. A
philosopher would not have lost a fashionable dinner in his
admiration of a common ant-hill. La Fontaine did so once, because
the well-known little community was engaged in what he took to be a
funeral. He could not in decency leave them till it was over.
Verse-making out of the question, this was to be a genuine poet,
though, with commonplace mortals, it was also to be a fool."
But we will first, in few words, despatch the worst--for there is a very
bad part--of his life. It was not specially _his_ life; it was the
life of the age in which he lived. The man of strong amorous
propensities, in that age and country, who was, nevertheless, faithful to
vows of either marriage or celibacy,--the latter vows then proved sadly
dangerous to the former,--may be regarded as a miracle. La Fontaine,
without any agency of his own affections, found himself married at the
age of twenty-six, while yet as immature as most men are at sixteen. The
upshot was, that his patrimony dwindled; and, though he lived many years
with his wife, and had a son, he neglected her more and more, till at
last he forgot that he had been married, though he unfortunately did not
forget that there were other women in the world besides his wife. His
genius and benevolence gained him friends everywhere with both sexes, who
never suffered him to want, and who had never cause to complain of his
ingratitude. But he was always the special favourite of the Aspasias who
ruled France and her kings. To please them, he wrote a great deal of fine
poetry, much of which deserves to be everlastingly forgotten. It must be
said for him, that his vice became conspicuous only in the light of one
of his virtues. His frankness would never allow concealment. He
scandalized his friends Boileau and Racine; still, it is matter of doubt
whether they did not excel him rather in prudence than in purity. But,
whatever may be said in palliation, it is lamentable to think that a
heaven-lighted genius should have been made, in any way, to minister to a
hell-envenomed vice, which has caused unutterable woes to France and the
world. Some time before he died, he repented bitterly of this part of his
course, and laboured, no doubt sincerely, to repair the mischiefs he had
done.
As we have already said, Jean was a backward boy. But, under a dull
exterior, the mental machinery was working splendidly within. He lacked
all that outside care and prudence,--that constant looking out for
breakers,--which obstruct the growth and ripening of the reflective
faculties. The vulgar, by a queer mistake, call a man _absent-minded_,
when his mind shuts the door, pulls in the latch-string, and is
wholly at home. La Fontaine's mind was exceedingly domestic. It was
nowhere but at home when, riding from Paris to Chateau-Thierry, a bundle
of papers fell from his saddle-bow without his perceiving it. The
mail-carrier, coming behind him, picked it up, and overtaking La
Fontaine, asked him if he had lost anything. "Certainly not," he replied,
looking about him with great surprise. "Well, I have just picked up these
papers," rejoined the other. "Ah! they are mine," cried La Fontaine;
"they involve my whole estate." And he eagerly reached to take them. On
another occasion he was equally at home. Stopping on a journey, he
ordered dinner at an hotel, and then took a ramble about the town. On his
return, he entered another hotel, and, passing through into the garden,
took from his pocket a copy of Livy, in which he quietly set himself to
read till his dinner should be ready. The book made him forget his
appetite, till a servant informed him of his mistake, and he returned to
his hotel just in time to pay his bill and proceed on his journey.
It will be perceived that he took the world quietly, and his doing so
undoubtedly had important bearings on his style. We give another
anecdote, which illustrates this peculiarity of his mind as well as the
superlative folly of duelling. Not long after his marriage, with all his
indifference to his wife, he was persuaded into a fit of singular
jealousy. He was intimate with an ex-captain of dragoons, by name
Poignant, who had retired to Chateau-Thierry; a frank, open-hearted man,
but of extremely little gallantry. Whenever Poignant was not at his inn,
he was at La Fontaine's, and consequently with his wife, when he himself
was not at home. Some person took it in his head to ask La Fontaine why
he suffered these constant visits. "And why," said La Fontaine, "should I
not? He is my best friend." "The public think otherwise," was the reply;
"they say that he comes for the sake of Madame La Fontaine." "The public
is mistaken; but what must I do in the case?" said the poet. "You must
demand satisfaction, sword in hand, of one who has dishonoured you."
"Very well," said La Fontaine, "I will demand it." The next day he called
on Poignant, at four o'clock in the morning, and found him in bed.
"Rise," said he, "and come out with me!" His friend asked him what was
the matter, and what pressing business had brought him so early in the
morning. "I shall let you know," replied La Fontaine, "when we get
abroad." Poignant, in great astonishment, rose, followed him out, and
asked whither he was leading. "You shall know by-and-by," replied La
Fontaine; and at last, when they had reached a retired place, he said,
"My friend, we must fight." Poignant, still more surprised, sought to
know in what he had offended him, and moreover represented to him that
they were not on equal terms. "I am a man of war," said he, "while, as
for you, you have never drawn a sword." "No matter," said La Fontaine;
"the public requires that I should fight you." Poignant, after having
resisted in vain, at last drew his sword, and, having easily made himself
master of La Fontaine's, demanded the cause of the quarrel. "The public
maintains," said La Fontaine, "that you come to my house daily, not for
my sake, but my wife's." "Ah! my friend," replied the other, "I should
never have suspected that was the cause of your displeasure, and I
protest I will never again put a foot within your doors." "On the
contrary," replied La Fontaine, seizing him by the hand, "I have
satisfied the public, and now you must come to my house, every day, or I
will fight you again." The two antagonists returned, and breakfasted
together in good-humour.
It was not, as we have said, till his twenty-second year, that La
Fontaine showed any taste for poetry. The occasion was this:--An officer,
in winter-quarters at Chateau-Thierry, one day read to him, with great
spirit, an ode of Malherbe, beginning thus--
Que direz-vous, races futures,
Si quelquefois un vrai discours
Vous récite les aventures
De nos abominables jours?
Or, as we might paraphrase it,--
What will ye say, ye future days,
If I, for once, in honest rhymes,
Recount to you the deeds and ways
Of our abominable times?
La Fontaine listened with involuntary transports of joy, admiration, and
astonishment, as if a man born with a genius for music, but brought up in
a desert, had for the first time heard a well-played instrument. He set
himself immediately to reading Malherbe, passed his nights in learning
his verses by heart, and his days in declaiming them in solitary places.
He also read Voiture, and began to write verses in imitation. Happily, at
this period, a relative named Pintrel directed his attention to ancient
literature, and advised him to make himself familiar with Horace, Homer,
Virgil, Terence, and Quinctilian. He accepted this counsel. M. de
Maucroix, another of his friends, who cultivated poetry with success,
also contributed to confirm his taste for the ancient models. His great
delight, however, was to read Plato and Plutarch, which he did only
through translations. The copies which he used are said to bear his
manuscript notes on almost every page, and these notes are the maxims
which are to be found in his fables. Returning from this study of the
ancients, he read the moderns with more discrimination. His favourites,
besides Malherbe, were Corneille, Rabelais, and Marot. In Italian, he
read Ariosto, Boccaccio, and Machiavel. In 1654 he published his first
work, a translation of the _Eunuch_ of Terence. It met with no
success. But this does not seem at all to have disturbed its author. He
cultivated verse-making with as much ardour and good-humour as ever; and
his verses soon began to be admired in the circle of his friends. No man
had ever more devoted friends. Verses that have cost thought are not
relished without thought. When a genius appears, it takes some little
time for the world to educate itself to a knowledge of the fact. By one
of his friends, La Fontaine was introduced to Fouquet, the minister of
finance, a man of great power, and who rivalled his sovereign in wealth
and luxury. It was his pride to be the patron of literary men, and he was
pleased to make La Fontaine his poet, settling on him a pension of one
thousand francs per annum, on condition that he should produce a piece in
verse each quarter,--a condition which was exactly complied with till the
fall of the minister.
Fouquet was a most splendid villain, and positively, though perhaps not
comparatively, deserved to fall. But it was enough for La Fontaine that
Fouquet had done him a kindness. He took the part of the disgraced
minister, without counting the cost. His "Elegy to the nymphs of Vaux"
was a shield to the fallen man, and turned popular hatred into sympathy.
The good-hearted poet rejoiced exceedingly in its success. _Bon-homme_
was the appellation which his friends pleasantly gave him, and by
which he became known everywhere;--and never did a man better deserve it
in its best sense. He was good by nature--not by the calculation of
consequences. Indeed it does not seem ever to have occurred to him that
kindness, gratitude, and truth, could have any other than good
consequences. He was truly a Frenchman without guile, and possessed to
perfection that comfortable trait,--in which French character is commonly
allowed to excel the English,--_good-humour_ with the whole world.
La Fontaine was the intimate friend of Molière, Boileau, and Racine.
Molière had already established a reputation; but the others became known
to the world at the same time. Boileau hired a small chamber in the
Faubourg Saint Germain, where they all met several times a week; for La
Fontaine, at the age of forty-four, had left Chateau-Thierry, and become
a citizen of Paris. Here they discussed all sorts of topics, admitting to
their society Chapelle, a man of less genius, but of greater
conversational powers, than either of them--a sort of connecting link
between them and the world. Four poets, or four men, could hardly have
been more unlike. Boileau was blustering, blunt, peremptory, but honest
and frank; Racine, of a pleasant and tranquil gaiety, but mischievous and
sarcastic; Molière was naturally considerate, pensive, and melancholy; La
Fontaine was often absent-minded, but sometimes exceedingly jovial,
delighting with his sallies, his witty _naïvetés_, and his arch
simplicity. These meetings, which no doubt had a great influence upon
French literature, La Fontaine, in one of his prefaces, thus
describes:--"Four friends, whose acquaintance had begun at the foot of
Parnassus, held a sort of society, which I should call an Academy, if
their number had been sufficiently great, and if they had had as much
regard for the Muses as for pleasure. The first thing which they did was
to banish from among them all rules of conversation, and everything which
savours of the academic conference. When they met, and had sufficiently
discussed their amusements, if chance threw them upon any point of
science or belles-lettres, they profited by the occasion; it was,
however, without dwelling too long on the same subject, flitting from one
thing to another like the bees that meet divers sorts of flowers on their
way. Neither envy, malice, nor cabal, had any voice among them. They
adored the works of the ancients, never refused due praise to those of
the moderns, spoke modestly of their own, and gave each other sincere
counsel, when any one of them--which rarely happened--fell into the
malady of the age, and published a book."
The absent-mindedness of our fabulist not unfrequently created much
amusement on these occasions, and made him the object of mirthful
conspiracies. So keenly was the game pursued by Boileau and Racine, that
the more considerate Molière felt obliged sometimes to expose and rebuke
them. Once, after having done so, he privately told a stranger, who was
present with them, the wits would have worried themselves in vain; they
could not have obliterated the _bon-homme_.
La Fontaine, as we have said, was an admirer of Rabelais;--to what a
pitch, the following anecdote may show. At one of the meetings at
Boileau's were present Racine, Valincourt, and a brother of Boileau's, a
doctor of the Sorbonne. The latter took it upon him to set forth the
merits of St. Augustin in a pompous eulogium. La Fontaine, plunged in one
of his habitual reveries, listened without hearing. At last, rousing
himself as if from a profound sleep, to prove that the conversation had
not been lost upon him, he asked the doctor, with a very serious air,
whether he thought St. Augustin had as much wit as Rabelais. The divine,
surprised, looked at him from head to foot, and only replied, "Take care,
Monsieur La Fontaine;--you have put one of your stockings on wrong side
outwards"--which was the fact.
It was in 1668 that La Fontaine published his first collection of fables,
under the modest title _Fables Choisies, mises en Vers_, in a quarto
volume, with figures designed and engraved by Chauveau. It contained six
books, and was dedicated to the Dauphin. Many of the fables had already
been published in a separate form. The success of this collection was so
great, that it was reprinted the same year in a smaller size. Fables had
come to be regarded as beneath poetry; La Fontaine established them at
once on the top of Parnassus. The ablest poets of his age did not think
it beneath them to enter the lists with him; and it is needless to say
they came off second best.
One of the fables of the first book is addressed to the Duke de la
Rochefoucauld, and was the consequence of a friendship between La
Fontaine and the author of the celebrated "Maxims." Connected with the
duke was Madame La Fayette, one of the most learned and ingenious women
of her age, who consequently became the admirer and friend of the
fabulist. To her he wrote verses abundantly, as he did to all who made
him the object of their kind regard. Indeed, notwithstanding his avowed
indolence, or rather passion for quiet and sleep, his pen was very
productive. In 1669, he published "Psyché," a romance in prose and verse,
which he dedicated to the Duchess de Bouillon, in gratitude for many
kindnesses. The prose is said to be better than the verse; but this can
hardly be true in respect to the following lines, in which the poet under
the apt name of Polyphile, in a hymn addressed to Pleasure, undoubtedly
sketches himself:--
Volupté, Volupté, qui fus jadis maîtresse
Du plus bel esprit de la Grèce,
Ne me dédaigne pas; viens-t'en loger chez moi:
Tu n'y seras pas sans emploi:
J'aime le jeu, l'amour, les livres, la musique,
La ville et la campagne, enfin tout; il n'est rien
Qui ne me soit souverain bien,
Jusqu'au sombre plaisir d'un coeur mélancolique.
Viens donc....
The characteristic grace and playfulness of this seem to defy
translation. To the mere English reader, the sense may be roughly given
thus:--
Delight, Delight, who didst as mistress hold
The finest wit of Grecian mould,
Disdain not me; but come,
And make my house thy home.
Thou shalt not be without employ:
In play, love, music, books, I joy,
In town and country; and, indeed, there's nought,
E'en to the luxury of sober thought,--
The sombre, melancholy mood,--
But brings to me the sovereign good.
Come, then, &c.
The same Polyphile, in recounting his adventures on a visit to the
infernal regions, tells us that he saw, in the hands of the cruel
Eumenides,
------Les auteurs de maint hymen forcé
L'amant chiche, et la dame au coeur intéressé;
La troupe des censeurs, peuple à l'Amour rebelle;
Ceux enfin dont les vers ont noirci quelque belle.
------Artificers of many a loveless match,
And lovers who but sought the pence to catch;
The crew censorious, rebels against Love;
And those whose verses soiled the fair above.
To be "rebels against Love" was quite unpardonable with La Fontaine; and
to bring about a "_hymen forcé_" was a crime, of which he probably
spoke with some personal feeling. The great popularity of "Psyché"
encouraged the author to publish two volumes of poems and tales in 1671,
in which were contained several new fables. The celebrated Madame de
Sévigné thus speaks of these fables, in one of her letters to her
daughter:--"But have you not admired the beauty of the five or six fables
of La Fontaine contained in one of the volumes which I sent you? We were
charmed with them the other day at M. de la Rochefoucauld's: we got by
art that of the Monkey and the Cat." Then, quoting some lines, she
adds,--"This is painting! And the Pumpkin--and the Nightingale--they are
worthy of the first volume!" It was in his stories that La Fontaine
excelled; and Madame de Sévigné expresses a wish to invent a fable which
would impress upon him the folly of leaving his peculiar province. He
seemed himself not insensible where his strength lay, and seldom ventured
upon any other ground, except at the instance of his friends. With all
his lightness, he felt a deep veneration for religion--the most spiritual
and rigid which came within the circle of his immediate acquaintance. He
admired Jansenius and the Port Royalists, and heartily loved Racine, who
was of their faith. Count Henri-Louis de Loménie, of Brienne,--who, after
being secretary of state, had retired to the Oratoire,--was engaged in
bringing out a better collection of Christian lyrics. To this work he
pressed La Fontaine, whom he called his particular friend, to lend his
name and contributions. Thus the author of "Psyché," "Adonis," and
"Joconde," was led to the composition of pious hymns, and versifications
of the Psalms of David. Gifted by nature with the utmost frankness of
disposition, he sympathized fully with Arnauld and Pascal in the war
against the Jesuits; and it would seem, from his _Ballade sur Escobar_,
that he had read and relished the "Provincial Letters." This
ballad, as it may be a curiosity to many, shall be given entire:--
BALLADE SUR ESCOBAR.
C'est à bon droit que l'on condamne à Rome
L'évêque d'Ypré [5], auteur de vains débats;
Ses sectateurs nous défendent en somme
Tous les plaisirs que l'on goûte ici-bas.
En paradis allant au petit pas,
On y parvient, quoi qu'ARNAULD [6] nous en die:
La volupté sans cause il a bannie.
Veut-on monter sur les célestes tours,
Chemin pierreux est grande rêverie,
ESCOBAR [7] sait un chemin de velours.
Il ne dit pas qu'on peut tuer un homme
Qui sans raison nous tient en altercas
Pour un fêtu ou bien pour une pomme;
Mais qu'on le peut pour quatre ou cinq ducats.
Même il soutient qu'on peut en certains cas
Faire un serment plein de supercherie,
S'abandonner aux douceurs de la vie,
S'il est besoin conserver ses amours.
Ne faut-il pas après cela qu'on crie:
ESCOBAR sait un chemin de velours?
Au nom de Dieu, lisez-moi quelque somme
De ces écrits don't chez lui l'on fait cas.
Qu'est-il besoin qu'à present je les nomme?
II en est tant qu'on ne les connoît pas.
De leurs avis servez-vous pour compas;
N'admettez qu'eux en votre librairie;
Brûlez ARNAULD avec sa côterie,
Près d'ESCOBAR ce ne sont qu'esprits lourds.
Je vous le dis: ce n'est point raillerie,
ESCOBAR sait un chemin de velours.
ENVOI.
Toi, que l'orgueil poussa dans la voirie,
Qui tiens là-bas noire concièrgerie,
Lucifer, chef des infernales cours,
Pour éviter les traits de ta furie,
ESCOBAR sait un chemin de velours.
[5] _Corneille Jansenius_,--the originator of the sect called
Jansenists. Though he was bishop of Ypres, his chief work,
"Augustinus," and his doctrines generally, were condemned by Popes
Urban VIII. and Innocent X., as heretical (1641 and 1653).--Ed.
[6] _Arnauld_.--This was Antoine Arnauld, doctor of the Sorbonne,
and one of the Arnaulds famous among the Port Royalists, who were
Jansenists in opposition to the Jesuits. He was born in 1612, and
died a voluntary exile in Belgium, 1694. Boileau wrote his
epitaph.--Ed.
[7] _Escobar_.--A Spanish Jesuit, who flourished mostly in France,
and wrote against the Jansenists. Pascal, as well as La Fontaine,
ridiculed his convenient principles of morality, he "chemin de
velours," as La Fontaine puts it. His chief work in moral theology
was published in seven vols., folio, at Lyons, 1652-1663. He died in
1669.--Ed.
Thus does the _Bon-homme_ treat the subtle Escobar, the prince and
prototype of the moralists of _expediency_. To translate his artless
and delicate irony is hardly possible. The writer of this hasty Preface
offers the following only as an attempted imitation:--
BALLAD UPON ESCOBAR.
Good cause has Rome to reprobate
The bishop who disputes her so;
His followers reject and hate
All pleasures that we taste below.
To heaven an easy pace may go,
Whatever crazy ARNAULD saith,
Who aims at pleasure causeless wrath.
Seek we the better world afar?
We're fools to choose the rugged path:
A velvet road hath ESCOBAR.
Although he does not say you can,
Should one with you for nothing strive,
Or for a trifle, kill the man--
You can for ducats four or five.
Indeed, if circumstances drive,
Defraud, or take false oaths you may,
Or to the charms of life give way,
When Love must needs the door unbar.
Henceforth must not the pilgrim say,
A velvet road hath ESCOBAR?
Now, would to God that one would state
The pith of all his works to me.
What boots it to enumerate?
As well attempt to drain the sea!--
Your chart and compass let them be;
All other books put under ban;
Burn ARNAULD and his rigid clan--
They're blockheads if we but compare;--
It is no joke,--I tell you, man,
A velvet road hath ESCOBAR.
ADDRESS.
Thou warden of the prison black,
Who didst on heaven turn thy back,
The chieftain of th' infernal war!
To shun thy arrows and thy rack,
A velvet road hath ESCOBAR.
The verses of La Fontaine did more for his reputation than for his purse.
His paternal estate wasted away under his carelessness; for, when the
ends of the year refused to meet, he sold a piece of land sufficient to
make them do so. His wife, no better qualified to manage worldly gear
than himself, probably lived on her family friends, who were able to
support her, and who seem to have done so without blaming him. She had
lived with him in Paris for some time after that city became his
abode; but, tiring at length of the city life, she had returned at
Château-Thierry, and occupied the family mansion. At the earnest
expostulation of Boileau and Racine, who wished to make him a better
husband, he returned to Château-Thierry himself, in 1666, for the purpose
of becoming reconciled to his wife. But his purpose strangely vanished.
He called at his own house, learned from the domestic, who did not know
him, that Madame La Fontaine was in good health, and passed on to the
house of a friend, where he tarried two days, and then returned to Paris
without having seen his wife. When his friends inquired of him his
success, with some confusion he replied, "I have been to see her, but I
did not find her: she was well." Twenty years after that, Racine
prevailed on him to visit his patrimonial estate, to take some care of
what remained. Racine, not hearing from him, sent to know what he was
about, when La Fontaine wrote as follows:--"Poignant, on his return from
Paris, told me that you took my silence in very bad part; the worse,
because you had been told that I have been incessantly at work since my
arrival at Château-Thierry, and that, instead of applying myself to my
affairs, I have had nothing in my head but verses. All this is no more
than half true: my affairs occupy me as much as they deserve to--that is
to say not at all; but the leisure which they leave me--it is not poetry,
but idleness, which makes away with it." On a certain occasion, in the
earlier part of his life, when pressed in regard to his improvidence, he
gaily produced the following epigram, which has commonly been appended to
his fables as "The Epitaph of La Fontaine, written by Himself":--
Jean s'en alla comme il était venu,
Mangea le fonds avec le revenu,
Tint les trésors chose peu nécessaire.
Quant à son temps, bien sut le dispenser:
Deux parts en fit, don't il soûloit passer
L'urie à dormir, et l'autre à ne rien faire.
This confession, the immortality of which was so little foreseen by its
author, liberally rendered, amounts to the following:--
John went as he came--ate his farm with its fruits,
Held treasure to be but the cause of disputes;
And, as to his time, be it frankly confessed,
Divided it daily as suited him best,--
Gave a part to his sleep, and to nothing the rest.
It is clear that a man who provided so little for himself needed good
friends to do it; and Heaven kindly furnished them. When his affairs
began to be straitened, he was invited by the celebrated Madame de la
Sablière to make her house his home; and there, in fact, he was
thoroughly domiciliated for twenty years. "I have sent away all my
domestics," said that lady, one day; "I have kept only my dog, my cat,
and La Fontaine." She was, perhaps, the best-educated woman in France,
was the mistress of several languages, knew Horace and Virgil by heart,
and had been thoroughly indoctrinated in all the sciences by the ablest
masters. Her husband, M. Rambouillet de la Sablière, was secretary to the
king, and register of domains, and to immense wealth united considerable
poetical talents, with a thorough knowledge of the world. It was the will
of Madame de la Sablière, that her favourite poet should have no further
care for his external wants; and never was a mortal more perfectly
resigned. He did all honour to the sincerity of his amiable hostess; and,
if he ever showed a want of independence, he certainly did not of
gratitude. Compliments of more touching tenderness we nowhere meet than
those which La Fontaine has paid to his benefactress. He published
nothing which was not first submitted to her eye, and entered into her
affairs and friendships with all his heart. Her unbounded confidence in
his integrity she expressed by saying, "La Fontaine never lies in
prose." By her death, in 1693, our fabulist was left without a home; but
his many friends vied with each other which should next furnish one. He
was then seventy-two years of age, had turned his attention to personal
religion, and received the seal of conversion at the hands of the Roman
Catholic church. In his conversion, as in the rest of his life, his
frankness left no room to doubt his sincerity. The writings which had
justly given offence to the good were made the subject of a public
confession, and everything in his power was done to prevent their
circulation. The death of one who had done so much for him, and whose
last days, devoted with the most self-denying benevolence to the welfare
of her species, had taught him a most salutary lesson, could not but be
deeply felt. He had just left the house of his deceased benefactress,
never again to enter it, when he met M. d'Hervart in the street, who
eagerly said to him, "My dear La Fontaine, I was looking for you, to beg
you to come and take lodgings in my house." "I was going thither,"
replied La Fontaine. A reply could not have more characteristic. The
fabulist had not in him sufficient hypocrisy of which to manufacture the
commonplace politeness of society. His was the politeness of a warm and
unsuspecting heart. He never concealed his confidence in the fear that it
might turn out to be misplaced.
His second collection of fables, containing five books, La Fontaine
published in 1678-9, with a dedication to Madame de Montespan; the
previous six books were republished at the same time, revised, and
enlarged. The twelfth book was not added till many years after, and
proved, in fact, the song of the dying swan. It was written for the
special use of the young Duke de Bourgogne, the royal pupil of Fénélon,
to whom it contains frequent allusions. The eleven books now published
sealed the reputation of La Fontaine, and were received with
distinguished regard by the king, who appended to the ordinary protocol
or imprimatur for publication the following reasons: "in order to testify
to the author the esteem we have for his person and his merit, and
because youth have received great advantage in their education from the
fables selected and put in verse, which he has heretofore published." The
author was, moreover, permitted to present his book in person to the
sovereign. For this purpose he repaired to Versailles, and after having
well delivered himself of his compliment to royalty, perceived that he
had forgotten to bring the book which he was to present; he was,
nevertheless, favourably received, and loaded with presents. But it is
added, that, on his return, he also lost, by his absence of mind, the
purse full of gold which the king had given him, which was happily found
under a cushion of the carriage in which he rode.
In his advertisement to the second part of his Fables, La Fontaine
informs the reader that he had treated his subjects in a somewhat
different style. In fact, in his first collection, he had timidly
confined himself to the brevity of Aesop and Phaedrus; but, having
observed that those fables were most popular in which he had given most
scope to his own genius, he threw off the trammels in the second
collection, and, in the opinion of the writer, much for the better. His
subjects, too, in the second part, are frequently derived from the Indian
fabulists, and bring with them the richness and dramatic interest of the
_Hitopadesa_.
Of all his fables, the Oak and the Reed is said to have been the
favourite of La Fontaine. But his critics have almost unanimously given
the palm of excellence to the Animals sick of the Plague, the first of
the seventh book. Its exquisite poetry, the perfection of its dialogue,
and the weight of its moral, well entitle it to the place. That must have
been a soul replete with honesty, which could read such a lesson in the
ears of a proud and oppressive court. Indeed, we may look in vain through
this encyclopaedia of fable for a sentiment which goes to justify the
strong in their oppression of the weak. Even in the midst of the fulsome
compliments which it was the fashion of his age to pay to royalty, La
Fontaine maintains a reserve and decency peculiar to himself. By an
examination of his fables, we think, we might fairly establish for him
the character of an honest and disinterested lover and respecter of his
species. In his fable entitled Death and the Dying, he unites the genius
of Pascal and Molière; in that of the Two Doves is a tenderness quite
peculiar to himself, and an insight into the heart worthy of Shakspeare.
In his Mogul's Dream are sentiments worthy of the very high-priest of
nature, and expressed in his own native tongue with a felicity which
makes the translator feel that all his labours are but vanity and
vexation of spirit. But it is not the purpose of this brief Preface to
criticize the Fables. It is sufficient to say, that the work occupies a
position in French literature, which, after all has been said that can be
for Gay, Moore, and other English versifiers of fables, is left quite
vacant in ours.
Our author was elected a member of the French Academy in 1684, and
received with the honour of a public session. He read on this occasion a
poem of exquisite beauty, addressed to his benefactress, Madame de la
Sablière. In that distinguished body of men he was a universal favourite,
and none, perhaps, did more to promote its prime object--the improvement
of the French language. We have already seen how he was regarded by some
of the greatest minds of his age. Voltaire, who never did more than
justice to merit other than his own, said of the Fables, "I hardly know a
book which more abounds with charms adapted to the people, and at the
same time to persons of refined taste. I believe that, of all authors, La
Fontaine is the most universally read. He is for all minds and all
ages." La Bruyère, when admitted to the Academy, in 1693, was warmly
applauded for his _éloge_ upon La Fontaine, which contained the
following words:--"More equal than Marot, and more poetical than Voiture,
La Fontaine has the playfulness, felicity, and artlessness of both. He
instructs while he sports, persuades men to virtue by means of beasts,
and exalts trifling subjects to the sublime; a man unique in his species
of composition, always original, whether he invents or translates,--who
has gone beyond his models, himself a model hard to imitate."
La Fontaine, as we have said, devoted his latter days to religion. In
this he was sustained and cheered by his old friends Racine and De
Maucroix. Death overtook him while applying his poetical powers to the
hymns of the church. To De Maucroix he wrote, a little before his
death,--"I assure you that the best of your friends cannot count upon
more than fifteen days of life. For these two months I have not gone
abroad, except occasionally to attend the Academy, for a little
amusement. Yesterday, as I was returning from it, in the middle of the
Rue du Chantre, I was taken with such a faintness that I really thought
myself dying. O, my friend, to die is nothing: but think you how I am
going to appear before God! You know how I have lived. Before you receive
this billet, the gates of eternity will perhaps have been opened upon
me!" To this, a few days after, his friend replied,--"If God, in his
kindness, restores you to health, I hope you will come and spend the rest
of your life with me, and we shall often talk together of the mercies of
God. If, however, you have not strength to write, beg M. Racine to do me
that kindness, the greatest he can ever do for me. Adieu, my good, my
old, and my true friend. May God, in his infinite, goodness, take care of
the health of your body, and that of your soul." He died the 13th of
April, 1695, at the age of seventy-three, and was buried in the cemetery
of the Saints-Innocents.
When Fénélon heard of his death, he wrote a Latin eulogium, which he gave
to his royal pupil to translate. "La Fontaine is no more!" said Fénélon,
in this composition; "he is no more! and with him have gone the playful
jokes, the merry laugh, the artless graces, and the sweet Muses."
* * * * *
THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE
* * * * *
To Monseigneur The Dauphin.[1]
I sing the heroes of old Aesop's line,
Whose tale, though false when strictly we define,
Containeth truths it were not ill to teach.
With me all natures use the gift of speech;
Yea, in my work, the very fishes preach,
And to our human selves their sermons suit.
'Tis thus, to come at man, I use the brute.
Son of a Prince the favourite of the skies,
On whom the world entire hath fix'd its eyes,
Who hence shall count his conquests by his days,
And gather from the proudest lips his praise,
A louder voice than mine must tell in song
What virtues to thy kingly line belong.
I seek thine ear to gain by lighter themes,
Slight pictures, deck'd in magic nature's beams;
And if to please thee shall not be my pride,
I'll gain at least the praise of having tried.
[1] This dedication prefaced La Fontaine's first collection of his
Fables, which comprised Books I. to VI., published in 1668. The
Dauphin was Louis, the only son of Louis XIV. and Marie-Thérèse of
Austria. He was born at Fontainebleau in 1661, and died at Meudon in
1712, before his father, the "Grand Monarque," had ceased to reign.
The Dauphin being but a child, between six and seven years old, at
the time of this dedication, La Fontaine's act may be viewed rather
as an offering to the King, than to the child himself. See the
Translator's Preface.
* * * * *
BOOK I.
I.--THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT.[1]
A Grasshopper gay
Sang the summer away,
And found herself poor
By the winter's first roar.
Of meat or of bread,
Not a morsel she had!
So a begging she went,
To her neighbour the ant,
For the loan of some wheat,
Which would serve her to eat,
Till the season came round.
'I will pay you,' she saith,
'On an animal's faith,
Double weight in the pound
Ere the harvest be bound.'
The ant is a friend
(And here she might mend)
Little given to lend.
'How spent you the summer?'
Quoth she, looking shame
At the borrowing dame.
'Night and day to each comer
I sang, if you please.'
'You sang! I'm at ease;
For 'tis plain at a glance,
Now, ma'am, you must dance.'
[1] For the story of this fable, as for the stories of so many of the
fables which follow, especially in the first six books, La Fontaine
is indebted to the Father of Fable, Aesop the Phrygian. See account
of Aesop in the Translator's Preface.
II.--THE RAVEN AND THE FOX.[2]
Perch'd on a lofty oak,
Sir Raven held a lunch of cheese;
Sir Fox, who smelt it in the breeze,
Thus to the holder spoke:--
'Ha! how do you do, Sir Raven?
Well, your coat, sir, is a brave one!
So black and glossy, on my word, sir,
With voice to match, you were a bird, sir,
Well fit to be the Phoenix of these days.'
Sir Raven, overset with praise,
Must show how musical his croak.
Down fell the luncheon from the oak;
Which snatching up, Sir Fox thus spoke:--
'The flatterer, my good sir,
Aye liveth on his listener;
Which lesson, if you please,
Is doubtless worth the cheese.'
A bit too late, Sir Raven swore
The rogue should never cheat him more.
[2] Both Aesop and Phaedrus have a version of this fable.
III.--THE FROG THAT WISHED TO BE AS BIG AS THE OX.[3]
The tenant of a bog,
An envious little frog,
Not bigger than an egg,
A stately bullock spies,
And, smitten with his size,
Attempts to be as big.
With earnestness and pains,
She stretches, swells, and strains,
And says, 'Sis Frog, look here! see me!
Is this enough?' 'No, no.'
'Well, then, is this?' 'Poh! poh!
Enough! you don't begin to be.'
And thus the reptile sits,
Enlarging till she splits.
The world is full of folks
Of just such wisdom;--
The lordly dome provokes
The cit to build his dome;
And, really, there is no telling
How much great men set little ones a swelling.
[3] The story of this fable is given in Horace, _Satires_, II. 3,
Phaedrus and Corrozet have also versions of it. For an account of
Phaedrus and his Fables see the Translator's Preface. Gilles Corrozet
was one of the French fabulists immediately preceding La Fontaine.
He was a Parisian bookseller-author who lived between 1516 and 1568.
IV.--THE TWO MULES.
Two mules were bearing on their backs,
One, oats; the other, silver of the tax.[4]
The latter glorying in his load,
March'd proudly forward on the road;
And, from the jingle of his bell,
'Twas plain he liked his burden well.
But in a wild-wood glen
A band of robber men
Rush'd forth upon the twain.
Well with the silver pleased,
They by the bridle seized
The treasure-mule so vain.
Poor mule! in struggling to repel
His ruthless foes, he fell
Stabb'd through; and with a bitter sighing,
He cried, 'Is this the lot they promised me?
My humble friend from danger free,
While, weltering in my gore, I'm dying?'
'My friend,' his fellow-mule replied,
'It is not well to have one's work too high.
If thou hadst been a miller's drudge, as I,
Thou wouldst not thus have died.'
[4] _The silver of the tax_.--An allusion to the French _gabelle_, or
old salt tax, which, like all taxes levied upon the mass of the
people, was a very productive one. Its collection caused several
peasants' insurrections.
V.--THE WOLF AND THE DOG.[5]
A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,
Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray,
No human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf in famish'd plight,
Would fain have made a ration
Upon his fat relation;
But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seem'd able
To save from wolfish table
His carcass snug and tight.
So, then, in civil conversation
The wolf express'd his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely,
'Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me.
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.
With such a pack, of course it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come, then, with me, and share
On equal terms our princely fare.'
'But what with you
Has one to do?'
Inquires the wolf. 'Light work indeed,'
Replies the dog; 'you only need
To bark a little now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar men,
To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
Your master please, and so forth;
For which you have to eat
All sorts of well-cook'd meat--
Cold pullets, pigeons, savoury messes--
Besides unnumber'd fond caresses.'
The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes.
But faring on, he spies
A gall'd spot on the mastiff's neck.
'What's that?' he cries. 'O, nothing but a speck.'
'A speck?' 'Ay, ay; 'tis not enough to pain me;
Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me.'
'Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then,
Just where you please, and when?'
'Not always, sir; but what of that?'
'Enough for me, to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
Which could to servile chains entice;
For me, I'll shun them while I've wit.'
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.
[5] Phaedrus, III. 7.--The references to the Fables of Phaedrus are to
Bohn's edition, which is from the critical edition of Orellius, 1831.
VI.--THE HEIFER, THE GOAT, AND THE SHEEP, IN COMPANY WITH THE LION.[6]
The heifer, the goat, and their sister the sheep,
Compacted their earnings in common to keep,
'Tis said, in time past, with a lion, who sway'd
Full lordship o'er neighbours, of whatever grade.
The goat, as it happen'd, a stag having snared,
Sent off to the rest, that the beast might be shared.
All gather'd; the lion first counts on his claws,
And says, 'We'll proceed to divide with our paws
The stag into pieces, as fix'd by our laws.'
This done, he announces part first as his own;
''Tis mine,' he says, 'truly, as lion alone.'
To such a decision there's nought to be said,
As he who has made it is doubtless the head.
'Well, also, the second to me should belong;
'Tis mine, be it known, by the right of the strong.
Again, as the bravest, the third must be mine.
To touch but the fourth whoso maketh a sign,
I'll choke him to death
In the space of a breath!'
[6] Phaedrus, I. 5. From this fable come the French proverbial
expression, _la part du lion_, and its English equivalent, the
"lion's share."
VII.--THE WALLET.[7]
From heaven, one day, did Jupiter proclaim,
'Let all that live before my throne appear,
And there if any one hath aught to blame,
In matter, form, or texture of his frame,
He may bring forth his grievance without fear.
Redress shall instantly be given to each.
Come, monkey, now, first let us have your speech.
You see these quadrupeds, your brothers;
Comparing, then, yourself with others,
Are you well satisfied?' 'And wherefore not?'
Says Jock. 'Haven't I four trotters with the rest?
Is not my visage comely as the best?
But this my brother Bruin, is a blot
On thy creation fair;
And sooner than be painted I'd be shot,
Were I, great sire, a bear.'
The bear approaching, doth he make complaint?
Not he;--himself he lauds without restraint.
The elephant he needs must criticize;
To crop his ears and stretch his tail were wise;
A creature he of huge, misshapen size.
The elephant, though famed as beast judicious,
While on his own account he had no wishes,
Pronounced dame whale too big to suit his taste;
Of flesh and fat she was a perfect waste.
The little ant, again, pronounced the gnat too wee;
To such a speck, a vast colossus she.
Each censured by the rest, himself content,
Back to their homes all living things were sent.
Such folly liveth yet with human fools.
For others lynxes, for ourselves but moles.
Great blemishes in other men we spy,
Which in ourselves we pass most kindly by.
As in this world we're but way-farers,
Kind Heaven has made us wallet-bearers.
The pouch behind our own defects must store,
The faults of others lodge in that before.
[7] One of Aesop's: Phaedrus also gives it, Book IV. 10.
VIII.--THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS.[8]
By voyages in air,
With constant thought and care,
Much knowledge had a swallow gain'd,
Which she for public use retain'd,
The slightest storms she well foreknew,
And told the sailors ere they blew.
A farmer sowing hemp, once having found,
She gather'd all the little birds around,
And said, 'My friends, the freedom let me take
To prophesy a little, for your sake,
Against this dangerous seed.
Though such a bird as I
Knows how to hide or fly,
You birds a caution need.
See you that waving hand?
It scatters on the land
What well may cause alarm.
'Twill grow to nets and snares,
To catch you unawares,
And work you fatal harm!
Great multitudes I fear,
Of you, my birdies dear,
That falling seed, so little,
Will bring to cage or kettle!
But though so perilous the plot,
You now may easily defeat it:
All lighting on the seeded spot,
Just scratch up every seed and eat it.'
The little birds took little heed,
So fed were they with other seed.
Anon the field was seen
Bedeck'd in tender green.
The swallow's warning voice was heard again:
'My friends, the product of that deadly grain,
Seize now, and pull it root by root,
Or surely you'll repent its fruit.'
'False, babbling prophetess,' says one,
'You'd set us at some pretty fun!
To pull this field a thousand birds are needed,
While thousands more with hemp are seeded.'
The crop now quite mature,
The swallow adds, 'Thus far I've fail'd of cure;
I've prophesied in vain
Against this fatal grain:
It's grown. And now, my bonny birds,
Though you have disbelieved my words
Thus far, take heed at last,--
When you shall see the seed-time past,
And men, no crops to labour for,
On birds shall wage their cruel war,
With deadly net and noose;
Of flying then beware,
Unless you take the air,
Like woodcock, crane, or goose.
But stop; you're not in plight
For such adventurous flight,
O'er desert waves and sands,
In search of other lands.
Hence, then, to save your precious souls,
Remaineth but to say,
'Twill be the safest way,
To chuck yourselves in holes.'
Before she had thus far gone,
The birdlings, tired of hearing,
And laughing more than fearing,
Set up a greater jargon
Than did, before the Trojan slaughter,
The Trojans round old Priam's daughter.[9]
And many a bird, in prison grate,
Lamented soon a Trojan fate.
'Tis thus we heed no instincts but our own;
Believe no evil till the evil's done.
[8] Aesop.
[9] _Priam's daughter_.--Cassandra, who predicted the fall of Troy, and
was not heeded.
IX.--THE CITY RAT AND THE COUNTRY RAT.[10]
A city rat, one night,
Did, with a civil stoop,
A country rat invite
To end a turtle soup.
Upon a Turkey carpet
They found the table spread,
And sure I need not harp it
How well the fellows fed.
The entertainment was
A truly noble one;
But some unlucky cause
Disturb'd it when begun.
It was a slight rat-tat,
That put their joys to rout;
Out ran the city rat;
His guest, too, scamper'd out.
Our rats but fairly quit,
The fearful knocking ceased.
'Return we,' cried the cit,
To finish there our feast.
'No,' said the rustic rat;
'To-morrow dine with me.
I'm not offended at
Your feast so grand and free,--
'For I've no fare resembling;
But then I eat at leisure,
And would not swap, for pleasure
So mix'd with fear and trembling.'
[10] Horace, _Satires_, II. 6: also in Aesop.
X.--THE WOLF AND THE LAMB.[11]
That innocence is not a shield,
A story teaches, not the longest.
The strongest reasons always yield
To reasons of the strongest.
A lamb her thirst was slaking,
Once, at a mountain rill.
A hungry wolf was taking
His hunt for sheep to kill,
When, spying on the streamlet's brink
This sheep of tender age,
He howl'd in tones of rage,
'How dare you roil my drink?
Your impudence I shall chastise!'
'Let not your majesty,' the lamb replies,
'Decide in haste or passion!
For sure 'tis difficult to think
In what respect or fashion
My drinking here could roil your drink,
Since on the stream your majesty now faces
I'm lower down, full twenty paces.'
'You roil it,' said the wolf; 'and, more, I know
You cursed and slander'd me a year ago.'
'O no! how could I such a thing have done!
A lamb that has not seen a year,
A suckling of its mother dear?'
'Your brother then.' 'But brother I have none.'
'Well, well, what's all the same,
'Twas some one of your name.
Sheep, men, and dogs of every nation,
Are wont to stab my reputation,
As I have truly heard.'
Without another word,
He made his vengeance good--
Bore off the lambkin to the wood,
And there, without a jury,
Judged, slew, and ate her in his fury.
[11] Phaedrus, I. 1: also in Aesop.
XI.--THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE.[12]
To M. The Duke De La Rochefoucauld.
A man, who had no rivals in the love
Which to himself he bore,
Esteem'd his own dear beauty far above
What earth had seen before.
More than contented in his error,
He lived the foe of every mirror.
Officious fate, resolved our lover
From such an illness should recover,
Presented always to his eyes
The mute advisers which the ladies prize;--
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,--
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,--
Mirrors on every lady's zone,[13]
From which his face reflected shone.
What could our dear Narcissus do?
From haunts of men he now withdrew,
On purpose that his precious shape
From every mirror might escape.
But in his forest glen alone,
Apart from human trace,
A watercourse,
Of purest source,
While with unconscious gaze
He pierced its waveless face,
Reflected back his own.
Incensed with mingled rage and fright,
He seeks to shun the odious sight;
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still,
He cannot leave, do what he will.
Ere this, my story's drift you plainly see.
From such mistake there is no mortal free.
That obstinate self-lover
The human soul doth cover;
The mirrors follies are of others,
In which, as all are genuine brothers,
Each soul may see to life depicted
Itself with just such faults afflicted;
And by that charming placid brook,
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book.
[12] This is one of La Fontaine's most admired fables, and is one of the
few for which he did not go for the groundwork to some older
fabulist. The Duke de la Rochefoucauld, to whom it was dedicated,
was the author of the famous "Reflexions et Maximes Morales," which
La Fontaine praises in the last lines of his fable. La
Rochefoucauld was La Fontaine's friend and patron. The "Maximes"
had achieved a second edition just prior to La Fontaine's
publication of this first series of his Fables, in 1668. "The
Rabbits" (Book X., Fable 15.), published in the second collection,
in 1678-9, is also dedicated to the Duke, who died the following
year, 1680. See Translator's Preface.
[13] _Lady's zone_.--One of La Fontaine's commentators remarks upon
this passage that it is no exaggeration of the foppishness of the
times in which the poet wrote, and cites the instance that the
canons of St. Martin of Tours wore mirrors on their shoes, even
while officiating in church.
XII.--THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS, AND THE DRAGON WITH MANY TAILS.[14]
An envoy of the Porte Sublime,
As history says, once on a time,
Before th' imperial German court[15]
Did rather boastfully report,
The troops commanded by his master's firman,
As being a stronger army than the German:
To which replied a Dutch attendant,
'Our prince has more than one dependant
Who keeps an army at his own expense.'
The Turk, a man of sense,
Rejoin'd, 'I am aware
What power your emperor's servants share.
It brings to mind a tale both strange and true,
A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view.
I saw come darting through a hedge,
Which fortified a rocky ledge,
A hydra's hundred heads; and in a trice
My blood was turning into ice.
But less the harm than terror,--
The body came no nearer;
Nor could, unless it had been sunder'd,
To parts at least a hundred.
While musing deeply on this sight,
Another dragon came to light,
Whose single head avails
To lead a hundred tails:
And, seized with juster fright,
I saw him pass the hedge,--
Head, body, tails,--a wedge
Of living and resistless powers.--
The other was your emperor's force; this ours.'
[14] The original of this fable has been attributed to the chief who
made himself Emperor of Tartary and called himself Ghengis Khan
(b.1164, d. 1227). He is said to have applied the fable to the
Great Mogul and his innumerable dependent potentates.
[15] _German court_.--The court of the "Holy Roman Empire" is here meant.
XIII.--THE THIEVES AND THE ASS.[16]
Two thieves, pursuing their profession,
Had of a donkey got possession,
Whereon a strife arose,
Which went from words to blows.
The question was, to sell, or not to sell;
But while our sturdy champions fought it well,
Another thief, who chanced to pass,
With ready wit rode off the ass.
This ass is, by interpretation,
Some province poor, or prostrate nation.
The thieves are princes this and that,
On spoils and plunder prone to fat,--
As those of Austria, Turkey, Hungary.
(Instead of two, I've quoted three--
Enough of such commodity.)
These powers engaged in war all,
Some fourth thief stops the quarrel,
According all to one key,
By riding off the donkey.
[16] Aesop.
XIV.--SIMONIDES PRESERVED BY THE GODS.[17]
Three sorts there are, as Malherbe[18] says,
Which one can never overpraise--
The gods, the ladies, and the king;
And I, for one, endorse the thing.
The heart, praise tickles and entices;
Of fair one's smile, it oft the price is.
See how the gods sometimes repay it.
Simonides--the ancients say it--
Once undertook, in poem lyric,
To write a wrestler's panegyric;
Which, ere he had proceeded far in,
He found his subject somewhat barren.
No ancestors of great renown;
His sire of some unnoted town;
Himself as little known to fame,
The wrestler's praise was rather tame.
The poet, having made the most of
Whate'er his hero had to boast of,
Digress'd, by choice that was not all luck's,
To Castor and his brother Pollux;
Whose bright career was subject ample,
For wrestlers, sure, a good example.
Our poet fatten'd on their story,
Gave every fight its place and glory,
Till of his panegyric words
These deities had got two-thirds.
All done, the poet's fee
A talent was to be.
But when he comes his bill to settle,
The wrestler, with a spice of mettle,
Pays down a third, and tells the poet,
'The balance they may pay who owe it.
The gods than I are rather debtors
To such a pious man of letters.
But still I shall be greatly pleased
To have your presence at my feast,
Among a knot of guests select,
My kin, and friends I most respect.'
More fond of character than coffer,
Simonides accepts the offer.
While at the feast the party sit,
And wine provokes the flow of wit,
It is announced that at the gate
Two men, in haste that cannot wait,
Would see the bard. He leaves the table,
No loss at all to 'ts noisy gabble.
The men were Leda's twins, who knew
What to a poet's praise was due,
And, thanking, paid him by foretelling
The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling.
From which ill-fated pile, indeed,
No sooner was the poet freed,
Than, props and pillars failing,
Which held aloft the ceiling
So splendid o'er them,
It downward loudly crash'd,
The plates and flagons dash'd,
And men who bore them;
And, what was worse,
Full vengeance for the man of verse,
A timber broke the wrestler's thighs,
And wounded many otherwise.
The gossip Fame, of course, took care
Abroad to publish this affair.
'A miracle!' the public cried, delighted.
No more could god-beloved bard be slighted.
His verse now brought him more than double,
With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble.
Whoe'er laid claim to noble birth
Must buy his ancestors a slice,
Resolved no nobleman on earth
Should overgo him in the price.
From which these serious lessons flow:--
Fail not your praises to bestow
On gods and godlike men. Again,
To sell the product of her pain
Is not degrading to the Muse.
Indeed, her art they do abuse,
Who think her wares to use,
And yet a liberal pay refuse.
Whate'er the great confer upon her,
They're honour'd by it while they honour.
Of old, Olympus and Parnassus
In friendship heaved their sky-crown'd masses.
[17] Phaedrus, IV. 24.
[18] _Malherbe_.--See note to Fable I., Book III.
XV.--DEATH AND THE UNFORTUNATE.[19]
A poor unfortunate, from day to day,
Call'd Death to take him from this world away.
'O Death' he said, 'to me how fair thy form!
Come quick, and end for me life's cruel storm.'
Death heard, and with a ghastly grin,
Knock'd at his door, and enter'd in
'Take out this object from my sight!'
The poor man loudly cried.
'Its dreadful looks I can't abide;
O stay him, stay him' let him come no nigher;
O Death! O Death! I pray thee to retire!'
A gentleman of note
In Rome, Maecenas,[20] somewhere wrote:--
"Make me the poorest wretch that begs,
Sore, hungry, crippled, clothed in rags,
In hopeless impotence of arms and legs;
Provided, after all, you give
The one sweet liberty to live:
I'll ask of Death no greater favour
Than just to stay away for ever."
[19] Aesop.
[20] _Maecenas_.--Seneca's Epistles, CI.
XVI.--DEATH AND THE WOODMAN.[21]
A poor wood-chopper, with his fagot load,
Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd,
Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest,
Trudged wearily along his homeward road.
At last his wood upon the ground he throws,
And sits him down to think o'er all his woes.
To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth,
What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth?
No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest;
Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax,
All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe,
And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest.
On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim
Appears, and asks what he should do for him.
'Not much, indeed; a little help I lack--
To put these fagots on my back.'
Death ready stands all ills to cure;
But let us not his cure invite.
Than die, 'tis better to endure,--
Is both a manly maxim and a right.
[21] Aesop: it is also in Corrozet's fables.
XVII.--THE MAN BETWEEN TWO AGES, AND HIS TWO MISTRESSES.[22]
A man of middle age, whose hair
Was bordering on the grey,
Began to turn his thoughts and care
The matrimonial way.
By virtue of his ready,
A store of choices had he
Of ladies bent to suit his taste;
On which account he made no haste.
To court well was no trifling art.
Two widows chiefly gain'd his heart;
The one yet green, the other more mature,
Who found for nature's wane in art a cure.
These dames, amidst their joking and caressing
The man they long'd to wed,
Would sometimes set themselves to dressing
His party-colour'd head.
Each aiming to assimilate
Her lover to her own estate,
The older piecemeal stole
The black hair from his poll,
While eke, with fingers light,
The young one stole the white.
Between them both, as if by scald,
His head was changed from grey to bald.
'For these,' he said, 'your gentle pranks,
I owe you, ladies, many thanks.
By being thus well shaved,
I less have lost than saved.
Of Hymen, yet, no news at hand,
I do assure ye.
By what I've lost, I understand
It is in your way,
Not mine, that I must pass on.
Thanks, ladies, for the lesson.'
[22] Phaedrus, II.2: Aesop.
XVIII.--THE FOX AND THE STORK.[23]
Old Mister Fox was at expense, one day,
To dine old Mistress Stork.
The fare was light, was nothing, sooth to say,
Requiring knife and fork.
That sly old gentleman, the dinner-giver,
Was, you must understand, a frugal liver.
This once, at least, the total matter
Was thinnish soup served on a platter,
For madam's slender beak a fruitless puzzle,
Till all had pass'd the fox's lapping muzzle.
But, little relishing his laughter,
Old gossip Stork, some few days after,
Return'd his Foxship's invitation.
Without a moment's hesitation,
He said he'd go, for he must own he
Ne'er stood with friends for ceremony.
And so, precisely at the hour,
He hied him to the lady's bower;
Where, praising her politeness,
He finds her dinner right nice.
Its punctuality and plenty,
Its viands, cut in mouthfuls dainty,
Its fragrant smell, were powerful to excite,
Had there been need, his foxish appetite.
But now the dame, to torture him,
Such wit was in her,
Served up her dinner
In vases made so tall and slim,
They let their owner's beak pass in and out,
But not, by any means, the fox's snout!
All arts without avail,
With drooping head and tail,
As ought a fox a fowl had cheated,
The hungry guest at last retreated.
Ye knaves, for you is this recital,
You'll often meet Dame Stork's requital.
[23] Phaedrus, I. 26; also in Aesop.
XIX.--THE BOY AND THE SCHOOLMASTER.[24]
Wise counsel is not always wise,
As this my tale exemplifies.
A boy, that frolick'd on the banks of Seine,
Fell in, and would have found a watery grave,
Had not that hand that planteth ne'er in vain
A willow planted there, his life to save.
While hanging by its branches as he might,
A certain sage preceptor came in sight;
To whom the urchin cried, 'Save, or I'm drown'd!'
The master, turning gravely at the sound,
Thought proper for a while to stand aloof,
And give the boy some seasonable reproof.
'You little wretch! this comes of foolish playing,
Commands and precepts disobeying.
A naughty rogue, no doubt, you are,
Who thus requite your parents' care.
Alas! their lot I pity much,
Whom fate condemns to watch o'er such.'
This having coolly said, and more,
He pull'd the drowning lad ashore.
This story hits more marks than you suppose.
All critics, pedants, men of endless prose,--
Three sorts, so richly bless'd with progeny,
The house is bless'd that doth not lodge any,--
May in it see themselves from head to toes.
No matter what the task,
Their precious tongues must teach;
Their help in need you ask,
You first must hear them preach.
[24] A fable telling this story is in the collection of Arabic fables
which bear the name of Locman, or Lokman, a personage some identify
with Aesop himself. Lokman is said to have flourished about 1050
B.C.; and even as the "Phrygian slave"--Aesop was said to have been
very ugly, so Lokman is described as "an ugly black slave." See
Translator's Preface. Rabelais also has a version of the story of
this fable, _vide Gargantua_, Book I. ch. xlii.
XX.--THE COCK AND THE PEARL.[25]
A cock scratch'd up, one day,
A pearl of purest ray,
Which to a jeweller he bore.
'I think it fine,' he said,
'But yet a crumb of bread
To me were worth a great deal more.'
So did a dunce inherit
A manuscript of merit,
Which to a publisher he bore.
''Tis good,' said he, 'I'm told,
Yet any coin of gold
To me were worth a great deal more.'
[25] Phaedrus, III. 11.
XXI.--THE HORNETS AND THE BEES.[26]
"The artist by his work is known."--
A piece of honey-comb, one day,
Discover'd as a waif and stray,
The hornets treated as their own.
Their title did the bees dispute,
And brought before a wasp the suit.
The judge was puzzled to decide,
For nothing could be testified
Save that around this honey-comb
There had been seen, as if at home,
Some longish, brownish, buzzing creatures,
Much like the bees in wings and features.
But what of that? for marks the same,
The hornets, too, could truly claim.
Between assertion, and denial,
The wasp, in doubt, proclaim'd new trial;
And, hearing what an ant-hill swore,
Could see no clearer than before.
'What use, I pray, of this expense?'
At last exclaim'd a bee of sense.
'We've labour'd months in this affair,
And now are only where we were.
Meanwhile the honey runs to waste:
'Tis time the judge should show some haste.
The parties, sure, have had sufficient bleeding,
Without more fuss of scrawls and pleading.
Let's set ourselves at work, these drones and we,
And then all eyes the truth may plainly see,
Whose art it is that can produce
The magic cells, the nectar juice.'
The hornets, flinching on their part,
Show that the work transcends their art.
The wasp at length their title sees,
And gives the honey to the bees.
Would God that suits at laws with us
Might all be managed thus!
That we might, in the Turkish mode,
Have simple common sense for code!
They then were short and cheap affairs,
Instead of stretching on like ditches,
Ingulfing in their course all riches,--
The parties leaving for their shares,
The shells (and shells there might be moister)
From which the court has suck'd the oyster.[27]
[26] Phaedrus, III. 12.
[27] _The court has suck'd the oyster_.--The humorous idea of the
lawyers, the litigants, and the oyster, is more fully treated in
Fable IX., Book IX.
XXII.--THE OAK AND THE REED.[28]
The oak one day address'd the reed:--
'To you ungenerous indeed
Has nature been, my humble friend,
With weakness aye obliged to bend.
The smallest bird that flits in air
Is quite too much for you to bear;
The slightest wind that wreathes the lake
Your ever-trembling head doth shake.
The while, my towering form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,
And wrestle with the storm.
What seems to you the blast of death,
To me is but a zephyr's breath.
Beneath my branches had you grown,
That spread far round their friendly bower,
Less suffering would your life have known,
Defended from the tempest's power.
Unhappily you oftenest show
In open air your slender form,
Along the marshes wet and low,
That fringe the kingdom of the storm.
To you, declare I must,
Dame Nature seems unjust.'
Then modestly replied the reed:
'Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
But wholly needless for my sake.
The wildest wind that ever blew
Is safe to me compared with you.
I bend, indeed, but never break.
Thus far, I own, the hurricane
Has beat your sturdy back in vain;
But wait the end.' Just at the word,
The tempest's hollow voice was heard.
The North sent forth her fiercest child,
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.
The oak, erect, endured the blow;
The reed bow'd gracefully and low.
But, gathering up its strength once more,
In greater fury than before,
The savage blast
O'erthrew, at last,
That proud, old, sky-encircled head,
Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead![29]
[28] The groundwork of this fable is in Aesop, and also in the Fables of
Avianus. Flavius Avianus lived in the fifth century. His Aesopian
Fables were written in Latin verse. Caxton printed "The Fables of
Avian, translated into Englyshe" at the end of his edition of Aesop.
[29] This fable and "The Animals Sick of the Plague" (Fable I., Book
VII.), are generally deemed La Fontaine's two best fables. "The Oak
and the Reed" is held to be the perfection of classical fable,
while "The Animals Sick of the Plague" is esteemed for its fine
poetic feeling conjoined with its excellent moral teaching. See
Translator's Preface.
* * * * *
BOOK II.
I.--AGAINST THE HARD TO SUIT.[1]
Were I a pet of fair Calliope,
I would devote the gifts conferr'd on me
To dress in verse old Aesop's lies divine;
For verse, and they, and truth, do well combine;
But, not a favourite on the Muses' hill,
I dare not arrogate the magic skill,
To ornament these charming stories.
A bard might brighten up their glories,
No doubt. I try,--what one more wise must do.
Thus much I have accomplish'd hitherto:--
By help of my translation,
The beasts hold conversation,
In French, as ne'er they did before.
Indeed, to claim a little more,
The plants and trees,[2] with smiling features,
Are turn'd by me to talking creatures.
Who says, that this is not enchanting?
'Ah,' says the critics, 'hear what vaunting!
From one whose work, all told, no more is
Than half-a-dozen baby stories.'[3]
Would you a theme more credible, my censors,
In graver tone, and style which now and then soars?
Then list! For ten long years the men of Troy,
By means that only heroes can employ,
Had held the allied hosts of Greece at bay,--
Their minings, batterings, stormings day by day,
Their hundred battles on the crimson plain,
Their blood of thousand heroes, all in vain,--
When, by Minerva's art, a horse of wood,
Of lofty size before their city stood,
Whose flanks immense the sage Ulysses hold,
Brave Diomed, and Ajax fierce and bold,
Whom, with their myrmidons, the huge machine
Would bear within the fated town unseen,
To wreak upon its very gods their rage--
Unheard-of stratagem, in any age.
Which well its crafty authors did repay....
'Enough, enough,' our critic folks will say;
'Your period excites alarm,
Lest you should do your lungs some harm;
And then your monstrous wooden horse,
With squadrons in it at their ease,
Is even harder to endorse
Than Renard cheating Raven of his cheese.
And, more than that, it fits you ill
To wield the old heroic quill.'
Well, then, a humbler tone, if such your will is:--
Long sigh'd and pined the jealous Amaryllis
For her Alcippus, in the sad belief,
None, save her sheep and dog, would know her grief.
Thyrsis, who knows, among the willows slips,
And hears the gentle shepherdess's lips
Beseech the kind and gentle zephyr
To bear these accents to her lover....
'Stop!' says my censor:
'To laws of rhyme quite irreducible,
That couplet needs again the crucible;
Poetic men, sir,
Must nicely shun the shocks
Of rhymes unorthodox.'
A curse on critics! hold your tongue!
Know I not how to end my song?
Of time and strength what greater waste
Than my attempt to suit your taste?
Some men, more nice than wise,
There's nought that satisfies.
[1] Phaedrus, Book IV. 7.
[2] _The plants and trees_.--Aristotle's rule for pure fable is
that its _dramatis personae_ should be animals only--excluding
man. Dr. Johnson (writing upon Gay's Fables) agrees in this dictum
"generally." But hardly any of the fabulists, from Aesop downwards,
seem to have bound themselves by the rule; and in this fable we have
La Fontaine rather exulting in his assignment of speech, &c., not
only to the lower animals but to "plants and trees," &c., as well as
otherwise defying the "hard to suit," _i.e._, the critics.
[3] _Half-a-dozen baby stories_.--Here La Fontaine exalts his muse
as a fabulist. This is in reply to certain of his critics who
pronounced his work puerile, and pretended to wish him to adopt the
higher forms of poetry. Some of the fables of the first six Books
were originally published in a semi-private way before 1668. See the
Translators Preface. La Fontaine defends his art as a writer of
fables also in Book III. (Fable I.); Book V. (Fable I.); Book VI.
(Fable I.); Book VII. (Introduction); Book VIII. (Fable IV.), and
Book IX. (Fable I).
II.--THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS [4]
Old Rodilard,[5] a certain cat,
Such havoc of the rats had made,
'Twas difficult to find a rat
With nature's debt unpaid.
The few that did remain,
To leave their holes afraid,
From usual food abstain,
Not eating half their fill.
And wonder no one will
That one who made of rats his revel,
With rats pass'd not for cat, but devil.
Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater,
Who had a wife, went out to meet her;
And while he held his caterwauling,
The unkill'd rats, their chapter calling,
Discuss'd the point, in grave debate,
How they might shun impending fate.
Their dean, a prudent rat,
Thought best, and better soon than late,
To bell the fatal cat;
That, when he took his hunting round,
The rats, well caution'd by the sound,
Might hide in safety under ground;
Indeed he knew no other means.
And all the rest
At once confess'd
Their minds were with the dean's.
No better plan, they all believed,
Could possibly have been conceived,
No doubt the thing would work right well,
If any one would hang the bell.
But, one by one, said every rat,
'I'm not so big a fool as that.'
The plan, knock'd up in this respect,
The council closed without effect.
And many a council I have seen,
Or reverend chapter with its dean,
That, thus resolving wisely,
Fell through like this precisely.
To argue or refute
Wise counsellors abound;
The man to execute
Is harder to be found.
[4] Faerno and Abstemius both have fables upon this subject. Gabriel
Faerno (1500-1561) was an Italian writer who published fables in
Latin. Perrault translated these into French verse, and published
them at Paris in 1699. Faerno was also a famous editor of Terence.
Laurentius Abstemius, or Astemio, was an Italian fabulist of the
fifteenth century. After their first publication his fables often
appeared in editions of Aesop.
[5] _Rodilard_.--The name no doubt taken from the famous cat
Rodilardus (bacon-gnawer), in Rabelais, _Pantagruel_, IV., ch. LXVII.
III.--THE WOLF ACCUSING THE FOX BEFORE THE MONKEY.[6]
A wolf, affirming his belief
That he had suffer'd by a thief,
Brought up his neighbour fox--
Of whom it was by all confess'd,
His character was not the best--
To fill the prisoner's box.
As judge between these vermin,
A monkey graced the ermine;
And truly other gifts of Themis[7]
Did scarcely seem his;
For while each party plead his cause,
Appealing boldly to the laws,
And much the question vex'd,
Our monkey sat perplex'd.
Their words and wrath expended,
Their strife at length was ended;
When, by their malice taught,
The judge this judgment brought:
'Your characters, my friends, I long have known,
As on this trial clearly shown;
And hence I fine you both--the grounds at large
To state would little profit--
You wolf, in short, as bringing groundless charge,
You fox, as guilty of it.'
Come at it right or wrong, the judge opined
No other than a villain could be fined.[8]
[6] Phaedrus, I. 10.
[7] _Themis_.--The goddess of Justice.
[8] So Philip of Macedon is said to have decided a suit by condemning
the defendant to banishment and the plaintiff to follow him. The
wisdom of each decision lies in taking advantage of a doubtful case
to convict two well-known rogues of--previous bad character.
IV.--THE TWO BULLS AND THE FROG.[9]
Two bulls engaged in shocking battle,
Both for a certain heifer's sake,
And lordship over certain cattle,
A frog began to groan and quake.
'But what is this to you?'
Inquired another of the croaking crew.
'Why, sister, don't you see,
The end of this will be,
That one of these big brutes will yield,
And then be exiled from the field?
No more permitted on the grass to feed,
He'll forage through our marsh, on rush and reed;
And while he eats or chews the cud,
Will trample on us in the mud.
Alas! to think how frogs must suffer
By means of this proud lady heifer!'
This fear was not without good sense.
One bull was beat, and much to their expense;
For, quick retreating to their reedy bower,
He trod on twenty of them in an hour.
Of little folks it oft has been the fate
To suffer for the follies of the great.
[9] Phaedrus, I. 30.
V.--THE BAT AND THE TWO WEASELS.[10]
A blundering bat once stuck her head
Into a wakeful weasel's bed;
Whereat the mistress of the house,
A deadly foe of rats and mice,
Was making ready in a trice
To eat the stranger as a mouse.
'What! do you dare,' she said, 'to creep in
The very bed I sometimes sleep in,
Now, after all the provocation
I've suffer'd from your thievish nation?
Are you not really a mouse,
That gnawing pest of every house,
Your special aim to do the cheese ill?
Ay, that you are, or I'm no weasel.'
'I beg your pardon,' said the bat;
'My kind is very far from that.
What! I a mouse! Who told you such a lie?
Why, ma'am, I am a bird;
And, if you doubt my word,
Just see the wings with which I fly.
Long live the mice that cleave the sky!'
These reasons had so fair a show,
The weasel let the creature go.
By some strange fancy led,
The same wise blunderhead,
But two or three days later,
Had chosen for her rest
Another weasel's nest,
This last, of birds a special hater.
New peril brought this step absurd;
Without a moment's thought or puzzle,
Dame weasel oped her peaked muzzle
To eat th' intruder as a bird.
'Hold! do not wrong me,' cried the bat;
'I'm truly no such thing as that.
Your eyesight strange conclusions gathers.
What makes a bird, I pray? Its feathers.
I'm cousin of the mice and rats.
Great Jupiter confound the cats!'
The bat, by such adroit replying,
Twice saved herself from dying.
And many a human stranger
Thus turns his coat in danger;
And sings, as suits, where'er he goes,
'God save the king!'--or 'save his foes!'[11]
[10] Aesop.
[11] _Or save his foes!_--La Fontaine's last line is--"Vive le roi!
Vive la ligue!" conveying an allusion to the "Holy League" of the
French Catholic party, which, under the Guises, brought about the
war with Henry III. and the Huguenots, which ended, for a time, in
the edict of Nantes, promulgated by Henry IV. in 1598.
VI.--THE BIRD WOUNDED BY AN ARROW.[12]
A bird, with plumèd arrow shot,
In dying case deplored her lot:
'Alas!' she cried, 'the anguish of the thought!
This ruin partly by myself was brought!
Hard-hearted men! from us to borrow
What wings to us the fatal arrow!
But mock us not, ye cruel race,
For you must often take our place.'
The work of half the human brothers
Is making arms against the others.
[12] Aesop.
VII.--THE BITCH AND HER FRIEND.[13]
A bitch, that felt her time approaching,
And had no place for parturition,
Went to a female friend, and, broaching
Her delicate condition,
Got leave herself to shut
Within the other's hut.
At proper time the lender came
Her little premises to claim.
The bitch crawl'd meekly to the door,
And humbly begg'd a fortnight more.
Her little pups, she said, could hardly walk.
In short, the lender yielded to her talk.
The second term expired; the friend had come
To take possession of her house and home.
The bitch, this time, as if she would have bit her,
Replied, 'I'm ready, madam, with my litter,
To go when you can turn me out.'
Her pups, you see, were fierce and stout.
The creditor, from whom a villain borrows,
Will fewer shillings get again than sorrows.
If you have trusted people of this sort,
You'll have to plead, and dun, and fight; in short,
If in your house you let one step a foot,
He'll surely step the other in to boot.
[13] Phaedrus, I. 19. See the Translator's Preface.
VIII.--THE EAGLE AND THE BEETLE.[14]
John Rabbit, by Dame Eagle chased,
Was making for his hole in haste,
When, on his way, he met a beetle's burrow.
I leave you all to think
If such a little chink
Could to a rabbit give protection thorough.
But, since no better could be got,
John Rabbit there was fain to squat.
Of course, in an asylum so absurd,
John felt ere long the talons of the bird.
But first, the beetle, interceding, cried,
'Great queen of birds, it cannot be denied,
That, maugre my protection, you can bear
My trembling guest, John Rabbit, through the air.
But do not give me such affront, I pray;
And since he craves your grace,
In pity of his case,
Grant him his life, or take us both away;
For he's my gossip, friend, and neighbour.'
In vain the beetle's friendly labour;
The eagle clutch'd her prey without reply,
And as she flapp'd her vasty wings to fly,
Struck down our orator and still'd him;
The wonder is she hadn't kill'd him.
The beetle soon, of sweet revenge in quest,
Flew to the old, gnarl'd mountain oak,
Which proudly bore that haughty eagle's nest.
And while the bird was gone,
Her eggs, her cherish'd eggs, he broke,
Not sparing one.
Returning from her flight, the eagle's cry,
Of rage and bitter anguish, fill'd the sky.
But, by excess of passion blind,
Her enemy she fail'd to find.
Her wrath in vain, that year it was her fate
To live a mourning mother, desolate.
The next, she built a loftier nest; 'twas vain;
The beetle found and dash'd her eggs again.
John Rabbit's death was thus revenged anew.
The second mourning for her murder'd brood
Was such, that through the giant mountain wood,
For six long months, the sleepless echo flew.
The bird, once Ganymede, now made
Her prayer to Jupiter for aid;
And, laying them within his godship's lap,
She thought her eggs now safe from all mishap;
The god his own could not but make them--
No wretch, would venture there to break them.
And no one did. Their enemy, this time,
Upsoaring to a place sublime,
Let fall upon his royal robes some dirt,
Which Jove just shaking, with a sudden flirt,
Threw out the eggs, no one knows whither.
When Jupiter inform'd her how th' event
Occurr'd by purest accident,
The eagle raved; there was no reasoning with her;
She gave out threats of leaving court,
To make the desert her resort,
And other brav'ries of this sort.
Poor Jupiter in silence heard
The uproar of his favourite bird.
Before his throne the beetle now appear'd,
And by a clear complaint the mystery clear'd.
The god pronounced the eagle in the wrong.
But still, their hatred was so old and strong,
These enemies could not be reconciled;
And, that the general peace might not be spoil'd,--
The best that he could do,--the god arranged,
That thence the eagle's pairing should be changed,
To come when beetle folks are only found
Conceal'd and dormant under ground.
[14] Aesop.
IX.--THE LION AND THE GNAT.[15]
'Go, paltry insect, nature's meanest brat!'
Thus said the royal lion to the gnat.
The gnat declared immediate war.
'Think you,' said he, 'your royal name
To me worth caring for?
Think you I tremble at your power or fame?
The ox is bigger far than you;
Yet him I drive, and all his crew.'
This said, as one that did no fear owe,
Himself he blew the battle charge,
Himself both trumpeter and hero.
At first he play'd about at large,
Then on the lion's neck, at leisure, settled,
And there the royal beast full sorely nettled.
With foaming mouth, and flashing eye,
He roars. All creatures hide or fly,--
Such mortal terror at
The work of one poor gnat!
With constant change of his attack,
The snout now stinging, now the back,
And now the chambers of the nose;
The pigmy fly no mercy shows.
The lion's rage was at its height;
His viewless foe now laugh'd outright,
When on his battle-ground he saw,
That every savage tooth and claw
Had got its proper beauty
By doing bloody duty;
Himself, the hapless lion, tore his hide,
And lash'd with sounding tail from side to side.
Ah! bootless blow, and bite, and curse!
He beat the harmless air, and worse;
For, though so fierce and stout,
By effort wearied out,
He fainted, fell, gave up the quarrel.
The gnat retires with verdant laurel.
Now rings his trumpet clang,
As at the charge it rang.
But while his triumph note he blows,
Straight on our valiant conqueror goes
A spider's ambuscade to meet,
And make its web his winding-sheet.
We often have the most to fear
From those we most despise;
Again, great risks a man may clear,
Who by the smallest dies.
[15] Aesop.
X.--THE ASS LOADED WITH SPONGES, AND THE ASS LOADED WITH SALT.[16]
A man, whom I shall call an ass-eteer,
His sceptre like some Roman emperor bearing,
Drove on two coursers of protracted ear,
The one, with sponges laden, briskly faring;
The other lifting legs
As if he trod on eggs,
With constant need of goading,
And bags of salt for loading.
O'er hill and dale our merry pilgrims pass'd,
Till, coming to a river's ford at last,
They stopp'd quite puzzled on the shore.
Our asseteer had cross'd the stream before;
So, on the lighter beast astride,
He drives the other, spite of dread,
Which, loath indeed to go ahead,
Into a deep hole turns aside,
And, facing right about,
Where he went in, comes out;
For duckings two or three
Had power the salt to melt,
So that the creature felt
His burden'd shoulders free.
The sponger, like a sequent sheep,
Pursuing through the water deep,
Into the same hole plunges
Himself, his rider, and the sponges.
All three drank deeply: asseteer and ass
For boon companions of their load might pass;
Which last became so sore a weight,
The ass fell down,
Belike to drown,
His rider risking equal fate.
A helper came, no matter who.
The moral needs no more ado--
That all can't act alike,--
The point I wish'd to strike.
[16] Aesop.
XI.--THE LION AND THE RAT.[17]
To show to all your kindness, it behoves:
There's none so small but you his aid may need.
I quote two fables for this weighty creed,
Which either of them fully proves.
From underneath the sward
A rat, quite off his guard,
Popp'd out between a lion's paws.
The beast of royal bearing
Show'd what a lion was
The creature's life by sparing--
A kindness well repaid;
For, little as you would have thought
His majesty would ever need his aid,
It proved full soon
A precious boon.
Forth issuing from his forest glen,
T' explore the haunts of men,
In lion net his majesty was caught,
From which his strength and rage
Served not to disengage.
The rat ran up, with grateful glee,
Gnaw'd off a rope, and set him free.
By time and toil we sever
What strength and rage could never.
[17] Aesop. In the original editions of La Fontaine's Fables, XI. and
XII. are printed together, and headed "Fables XI. et XII."
XII.--THE DOVE AND THE ANT.[18]
The same instruction we may get
From another couple, smaller yet.
A dove came to a brook to drink,
When, leaning o'er its crumbling brink,
An ant fell in, and vainly tried,
In this, to her, an ocean tide,
To reach the land; whereat the dove,
With every living thing in love,
Was prompt a spire of grass to throw her,
By which the ant regain'd the shore.
A barefoot scamp, both mean and sly,
Soon after chanced this dove to spy;
And, being arm'd with bow and arrow,
The hungry codger doubted not
The bird of Venus, in his pot,
Would make a soup before the morrow.
Just as his deadly bow he drew,
Our ant just bit his heel.
Roused by the villain's squeal,
The dove took timely hint, and flew
Far from the rascal's coop;--
And with her flew his soup.
[18] Aesop.
XIII.--THE ASTROLOGER WHO STUMBLED INTO A WELL.[19]
To an astrologer who fell
Plump to the bottom of a well,
'Poor blockhead!' cried a passer-by,
'Not see your feet, and read the sky?'
This upshot of a story will suffice
To give a useful hint to most;
For few there are in this our world so wise
As not to trust in star or ghost,
Or cherish secretly the creed
That men the book of destiny may read.
This book, by Homer and his pupils sung,
What is it, in plain common sense,
But what was chance those ancient folks among,
And with ourselves, God's providence?
Now chance doth bid defiance
To every thing like science;
'Twere wrong, if not,
To call it hazard, fortune, lot--
Things palpably uncertain.
But from the purposes divine,
The deep of infinite design,
Who boasts to lift the curtain?
Whom but himself doth God allow
To read his bosom thoughts? and how
Would he imprint upon the stars sublime
The shrouded secrets of the night of time?
And all for what? To exercise the wit
Of those who on astrology have writ?
To help us shun inevitable ills?
To poison for us even pleasure's rills?
The choicest blessings to destroy,
Exhausting, ere they come, their joy?
Such faith is worse than error--'tis a crime.
The sky-host moves and marks the course of time;
The sun sheds on our nicely-measured days
The glory of his night-dispelling rays;
And all from this we can divine
Is, that they need to rise and shine,--
To roll the seasons, ripen fruits,
And cheer the hearts of men and brutes.
How tallies this revolving universe
With human things, eternally diverse?
Ye horoscopers, waning quacks,
Please turn on Europe's courts your backs,
And, taking on your travelling lists
The bellows-blowing alchemists,
Budge off together to the land of mists.
But I've digress'd. Return we now, bethinking
Of our poor star-man, whom we left a drinking.
Besides the folly of his lying trade,
This man the type may well be made
Of those who at chimeras stare
When they should mind the things that are.
[19] Aesop. Diogenes Laertius tells the story of this fable of Thales of
Miletus. "It is said that once he (Thales) was led out of his house
by an old woman for the purpose of observing the stars, and he fell
into a ditch and bewailed himself. On which the old woman said to
him--'Do you, O Thales, who cannot see what is under your feet,
think that thou shalt understand what is in heaven?'"--_Diogenes
Laertius, Bohn's edition._
XIV.--THE HARE AND THE FROGS.[20]
Once in his bed deep mused the hare,
(What else but muse could he do there?)
And soon by gloom was much afflicted;--
To gloom the creature's much addicted.
'Alas! these constitutions nervous,'
He cried, 'how wretchedly they serve us!
We timid people, by their action,
Can't eat nor sleep with satisfaction;
We can't enjoy a pleasure single,
But with some misery it must mingle.
Myself, for one, am forced by cursed fear
To sleep with open eye as well as ear.
"Correct yourself," says some adviser.
Grows fear, by such advice, the wiser?
Indeed, I well enough descry
That men have fear, as well as I.'
With such revolving thoughts our hare
Kept watch in soul-consuming care.
A passing shade, or leaflet's quiver
Would give his blood a boiling fever.
Full soon, his melancholy soul
Aroused from dreaming doze
By noise too slight for foes,
He scuds in haste to reach his hole.
He pass'd a pond; and from its border bogs,
Plunge after plunge, in leap'd the timid frogs,
'Aha! I do to them, I see,'
He cried, 'what others do to me.
The sight of even me, a hare,
Sufficeth some, I find, to scare.
And here, the terror of my tramp
Hath put to rout, it seems, a camp.
The trembling fools! they take me for
The very thunderbolt of war!
I see, the coward never skulk'd a foe
That might not scare a coward still below.'
[20] Aesop.
XV.--THE COCK AND THE FOX.[21]
Upon a tree there mounted guard
A veteran cock, adroit and cunning;
When to the roots a fox up running,
Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard:--
'Our quarrel, brother, 's at an end;
Henceforth I hope to live your friend;
For peace now reigns
Throughout the animal domains.
I bear the news:--come down, I pray,
And give me the embrace fraternal;
And please, my brother, don't delay.
So much the tidings do concern all,
That I must spread them far to-day.
Now you and yours can take your walks
Without a fear or thought of hawks.
And should you clash with them or others,
In us you'll find the best of brothers;--
For which you may, this joyful night,
Your merry bonfires light.
But, first, let's seal the bliss
With one fraternal kiss.'
'Good friend,' the cock replied, 'upon my word,
A better thing I never heard;
And doubly I rejoice
To hear it from your voice;
And, really there must be something in it,
For yonder come two greyhounds, which I flatter
Myself are couriers on this very matter.
They come so fast, they'll be here in a minute.
I'll down, and all of us will seal the blessing
With general kissing and caressing.'
'Adieu,' said fox; 'my errand's pressing;
I'll hurry on my way,
And we'll rejoice some other day.'
So off the fellow scamper'd, quick and light,
To gain the fox-holes of a neighbouring height,
Less happy in his stratagem than flight.
The cock laugh'd sweetly in his sleeve;--
'Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.
[21] Aesop.
XVI.--THE RAVEN WISHING TO IMITATE THE EAGLE.[22]
The bird of Jove bore off a mutton,
A raven being witness.
That weaker bird, but equal glutton,
Not doubting of his fitness
To do the same with ease,
And bent his taste to please,
Took round the flock his sweep,
And mark'd among the sheep,
The one of fairest flesh and size,
A real sheep of sacrifice--
A dainty titbit bestial,
Reserved for mouth celestial.
Our gormand, gloating round,
Cried, 'Sheep, I wonder much
Who could have made you such.
You're far the fattest I have found;
I'll take you for my eating.'
And on the creature bleating
He settled down. Now, sooth to say,
This sheep would weigh
More than a cheese;
And had a fleece
Much like that matting famous
Which graced the chin of Polyphemus;[23]
So fast it clung to every claw,
It was not easy to withdraw.
The shepherd came, caught, caged, and, to their joy,
Gave croaker to his children for a toy.
Ill plays the pilferer the bigger thief;
One's self one ought to know;--in brief,
Example is a dangerous lure;
Death strikes the gnat, where flies the wasp secure.
[22] Aesop; and Corrozet.
[23] _Polyphemus_.--The Cyclop king: _vide_ Homer's Odyssey, Book IX.
XVII.--THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.[24]
The peacock[25] to the queen of heaven
Complain'd in some such words:--
'Great goddess, you have given
To me, the laughing-stock of birds,
A voice which fills, by taste quite just,
All nature with disgust;
Whereas that little paltry thing,
The nightingale, pours from her throat
So sweet and ravishing a note,
She bears alone the honours of the spring.'
In anger Juno heard,
And cried, 'Shame on you, jealous bird!
Grudge you the nightingale her voice,
Who in the rainbow neck rejoice,
Than costliest silks more richly tinted,
In charms of grace and form unstinted,--
Who strut in kingly pride,
Your glorious tail spread wide
With brilliants which in sheen do
Outshine the jeweller's bow window?
Is there a bird beneath the blue
That has more charms than you?
No animal in everything can shine.
By just partition of our gifts divine,
Each has its full and proper share;
Among the birds that cleave the air,
The hawk's a swift, the eagle is a brave one,
For omens serves the hoarse old raven,
The rook's of coming ills the prophet;
And if there's any discontent,
I've heard not of it.
'Cease, then, your envious complaint;
Or I, instead of making up your lack,
Will take your boasted plumage from your back.'
[24] Phaedrus, III. 17.
[25] The peacock was consecrated to Juno the "Queen of Heaven," and was
under her protection.
XVIII.--THE CAT METAMORPHOSED INTO A WOMAN.[26]
A bachelor caress'd his cat,
A darling, fair, and delicate;
So deep in love, he thought her mew
The sweetest voice he ever knew.
By prayers, and tears, and magic art,
The man got Fate to take his part;
And, lo! one morning at his side
His cat, transform'd, became his bride.
In wedded state our man was seen
The fool in courtship he had been.
No lover e'er was so bewitch'd
By any maiden's charms
As was this husband, so enrich'd
By hers within his arms.
He praised her beauties, this and that,
And saw there nothing of the cat.
In short, by passion's aid, he
Thought her a perfect lady.
'Twas night: some carpet-gnawing mice
Disturb'd the nuptial joys.
Excited by the noise,
The bride sprang at them in a trice;
The mice were scared and fled.
The bride, scarce in her bed,
The gnawing heard, and sprang again,--
And this time not in vain,
For, in this novel form array'd,
Of her the mice were less afraid.
Through life she loved this mousing course,
So great is stubborn nature's force.
In mockery of change, the old
Will keep their youthful bent.
When once the cloth has got its fold,
The smelling-pot its scent,
In vain your efforts and your care
To make them other than they are.
To work reform, do what you will,
Old habit will be habit still.
Nor fork[27] nor strap can mend its manners,
Nor cudgel-blows beat down its banners.
Secure the doors against the renter,
And through the windows it will enter.
[26] Aesop.
[27] Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret.--Hor. Epist. Bk. I.
10.--Translator.
XIX.--THE LION AND THE ASS HUNTING.[28]
The king of animals, with royal grace,
Would celebrate his birthday in the chase.
'Twas not with bow and arrows,
To slay some wretched sparrows;
The lion hunts the wild boar of the wood,
The antlered deer and stags, the fat and good.
This time, the king, t' insure success,
Took for his aide-de-camp an ass,
A creature of stentorian voice,
That felt much honour'd by the choice.
The lion hid him in a proper station,
And order'd him to bray, for his vocation,
Assured that his tempestuous cry
The boldest beasts would terrify,
And cause them from their lairs to fly.
And, sooth, the horrid noise the creature made
Did strike the tenants of the wood with dread;
And, as they headlong fled,
All fell within the lion's ambuscade.
'Has not my service glorious
Made both of us victorious?'
Cried out the much-elated ass.
'Yes,' said the lion; 'bravely bray'd!
Had I not known yourself and race,
I should have been myself afraid!'
If he had dared, the donkey
Had shown himself right spunky
At this retort, though justly made;
For who could suffer boasts to pass
So ill-befitting to an ass?
[28] Phaedrus, I. 11: Aesop.
XX.--THE WILL EXPLAINED BY AESOP.[29]
If what old story says of Aesop's true,
The oracle of Greece he was,
And more than Areopagus[30] he knew,
With all its wisdom in the laws.
The following tale gives but a sample
Of what has made his fame so ample.
Three daughters shared a father's purse,
Of habits totally diverse.
The first, bewitched with drinks delicious;
The next, coquettish and capricious;
The third, supremely avaricious.
The sire, expectant of his fate,
Bequeathed his whole estate,
In equal shares, to them,
And to their mother just the same,--
To her then payable, and not before,
Each daughter should possess her part no more.
The father died. The females three
Were much in haste the will to see.
They read, and read, but still
Saw not the willer's will.
For could it well be understood
That each of this sweet sisterhood,
When she possess'd her part no more,
Should to her mother pay it o'er?
'Twas surely not so easy saying
How lack of means would help the paying.
What meant their honour'd father, then?
Th' affair was brought to legal men,
Who, after turning o'er the case
Some hundred thousand different ways,
Threw down the learned bonnet,
Unable to decide upon it;
And then advised the heirs,
Without more thought, t' adjust affairs.
As to the widow's share, the counsel say,
'We hold it just the daughters each should pay
One third to her upon demand,
Should she not choose to have it stand
Commuted as a life annuity,
Paid from her husband's death, with due congruity.'
The thing thus order'd, the estate
Is duly cut in portions three.
And in the first they all agree
To put the feasting-lodges, plate,
Luxurious cooling mugs,
Enormous liquor jugs,
Rich cupboards,--built beneath the trellised vine,--
The stores of ancient, sweet Malvoisian wine,
The slaves to serve it at a sign;
In short, whatever, in a great house,
There is of feasting apparatus.
The second part is made
Of what might help the jilting trade--
The city house and furniture,
Exquisite and genteel, be sure,
The eunuchs, milliners, and laces,
The jewels, shawls, and costly dresses.
The third is made of household stuff,
More vulgar, rude, and rough--
Farms, fences, flocks, and fodder,
And men and beasts to turn the sod o'er.
This done, since it was thought
To give the parts by lot
Might suit, or it might not,
Each paid her share of fees dear,
And took the part that pleased her.
'Twas in great Athens town,
Such judgment gave the gown.
And there the public voice
Applauded both the judgment and the choice.
But Aesop well was satisfied
The learned men had set aside,
In judging thus the testament,
The very gist of its intent.
'The dead,' quoth he, 'could he but know of it,
Would heap reproaches on such Attic wit.
What! men who proudly take their place
As sages of the human race,
Lack they the simple skill
To settle such a will?'
This said, he undertook himself
The task of portioning the pelf;
And straightway gave each maid the part
The least according to her heart--
The prim coquette, the drinking stuff,
The drinker, then, the farms and cattle;
And on the miser, rude and rough,
The robes and lace did Aesop settle;
For thus, he said, 'an early date
Would see the sisters alienate
Their several shares of the estate.
No motive now in maidenhood to tarry,
They all would seek, post haste, to marry;
And, having each a splendid bait,
Each soon would find a well-bred mate;
And, leaving thus their father's goods intact,
Would to their mother pay them all, in fact,'--
Which of the testament
Was plainly the intent.
The people, who had thought a slave an ass,
Much wonder'd how it came to pass
That one alone should have more sense
Than all their men of most pretence.
[29] Phaedrus, IV. 5.
[30] _Areopagus._--This was the Athenian Court of Justice at Mars Hill.
It is said to have been called _Areiopagos_ (the Hill of Mars)
because, according to tradition, the first trial there was that of
Mars for the murder of Halirrhotius.
* * * * *
BOOK III.
I.--THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS [1]
To M. De Maucroix.[2]
Because the arts are plainly birthright matters,
For fables we to ancient Greece are debtors;
But still this field could not be reap'd so clean
As not to let us, later comers, glean.
The fiction-world hath deserts yet to dare,
And, daily, authors make discoveries there.
I'd fain repeat one which our man of song,
Old Malherbe, told one day to young Racan.[3]
Of Horace they the rivals and the heirs,
Apollo's pets,--my masters, I should say,--
Sole by themselves were met, I'm told, one day,
Confiding each to each their thoughts and cares.
Racan begins:--'Pray end my inward strife,
For well you know, my friend, what's what in life,
Who through its varied course, from stage to stage,
Have stored the full experience of age;
What shall I do? 'Tis time I chose profession.
You know my fortune, birth, and disposition.
Ought I to make the country my resort,
Or seek the army, or to rise at court?
There's nought but mixeth bitterness with charms;
War hath its pleasures; hymen, its alarms.
'Twere nothing hard to take my natural bent,--
But I've a world of people to content.'
'Content a world!' old Malherbe cries; 'who can, sir?
Why, let me tell a story ere I answer.'
'A miller and his son, I've somewhere read,
The first in years, the other but a lad,--
A fine, smart boy, however, I should say,--
To sell their ass went to a fair one day.
In order there to get the highest price,
They needs must keep their donkey fresh and nice;
So, tying fast his feet, they swung him clear,
And bore him hanging like a chandelier.
Alas! poor, simple-minded country fellows!
The first that sees their load, loud laughing, bellows,
"What farce is this to split good people's sides?
The most an ass is not the one that rides!"
The miller, much enlighten'd by this talk,
Untied his precious beast, and made him walk.
The ass, who liked the other mode of travel,
Bray'd some complaint at trudging on the gravel;
Whereat, not understanding well the beast,
The miller caused his hopeful son to ride,
And walk'd behind, without a spark of pride.
Three merchants pass'd, and, mightily displeased,
The eldest of these gentlemen cried out,
"Ho there! dismount, for shame, you lubber lout!
Nor make a foot-boy of your grey-beard sire;
Change places, as the rights of age require."
"To please you, sirs," the miller said, "I ought."
So down the young and up the old man got.
Three girls next passing, "What a shame!" says one,
"That boy should be obliged on foot to run,
While that old chap, upon his ass astride,
Should play the calf, and like a bishop ride!"
"Please save your wit," the miller made reply,
"Tough veal, my girls, the calf as old as I."
But joke on joke repeated changed his mind;
So up he took, at last, his son behind.
Not thirty yards ahead, another set
Found fault. "The biggest fools I ever met,"
Says one of them, "such burdens to impose.
The ass is faint, and dying with their blows.
Is this, indeed, the mercy which these rustics
Show to their honest, faithful, old domestics?
If to the fair these lazy fellows ride,
'Twill be to sell thereat the donkey's hide!"
"Zounds!" cried the miller, "precious little brains
Hath he who takes, to please the world, such pains;
But since we're in, we'll try what can be done."
So off the ass they jump'd, himself and son,
And, like a prelate, donkey march'd alone.
Another man they met. "These folks," said he,
"Enslave themselves to let their ass go free--
The darling brute! If I might be so bold,
I'd counsel them to have him set in gold.
Not so went Nicholas his Jane[4] to woo,
Who rode, we sing, his ass to save his shoe."
"Ass! ass!" our man replied; "we're asses three!
I do avow myself an ass to be;
But since my sage advisers can't agree,
Their words henceforth shall not be heeded;
I'll suit myself." And he succeeded.
'For you, choose army, love, or court;
In town, or country, make resort;
Take wife, or cowl; ride you, or walk;
Doubt not but tongues will have their talk.'
[1] The story of this fable has been used by most of the fabulists, from
Aesop downwards.
[2] In the original editions this fable is dedicated "A. M. D. M." which
initials stand for "To M. De Maucroix," Canon of Rheims, an early and
late friend and patron of the poet. See Translator's Preface.
[3] _Old Malherbe and young Racan._--French poets. Malherbe was
born in 1556, and died in 1628. La Fontaine owed to Malherbe's works
the happy inspiration which led him to write poetry. See Translator's
Preface. Honorat de Bueil, Marquis de Racan, was born at La Roche
Racan in 1589. As a poet he was a pupil of Malherbe. His works
were praised by Boileau, and he was one of the earliest members of
the French Academy.
[4] _Nicholas and his Jane._--An allusion to an old French song.
II.--THE MEMBERS AND THE BELLY.[5]
Perhaps, had I but shown due loyalty,
This book would have begun with royalty,
Of which, in certain points of view,
Boss[6] Belly is the image true,
In whose bereavements all the members share:
Of whom the latter once so weary were,
As all due service to forbear,
On what they called his idle plan,
Resolved to play the gentleman,
And let his lordship live on air.
'Like burden-beasts,' said they,
'We sweat from day to day;
And all for whom, and what?
Ourselves we profit not.
Our labour has no object but one,
That is, to feed this lazy glutton.
We'll learn the resting trade
By his example's aid.'
So said, so done; all labour ceased;
The hands refused to grasp, the arms to strike;
All other members did the like.
Their boss might labour if he pleased!
It was an error which they soon repented,
With pain of languid poverty acquainted.
The heart no more the blood renew'd,
And hence repair no more accrued
To ever-wasting strength;
Whereby the mutineers, at length,
Saw that the idle belly, in its way,
Did more for common benefit than they.
For royalty our fable makes,
A thing that gives as well as takes
Its power all labour to sustain,
Nor for themselves turns out their labour vain.
It gives the artist bread, the merchant riches;
Maintains the diggers in their ditches;
Pays man of war and magistrate;
Supports the swarms in place,
That live on sovereign grace;
In short, is caterer for the state.
Menenius[7] told the story well:
When Rome, of old, in pieces fell,
The commons parting from the senate.
'The ills,' said they, 'that we complain at
Are, that the honours, treasures, power, and dignity,
Belong to them alone; while we
Get nought our labour for
But tributes, taxes, and fatigues of war.'
Without the walls the people had their stand
Prepared to march in search of other land,
When by this noted fable
Menenius was able
To draw them, hungry, home
To duty and to Rome.[8]
[5] Aesop. Rabelais also has a version: Book III. ch. 3.
[6] _Boss_.--A word probably more familiar to hod-carriers than to
lexicographers; qu. derived from the French _bosseman_, or the
English _boatswain_, pronounced _bos'n_? It denotes a "master" of
some practical "art." Master Belly, says Rabelais, was the first
Master of Arts in the world.--Translator. The name used by La
Fontaine is "Messer Gaster." To which he puts a footnote stating
that he meant "L'estomac." He took the name from Rabelais, Book IV.,
ch. 57, where it occurs thus:--"Messer Gaster est le premier maître
ès arts de ce monde.... Son mandement est nommé: Faire le fault,
sans delay, ou mourir."
[7] _Menenius_.--See Translator's Preface.
[8] _Rome_.--According to our republican notions of government,
these people were somewhat imposed upon. Perhaps the fable finds a
more appropriate application in the relation of employer to employed.
I leave the fabulists and the political economists to settle the
question between them.--Translator.
III.--THE WOLF TURNED SHEPHERD.[9]
A wolf, whose gettings from the flocks
Began to be but few,
Bethought himself to play the fox
In character quite new.
A shepherd's hat and coat he took,
A cudgel for a crook,
Nor e'en the pipe forgot:
And more to seem what he was not,
Himself upon his hat he wrote,
'I'm Willie, shepherd of these sheep.'
His person thus complete,
His crook in upraised feet,
The impostor Willie stole upon the keep.
The real Willie, on the grass asleep,
Slept there, indeed, profoundly,
His dog and pipe slept, also soundly;
His drowsy sheep around lay.
As for the greatest number,
Much bless'd the hypocrite their slumber,
And hoped to drive away the flock,
Could he the shepherd's voice but mock.
He thought undoubtedly he could.
He tried: the tone in which he spoke,
Loud echoing from the wood,
The plot and slumber broke;
Sheep, dog, and man awoke.
The wolf, in sorry plight,
In hampering coat bedight,
Could neither run nor fight.
There's always leakage of deceit
Which makes it never safe to cheat.
Whoever is a wolf had better
Keep clear of hypocritic fetter.
[9] The story of this fable is traced to Verdizotti, an Italian poet who
lived about 1535-1600.
IV.--THE FROGS ASKING A KING.[10]
A certain commonwealth aquatic,
Grown tired of order democratic,
By clamouring in the ears of Jove, effected
Its being to a monarch's power subjected.
Jove flung it down, at first, a king pacific.
Who nathless fell with such a splash terrific,
The marshy folks, a foolish race and timid,
Made breathless haste to get from him hid.
They dived into the mud beneath the water,
Or found among the reeds and rushes quarter.
And long it was they dared not see
The dreadful face of majesty,
Supposing that some monstrous frog
Had been sent down to rule the bog.
The king was really a log,
Whose gravity inspired with awe
The first that, from his hiding-place
Forth venturing, astonish'd, saw
The royal blockhead's face.
With trembling and with fear,
At last he drew quite near.
Another follow'd, and another yet,
Till quite a crowd at last were met;
Who, growing fast and strangely bolder,
Perch'd soon upon the royal shoulder.
His gracious majesty kept still,
And let his people work their will.
Clack, clack! what din beset the ears of Jove?
'We want a king,' the people said, 'to move!'
The god straight sent them down a crane,
Who caught and slew them without measure,
And gulp'd their carcasses at pleasure;
Whereat the frogs more wofully complain.
'What! what!' great Jupiter replied;
'By your desires must I be tied?
Think you such government is bad?
You should have kept what first you had;
Which having blindly fail'd to do,
It had been prudent still for you
To let that former king suffice,
More meek and mild, if not so wise.
With this now make yourselves content,
Lest for your sins a worse be sent.'
[10] Aesop: Phaedrus, I. 2.
V.--THE FOX AND THE GOAT.[11]
A fox once journey'd, and for company
A certain bearded, horned goat had he;
Which goat no further than his nose could see.
The fox was deeply versed in trickery.
These travellers did thirst compel
To seek the bottom of a well.
There, having drunk enough for two,
Says fox, 'My friend, what shall we do?
'Tis time that we were thinking
Of something else than drinking.
Raise you your feet upon the wall,
And stick your horns up straight and tall;
Then up your back I'll climb with ease,
And draw you after, if you please.'
'Yes, by my beard,' the other said,
''Tis just the thing. I like a head
Well stock'd with sense, like thine.
Had it been left to mine,
I do confess,
I never should have thought of this.'
So Renard clamber'd out,
And, leaving there the goat,
Discharged his obligations
By preaching thus on patience:--
'Had Heaven put sense thy head within,
To match the beard upon thy chin,
Thou wouldst have thought a bit,
Before descending such a pit.
I'm out of it; good bye:
With prudent effort try
Yourself to extricate.
For me, affairs of state
Permit me not to wait.'
Whatever way you wend,
Consider well the end.
[11] Aesop; also in Phaedrus, IV. 9.
VI.--THE EAGLE, THE WILD SOW, AND THE CAT.[12]
A certain hollow tree
Was tenanted by three.
An eagle held a lofty bough,
The hollow root a wild wood sow,
A female cat between the two.
All busy with maternal labours,
They lived awhile obliging neighbours.
At last the cat's deceitful tongue
Broke up the peace of old and young.
Up climbing to the eagle's nest,
She said, with whisker'd lips compress'd,
'Our death, or, what as much we mothers fear,
That of our helpless offspring dear,
Is surely drawing near.
Beneath our feet, see you not how
Destruction's plotted by the sow?
Her constant digging, soon or late,
Our proud old castle will uproot.
And then--O, sad and shocking fate!--
She'll eat our young ones, as the fruit!
Were there but hope of saving one,
'Twould soothe somewhat my bitter moan.'
Thus leaving apprehensions hideous,
Down went the puss perfidious
To where the sow, no longer digging,
Was in the very act of pigging.
'Good friend and neighbour,' whisper'd she,
'I warn you on your guard to be.
Your pigs should you but leave a minute,
This eagle here will seize them in it.
Speak not of this, I beg, at all,
Lest on my head her wrath should fall.'
Another breast with fear inspired,
With fiendish joy the cat retired.
The eagle ventured no egress
To feed her young, the sow still less.
Fools they, to think that any curse
Than ghastly famine could be worse!
Both staid at home, resolved and obstinate,
To save their young ones from impending fate,--
The royal bird for fear of mine,
For fear of royal claws the swine.
All died, at length, with hunger,
The older and the younger;
There staid, of eagle race or boar,
Not one this side of death's dread door;--
A sad misfortune, which
The wicked cats made rich.
O, what is there of hellish plot
The treacherous tongue dares not!
Of all the ills Pandora's box[13] outpour'd,
Deceit, I think, is most to be abhorr'd.
[12] Phaedrus, II. 4.
[13] _Pandora's box._--Pandora, the Eve of the Grecian mythology,
was sent to earth with all the human ills and Hope in a box, whence
all but Hope escaped.--_Vide_ Elton's Hesiod, _Works and Days_,
I. 114, Bohn's edition, &c.
VII.--THE DRUNKARD AND HIS WIFE.[14]
Each has his fault, to which he clings
In spite of shame or fear.
This apophthegm a story brings,
To make its truth more clear.
A sot had lost health, mind, and purse;
And, truly, for that matter,
Sots mostly lose the latter
Ere running half their course.
When wine, one day, of wit had fill'd the room,
His wife inclosed him in a spacious tomb.
There did the fumes evaporate
At leisure from his drowsy pate.
When he awoke, he found
His body wrapp'd around
With grave-clothes, chill and damp,
Beneath a dim sepulchral lamp.
'How's this? My wife a widow sad?'
He cried, 'and I a ghost? Dead? dead?'
Thereat his spouse, with snaky hair,
And robes like those the Furies wear,
With voice to fit the realms below,
Brought boiling caudle to his bier--
For Lucifer the proper cheer;
By which her husband came to know--
For he had heard of those three ladies--
Himself a citizen of Hades.
'What may your office be?'
The phantom question'd he.
'I'm server up of Pluto's meat,
And bring his guests the same to eat.'
'Well,' says the sot, not taking time to think,
'And don't you bring us anything to drink?'
[14] Aesop.
VIII.--THE GOUT AND THE SPIDER.[15]
When Nature angrily turn'd out
Those plagues, the spider and the gout,--
'See you,' said she, 'those huts so meanly built,
These palaces so grand and richly gilt?
By mutual agreement fix
Your choice of dwellings; or if not,
To end th' affair by lot,
Draw out these little sticks.'
'The huts are not for me,' the spider cried;
'And not for me the palace,' cried the gout;
For there a sort of men she spied
Call'd doctors, going in and out,
From whom, she could not hope for ease.
So hied her to the huts the fell disease,
And, fastening on a poor man's toe,
Hoped there to fatten on his woe,
And torture him, fit after fit,
Without a summons e'er to quit,
From old Hippocrates.
The spider, on the lofty ceiling,
As if she had a life-lease feeling.
Wove wide her cunning toils,
Soon rich with insect spoils.
A maid destroy'd them as she swept the room:
Repair'd, again they felt the fatal broom.
The wretched creature, every day,
From house and home must pack away.
At last, her courage giving out,
She went to seek her sister gout,
And in the field descried her,
Quite starved: more evils did betide her
Than e'er befel the poorest spider--
Her toiling host enslaved her so,
And made her chop, and dig, and hoe!
(Says one, "Kept brisk and busy,
The gout is made half easy.")
'O, when,' exclaim'd the sad disease,
'Will this my misery stop?
O, sister spider, if you please,
Our places let us swop.'
The spider gladly heard,
And took her at her word,--
And flourish'd in the cabin-lodge,
Not forced the tidy broom to dodge
The gout, selecting her abode
With an ecclesiastic judge,
Turn'd judge herself, and, by her code,
He from his couch no more could budge.
The salves and cataplasms Heaven knows,
That mock'd the misery of his toes;
While aye, without a blush, the curse,
Kept driving onward worse and worse.
Needless to say, the sisterhood
Thought their exchange both wise and good.
[15] The story of this fable is told in Petrarch, (Epistles, III. 13) and
by others.
IX.--THE WOLF AND THE STORK.[16]
The wolves are prone to play the glutton.
One, at a certain feast, 'tis said,
So stuff'd himself with lamb and mutton,
He seem'd but little short of dead.
Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast.
Well for this wolf, who could not speak,
That soon a stork quite near him pass'd.
By signs invited, with her beak
The bone she drew
With slight ado,
And for this skilful surgery
Demanded, modestly, her fee.
'Your fee!' replied the wolf,
In accents rather gruff;
'And is it not enough
Your neck is safe from such a gulf?
Go, for a wretch ingrate,
Nor tempt again your fate!'
[16] Phaedrus, I. 8; and Aesop.
X.--THE LION BEATEN BY THE MAN.[17]
A picture once was shown,
In which one man, alone,
Upon the ground had thrown
A lion fully grown.
Much gloried at the sight the rabble.
A lion thus rebuked their babble:--
'That you have got the victory there,
There is no contradiction.
But, gentles, possibly you are
The dupes of easy fiction:
Had we the art of making pictures,
Perhaps our champion had beat yours!'
[17] Aesop.
XI.--THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.[18]
A fox, almost with hunger dying,
Some grapes upon a trellis spying,
To all appearance ripe, clad in
Their tempting russet skin,
Most gladly would have eat them;
But since he could not get them,
So far above his reach the vine--
'They're sour,' he said; 'such grapes as these,
The dogs may eat them if they please!'
Did he not better than to whine?
[18] Aesop: Phaedrus, IV. 3.
XII.--THE SWAN AND THE COOK.[19]
The pleasures of a poultry yard
Were by a swan and gosling shared.
The swan was kept there for his looks,
The thrifty gosling for the cooks;
The first the garden's pride, the latter
A greater favourite on the platter.
They swam the ditches, side by side,
And oft in sports aquatic vied,
Plunging, splashing far and wide,
With rivalry ne'er satisfied.
One day the cook, named Thirsty John,
Sent for the gosling, took the swan,
In haste his throat to cut,
And put him in the pot.
The bird's complaint resounded
In glorious melody;
Whereat the cook, astounded
His sad mistake to see,
Cried, 'What! make soup of a musician!
Please God, I'll never set such dish on.
No, no; I'll never cut a throat
That sings so sweet a note.'
'Tis thus, whatever peril may alarm us,
Sweet words will never harm us.
[19] Aesop.
XIII.--THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.[20]
By-gone a thousand years of war,
The wearers of the fleece
And wolves at last made peace;
Which both appear'd the better for;
For if the wolves had now and then
Eat up a straggling ewe or wether,
As often had the shepherd men
Turn'd wolf-skins into leather.
Fear always spoil'd the verdant herbage,
And so it did the bloody carnage.
Hence peace was sweet; and, lest it should be riven,
On both sides hostages were given.
The sheep, as by the terms arranged,
For pups of wolves their dogs exchanged;
Which being done above suspicion,
Confirm'd and seal'd by high commission,
What time the pups were fully grown,
And felt an appetite for prey,
And saw the sheepfold left alone,
The shepherds all away,
They seized the fattest lambs they could,
And, choking, dragg'd them to the wood;
Of which, by secret means apprised,
Their sires, as is surmised,
Fell on the hostage guardians of the sheep,
And slew them all asleep.
So quick the deed of perfidy was done,
There fled to tell the tale not one!
From which we may conclude
That peace with villains will be rued.
Peace in itself, 'tis true,
May be a good for you;
But 'tis an evil, nathless,
When enemies are faithless.
[20] Aesop.
XIV.--THE LION GROWN OLD.[21]
A lion, mourning, in his age, the wane
Of might once dreaded through his wild domain,
Was mock'd, at last, upon his throne,
By subjects of his own,
Strong through his weakness grown.
The horse his head saluted with a kick;
The wolf snapp'd at his royal hide;
The ox, too, gored him in the side;
The unhappy lion, sad and sick,
Could hardly growl, he was so weak.
In uncomplaining, stoic pride,
He waited for the hour of fate,
Until the ass approach'd his gate;
Whereat, 'This is too much,' he saith;
'I willingly would yield my breath;
But, ah! thy kick is double death!'
[21] Phaedrus, I. 21.
XV.--PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.[22]
From home and city spires, one day,
The swallow Progne flew away,
And sought the bosky dell
Where sang poor Philomel.[23]
'My sister,' Progne said, 'how do you do?
'Tis now a thousand years since you
Have been conceal'd from human view;
I'm sure I have not seen your face
Once since the times of Thrace.
Pray, will you never quit this dull retreat?'
'Where could I find,' said Philomel, 'so sweet?'
'What! sweet?' cried Progne--'sweet to waste
Such tones on beasts devoid of taste,
Or on some rustic, at the most!
Should you by deserts be engross'd?
Come, be the city's pride and boast.
Besides, the woods remind of harms
That Tereus in them did your charms.'
'Alas!' replied the bird of song,
'The thought of that so cruel wrong
Makes me, from age to age,
Prefer this hermitage;
For nothing like the sight of men
Can call up what I suffer'd then.'
[22] Aesop.
[23] _Progne and Philomel_.--Progne and Philomela, sisters, in
mythology. Progne was Queen of Thrace, and was changed into a
swallow. Her sister was changed into a nightingale; _vide_ Ovid,
_Metamorphoses_.
XVI.--THE WOMAN DROWNED.[24]
I hate that saying, old and savage,
"'Tis nothing but a woman drowning."
That's much, I say. What grief more keen should have edge
Than loss of her, of all our joys the crowning?
Thus much suggests the fable I am borrowing.
A woman perish'd in the water,
Where, anxiously, and sorrowing,
Her husband sought her,
To ease the grief he could not cure,
By honour'd rites of sepulture.
It chanced that near the fatal spot,
Along the stream which had
Produced a death so sad,
There walk'd some men that knew it not.
The husband ask'd if they had seen
His wife, or aught that hers had been.
One promptly answer'd, 'No!
But search the stream below:
It must nave borne her in its flow.'
'No,' said another; 'search above.
In that direction
She would have floated, by the love
Of contradiction.'
This joke was truly out of season;--
I don't propose to weigh its reason.
But whether such propensity
The sex's fault may be,
Or not, one thing is very sure,
Its own propensities endure.
Up to the end they'll have their will,
And, if it could be, further still.
[24] Verdizotti.
XVII.--THE WEASEL IN THE GRANARY.[25]
A weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze,
(She was recovering from disease,)
Which led her to a farmer's hoard.
There lodged, her wasted form she cherish'd;
Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored
That by her gnawing perish'd!
Of which the consequence
Was sudden corpulence.
A week or so was past,
When having fully broken fast.
A noise she heard, and hurried
To find the hole by which she came,
And seem'd to find it not the same;
So round she ran, most sadly flurried;
And, coming back, thrust out her head,
Which, sticking there, she said,
'This is the hole, there can't be blunder:
What makes it now so small, I wonder,
Where, but the other day, I pass'd with ease?'
A rat her trouble sees,
And cries, 'But with an emptier belly;
You enter'd lean, and lean must sally.'
What I have said to you
Has eke been said to not a few,
Who, in a vast variety of cases,[26]
Have ventured into such-like places.
[25] Aesop: also in Horace, _Epistles_, Book I. 7.
[26] _A vast variety of cases_.--Chamfort says of this passage: "La
Fontaine, with his usual delicacy, here alludes to the king's
farmers and other officers in place; and abruptly quits the subject
as if he felt himself on ticklish ground."
XVIII.--THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT.[27]
A story-writer of our sort
Historifies, in short,
Of one that may be reckon'd
A Rodilard the Second,--[28]
The Alexander of the cats,
The Attila,[29] the scourge of rats,
Whose fierce and whisker'd head
Among the latter spread,
A league around, its dread;
Who seem'd, indeed, determined
The world should be unvermined.
The planks with props more false than slim,
The tempting heaps of poison'd meal,
The traps of wire and traps of steel,
Were only play compared with him.
At length, so sadly were they scared.
The rats and mice no longer dared
To show their thievish faces
Outside their hiding-places,
Thus shunning all pursuit; whereat
Our crafty General Cat
Contrived to hang himself, as dead,
Beside the wall with downward head,
Resisting gravitation's laws
By clinging with his hinder claws
To some small bit of string.
The rats esteem'd the thing
A judgment for some naughty deed,
Some thievish snatch,
Or ugly scratch;
And thought their foe had got his meed
By being hung indeed.
With hope elated all
Of laughing at his funeral,
They thrust their noses out in air;
And now to show their heads they dare;
Now dodging back, now venturing more;
At last upon the larder's store
They fall to filching, as of yore.
A scanty feast enjoy'd these shallows;
Down dropp'd the hung one from his gallows,
And of the hindmost caught.
'Some other tricks to me are known,'
Said he, while tearing bone from bone,
'By long experience taught;
The point is settled, free from doubt,
That from your holes you shall come out.'
His threat as good as prophecy
Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly;
For, putting on a mealy robe,
He squatted in an open tub,
And held his purring and his breath;--
Out came the vermin to their death.
On this occasion, one old stager,
A rat as grey as any badger,
Who had in battle lost his tail,
Abstained from smelling at the meal;
And cried, far off, 'Ah! General Cat,
I much suspect a heap like that;
Your meal is not the thing, perhaps,
For one who knows somewhat of traps;
Should you a sack of meal become,
I'd let you be, and stay at home.'
Well said, I think, and prudently,
By one who knew distrust to be
The parent of security.
[27] Phaedrus, Book IV. 2: also in Aesop, and Faerno.
[28] _Rodilard the Second._--Another allusion to Rabelais's cat
Rodilardus. See Fable II., Book II.
[29] _Attila_.--The King of the Huns, who, for overrunning half Europe,
was termed the Scourge of God.
* * * * *
BOOK IV.
I.--THE LION IN LOVE.[1]
To Mademoiselle De Sévigné.[2]
Sévigné, type of every grace
In female form and face,
In your regardlessness of men,
Can you show favour when
The sportive fable craves your ear,
And see, unmoved by fear,
A lion's haughty heart
Thrust through by Love's audacious dart?
Strange conqueror, Love! And happy he,
And strangely privileged and free,
Who only knows by story
Him and his feats of glory!
If on this subject you are wont
To think the simple truth too blunt,
The fabulous may less affront;
Which now, inspired with gratitude,
Yea, kindled into zeal most fervent,
Doth venture to intrude
Within your maiden solitude,
And kneel, your humble servant.--
In times when animals were speakers,
Among the quadrupedal seekers
Of our alliance
There came the lions.
And wherefore not? for then
They yielded not to men
In point of courage or of sense,
Nor were in looks without pretence.
A high-born lion, on his way
Across a meadow, met one day
A shepherdess, who charm'd him so,
That, as such matters ought to go,
He sought the maiden for his bride.
Her sire, it cannot be denied,
Had much preferr'd a son-in-law
Of less terrific mouth and paw.
It was not easy to decide--
The lion might the gift abuse--
'Twas not quite prudent to refuse.
And if refusal there should be,
Perhaps a marriage one would see,
Some morning, made clandestinely.
For, over and above
The fact that she could bear
With none but males of martial air,
The lady was in love
With him of shaggy hair.
Her sire, much wanting cover
To send away the lover,
Thus spoke:--'My daughter, sir,
Is delicate. I fear to her
Your fond caressings
Will prove rough blessings.
To banish all alarm
About such sort of harm,
Permit us to remove the cause,
By filing off your teeth and claws.
In such a case, your royal kiss
Will be to her a safer bliss,
And to yourself a sweeter;
Since she will more respond
To those endearments fond
With which you greet her.'
The lion gave consent at once,
By love so great a dunce!
Without a tooth or claw now view him--
A fort with cannon spiked.
The dogs, let loose upon him, slew him,
All biting safely where they liked.
O, tyrant Love! when held by you,
We may to prudence bid adieu.
[1] Aesop, also Verdizotti.
[2] _Mademoiselle de Sévigné_.--Francoise-Marguerite de Sévigné,
afterwards Madame de Grignan, the daughter of the celebrated Madame
de Sévigné. The famous Sévigné "Letters" were for the most part
addressed to Madame de Grignan. For some account of Madame de Sévigné
and La Fontaine, see the Translator's Preface; also note to Fable XI.
Book VII.
II.--THE SHEPHERD AND THE SEA.[3]
A shepherd, neighbour to the sea,
Lived with his flock contentedly.
His fortune, though but small,
Was safe within his call.
At last some stranded kegs of gold
Him tempted, and his flock he sold,
Turn'd merchant, and the ocean's waves
Bore all his treasure--to its caves.
Brought back to keeping sheep once more,
But not chief shepherd, as before,
When sheep were his that grazed the shore,
He who, as Corydon or Thyrsis,
Might once have shone in pastoral verses,
Bedeck'd with rhyme and metre,
Was nothing now but Peter.
But time and toil redeem'd in full
Those harmless creatures rich in wool;
And as the lulling winds, one day,
The vessels wafted with a gentle motion,
'Want you,' he cried, 'more money, Madam Ocean?
Address yourself to some one else, I pray;
You shall not get it out of me!
I know too well your treachery.'
This tale's no fiction, but a fact,
Which, by experience back'd,
Proves that a single penny,
At present held, and certain,
Is worth five times as many,
Of Hope's, beyond the curtain;
That one should be content with his condition,
And shut his ears to counsels of ambition,
More faithless than the wreck-strown sea, and which
Doth thousands beggar where it makes one rich,--
Inspires the hope of wealth, in glorious forms,
And blasts the same with piracy and storms.
[3] Aesop.
III.--THE FLY AND THE ANT.[4]
A fly and ant, upon a sunny bank,
Discuss'd the question of their rank.
'O Jupiter!' the former said,
'Can love of self so turn the head,
That one so mean and crawling,
And of so low a calling,
To boast equality shall dare
With me, the daughter of the air?
In palaces I am a guest,
And even at thy glorious feast.
Whene'er the people that adore thee
May immolate for thee a bullock,
I'm sure to taste the meat before thee.
Meanwhile this starveling, in her hillock,
Is living on some bit of straw
Which she has labour'd home to draw.
But tell me now, my little thing,
Do you camp ever on a king,
An emperor, or lady?
I do, and have full many a play-day
On fairest bosom of the fair,
And sport myself upon her hair.
Come now, my hearty, rack your brain
To make a case about your grain.'
'Well, have you done?' replied the ant.
'You enter palaces, I grant,
And for it get right soundly cursed.
Of sacrifices, rich and fat,
Your taste, quite likely, is the first;--
Are they the better off for that?
You enter with the holy train;
So enters many a wretch profane.
On heads of kings and asses you may squat;
Deny your vaunting I will not;
But well such impudence, I know,
Provokes a sometimes fatal blow.
The name in which your vanity delights
Is own'd as well by parasites,
And spies that die by ropes--as you soon will
By famine or by ague-chill,
When Phoebus goes to cheer
The other hemisphere,--
The very time to me most dear.
Not forced abroad to go
Through wind, and rain, and snow,
My summer's work I then enjoy,
And happily my mind employ,
From care by care exempted.
By which this truth I leave to you,
That by two sorts of glory we are tempted,
The false one and the true.
Work waits, time flies; adieu:--
This gabble does not fill
My granary or till.'
[4] Phaedrus, IV. 23.
IV.--THE GARDENER AND HIS LORD.
A lover of gardens, half cit and half clown,
Possess'd a nice garden beside a small town;
And with it a field by a live hedge inclosed,
Where sorrel and lettuce, at random disposed,
A little of jasmine, and much of wild thyme,
Grew gaily, and all in their prime
To make up Miss Peggy's bouquet,
The grace of her bright wedding day.
For poaching in such a nice field--'twas a shame;
A foraging, cud-chewing hare was to blame.
Whereof the good owner bore down
This tale to the lord of the town:--
'Some mischievous animal, morning and night,
In spite of my caution, comes in for his bite.
He laughs at my cunning-set dead-falls and snares;
For clubbing and stoning as little he cares.
I think him a wizard. A wizard! the coot!
I'd catch him if he were a devil to boot!'
The lord said, in haste to have sport for his hounds,
'I'll clear him, I warrant you, out of your grounds;
To morrow I'll do it without any fail.'
The thing thus agreed on, all hearty and hale,
The lord and his party, at crack of the dawn,
With hounds at their heels canter'd over the lawn.
Arrived, said the lord in his jovial mood,
'We'll breakfast with you, if your chickens are good.
That lass, my good man, I suppose is your daughter:
No news of a son-in-law? Any one sought her?
No doubt, by the score. Keep an eye on the docket,
Eh? Dost understand me? I speak of the pocket.'
So saying, the daughter he graciously greeted,
And close by his lordship he bade her be seated;
Avow'd himself pleased with so handsome a maid,
And then with her kerchief familiarly play'd,--
Impertinent freedoms the virtuous fair
Repell'd with a modest and lady-like air,--
So much that her father a little suspected
The girl had already a lover elected.
Meanwhile in the kitchen what bustling and cooking!
'For what are your hams? They are very good looking.'
'They're kept for your lordship.' 'I take them,' said he;
'Such elegant flitches are welcome to me.'
He breakfasted finely his troop, with delight,--
Dogs, horses, and grooms of the best appetite.
Thus he govern'd his host in the shape of a guest,
Unbottled his wine, and his daughter caress'd.
To breakfast, the huddle of hunters succeeds,
The yelping of dogs and the neighing of steeds,
All cheering and fixing for wonderful deeds;
The horns and the bugles make thundering din;
Much wonders our gardener what it can mean.
The worst is, his garden most wofully fares;
Adieu to its arbours, and borders, and squares;
Adieu to its chiccory, onions, and leeks;
Adieu to whatever good cookery seeks.
Beneath a great cabbage the hare was in bed,
Was started, and shot at, and hastily fled.
Off went the wild chase, with a terrible screech,
And not through a hole, but a horrible breach,
Which some one had made, at the beck of the lord,
Wide through the poor hedge! 'Twould have been quite absurd
Should lordship not freely from garden go out,
On horseback, attended by rabble and rout.
Scarce suffer'd the gard'ner his patience to wince,
Consoling himself--'Twas the sport of a prince;
While bipeds and quadrupeds served to devour,
And trample, and waste, in the space of an hour,
Far more than a nation of foraging hares
Could possibly do in a hundred of years.
Small princes, this story is true,
When told in relation to you.
In settling your quarrels with kings for your tools,
You prove yourselves losers and eminent fools.
V.--THE ASS AND THE LITTLE DOG.[5]
One's native talent from its course
Cannot be turned aside by force;
But poorly apes the country clown
The polish'd manners of the town.
Their Maker chooses but a few
With power of pleasing to imbue;
Where wisely leave it we, the mass,
Unlike a certain fabled ass,
That thought to gain his master's blessing
By jumping on him and caressing.
'What!' said the donkey in his heart;
'Ought it to be that puppy's part
To lead his useless life
In full companionship
With master and his wife,
While I must bear the whip?
What doth the cur a kiss to draw?
Forsooth, he only gives his paw!
If that is all there needs to please,
I'll do the thing myself, with ease.'
Possess'd with this bright notion,--
His master sitting on his chair,
At leisure in the open air,--
He ambled up, with awkward motion,
And put his talents to the proof;
Upraised his bruised and batter'd hoof,
And, with an amiable mien,
His master patted on the chin,
The action gracing with a word--
The fondest bray that e'er was heard!
O, such caressing was there ever?
Or melody with such a quaver?
'Ho! Martin![6] here! a club, a club bring!'
Out cried the master, sore offended.
So Martin gave the ass a drubbing,--
And so the comedy was ended.
[5] Aesop.
[6] _Martin_.--La Fontaine has "Martin-bâton," a name for a groom or
ostler armed with his cudgel of office, taken from Rabelais.
VI.--THE BATTLE OF THE RATS AND THE WEASELS.[7]
The weasels live, no more than cats,
On terms of friendship with the rats;
And, were it not that these
Through doors contrive to squeeze
Too narrow for their foes,
The animals long-snouted
Would long ago have routed,
And from the planet scouted
Their race, as I suppose.
One year it did betide,
When they were multiplied,
An army took the field
Of rats, with spear and shield,
Whose crowded ranks led on
A king named Ratapon.
The weasels, too, their banner
Unfurl'd in warlike manner.
As Fame her trumpet sounds,
The victory balanced well;
Enrich'd were fallow grounds
Where slaughter'd legions fell;
But by said trollop's tattle,
The loss of life in battle
Thinn'd most the rattish race
In almost every place;
And finally their rout
Was total, spite of stout
Artarpax and Psicarpax,
And valiant Meridarpax,[8]
Who, cover'd o'er with dust,
Long time sustain'd their host
Down sinking on the plain.
Their efforts were in vain;
Fate ruled that final hour,
(Inexorable power!)
And so the captains fled
As well as those they led;
The princes perish'd all.
The undistinguish'd small
In certain holes found shelter,
In crowding, helter-skelter;
But the nobility
Could not go in so free,
Who proudly had assumed
Each one a helmet plumed;
We know not, truly, whether
For honour's sake the feather,
Or foes to strike with terror;
But, truly, 'twas their error.
Nor hole, nor crack, nor crevice
Will let their head-gear in;
While meaner rats in bevies
An easy passage win;--
So that the shafts of fate
Do chiefly hit the great.
A feather in the cap
Is oft a great mishap.
An equipage too grand
Comes often to a stand
Within a narrow place.
The small, whate'er the case,
With ease slip through a strait,
Where larger folks must wait.
[7] Phaedrus, Book IV. 6.
[8] Names of rats, invented by Homer.--Translator.
VII.--THE MONKEY AND THE DOLPHIN.[9]
It was the custom of the Greeks
For passengers o'er sea to carry
Both monkeys full of tricks
And funny dogs to make them merry.
A ship, that had such things on deck,
Not far from Athens, went to wreck.
But for the dolphins, all had drown'd.
They are a philanthropic fish,
Which fact in Pliny may be found;--
A better voucher who could wish?
They did their best on this occasion.
A monkey even, on their plan
Well nigh attain'd his own salvation;
A dolphin took him for a man,
And on his dorsal gave him place.
So grave the silly creature's face,
That one might well have set him down
That old musician of renown.[10]
The fish had almost reach'd the land,
When, as it happen'd,--what a pity!--
He ask'd, 'Are you from Athens grand?'
'Yes; well they know me in that city.
If ever you have business there,
I'll help you do it, for my kin
The highest offices are in.
My cousin, sir, is now lord mayor.'
The dolphin thank'd him, with good grace,
Both for himself and all his race,
And ask'd, 'You doubtless know Piraeus,
Where, should we come to town, you'll see us.'
'Piraeus? yes, indeed I know;
He was my crony long ago.'
The dunce knew not the harbour's name,
And for a man's mistook the same.
The people are by no means few,
Who never went ten miles from home,
Nor know their market-town from Rome,
Yet cackle just as if they knew.
The dolphin laugh'd, and then began
His rider's form and face to scan,
And found himself about to save
From fishy feasts, beneath the wave,
A mere resemblance of a man.
So, plunging down, he turn'd to find
Some drowning wight of human kind.
[9] Aesop.
[10] Arion.--Translator.
According to Herodotus, I. 24 (Bonn's ed., p. 9), Arion, the son of
Cyclon of Methymna, and famous lyric poet and musician, having won
riches at a musical contest in Sicily, was voyaging home, when the
sailors of his ship determined to murder him for his treasure. He
asked to be allowed to play a tune; and as soon as he had finished
he threw himself into the sea. It was then found that the music had
attracted a number of dolphins round the ship, and one of these took
the bard on its back and conveyed him safely to Taenarus.
VIII.--THE MAN AND THE WOODEN GOD.[11]
A pagan kept a god of wood,--
A sort that never hears,
Though furnish'd well with ears,--
From which he hoped for wondrous good.
The idol cost the board of three;
So much enrich'd was he
With vows and offerings vain,
With bullocks garlanded and slain:
No idol ever had, as that,
A kitchen quite so full and fat.
But all this worship at his shrine
Brought not from this same block divine
Inheritance, or hidden mine,
Or luck at play, or any favour.
Nay, more, if any storm whatever
Brew'd trouble here or there,
The man was sure to have his share,
And suffer in his purse,
Although the god fared none the worse.
At last, by sheer impatience bold,
The man a crowbar seizes,
His idol breaks in pieces,
And finds it richly stuff'd with gold.
'How's this? Have I devoutly treated,'
Says he, 'your godship, to be cheated?
Now leave my house, and go your way,
And search for altars where you may.
You're like those natures, dull and gross,
From, which comes nothing but by blows;
The more I gave, the less I got;
I'll now be rich, and you may rot.'
[11] Aesop.
IX.--THE JAY IN THE FEATHERS OF THE PEACOCK.[12]
A peacock moulted: soon a jay was seen
Bedeck'd with Argus tail of gold and green,[13]
High strutting, with elated crest,
As much a peacock as the rest.
His trick was recognized and bruited,
His person jeer'd at, hiss'd, and hooted.
The peacock gentry flock'd together,
And pluck'd the fool of every feather.
Nay more, when back he sneak'd to join his race,
They shut their portals in his face.
There is another sort of jay,
The number of its legs the same,
Which makes of borrow'd plumes display,
And plagiary is its name.
But hush! the tribe I'll not offend;
'Tis not my work their ways to mend.
[12] Aesop; Phaedrus, I. 3.
[13] _Argus tail of gold and green._--According to mythology, Argus,
surnamed Panoptes (or all-seeing), possessed a hundred eyes, some of
which were never closed in sleep. At his death Juno either
transformed him into the peacock, or transferred his hundred eyes to
the tail of that, her favourite, bird. "Argus tail of gold and
green," therefore, means tail endowed with the eyes of Argus.
X.--THE CAMEL AND THE FLOATING STICKS.[14]
The first who saw the humpback'd camel
Fled off for life; the next approach'd with care;
The third with tyrant rope did boldly dare
The desert wanderer to trammel.
Such is the power of use to change
The face of objects new and strange;
Which grow, by looking at, so tame,
They do not even seem the same.
And since this theme is up for our attention,
A certain watchman I will mention,
Who, seeing something far
Away upon the ocean,
Could not but speak his notion
That 'twas a ship of war.
Some minutes more had past,--
A bomb-ketch 'twas without a sail,
And then a boat, and then a bale,
And floating sticks of wood at last!
Full many things on earth, I wot,
Will claim this tale,--and well they may;
They're something dreadful far away,
But near at hand--they're not.
[14] Aesop.
XI.--THE FROG AND THE RAT.[15]
They to bamboozle are inclined,
Saith Merlin,[16] who bamboozled are.
The word, though rather unrefined,
Has yet an energy we ill can spare;
So by its aid I introduce my tale.
A well-fed rat, rotund and hale,
Not knowing either Fast or Lent,
Disporting round a frog-pond went.
A frog approach'd, and, with a friendly greeting,
Invited him to see her at her home,
And pledged a dinner worth his eating,--
To which the rat was nothing loath to come.
Of words persuasive there was little need:
She spoke, however, of a grateful bath;
Of sports and curious wonders on their path;
Of rarities of flower, and rush, and reed:
One day he would recount with glee
To his assembled progeny
The various beauties of these places,
The customs of the various races,
And laws that sway the realms aquatic,
(She did not mean the hydrostatic!)
One thing alone the rat perplex'd,--
He was but moderate as a swimmer.
The frog this matter nicely fix'd
By kindly lending him her
Long paw, which with a rush she tied
To his; and off they started, side by side.
Arrived upon the lakelet's brink,
There was but little time to think.
The frog leap'd in, and almost brought her
Bound guest to land beneath the water.
Perfidious breach of law and right!
She meant to have a supper warm
Out of his sleek and dainty form.
Already did her appetite
Dwell on the morsel with delight.
The gods, in anguish, he invokes;
His faithless hostess rudely mocks;
He struggles up, she struggles down.
A kite, that hovers in the air,
Inspecting everything with care,
Now spies the rat belike to drown,
And, with a rapid wing,
Upbears the wretched thing,
The frog, too, dangling by the string!
The joy of such a double haul
Was to the hungry kite not small.
It gave him all that he could wish--
A double meal of flesh and fish.
The best contrived deceit
Can hurt its own contriver,
And perfidy doth often cheat
Its author's purse of every stiver.
[15] Aesop.
[16] _Merlin._--This is Merlin, the wizard of the old French novels.
XII.--THE ANIMALS SENDING TRIBUTE TO ALEXANDER.[17]
A fable flourished with antiquity
Whose meaning I could never clearly see.
Kind reader, draw the moral if you're able:
I give you here the naked fable.
Fame having bruited that a great commander,
A son of Jove, a certain Alexander,
Resolved to leave nought free on this our ball,
Had to his footstool gravely summon'd all
Men, quadrupeds, and nullipeds, together
With all the bird-republics, every feather,--
The goddess of the hundred mouths, I say,
Thus having spread dismay,
By widely publishing abroad
This mandate of the demigod,
The animals, and all that do obey
Their appetite alone, mistrusted now
That to another sceptre they must bow.
Far in the desert met their various races,
All gathering from their hiding-places.
Discuss'd was many a notion.
At last, it was resolved, on motion,
To pacify the conquering banner,
By sending homage in, and tribute.
With both the homage and its manner
They charged the monkey, as a glib brute;
And, lest the chap should too much chatter,
In black on white they wrote the matter.
Nought but the tribute served to fash,
As that must needs be paid in cash.
A prince, who chanced a mine to own,
At last, obliged them with a loan.
The mule and ass, to bear the treasure,
Their service tender'd, full of pleasure;
And then the caravan was none the worse,
Assisted by the camel and the horse.
Forthwith proceeded all the four
Behind the new ambassador,
And saw, erelong, within a narrow place,
Monseigneur Lion's quite unwelcome face.
'Well met, and all in time,' said he;
'Myself your fellow traveller will be.
I wend my tribute by itself to bear;
And though 'tis light, I well might spare
The unaccustom'd load.
Take each a quarter, if you please,
And I will guard you on the road;
More free and at my ease--
In better plight, you understand,
To fight with any robber band.'
A lion to refuse, the fact is,
Is not a very usual practice:
So in he comes, for better and for worse;
Whatever he demands is done,
And, spite of Jove's heroic son,
He fattens freely from the public purse.
While wending on their way,
They found a spot one day,
With waters hemm'd, of crystal sheen;
Its carpet, flower-besprinkled green;
Where pastured at their ease
Both flocks of sheep and dainty heifers,
And play'd the cooling breeze--
The native land of all the zephyrs.
No sooner is the lion there
Than of some sickness he complains.
Says he, 'You on your mission fare.
A fever, with its thirst and pains,
Dries up my blood, and bakes my brains;
And I must search some herb,
Its fatal power to curb.
For you, there is no time to waste;
Pay me my money, and make haste.'
The treasures were unbound,
And placed upon the ground.
Then, with a look which testified
His royal joy, the lion cried,
'My coins, good heavens, have multiplied!
And see the young ones of the gold
As big already as the old!
The increase belongs to me, no doubt;'
And eagerly he took it out!
'Twas little staid beneath the lid;
The wonder was that any did.
Confounded were the monkey and his suite.
And, dumb with fear, betook them to their way,
And bore complaint to Jove's great son, they say--
Complaint without a reason meet;
For what could he? Though a celestial scion,
He could but fight, as lion versus lion.
When corsairs battle, Turk with Turk,
They're not about their proper work.
[17] The story of this fable has been traced to Gilbert Cousin, in whose
works it figures with the title "De Jovis Ammonis oraculo." Gilbert
Cousin was Canon of Nozeret, and wrote between 1506 and 1569.
XIII.--THE HORSE WISHING TO BE REVENGED UPON THE STAG.[18]
The horses have not always been
The humble slaves of men.
When, in the far-off past,
The fare of gentlemen was mast,
And even hats were never felt,
Horse, ass, and mule in forests dwelt.
Nor saw one then, as in these ages,
So many saddles, housings, pillions;
Such splendid equipages,
With golden-lace postilions;
Such harnesses for cattle,
To be consumed in battle;
As one saw not so many feasts,
And people married by the priests.
The horse fell out, within that space,
With the antler'd stag, so fleetly made:
He could not catch him in a race,
And so he came to man for aid.
Man first his suppliant bitted;
Then, on his back well seated,
Gave chase with spear, and rested not
Till to the ground the foe he brought.
This done, the honest horse, quite blindly,
Thus thank'd his benefactor kindly:--
'Dear sir, I'm much obliged to you;
I'll back to savage life. Adieu!'
'O, no,' the man replied;
'You'd better here abide;
I know too well your use.
Here, free from all abuse,
Remain a liege to me,
And large your provender shall be.'
Alas! good housing or good cheer,
That costs one's liberty, is dear.
The horse his folly now perceived,
But quite too late he grieved.
No grief his fate could alter;
His stall was built, and there he lived,
And died there in his halter.
Ah! wise had he one small offence forgot!
Revenge, however sweet, is dearly bought
By that one good, which gone, all else is nought.
[18] Phaedrus, IV. 4; Horace (_Epistles_, Book I. 10), and others.
XIV.--THE FOX AND THE BUST.[19]
The great are like the maskers of the stage;
Their show deceives the simple of the age.
For all that they appear to be they pass,
With only those whose type's the ass.
The fox, more wary, looks beneath the skin,
And looks on every side, and, when he sees
That all their glory is a semblance thin,
He turns, and saves the hinges of his knees,
With such a speech as once, 'tis said,
He utter'd to a hero's head.
A bust, somewhat colossal in its size,
Attracted crowds of wondering eyes.
The fox admired the sculptor's pains:
'Fine head,' said he, 'but void of brains!'
The same remark to many a lord applies.
[19] Aesop: Phaedrus, I. 7 (The Fox and the Tragic Mask).
XV.--THE WOLF, THE GOAT, AND THE KID.[20]
As went the goat her pendent dugs to fill,
And browse the herbage of a distant hill,
She latch'd her door, and bid,
With matron care, her kid;--
'My daughter, as you live,
This portal don't undo
To any creature who
This watchword does not give:
"Deuce take the wolf and all his race!"'
The wolf was passing near the place
By chance, and heard the words with pleasure,
And laid them up as useful treasure;
And hardly need we mention,
Escaped the goat's attention.
No sooner did he see
The matron off, than he,
With hypocritic tone and face,
Cried out before the place,
'Deuce take the wolf and all his race!'
Not doubting thus to gain admission.
The kid, not void of all suspicion,
Peer'd through a crack, and cried,
'Show me white paw before
You ask me to undo the door.'
The wolf could not, if he had died,
For wolves have no connexion
With paws of that complexion.
So, much surprised, our gormandiser
Retired to fast till he was wiser.
How would the kid have been undone
Had she but trusted to the word
The wolf by chance had overheard!
Two sureties better are than one;
And caution's worth its cost,
Though sometimes seeming lost.
[20] Corrozet; and others.
XVI.--THE WOLF, THE MOTHER, AND HER CHILD.[21]
This wolf another brings to mind,
Who found dame Fortune more unkind,
In that the greedy, pirate sinner,
Was balk'd of life as well as dinner.
As saith our tale, a villager
Dwelt in a by, unguarded place;
There, hungry, watch'd our pillager
For luck and chance to mend his case.
For there his thievish eyes had seen
All sorts of game go out and in--
Nice sucking calves, and lambs and sheep;
And turkeys by the regiment,
With steps so proud, and necks so bent,
They'd make a daintier glutton weep.
The thief at length began to tire
Of being gnaw'd by vain desire.
Just then a child set up a cry:
'Be still,' the mother said, 'or I
Will throw you to the wolf, you brat!'
'Ha, ha!' thought he, 'what talk is that!
The gods be thank'd for luck so good!'
And ready at the door he stood,
When soothingly the mother said,
'Now cry no more, my little dear;
That naughty wolf, if he comes here,
Your dear papa shall kill him dead.'
'Humph!' cried the veteran mutton-eater.
'Now this, now that! Now hot, now cool!
Is this the way they change their metre?
And do they take me for a fool?
Some day, a nutting in the wood,
That young one yet shall be my food.'
But little time has he to dote
On such a feast; the dogs rush out
And seize the caitiff by the throat;
And country ditchers, thick and stout,
With rustic spears and forks of iron,
The hapless animal environ.
'What brought you here, old head?' cried one.
He told it all, as I have done.
'Why, bless my soul!' the frantic mother said,--
'You, villain, eat my little son!
And did I nurse the darling boy,
Your fiendish appetite to cloy?'
With that they knock'd him on the head.
His feet and scalp they bore to town,
To grace the seigneur's hall,
Where, pinn'd against the wall,
This verse completed his renown:--
"Ye honest wolves, believe not all
That mothers say, when children squall!"
[21] Aesop; and others.
XVII.--THE WORDS OF SOCRATES.[22]
A house was built by Socrates
That failed the public taste to please.
Some blamed the inside; some, the out; and all
Agreed that the apartments were too small.
Such rooms for him, the greatest sage of Greece!
'I ask,' said he, 'no greater bliss
Than real friends to fill e'en this.'
And reason had good Socrates
To think his house too large for these.
A crowd to be your friends will claim,
Till some unhandsome test you bring.
There's nothing plentier than the name;
There's nothing rarer than the thing.
[22] Phaedrus, III. 9.
XVIII.--THE OLD MAN AND HIS SONS.[23]
All power is feeble with dissension:
For this I quote the Phrygian slave.[24]
If aught I add to his invention,
It is our manners to engrave,
And not from any envious wishes;--
I'm not so foolishly ambitious.
Phaedrus enriches oft his story,
In quest--I doubt it not--of glory:
Such thoughts were idle in my breast.
An aged man, near going to his rest,
His gather'd sons thus solemnly address'd:--
'To break this bunch of arrows you may try;
And, first, the string that binds them I untie.'
The eldest, having tried with might and main,
Exclaim'd, 'This bundle I resign
To muscles sturdier than mine.'
The second tried, and bow'd himself in vain.
The youngest took them with the like success.
All were obliged their weakness to confess.
Unharm'd the arrows pass'd from son to son;
Of all they did not break a single one.
'Weak fellows!' said their sire, 'I now must show
What in the case my feeble strength can do.'
They laugh'd, and thought their father but in joke,
Till, one by one, they saw the arrows broke.
'See, concord's power!' replied the sire; 'as long
As you in love agree, you will be strong.
I go, my sons, to join our fathers good;
Now promise me to live as brothers should,
And soothe by this your dying father's fears.'
Each strictly promised with a flood of tears.
Their father took them by the hand, and died;
And soon the virtue of their vows was tried.
Their sire had left a large estate
Involved in lawsuits intricate;
Here seized a creditor, and there
A neighbour levied for a share.
At first the trio nobly bore
The brunt of all this legal war.
But short their friendship as 'twas rare.
Whom blood had join'd--and small the wonder!--
The force of interest drove asunder;
And, as is wont in such affairs,
Ambition, envy, were co-heirs.
In parcelling their sire's estate,
They quarrel, quibble, litigate,
Each aiming to supplant the other.
The judge, by turns, condemns each brother.
Their creditors make new assault,
Some pleading error, some default.
The sunder'd brothers disagree;
For counsel one, have counsels three.
All lose their wealth; and now their sorrows
Bring fresh to mind those broken arrows.
[23] Aesop, Avianus, and others.
[24] _Phrygan slave._--Aesop. See Translator's Preface.
XIX.--THE ORACLE AND THE ATHEIST.[25]
That man his Maker can deceive,
Is monstrous folly to believe.
The labyrinthine mazes of the heart
Are open to His eyes in every part.
Whatever one may do, or think, or feel,
From Him no darkness can the thing conceal.
A pagan once, of graceless heart and hollow,
Whose faith in gods, I'm apprehensive,
Was quite as real as expensive.
Consulted, at his shrine, the god Apollo.
'Is what I hold alive, or not?'
Said he,--a sparrow having brought,
Prepared to wring its neck, or let it fly,
As need might be, to give the god the lie.
Apollo saw the trick,
And answer'd quick,
'Dead or alive, show me your sparrow,
And cease to set for me a trap
Which can but cause yourself mishap.
I see afar, and far I shoot my arrow.'
[25] Aesop.
XX.--THE MISER WHO HAD LOST HIS TREASURE.[26]
'Tis use that constitutes possession.
I ask that sort of men, whose passion
It is to get and never spend,
Of all their toil what is the end?
What they enjoy of all their labours
Which do not equally their neighbours?
Throughout this upper mortal strife,
The miser leads a beggar's life.
Old Aesop's man of hidden treasure
May serve the case to demonstrate.
He had a great estate,
But chose a second life to wait
Ere he began to taste his pleasure.
This man, whom gold so little bless'd,
Was not possessor, but possess'd.
His cash he buried under ground,
Where only might his heart be found;
It being, then, his sole delight
To ponder of it day and night,
And consecrate his rusty pelf,
A sacred offering, to himself.
In all his eating, drinking, travel,
Most wondrous short of funds he seem'd;
One would have thought he little dream'd
Where lay such sums beneath the gravel.
A ditcher mark'd his coming to the spot,
So frequent was it,
And thus at last some little inkling got
Of the deposit.
He took it all, and babbled not.
One morning, ere the dawn,
Forth had our miser gone
To worship what he loved the best,
When, lo! he found an empty nest!
Alas! what groaning, wailing, crying!
What deep and bitter sighing!
His torment makes him tear
Out by the roots his hair.
A passenger demandeth why
Such marvellous outcry.
'They've got my gold! it's gone--it's gone!'
'Your gold! pray where?'--'Beneath this stone.'
'Why, man, is this a time of war,
That you should bring your gold so far?
You'd better keep it in your drawer;
And I'll be bound, if once but in it,
You could have got it any minute.'
'At any minute! Ah, Heaven knows
That cash comes harder than it goes!
I touch'd it not.'--'Then have the grace
To explain to me that rueful face,'
Replied the man; 'for, if 'tis true
You touch'd it not, how plain the case,
That, put the stone back in its place,
And all will be as well for you!'
[26] Aesop, and others.
XXI.--THE EYE OF THE MASTER.[27]
A stag took refuge from the chase
Among the oxen of a stable,
Who counsel'd him, as saith the fable,
To seek at once some safer place.
'My brothers,' said the fugitive,
'Betray me not, and, as I live,
The richest pasture I will show,
That e'er was grazed on, high or low;
Your kindness you will not regret,
For well some day I'll pay the debt.'
The oxen promised secrecy.
Down crouch'd the stag, and breathed more free.
At eventide they brought fresh hay,
As was their custom day by day;
And often came the servants near,
As did indeed the overseer,
But with so little thought or care,
That neither horns, nor hide, nor hair
Reveal'd to them the stag was there.
Already thank'd the wild-wood stranger
The oxen for their treatment kind,
And there to wait made up his mind,
Till he might issue free from danger.
Replied an ox that chew'd the cud,
'Your case looks fairly in the bud;
But then I fear the reason why
Is, that the man of sharpest eye
Hath not yet come his look to take.
I dread his coming, for your sake;
Your boasting may be premature:
Till then, poor stag, you're not secure.'
'Twas but a little while before
The careful master oped the door.
'How's this, my boys?' said he;
'These empty racks will never do.
Go, change this dirty litter too.
More care than this I want to see
Of oxen that belong to me.
Well, Jim, my boy, you're young and stout;
What would it cost to clear these cobwebs out?
And put these yokes, and hames, and traces,
All as they should be, in their places?'
Thus looking round, he came to see
One head he did not usually.
The stag is found; his foes
Deal heavily their blows.
Down sinks he in the strife;
No tears can save his life.
They slay, and dress, and salt the beast,
And cook his flesh in many a feast,
And many a neighbour gets a taste.
As Phaedrus says it, pithily,
The master's is the eye to see:--
I add the lover's, as for me.
[27] Phaedrus, II. 8 (The Stag and the Oxen); and others.
XXII.--THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES WITH THE OWNER OF A FIELD.[28]
"Depend upon yourself alone,"
Has to a common proverb grown.
'Tis thus confirm'd in Aesop's way:--
The larks to build their nests are seen
Among the wheat-crops young and green;
That is to say,
What time all things, dame Nature heeding,
Betake themselves to love and breeding--
The monstrous whales and sharks,
Beneath the briny flood,
The tigers in the wood,
And in the fields, the larks.
One she, however, of these last,
Found more than half the spring-time past
Without the taste of spring-time pleasures;
When firmly she set up her will
That she would be a mother still,
And resolutely took her measures;--
First, got herself by Hymen match'd;
Then built her nest, laid, sat, and hatch'd.
All went as well as such things could.
The wheat-crop ripening ere the brood
Were strong enough to take their flight,
Aware how perilous their plight,
The lark went out to search for food,
And told her young to listen well,
And keep a constant sentinel.
'The owner of this field,' said she,
'Will come, I know, his grain to see.
Hear all he says; we little birds
Must shape our conduct by his words.'
No sooner was the lark away,
Than came the owner with his son.
'This wheat is ripe,' said he: 'now run
And give our friends a call
To bring their sickles all,
And help us, great and small,
To-morrow, at the break of day.'
The lark, returning, found no harm,
Except her nest in wild alarm.
Says one, 'We heard the owner say,
Go, give our friends a call
To help, to-morrow, break of day.'
Replied the lark, 'If that is all,
We need not be in any fear,
But only keep an open ear.
As gay as larks, now eat your victuals.--'
They ate and slept--the great and littles.
The dawn arrives, but not the friends;
The lark soars up, the owner wends
His usual round to view his land.
'This grain,' says he, 'ought not to stand.
Our friends do wrong; and so does he
Who trusts that friends will friendly be.
My son, go call our kith and kin
To help us get our harvest in.'
This second order made
The little larks still more afraid.
'He sent for kindred, mother, by his son;
The work will now, indeed, be done.'
'No, darlings; go to sleep;
Our lowly nest we'll keep.'
With reason said; for kindred there came none.
Thus, tired of expectation vain,
Once more the owner view'd his grain.
'My son,' said he, 'we're surely fools
To wait for other people's tools;
As if one might, for love or pelf,
Have friends more faithful than himself!
Engrave this lesson deep, my son.
And know you now what must be done?
We must ourselves our sickles bring,
And, while the larks their matins sing,
Begin the work; and, on this plan,
Get in our harvest as we can.'
This plan the lark no sooner knew,
Than, 'Now's the time,' she said, 'my chicks;'
And, taking little time to fix,
Away they flew;
All fluttering, soaring, often grounding,
Decamp'd without a trumpet sounding.
[28] Aesop (Aulus Gellus); Avianus.
* * * * *
BOOK V.
I.--THE WOODMAN AND MERCURY.[1]
To M. The Chevalier De Bouillon.[2]
Your taste has served my work to guide;
To gain its suffrage I have tried.
You'd have me shun a care too nice,
Or beauty at too dear a price,
Or too much effort, as a vice.
My taste with yours agrees:
Such effort cannot please;
And too much pains about the polish
Is apt the substance to abolish;
Not that it would be right or wise
The graces all to ostracize.
You love them much when delicate;
Nor is it left for me to hate.
As to the scope of Aesop's plan,[3]
I fail as little as I can.
If this my rhymed and measured speech
Availeth not to please or teach,
I own it not a fault of mine;
Some unknown reason I assign.
With little strength endued
For battles rough and rude,
Or with Herculean arm to smite,
I show to vice its foolish plight.
In this my talent wholly lies;
Not that it does at all suffice.
My fable sometimes brings to view
The face of vanity purblind
With that of restless envy join'd;
And life now turns upon these pivots two.
Such is the silly little frog
That aped the ox upon her bog.
A double image sometimes shows
How vice and folly do oppose
The ways of virtue and good sense;
As lambs with wolves so grim and gaunt,
The silly fly and frugal ant.
Thus swells my work--a comedy immense--
Its acts unnumber'd and diverse,
Its scene the boundless universe.
Gods, men, and brutes, all play their part
In fields of nature or of art,
And Jupiter among the rest.
Here comes the god who's wont to bear
Jove's frequent errands to the fair,
With winged heels and haste;
But other work's in hand to-day.
A man that labour'd in the wood
Had lost his honest livelihood;
That is to say,
His axe was gone astray.
He had no tools to spare;
This wholly earn'd his fare.
Without a hope beside,
He sat him down and cried,
'Alas, my axe! where can it be?
O Jove! but send it back to me,
And it shall strike good blows for thee.'
His prayer in high Olympus heard,
Swift Mercury started at the word.
'Your axe must not be lost,' said he:
'Now, will you know it when you see?
An axe I found upon the road.'
With that an axe of gold he show'd.
'Is't this?' The woodman answer'd, 'Nay.'
An axe of silver, bright and gay,
Refused the honest woodman too.
At last the finder brought to view
An axe of iron, steel, and wood.
'That's mine,' he said, in joyful mood;
'With that I'll quite contented be.'
The god replied, 'I give the three,
As due reward of honesty.'
This luck when neighbouring choppers knew,
They lost their axes, not a few,
And sent their prayers to Jupiter
So fast, he knew not which to hear.
His winged son, however, sent
With gold and silver axes, went.
Each would have thought himself a fool
Not to have own'd the richest tool.
But Mercury promptly gave, instead
Of it, a blow upon the head.
With simple truth to be contented,
Is surest not to be repented;
But still there are who would
With evil trap the good,--
Whose cunning is but stupid,
For Jove is never dupèd.
[1] Aesop. There is also a version of the story in Rabelais, Book IV,
_Prologue_.
[2] La Fontaine's dedication is in initials thus:--"A. M. L. C. D. B."
which are interpreted by some as meaning, "To M. the Chevalier de
Bouillon" (as above), and by others as meaning, "To Monseigneur le
Cardinal de Bouillon."
[3] _Aesop's plan_.--Here, as in the dedication of Book VII., Fable
II., Book I., Fable I., Book III., Fable I., Book VI., Fable IV.,
Book VIII., and Fable I., Book IX., the poet treats of the nature and
uses of Fable.
II.--THE EARTHEN POT AND THE IRON POT.[4]
An iron pot proposed
To an earthen pot a journey.
The latter was opposed,
Expressing the concern he
Had felt about the danger
Of going out a ranger.
He thought the kitchen hearth
The safest place on earth
For one so very brittle.
'For thee, who art a kettle,
And hast a tougher skin,
There's nought to keep thee in.'
'I'll be thy body-guard,'
Replied the iron pot;
'If anything that's hard
Should threaten thee a jot,
Between you I will go,
And save thee from the blow.'
This offer him persuaded.
The iron pot paraded
Himself as guard and guide
Close at his cousin's side.
Now, in their tripod way,
They hobble as they may;
And eke together bolt
At every little jolt,--
Which gives the crockery pain;
But presently his comrade hits
So hard, he dashes him to bits,
Before he can complain.
Take care that you associate
With equals only, lest your fate
Between these pots should find its mate.
[4] Aesop.
III.--THE LITTLE FISH AND THE FISHER.[5]
A little fish will grow,
If life be spared, a great;
But yet to let him go,
And for his growing wait,
May not be very wise,
As 'tis not sure your bait
Will catch him when of size.
Upon a river bank, a fisher took
A tiny troutling from his hook.
Said he, ''Twill serve to count, at least,
As the beginning of my feast;
And so I'll put it with the rest.'
This little fish, thus caught,
His clemency besought.
'What will your honour do with me?
I'm not a mouthful, as you see.
Pray let me grow to be a trout,
And then come here and fish me out.
Some alderman, who likes things nice,
Will buy me then at any price.
But now, a hundred such you'll have to fish,
To make a single good-for-nothing dish.'
'Well, well, be it so,' replied the fisher,
'My little fish, who play the preacher,
The frying-pan must be your lot,
Although, no doubt, you like it not:
I fry the fry that can be got.'
In some things, men of sense
Prefer the present to the future tense.
[5] Aesop.
IV.--THE EARS OF THE HARE.[6]
Some beast with horns did gore
The lion; and that sovereign dread,
Resolved to suffer so no more,
Straight banish'd from his realm, 'tis said,
All sorts of beasts with horns--
Rams, bulls, goats, stags, and unicorns.
Such brutes all promptly fled.
A hare, the shadow of his ears perceiving,
Could hardly help believing
That some vile spy for horns would take them,
And food for accusation make them.
'Adieu,' said he, 'my neighbour cricket;
I take my foreign ticket.
My ears, should I stay here,
Will turn to horns, I fear;
And were they shorter than a bird's,
I fear the effect of words.'
'These horns!' the cricket answer'd; 'why,
God made them ears who can deny?'
'Yes,' said the coward, 'still they'll make them horns,
And horns, perhaps of unicorns!
In vain shall I protest,
With all the learning of the schools:
My reasons they will send to rest
In th' Hospital of Fools.'[7]
[6] Faerno.
[7] _Hospital of Fools_, i.e., madhouse.
V.--THE FOX WITH HIS TAIL CUT OFF.[8]
A cunning old fox, of plundering habits,
Great crauncher of fowls, great catcher of rabbits,
Whom none of his sort had caught in a nap,
Was finally caught in somebody's trap.
By luck he escaped, not wholly and hale,
For the price of his luck was the loss of his tail.
Escaped in this way, to save his disgrace,
He thought to get others in similar case.
One day that the foxes in council were met,
'Why wear we,' said he, 'this cumbering weight,
Which sweeps in the dirt wherever it goes?
Pray tell me its use, if any one knows.
If the council will take my advice,
We shall dock off our tails in a trice.'
'Your advice may be good,' said one on the ground;
'But, ere I reply, pray turn yourself round.'
Whereat such a shout from the council was heard,
Poor bob-tail, confounded, could say not a word.
To urge the reform would have wasted his breath.
Long tails were the mode till the day of his death.
[8] Aesop; Faerno.
VI.--THE OLD WOMAN AND HER TWO SERVANTS.[9]
A beldam kept two spinning maids,
Who plied so handily their trades,
Those spinning sisters down below
Were bunglers when compared with these.
No care did this old woman know
But giving tasks as she might please.
No sooner did the god of day
His glorious locks enkindle,
Than both the wheels began to play,
And from each whirling spindle
Forth danced the thread right merrily,
And back was coil'd unceasingly.
Soon as the dawn, I say, its tresses show'd,
A graceless cock most punctual crow'd.
The beldam roused, more graceless yet,
In greasy petticoat bedight,
Struck up her farthing light,
And then forthwith the bed beset,
Where deeply, blessedly did snore
Those two maid-servants tired and poor.
One oped an eye, an arm one stretch'd,
And both their breath most sadly fetch'd,
This threat concealing in the sigh--
'That cursed cock shall surely die!'
And so he did:--they cut his throat,
And put to sleep his rousing note.
And yet this murder mended not
The cruel hardship of their lot;
For now the twain were scarce in bed
Before they heard the summons dread.
The beldam, full of apprehension
Lest oversleep should cause detention,
Ran like a goblin through her mansion.
Thus often, when one thinks
To clear himself from ill,
His effort only sinks
Him in the deeper still.
The beldam, acting for the cock,
Was Scylla for Charybdis' rock.
[9] Aesop.
VII.--THE SATYR AND THE TRAVELLER.[10]
Within a savage forest grot
A satyr and his chips
Were taking down their porridge hot;
Their cups were at their lips.
You might have seen in mossy den,
Himself, his wife, and brood;
They had not tailor-clothes, like men,
But appetites as good.
In came a traveller, benighted,
All hungry, cold, and wet,
Who heard himself to eat invited
With nothing like regret.
He did not give his host the pain
His asking to repeat;
But first he blew with might and main
To give his fingers heat.
Then in his steaming porridge dish
He delicately blew.
The wondering satyr said, 'I wish
The use of both I knew.'
'Why, first, my blowing warms my hand,
And then it cools my porridge.'
'Ah!' said his host, 'then understand
I cannot give you storage.
'To sleep beneath one roof with you,
I may not be so bold.
Far be from me that mouth untrue
Which blows both hot and cold.'
[10] Aesop.
VIII.--THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.[11]
A wolf, what time the thawing breeze
Renews the life of plants and trees,
And beasts go forth from winter lair
To seek abroad their various fare,--
A wolf, I say, about those days,
In sharp look-out for means and ways,
Espied a horse turn'd out to graze.
His joy the reader may opine.
'Once got,' said he, 'this game were fine;
But if a sheep, 'twere sooner mine.
I can't proceed my usual way;
Some trick must now be put in play.'
This said,
He came with measured tread,
As if a healer of disease,--
Some pupil of Hippocrates,--
And told the horse, with learned verbs,
He knew the power of roots and herbs,--
Whatever grew about those borders,--
And not at all to flatter
Himself in such a matter,
Could cure of all disorders.
If he, Sir Horse, would not conceal
The symptoms of his case,
He, Doctor Wolf, would gratis heal;
For that to feed in such a place,
And run about untied,
Was proof itself of some disease,
As all the books decide.
'I have, good doctor, if you please,'
Replied the horse, 'as I presume,
Beneath my foot, an aposthume.'
'My son,' replied the learned leech,
'That part, as all our authors teach,
Is strikingly susceptible
Of ills which make acceptable
What you may also have from me--
The aid of skilful surgery;
Which noble art, the fact is,
For horses of the blood I practise.'
The fellow, with this talk sublime,
Watch'd for a snap the fitting time.
Meanwhile, suspicious of some trick,
The wary patient nearer draws,
And gives his doctor such a kick,
As makes a chowder of his jaws.
Exclaim'd the wolf, in sorry plight,
'I own those heels have served me right.
I err'd to quit my trade,
As I will not in future;
Me nature surely made
For nothing but a butcher.'
[11] Aesop; also in Faerno.
IX.--THE PLOUGHMAN AND HIS SONS.[12]
The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.
A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,
Call'd in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, 'When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is conceal'd:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod.'
The father died. The sons--and not in vain--
Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er again;
That year their acres bore
More grain than e'er before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,
To show by such a measure,
That toil itself is treasure.
[12] Aesop.
X.--THE MOUNTAIN IN LABOUR.[13]
A mountain was in travail pang;
The country with her clamour rang.
Out ran the people all, to see,
Supposing that the birth would be
A city, or at least a house.
It was a mouse!
In thinking of this fable,
Of story feign'd and false,
But meaning veritable,
My mind the image calls
Of one who writes, "The war I sing
Which Titans waged against the Thunder-king."[14]
As on the sounding verses ring,
What will be brought to birth?
Why, dearth.
[13] Phaedrus, IV. 22.
[14] _The War, &c._--The war of the Gods and Titans (sons of Heaven and
Earth); _vide_ Hesiod, _Theogony_, I. 1083, Bohn's ed.
XI.--FORTUNE AND THE BOY.[15]
Beside a well, uncurb'd and deep,
A schoolboy laid him down to sleep:
(Such rogues can do so anywhere.)
If some kind man had seen him there,
He would have leap'd as if distracted;
But Fortune much more wisely acted;
For, passing by, she softly waked the child,
Thus whispering in accents mild:
'I save your life, my little dear,
And beg you not to venture here
Again, for had you fallen in,
I should have had to bear the sin;
But I demand, in reason's name,
If for your rashness I'm to blame?'
With this the goddess went her way.
I like her logic, I must say.
There takes place nothing on this planet,
But Fortune ends, whoe'er began it.
In all adventures good or ill,
We look to her to foot the bill.
Has one a stupid, empty pate,
That serves him never till too late,
He clears himself by blaming Fate!
[15] Aesop.
XII.--THE DOCTORS.[16]
The selfsame patient put to test
Two doctors, Fear-the-worst and Hope-the-best.
The latter hoped; the former did maintain
The man would take all medicine in vain.
By different cures the patient was beset,
But erelong cancell'd nature's debt,
While nursed
As was prescribed by Fear-the-worst.
But over the disease both triumph'd still.
Said one, 'I well foresaw his death.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'but my pill
Would certainly have saved his breath.'
[16] Aesop, and others.
XIII.--THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS.[17]
How avarice loseth all,
By striving all to gain,
I need no witness call
But him whose thrifty hen,
As by the fable we are told,
Laid every day an egg of gold.
'She hath a treasure in her body,'
Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
He kills and opens--vexed to find
All things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.
In these last changes of the moon,
How often doth one see
Men made as poor as he
By force of getting rich too soon!
[17] Aesop.
XIV.--THE ASS CARRYING RELICS.[18]
An ass, with relics for his load,
Supposed the worship on the road
Meant for himself alone,
And took on lofty airs,
Receiving as his own
The incense and the prayers.
Some one, who saw his great mistake,
Cried, 'Master Donkey, do not make
Yourself so big a fool.
Not you they worship, but your pack;
They praise the idols on your back,
And count yourself a paltry tool.'
'Tis thus a brainless magistrate
Is honour'd for his robe of state.
[18] Aesop; also Faerno.
XV.--THE STAG AND THE VINE.[19]
A stag, by favour of a vine,
Which grew where suns most genial shine,
And form'd a thick and matted bower
Which might have turn'd a summer shower,
Was saved from ruinous assault.
The hunters thought their dogs at fault,
And call'd them off. In danger now no more
The stag, a thankless wretch and vile,
Began to browse his benefactress o'er.
The hunters, listening the while,
The rustling heard, came back,
With all their yelping pack,
And seized him in that very place.
'This is,' said he, 'but justice, in my case.
Let every black ingrate
Henceforward profit by my fate.'
The dogs fell to--'twere wasting breath
To pray those hunters at the death.
They left, and we will not revile 'em,
A warning for profaners of asylum.
[19] Aesop.
XVI.--THE SERPENT AND THE FILE.[20]
A serpent, neighbour to a smith,
(A neighbour bad to meddle with,)
Went through his shop, in search of food,
But nothing found, 'tis understood,
To eat, except a file of steel,
Of which he tried to make a meal.
The file, without a spark of passion,
Address'd him in the following fashion:--
'Poor simpleton! you surely bite
With less of sense than appetite;
For ere from me you gain
One quarter of a grain,
You'll break your teeth from ear to ear.
Time's are the only teeth I fear.'
This tale concerns those men of letters,
Who, good for nothing, bite their betters.
Their biting so is quite unwise.
Think you, ye literary sharks,
Your teeth will leave their marks
Upon the deathless works you criticise?
Fie! fie! fie! men!
To you they're brass--they're steel--they're diamond!
[20] Phaedrus, Book IV. 8; also Aesop.
XVII.--THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE.
Beware how you deride
The exiles from life's sunny side:
To you is little known
How soon their case may be your own.
On this, sage Aesop gives a tale or two,
As in my verses I propose to do.
A field in common share
A partridge and a hare,
And live in peaceful state,
Till, woeful to relate!
The hunters' mingled cry
Compels the hare to fly.
He hurries to his fort,
And spoils almost the sport
By faulting every hound
That yelps upon the ground.
At last his reeking heat
Betrays his snug retreat.
Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
Snuffs carefully, and grows
So certain, that he cries,
'The hare is here; bow wow!'
And veteran Ranger now,--
The dog that never lies,--
'The hare is gone,' replies.
Alas! poor, wretched hare,
Back comes he to his lair,
To meet destruction there!
The partridge, void of fear,
Begins her friend to jeer:--
'You bragg'd of being fleet;
How serve you, now, your feet?'
Scarce has she ceased to speak,--
The laugh yet in her beak,--
When comes her turn to die,
From which she could not fly.
She thought her wings, indeed,
Enough for every need;
But in her laugh and talk,
Forgot the cruel hawk!
XVIII.--THE EAGLE AND THE OWL.[21]
The eagle and the owl, resolved to cease
Their war, embraced in pledge of peace.
On faith of king, on faith of owl, they swore
That they would eat each other's chicks no more.
'But know you mine?' said Wisdom's bird.[22]
'Not I, indeed,' the eagle cried.
'The worse for that,' the owl replied:
'I fear your oath's a useless word;
I fear that you, as king, will not
Consider duly who or what:
You kings and gods, of what's before ye,
Are apt to make one category.
Adieu, my young, if you should meet them!'
'Describe them, then, or let me greet them,
And, on my life, I will not eat them,'
The eagle said. The owl replied:
'My little ones, I say with pride,
For grace of form cannot be match'd,--
The prettiest birds that e'er were hatch'd;
By this you cannot fail to know them;
'Tis needless, therefore, that I show them.
Pray don't forget, but keep this mark in view,
Lest fate should curse my happy nest by you.'
At length God gives the owl a set of heirs,
And while at early eve abroad he fares,
In quest of birds and mice for food,
Our eagle haply spies the brood,
As on some craggy rock they sprawl,
Or nestle in some ruined wall,
(But which it matters not at all,)
And thinks them ugly little frights,
Grim, sad, with voice like shrieking sprites.
'These chicks,' says he, 'with looks almost infernal,
Can't be the darlings of our friend nocturnal.
I'll sup of them.' And so he did, not slightly:--
He never sups, if he can help it, lightly.
The owl return'd; and, sad, he found
Nought left but claws upon the ground.
He pray'd the gods above and gods below
To smite the brigand who had caused his woe.
Quoth one, 'On you alone the blame must fall;
Or rather on the law of nature,
Which wills that every earthly creature
Shall think its like the loveliest of all.
You told the eagle of your young ones' graces;
You gave the picture of their faces:--
Had it of likeness any traces?'
[21] Avianus; also Verdizotti.
[22] _Wisdom's bird_.--The owl was the bird of Minerva, as the eagle
was that of Jupiter.
XIX.--THE LION GOING TO WAR.[23]
The lion had an enterprise in hand;
Held a war-council, sent his provost-marshal,
And gave the animals a call impartial--
Each, in his way, to serve his high command.
The elephant should carry on his back
The tools of war, the mighty public pack,
And fight in elephantine way and form;
The bear should hold himself prepared to storm;
The fox all secret stratagems should fix;
The monkey should amuse the foe by tricks.
'Dismiss,' said one, 'the blockhead asses,
And hares, too cowardly and fleet.'
'No,' said the king; 'I use all classes;
Without their aid my force were incomplete.
The ass shall be our trumpeter, to scare
Our enemy. And then the nimble hare
Our royal bulletins shall homeward bear.'
A monarch provident and wise
Will hold his subjects all of consequence,
And know in each what talent lies.
There's nothing useless to a man of sense.
[23] Abstemius.
XX.--THE BEAR AND THE TWO COMPANIONS.[24]
Two fellows, needing funds, and bold,
A bearskin to a furrier sold,
Of which the bear was living still,
But which they presently would kill--
At least they said they would.
And, if their word was good,
It was a king of bears--an Ursa Major--
The biggest bear beneath the sun.
Its skin, the chaps would wager,
Was cheap at double cost;
'Twould make one laugh at frost--
And make two robes as well as one.
Old Dindenaut,[25] in sheep who dealt,
Less prized his sheep, than they their pelt--
(In their account 'twas theirs,
But in his own, the bears.)
By bargain struck upon the skin,
Two days at most must bring it in.
Forth went the two. More easy found than got,
The bear came growling at them on the trot.
Behold our dealers both confounded,
As if by thunderbolt astounded!
Their bargain vanish'd suddenly in air;
For who could plead his interest with a bear?
One of the friends sprung up a tree;
The other, cold as ice could be,
Fell on his face, feign'd death,
And closely held his breath,--
He having somewhere heard it said
The bear ne'er preys upon the dead.
Sir Bear, sad blockhead, was deceived--
The prostrate man a corpse believed;
But, half suspecting some deceit,
He feels and snuffs from head to feet,
And in the nostrils blows.
The body's surely dead, he thinks.
'I'll leave it,' says he, 'for it stinks;'
And off into the woods he goes.
The other dealer, from his tree
Descending cautiously, to see
His comrade lying in the dirt,
Consoling, says, 'It is a wonder
That, by the monster forced asunder,
We're, after all, more scared than hurt.
But,' addeth he, 'what of the creature's skin?
He held his muzzle very near;
What did he whisper in your ear?'
'He gave this caution,--"Never dare
Again to sell the skin of bear
Its owner has not ceased to wear."'[26]
[24] Versions will be found in Aesop, Avianus, and Abstemius.
[25] _Old Dindenaut_.--_Vide_ Rabelais, _Pantagruel_, Book IV.
chap. viii.--Translator.
The character in Rabelais is a sheep-stealer as well as a
sheep-dealer.
[26] According to Philip de Commines, the Emperor Frederic III. of
Germany used a story conveying the substance of this fable, with its
moral of _Never sell your bear-skin till the beast is dead_, as
his sole reply to the ambassadors of the French king when that
monarch sent him proposals for dividing between them the provinces
of the Duke of Burgundy. The meaning of which was, says de Commines,
"That if the King came according to his promise, they would take the
Duke, if they could; and when he was taken, they would talk of
dividing his dominions."--_Vide_ Bohn's edition of the "Memoirs of
De Commines," vol. i., p. 246.
XXI.--THE ASS DRESSED IN THE LION'S SKIN.[27]
Clad in a lion's shaggy hide,
An ass spread terror far and wide,
And, though himself a coward brute,
Put all the world to scampering rout:
But, by a piece of evil luck,
A portion of an ear outstuck,
Which soon reveal'd the error
Of all the panic-terror.
Old Martin did his office quick.
Surprised were all who did not know the trick,
To see that Martin,[28] at his will,
Was driving lions to the mill!
In France, the men are not a few
Of whom this fable proves too true;
Whose valour chiefly doth reside
In coat they wear and horse they ride.
[27] Aesop, and Avianus.
[28] _Martin_.--Martin-bâton, again as in Fable V., Book IV.
* * * * *
BOOK VI.
I.--THE SHEPHERD AND THE LION.[1]
Of fables judge not by their face;
They give the simplest brute a teacher's place.
Bare precepts were inert and tedious things;
The story gives them life and wings.
But story for the story's sake
Were sorry business for the wise;
As if, for pill that one should take,
You gave the sugary disguise.
For reasons such as these,
Full many writers great and good
Have written in this frolic mood,
And made their wisdom please.
But tinsel'd style they all have shunn'd with care;
With them one never sees a word to spare.
Of Phaedrus some have blamed the brevity,
While Aesop uses fewer words than he.
A certain Greek,[2] however, beats
Them both in his larconic feats.
Each tale he locks in verses four;
The well or ill I leave to critic lore.
At Aesop's side to see him let us aim,
Upon a theme substantially the same.
The one selects a lover of the chase;
A shepherd comes, the other's tale to grace.
Their tracks I keep, though either tale may grow
A little in its features as I go.
The one which Aesop tells is nearly this:--
A shepherd from his flock began to miss,
And long'd to catch the stealer of, his sheep.
Before a cavern, dark and deep,
Where wolves retired by day to sleep,
Which he suspected as the thieves,
He set his trap among the leaves;
And, ere he left the place,
He thus invoked celestial grace:--
'O king of all the powers divine,
Against the rogue but grant me this delight,
That this my trap may catch him in my sight,
And I, from twenty calves of mine,
Will make the fattest thine.'
But while the words were on his tongue,
Forth came a lion great and strong.
Down crouch'd the man of sheep, and said,
With shivering fright half dead,
'Alas! that man should never be aware
Of what may be the meaning of his prayer!
To catch the robber of my flocks,
O king of gods, I pledged a calf to thee:
If from his clutches thou wilt rescue me,
I'll raise my offering to an ox.'
'Tis thus the master-author[3] tells the story:
Now hear the rival of his glory.
[1] Aesop.
[2] _A certain Greek_.--Gabrias.--La Fontaine. This is Babrias, the
Greek fabulist, to whom La Fontaine gives the older form of his name.
La Fontaine's strictures on this "rival" of Aesop proceed from the
fact that he read the author in the corrupted form of the edition by
Ignatius Magister (ninth century). It was not till a century after La
Fontaine wrote, that the fame of Babrias was cleared by Bentley and
Tyrwhitt, who brought his Fables to light in their original form.
[3] _Master-author, &c._--The "master-author" is Aesop; the rival,
Gabrias, or Babrias. The last line refers the reader to the following
fable for comparison. In the original editions of La Fontaine, the
two fables appear together with the heading "Fables I. et II."
II.--THE LION AND THE HUNTER.[4]
A braggart, lover of the chase,
Had lost a dog of valued race,
And thought him in a lion's maw.
He ask'd a shepherd whom he saw,
'Pray show me, man, the robber's place,
And I'll have justice in the case.'
''Tis on this mountain side,'
The shepherd man replied.
'The tribute of a sheep I pay,
Each month, and where I please I stray.'
Out leap'd the lion as he spake,
And came that way, with agile feet.
The braggart, prompt his flight to take,
Cried, 'Jove, O grant a safe retreat!'
A danger close at hand
Of courage is the test.
It shows us who will stand--
Whose legs will run their best.
[4] Gabrias, or Babrias; and Aesop. See note to preceding fable.
III.--PHOEBUS AND BOREAS.[5]
Old Boreas and the sun, one day
Espied a traveller on his way,
Whose dress did happily provide
Against whatever might betide.
The time was autumn, when, indeed,
All prudent travellers take heed.
The rains that then the sunshine dash,
And Iris with her splendid sash,
Warn one who does not like to soak
To wear abroad a good thick cloak.
Our man was therefore well bedight
With double mantle, strong and tight.
'This fellow,' said the wind, 'has meant
To guard from every ill event;
But little does he wot that I
Can blow him such a blast
That, not a button fast,
His cloak shall cleave the sky.
Come, here's a pleasant game, Sir Sun!
Wilt play?' Said Phoebus, 'Done!
We'll bet between us here
Which first will take the gear
From off this cavalier.
Begin, and shut away.
The brightness of my ray.'
'Enough.' Our blower, on the bet,
Swell'd out his pursy form
With all the stuff for storm--
The thunder, hail, and drenching wet,
And all the fury he could muster;
Then, with a very demon's bluster,
He whistled, whirl'd, and splash'd,
And down the torrents dash'd,
Full many a roof uptearing
He never did before,
Full many a vessel bearing
To wreck upon the shore,--
And all to doff a single cloak.
But vain the furious stroke;
The traveller was stout,
And kept the tempest out,
Defied the hurricane,
Defied the pelting rain;
And as the fiercer roar'd the blast,
His cloak the tighter held he fast.
The sun broke out, to win the bet;
He caused the clouds to disappear,
Refresh'd and warm'd the cavalier,
And through his mantle made him sweat,
Till off it came, of course,
In less than half an hour;
And yet the sun saved half his power.--
So much doth mildness more than force.
[5] Aesop and Lokman; also P. Hegemon.
IV.--JUPITER AND THE FARMER.[6]
Of yore, a farm had Jupiter to rent;
To advertise it, Mercury was sent.
The farmers, far and near,
Flock'd round, the terms to hear;
And, calling to their aid
The various tricks of trade,
One said 'twas rash a farm to hire
Which would so much expense require;
Another, that, do what you would,
The farm would still be far from good.
While thus, in market style, its faults were told,
One of the crowd, less wise than bold,
Would give so much, on this condition,
That Jove would yield him altogether
The choice and making of his weather,--
That, instantly on his decision,
His various crops should feel the power
Of heat or cold, of sun or shower.
Jove yields. The bargain closed, our man
Rains, blows, and takes the care
Of all the changes of the air,
On his peculiar, private plan.
His nearest neighbours felt it not,
And all the better was their lot.
Their year was good, by grace divine;
The grain was rich, and full the vine.
The renter, failing altogether,
The next year made quite different weather;
And yet the fruit of all his labours
Was far inferior to his neighbours'.
What better could he do? To Heaven
He owns at last his want of sense,
And so is graciously forgiven.
Hence we conclude that Providence
Knows better what we need
Than we ourselves, indeed.
[6] Aesop; and Faerno.
V.--THE COCKEREL, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE.[7]
A youthful mouse, not up to trap,
Had almost met a sad mishap.
The story hear him thus relate,
With great importance, to his mother:--
'I pass'd the mountain bounds of this estate,
And off was trotting on another,
Like some young rat with nought to do
But see things wonderful and new,
When two strange creatures came in view.
The one was mild, benign, and gracious;
The other, turbulent, rapacious,
With voice terrific, shrill, and rough,
And on his head a bit of stuff
That look'd like raw and bloody meat,
Raised up a sort of arms, and beat
The air, as if he meant to fly,
And bore his plumy tail on high.'
A cock, that just began to crow,
As if some nondescript,
From far New Holland shipp'd,
Was what our mousling pictured so.
'He beat his arms,' said he, 'and raised his voice,
And made so terrible a noise,
That I, who, thanks to Heaven, may justly boast
Myself as bold as any mouse,
Scud off, (his voice would even scare a ghost!)
And cursed himself and all his house;
For, but for him, I should have staid,
And doubtless an acquaintance made
With her who seem'd so mild and good.
Like us, in velvet cloak and hood,
She wears a tail that's full of grace,
A very sweet and humble face,--
No mouse more kindness could desire,--
And yet her eye is full of fire.
I do believe the lovely creature
A friend of rats and mice by nature.
Her ears, though, like herself, they're bigger,
Are just like ours in form and figure.
To her I was approaching, when,
Aloft on what appear'd his den,
The other scream'd,--and off I fled.'
'My son,' his cautious mother said,
'That sweet one was the cat,
The mortal foe of mouse and rat,
Who seeks by smooth deceit,
Her appetite to treat.
So far the other is from that,
We yet may eat
His dainty meat;
Whereas the cruel cat,
Whene'er she can, devours
No other meat than ours.'
Remember while you live,
It is by looks that men deceive.
[7] Abstemius.
VI.--THE FOX, THE MONKEY, AND THE ANIMALS.[8]
Left kingless by the lion's death,
The beasts once met, our story saith,
Some fit successor to install.
Forth from a dragon-guarded, moated place,
The crown was brought, and, taken from its case,
And being tried by turns on all,
The heads of most were found too small;
Some hornèd were, and some too big;
Not one would fit the regal gear.
For ever ripe for such a rig,
The monkey, looking very queer,
Approach'd with antics and grimaces,
And, after scores of monkey faces,
With what would seem a gracious stoop,
Pass'd through the crown as through a hoop.
The beasts, diverted with the thing,
Did homage to him as their king.
The fox alone the vote regretted,
But yet in public never fretted.
When he his compliments had paid
To royalty, thus newly made,
'Great sire, I know a place,' said he,
'Where lies conceal'd a treasure,
Which, by the right of royalty,
Should bide your royal pleasure.'
The king lack'd not an appetite
For such financial pelf,
And, not to lose his royal right,
Ran straight to see it for himself.
It was a trap, and he was caught.
Said Renard, 'Would you have it thought,
You ape, that you can fill a throne,
And guard the rights of all, alone,
Not knowing how to guard your own?'
The beasts all gather'd from the farce,
That stuff for kings is very scarce.
[8] Aesop; also Faerno.
VII.--THE MULE BOASTING OF HIS GENEALOGY.[9]
A prelate's mule of noble birth was proud,
And talk'd, incessantly and loud,
Of nothing but his dam, the mare,
Whose mighty deeds by him recounted were,--
This had she done, and had been present there,--
By which her son made out his claim
To notice on the scroll of Fame.
Too proud, when young, to bear a doctor's pill;
When old, he had to turn a mill.
As there they used his limbs to bind,
His sire, the ass, was brought to mind.
Misfortune, were its only use
The claims of folly to reduce,
And bring men down to sober reason,
Would be a blessing in its season.
[9] Aesop.
VIII.--THE OLD MAN AND THE ASS.[10]
An old man, riding on his ass,
Had found a spot of thrifty grass,
And there turn'd loose his weary beast.
Old Grizzle, pleased with such a feast,
Flung up his heels, and caper'd round,
Then roll'd and rubb'd upon the ground,
And frisk'd and browsed and bray'd,
And many a clean spot made.
Arm'd men came on them as he fed:
'Let's fly,' in haste the old man said.
'And wherefore so?' the ass replied;
'With heavier burdens will they ride?'
'No,' said the man, already started.
'Then,' cried the ass, as he departed,
'I'll stay, and be--no matter whose;
Save you yourself, and leave me loose.
But let me tell you, ere you go,
(I speak plain French, you know,)
My master is my only foe.'
[10] Phaedras. I. 15.
IX.--THE STAG SEEING HIMSELF IN THE WATER.[11]
Beside a placid, crystal flood,
A stag admired the branching wood
That high upon his forehead stood,
But gave his Maker little thanks
For what he call'd his spindle shanks.
'What limbs are these for such a head!--
So mean and slim!' with grief he said.
'My glorious heads o'ertops
The branches of the copse;
My legs are my disgrace.'
As thus he talk'd, a bloodhound gave him chase.
To save his life he flew
Where forests thickest grew.
His horns,--pernicious ornament!--
Arresting him where'er he went,
Did unavailing render
What else, in such a strife,
Had saved his precious life--
His legs, as fleet as slender.
Obliged to yield, he cursed the gear
Which nature gave him every year.
Too much the beautiful we prize;
The useful, often, we despise:
Yet oft, as happen'd to the stag,
The former doth to ruin drag.
[11] Aesop; also Phaedrus, I.12.
X.--THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE.[12]
To win a race, the swiftness of a dart
Availeth not without a timely start.
The hare and tortoise are my witnesses.
Said tortoise to the swiftest thing that is,
'I'll bet that you'll not reach, so soon as I
The tree on yonder hill we spy.'
'So soon! Why, madam, are you frantic?'
Replied the creature, with an antic;
'Pray take, your senses to restore,
A grain or two of hellebore.'[13]
'Say,' said the tortoise, 'what you will;
I dare you to the wager still.'
'Twas done; the stakes were paid,
And near the goal tree laid--
Of what, is not a question for this place,
Nor who it was that judged the race.
Our hare had scarce five jumps to make,
Of such as he is wont to take,
When, starting just before their beaks
He leaves the hounds at leisure,
Thence till the kalends of the Greeks,[14]
The sterile heath to measure.
Thus having time to browse and doze,
And list which way the zephyr blows,
He makes himself content to wait,
And let the tortoise go her gait
In solemn, senatorial state.
She starts; she moils on, modestly and lowly,
And with a prudent wisdom hastens slowly;
But he, meanwhile, the victory despises,
Thinks lightly of such prizes,
Believes it for his honour
To take late start and gain upon her.
So, feeding, sitting at his ease,
He meditates of what you please,
Till his antagonist he sees
Approach the goal; then starts,
Away like lightning darts:
But vainly does he run;
The race is by the tortoise won.
Cries she, 'My senses do I lack?
What boots your boasted swiftness now?
You're beat! and yet, you must allow,
I bore my house upon my back.'
[12] Aesop; also Lokman.
[13] _Hellebore_.--The ancient remedy for insanity.
[14] _Kalends of the Greeks_.--The Greeks, unlike the Romans, had no
kalends in their computation of time, hence the frequent use of this
expression to convey the idea of an indefinite period of time.
XI.--THE ASS AND HIS MASTERS.[15]
A gardener's ass complain'd to Destiny
Of being made to rise before the dawn.
'The cocks their matins have not sung,' said he,
'Ere I am up and gone.
And all for what? To market herbs, it seems.
Fine cause, indeed, to interrupt my dreams!'
Fate, moved by such a prayer,
Sent him a currier's load to bear,
Whose hides so heavy and ill-scented were,
They almost choked the foolish beast.
'I wish me with my former lord,' he said;
'For then, whene'er he turn'd his head,
If on the watch, I caught
A cabbage-leaf, which cost me nought.
But, in this horrid place, I find
No chance or windfall of the kind:--
Or if, indeed, I do,
The cruel blows I rue.'
Anon it came to pass
He was a collier's ass.
Still more complaint. 'What now?' said Fate,
Quite out of patience.
'If on this jackass I must wait,
What will become of kings and nations?
Has none but he aught here to tease him?
Have I no business but to please him?'
And Fate had cause;--for all are so.
Unsatisfied while here below
Our present lot is aye the worst.
Our foolish prayers the skies infest.
Were Jove to grant all we request,
The din renew'd, his head would burst.
[15] Aesop.
XII.--THE SUN AND THE FROGS.[16]
Rejoicing on their tyrant's wedding-day,
The people drown'd their care in drink;
While from the general joy did Aesop shrink,
And show'd its folly in this way.
'The sun,' said he, 'once took it in his head
To have a partner for his bed.
From swamps, and ponds, and marshy bogs,
Up rose the wailings of the frogs.
"What shall we do, should he have progeny?"
Said they to Destiny;
"One sun we scarcely can endure,
And half-a-dozen, we are sure,
Will dry the very sea.
Adieu to marsh and fen!
Our race will perish then,
Or be obliged to fix
Their dwelling in the Styx!"
For such an humble animal,
The frog, I take it, reason'd well.'
[16] There is another fable with this title, viz., Fable XXIV., Book XII.
This fable in its earlier form will be found in Phaedrus, I.6.
XIII.--THE COUNTRYMAN AND THE SERPENT.[17]
A countryman, as Aesop certifies,
A charitable man, but not so wise,
One day in winter found,
Stretch'd on the snowy ground,
A chill'd or frozen snake,
As torpid as a stake,
And, if alive, devoid of sense.
He took him up, and bore him home,
And, thinking not what recompense
For such a charity would come,
Before the fire stretch'd him,
And back to being fetch'd him.
The snake scarce felt the genial heat
Before his heart with native malice beat.
He raised his head, thrust out his forkèd tongue,
Coil'd up, and at his benefactor sprung.
'Ungrateful wretch!' said he, 'is this the way
My care and kindness you repay?
Now you shall die.' With that his axe he takes,
And with two blows three serpents makes.
Trunk, head, and tail were separate snakes;
And, leaping up with all their might,
They vainly sought to reunite.
'Tis good and lovely to be kind;
But charity should not be blind;
For as to wretchedness ingrate,
You cannot raise it from its wretched state.
[17] Aesop; also Phaedrus, IV.18.
XIV.--THE SICK LION AND THE FOX.[18]
Sick in his den, we understand,
The king of beasts sent out command
That of his vassals every sort
Should send some deputies to court--
With promise well to treat
Each deputy and suite;
On faith of lion, duly written,
None should be scratch'd, much less be bitten.
The royal will was executed,
And some from every tribe deputed;
The foxes, only, would not come.
One thus explain'd their choice of home:--
'Of those who seek the court, we learn,
The tracks upon the sand
Have one direction, and
Not one betokens a return.
This fact begetting some distrust,
His majesty at present must
Excuse us from his great levee.
His plighted word is good, no doubt;
But while how beasts get in we see,
We do not see how they get out.'
[18] Aesop.
XV.--THE FOWLER, THE HAWK, AND THE LARK.[19]
From wrongs of wicked men we draw
Excuses for our own:--
Such is the universal law.
Would you have mercy shown,
Let yours be clearly known.
A fowler's mirror served to snare
The little tenants of the air.
A lark there saw her pretty face,
And was approaching to the place.
A hawk, that sailed on high
Like vapour in the sky,
Came down, as still as infant's breath,
On her who sang so near her death.
She thus escaped the fowler's steel,
The hawk's malignant claws to feel.
While in his cruel way,
The pirate pluck'd his prey,
Upon himself the net was sprung.
'O fowler,' pray'd he in the hawkish tongue,
'Release me in thy clemency!
I never did a wrong to thee.'
The man replied, ''Tis true;
And did the lark to you?'
[19] Abstemius, 3.
XVI.--THE HORSE AND THE ASS.[20]
In such a world, all men, of every grade,
Should each the other kindly aid;
For, if beneath misfortune's goad
A neighbour falls, on you will fall his load.
There jogg'd in company an ass and horse;
Nought but his harness did the last endorse;
The other bore a load that crush'd him down,
And begg'd the horse a little help to give,
Or otherwise he could not reach the town.
'This prayer,' said he, 'is civil, I believe;
One half this burden you would scarcely feel.'
The horse refused, flung up a scornful heel,
And saw his comrade die beneath the weight:--
And saw his wrong too late;
For on his own proud back
They put the ass's pack,
And over that, beside,
They put the ass's hide.
[20] Aesop.
XVII.--THE DOG THAT DROPPED THE SUBSTANCE FOR THE SHADOW.[21]
This world is full of shadow-chasers,
Most easily deceived.
Should I enumerate these racers,
I should not be believed.
I send them all to Aesop's dog,
Which, crossing water on a log,
Espied the meat he bore, below;
To seize its image, let it go;
Plunged in; to reach the shore was glad,
With neither what he hoped, nor what he'd had.
[21] Aesop; also Phaedrus, I. 4.
XVIII.--THE CARTER IN THE MIRE.[22]
The Phaëton who drove a load of hay
Once found his cart bemired.
Poor man! the spot was far away
From human help--retired,
In some rude country place,
In Brittany, as near as I can trace,
Near Quimper Corentan,--
A town that poet never sang,--
Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path,
When she would rouse the man to special wrath.
May Heaven preserve us from that route!
But to our carter, hale and stout:--
Fast stuck his cart; he swore his worst,
And, fill'd with rage extreme,
The mud-holes now he cursed,
And now he cursed his team,
And now his cart and load,--
Anon, the like upon himself bestow'd.
Upon the god he call'd at length,
Most famous through the world for strength.
'O, help me, Hercules!' cried he;
'For if thy back of yore
This burly planet bore,
Thy arm can set me free.'
This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke
A voice which thus in godlike accents spoke:--
'The suppliant must himself bestir,
Ere Hercules will aid confer.
Look wisely in the proper quarter,
To see what hindrance can be found;
Remove the execrable mud and mortar,
Which, axle-deep, beset thy wheels around.
Thy sledge and crowbar take,
And pry me up that stone, or break;
Now fill that rut upon the other side.
Hast done it?' 'Yes,' the man replied.
'Well,' said the voice, 'I'll aid thee now;
Take up thy whip.' 'I have ... but, how?
My cart glides on with ease!
I thank thee, Hercules.'
'Thy team,' rejoin'd the voice, 'has light ado;
So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too.'
[22] Avianus; also Faerno; also Rabelais, Book IV., ch. 23, Bohn's
edition.
XIX.--THE CHARLATAN.[23]
The world has never lack'd its charlatans,
More than themselves have lack'd their plans.
One sees them on the stage at tricks
Which mock the claims of sullen Styx.
What talents in the streets they post!
One of them used to boast
Such mastership of eloquence
That he could make the greatest dunce
Another Tully Cicero
In all the arts that lawyers know.
'Ay, sirs, a dunce, a country clown,
The greatest blockhead of your town,--
Nay more, an animal, an ass,--
The stupidest that nibbles grass,--
Needs only through my course to pass,
And he shall wear the gown
With credit, honour, and renown.'
The prince heard of it, call'd the man, thus spake:
'My stable holds a steed
Of the Arcadian breed,[24]
Of which an orator I wish to make.'
'Well, sire, you can,'
Replied our man.
At once his majesty
Paid the tuition fee.
Ten years must roll, and then the learned ass
Should his examination pass,
According to the rules
Adopted in the schools;
If not, his teacher was to tread the air,
With halter'd neck, above the public square,--
His rhetoric bound on his back,
And on his head the ears of jack.
A courtier told the rhetorician,
With bows and terms polite,
He would not miss the sight
Of that last pendent exhibition;
For that his grace and dignity
Would well become such high degree;
And, on the point of being hung,
He would bethink him of his tongue,
And show the glory of his art,--
The power to melt the hardest heart,--
And wage a war with time
By periods sublime--
A pattern speech for orators thus leaving,
Whose work is vulgarly call'd thieving.
'Ah!' was the charlatan's reply,
'Ere that, the king, the ass, or I,
Shall, one or other of us, die.'
And reason good had he;
We count on life most foolishly,
Though hale and hearty we may be.
In each ten years, death cuts down one in three.
[23] Abstemius.
[24] _Steed of the Arcadian breed_.--An ass, as in Fable XVII, Book VIII.
XX.--DISCORD.
The goddess Discord, having made, on high,
Among the gods a general grapple,
And thence a lawsuit, for an apple,
Was turn'd out, bag and baggage, from the sky.
The animal call'd man, with open arms,
Received the goddess of such naughty charms,--
Herself and Whether-or-no, her brother,
With Thine-and-mine, her stingy mother.
In this, the lower universe,
Our hemisphere she chose to curse:
For reasons good she did not please
To visit our antipodes--
Folks rude and savage like the beasts,
Who, wedding-free from forms and priests,
In simple tent or leafy bower,
Make little work for such a power.
That she might know exactly where
Her direful aid was in demand,
Renown flew courier through the land,
Reporting each dispute with care;
Then she, outrunning Peace, was quickly there;
And if she found a spark of ire,
Was sure to blow it to a fire.
At length, Renown got out of patience
At random hurrying o'er the nations,
And, not without good reason, thought
A goddess, like her mistress, ought
To have some fix'd and certain home,
To which her customers might come;
For now they often search'd in vain.
With due location, it was plain
She might accomplish vastly more,
And more in season than before.
To find, howe'er, the right facilities,
Was harder, then, than now it is;
For then there were no nunneries.
So, Hymen's inn at last assign'd,
Thence lodged the goddess to her mind.[25]
[25] La Fontaine, gentle reader, does not mean to say that Discord lodges
with all married people, but that the foul fiend is never better
satisfied than when she can find such accommodation.--Translator.
XXI.--THE YOUNG WIDOW.[26]
A husband's death brings always sighs;
The widow sobs, sheds tears--then dries.
Of Time the sadness borrows wings;
And Time returning pleasure brings.
Between the widow of a year
And of a day, the difference
Is so immense,
That very few who see her
Would think the laughing dame
And weeping one the same.
The one puts on repulsive action,
The other shows a strong attraction.
The one gives up to sighs, or true or false;
The same sad note is heard, whoever calls.
Her grief is inconsolable,
They say. Not so our fable,
Or, rather, not so says the truth.
To other worlds a husband went
And left his wife in prime of youth.
Above his dying couch she bent,
And cried, 'My love, O wait for me!
My soul would gladly go with thee!'
(But yet it did not go.)
The fair one's sire, a prudent man,
Check'd not the current of her woe.
At last he kindly thus began:--
'My child, your grief should have its bound.
What boots it him beneath the ground
That you should drown your charms?
Live for the living, not the dead.
I don't propose that you be led
At once to Hymen's arms;
But give me leave, in proper time,
To rearrange the broken chime
With one who is as good, at least,
In all respects, as the deceased.'
'Alas!' she sigh'd, 'the cloister vows
Befit me better than a spouse.'
The father left the matter there.
About one month thus mourn'd the fair;
Another month, her weeds arranged;
Each day some robe or lace she changed,
Till mourning dresses served to grace,
And took of ornament the place.
The frolic band of loves
Came flocking back like doves.
Jokes, laughter, and the dance,
The native growth of France,
Had finally their turn;
And thus, by night and morn,
She plunged, to tell the truth,
Deep in the fount of youth.
Her sire no longer fear'd
The dead so much endear'd;
But, as he never spoke,
Herself the silence broke:--
'Where is that youthful spouse,' said she,
'Whom, sir, you lately promised me?'
[26] Abstemius.
EPILOGUE.
Here check we our career:
Long books I greatly fear.
I would not quite exhaust my stuff;
The flower of subjects is enough.
To me, the time is come, it seems,
To draw my breath for other themes.
Love, tyrant of my life, commands
That other work be on my hands.
I dare not disobey.
Once more shall Psyche be my lay.
I'm call'd by Damon to portray
Her sorrows and her joys.
I yield: perhaps, while she employs,
My muse will catch a richer glow;
And well if this my labour'd strain
Shall be the last and only pain
Her spouse[27] shall cause me here below.
[27] _Her spouse_.--Cupid, the spouse of Psyche. The "other work on
my hands" mentioned in this Epilogue (the end of the poet's first
collection of Fables) was no doubt the writing of his "Psyche,"
which was addressed to his patron the Duchess de Bouillon, and
published in 1659, the year following the publication of the first
six Books of the Fables. See also Translator's Preface.
* * * * *
BOOK VII.[1]
To Madame De Montespan[2]
The apologue[3] is from the immortal gods;
Or, if the gift of man it is,
Its author merits apotheosis.
Whoever magic genius lauds
Will do what in him lies
To raise this art's inventor to the skies.
It hath the potence of a charm,
On dulness lays a conquering arm,
Subjects the mind to its control,
And works its will upon the soul.
O lady, arm'd with equal power,
If e'er within celestial bower,
With messmate gods reclined,
My muse ambrosially hath dined,
Lend me the favour of a smile
On this her playful toil.
If you support, the tooth of time will shun,
And let my work the envious years outrun.
If authors would themselves survive,
To gain your suffrage they should strive.
On you my verses wait to get their worth;
To you my beauties all will owe their birth,--
For beauties you will recognize
Invisible to other eyes.
Ah! who can boast a taste so true,
Of beauty or of grace,
In either thought or face?
For words and looks are equal charms in you.
Upon a theme so sweet, the truth to tell,
My muse would gladly dwell:
But this employ to others I must yield;--
A greater master claims the field.
For me, fair lady, 'twere enough
Your name should be my wall and roof.
Protect henceforth the favour'd book
Through which for second life I look.
In your auspicious light,
These lines, in envy's spite,
Will gain the glorious meed,
That all the world shall read.
'Tis not that I deserve such fame;--
I only ask in Fable's name,
(You know what credit that should claim;)
And, if successfully I sue,
A fane will be to Fable due,--
A thing I would not build--except for you.
[1] Here commences the second collection of La Fontaine's Fables,
comprising Books VII. to XI. This collection was published in 1678-9,
ten years after the publication of the foregoing six Books. See
Translator's Preface.
[2] _Madame de Montespan_.--Francoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart de
Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan, born 1641, died 1707. She
became one of the mistresses of the "Grand Monarque," Louis XIV., in
1668.
[3] _The apologue._--Here, as in the opening fable of Books V. and
VI., and elsewhere, La Fontaine defines Fable and defends the art of
the Fabulist.
I.--THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE.[4]
The sorest ill that Heaven hath
Sent on this lower world in wrath,--
The plague (to call it by its name,)
One single day of which
Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,--
Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.
They died not all, but all were sick:
No hunting now, by force or trick,
To save what might so soon expire.
No food excited their desire;
Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay
The innocent and tender prey.
The turtles fled;
So love and therefore joy were dead.
The lion council held, and said:
'My friends, I do believe
This awful scourge, for which we grieve,
Is for our sins a punishment
Most righteously by Heaven sent.
Let us our guiltiest beast resign,
A sacrifice to wrath divine.
Perhaps this offering, truly small,
May gain the life and health of all.
By history we find it noted
That lives have been just so devoted.
Then let us all turn eyes within,
And ferret out the hidden sin.
Himself let no one spare nor flatter,
But make clean conscience in the matter.
For me, my appetite has play'd the glutton
Too much and often upon mutton.
What harm had e'er my victims done?
I answer, truly, None.
Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger press'd,
I've eat the shepherd with the rest.
I yield myself, if need there be;
And yet I think, in equity,
Each should confess his sins with me;
For laws of right and justice cry,
The guiltiest alone should die.'
'Sire,' said the fox, 'your majesty
Is humbler than a king should be,
And over-squeamish in the case.
What! eating stupid sheep a crime?
No, never, sire, at any time.
It rather was an act of grace,
A mark of honour to their race.
And as to shepherds, one may swear,
The fate your majesty describes,
Is recompense less full than fair
For such usurpers o'er our tribes.'
Thus Renard glibly spoke,
And loud applause from flatterers broke.
Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear,
Did any keen inquirer dare
To ask for crimes of high degree;
The fighters, biters, scratchers, all
From every mortal sin were free;
The very dogs, both great and small,
Were saints, as far as dogs could be.
The ass, confessing in his turn,
Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:--
'I happen'd through a mead to pass;
The monks, its owners, were at mass;
Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass,
And add to these the devil too,
All tempted me the deed to do.
I browsed the bigness of my tongue;
Since truth must out, I own it wrong.'
On this, a hue and cry arose,
As if the beasts were all his foes:
A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,
Denounced the ass for sacrifice--
The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,
By whom the plague had come, no doubt.
His fault was judged a hanging crime.
'What? eat another's grass? O shame!
The noose of rope and death sublime,'
For that offence, were all too tame!
And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.
Thus human courts acquit the strong,
And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.
[4] One of the most original as well as one of the most beautiful of the
poet's fables, yet much of the groundwork of its story may be traced
in the Fables of Bidpaii and other collections. See also note to
Fable XXII., Book I.
II.--THE ILL-MARRIED.
If worth, were not a thing more rare
Than beauty in this planet fair,
There would be then less need of care
About the contracts Hymen closes.
But beauty often is the bait
To love that only ends in hate;
And many hence repent too late
Of wedding thorns from wooing roses.[5]
My tale makes one of these poor fellows,
Who sought relief from marriage vows,
Send back again his tedious spouse,
Contentious, covetous, and jealous,
With nothing pleased or satisfied,
This restless, comfort-killing bride
Some fault in every one descried.
Her good man went to bed too soon,
Or lay in bed till almost noon.
Too cold, too hot,--too black, too white,--
Were on her tongue from morn till night.
The servants mad and madder grew;
The husband knew not what to do.
'Twas, 'Dear, you never think or care;'
And, 'Dear, that price we cannot bear;'
And, 'Dear, you never stay at home;'
And, 'Dear, I wish you would just come;'
Till, finally, such ceaseless dearing
Upon her husband's patience wearing,
Back to her sire's he sent his wife,
To taste the sweets of country life,
To dance at will the country jigs,
And feed the turkeys, geese, and pigs.
In course of time, he hoped his bride
Might have her temper mollified;
Which hope he duly put to test.
His wife recall'd, said he,
'How went with you your rural rest,
From vexing cares and fashions free?
Its peace and quiet did you gain,--
Its innocence without a stain?'
'Enough of all,' said she; 'but then
To see those idle, worthless men
Neglect the flocks, it gave me pain.
I told them, plainly, what I thought,
And thus their hatred quickly bought;
For which I do not care--not I.'
'Ah, madam,' did her spouse reply,
'If still your temper's so morose,
And tongue so virulent, that those
Who only see you morn and night
Are quite grown weary of the sight,
What, then, must be your servants' case,
Who needs must see you face to face,
Throughout the day?
And what must be the harder lot
Of him, I pray,
Whose days and nights
With you must be by marriage rights?
Return you to your father's cot.
If I recall you in my life,
Or even wish for such a wife,
Let Heaven, in my hereafter, send
Two such, to tease me without end!'
[5] The badinage of La Fontaine having been misunderstood, the
translator has altered the introduction to this fable. The intention
of the fable is to recommend prudence and good nature, not celibacy.
So the peerless Granville understands it, for his pencil tells us
that the hero of the fable did finally recall his wife,
notwithstanding his fearful imprecation. It seems that even she was
better than none.--Translator; (in his sixth edition).
III.--THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD.
The sage Levantines have a tale
About a rat that weary grew
Of all the cares which life assail,
And to a Holland cheese withdrew.
His solitude was there profound,
Extending through his world so round.
Our hermit lived on that within;
And soon his industry had been
With claws and teeth so good,
That in his novel hermitage,
He had in store, for wants of age,
Both house and livelihood.
What more could any rat desire?
He grew fair, fat, and round.
'God's blessings thus redound
To those who in His vows retire.'[6]
One day this personage devout,
Whose kindness none might doubt,
Was ask'd, by certain delegates
That came from Rat-United-States,
For some small aid, for they
To foreign parts were on their way,
For succour in the great cat-war.
Ratopolis beleaguer'd sore,
Their whole republic drain'd and poor,
No morsel in their scrips they bore.
Slight boon they craved, of succour sure
In days at utmost three or four.
'My friends,' the hermit said,
'To worldly things I'm dead.
How can a poor recluse
To such a mission be of use?
What can he do but pray
That God will aid it on its way?
And so, my friends, it is my prayer
That God will have you in his care.'
His well-fed saintship said no more,
But in their faces shut the door.
What think you, reader, is the service
For which I use this niggard rat?
To paint a monk? No, but a dervise.
A monk, I think, however fat,
Must be more bountiful than that.
[6] _God's blessing, &c_.--So the rat himself professed to consider the
matter.--Translator.
IV.--THE HERON.[7]
One day,--no matter when or where,--
A long-legg'd heron chanced to fare
By a certain river's brink,
With his long, sharp beak
Helved on his slender neck;
'Twas a fish-spear, you might think.
The water was clear and still,
The carp and the pike there at will
Pursued their silent fun,
Turning up, ever and anon,
A golden side to the sun.
With ease might the heron have made
Great profits in his fishing trade.
So near came the scaly fry,
They might be caught by the passer-by.
But he thought he better might
Wait for a better appetite--
For he lived by rule, and could not eat,
Except at his hours, the best of meat.
Anon his appetite return'd once more;
So, approaching again the shore,
He saw some tench taking their leaps,
Now and then, from their lowest deeps.
With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat,
He turn'd away from such food as that.
'What, tench for a heron! poh!
I scorn the thought, and let them go.'
The tench refused, there came a gudgeon;
'For all that,' said the bird, 'I budge on.
I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please,
For such mean little fishes as these.'
He did it for less;
For it came to pass,
That not another fish could he see;
And, at last, so hungry was he,
That he thought it of some avail
To find on the bank a single snail.
Such is the sure result
Of being too difficult.
Would you be strong and great,
Learn to accommodate.
Get what you can, and trust for the rest;
The whole is oft lost by seeking the best.
Above all things beware of disdain;
Where, at most, you have little to gain.
The people are many that make
Every day this sad mistake.
'Tis not for the herons I put this case,
Ye featherless people, of human race.
--List to another tale as true,
And you'll hear the lesson brought home to you.[8]
[7] Abstemius.
[8] _The lesson brought home to you_. The two last lines refer the
reader to the next fable.
V.--THE MAID.[9]
A certain maid, as proud as fair,
A husband thought to find
Exactly to her mind--
Well-form'd and young, genteel in air,
Not cold nor jealous;--mark this well.
Whoe'er would wed this dainty belle
Must have, besides rank, wealth, and wit,
And all good qualities to fit--
A man 'twere difficult to get.
Kind Fate, however, took great care
To grant, if possible, her prayer.
There came a-wooing men of note;
The maiden thought them all,
By half, too mean and small.
'They marry me! the creatures dote:--
Alas! poor souls! their case I pity.'
(Here mark the bearing of the beauty.)
Some were less delicate than witty;
Some had the nose too short or long;
In others something else was wrong;
Which made each in the maiden's eyes
An altogether worthless prize.
Profound contempt is aye the vice
Which springs from being over-nice,
Thus were the great dismiss'd; and then
Came offers from inferior men.
The maid, more scornful than before,
Took credit to her tender heart
For giving then an open door.
'They think me much in haste to part
With independence! God be thank'd
My lonely nights bring no regret;
Nor shall I pine, or greatly fret,
Should I with ancient maids be rank'd.'
Such were the thoughts that pleased the fair:
Age made them only thoughts that were.
Adieu to lovers:--passing years
Awaken doubts and chilling fears.
Regret, at last, brings up the train.
Day after day she sees, with pain,
Some smile or charm take final flight,
And leave the features of a 'fright.'
Then came a hundred sorts of paint:
But still no trick, nor ruse, nor feint,
Avail'd to hide the cause of grief,
Or bar out Time, that graceless thief.
A house, when gone to wreck and ruin,
May be repair'd and made a new one.
Alas! for ruins of the face
No such rebuilding e'er takes place.
Her daintiness now changed its tune;
Her mirror told her, 'Marry soon!'
So did a certain wish within,
With more of secrecy than sin,--
A wish that dwells with even prudes,
Annihilating solitudes.
This maiden's choice was past belief,
She soothing down her restless grief,
And smoothing it of every ripple,
By marrying a cripple.
[9] This fable should be read in conjunction with the foregoing one.
VI.--THE WISHES.
Within the Great Mogul's domains there are
Familiar sprites of much domestic use:
They sweep the house, and take a tidy care
Of equipage, nor garden work refuse;
But, if you meddle with their toil,
The whole, at once, you're sure to spoil.
One, near the mighty Ganges flood,
The garden of a burgher good
Work'd noiselessly and well;
To master, mistress, garden, bore
A love that time and toil outwore,
And bound him like a spell.
Did friendly zephyrs blow,
The demon's pains to aid?
(For so they do, 'tis said.)
I own I do not know.
But for himself he rested not,
And richly bless'd his master's lot.
What mark'd his strength of love,
He lived a fixture on the place,
In spite of tendency to rove
So natural to his race.
But brother sprites conspiring
With importunity untiring,
So teased their goblin chief, that he,
Of his caprice, or policy,
Our sprite commanded to attend
A house in Norway's farther end,
Whose roof was snow-clad through the year,
And shelter'd human kind with deer.
Before departing to his hosts
Thus spake this best of busy ghosts:--
'To foreign parts I'm forced to go!
For what sad fault I do not know;--
But go I must; a month's delay,
Or week's perhaps, and I'm away.
Seize time; three wishes make at will;
For three I'm able to fulfil--
No more.' Quick at their easy task,
Abundance first these wishers ask--
Abundance, with her stores unlock'd--
Barns, coffers, cellars, larder, stock'd--
Corn, cattle, wine, and money,--
The overflow of milk and honey.
But what to do with all this wealth!
What inventories, cares, and worry!
What wear of temper and of health!
Both lived in constant, slavish hurry.
Thieves took by plot, and lords by loan;
The king by tax, the poor by tone.
Thus felt the curses which
Arise from being rich,--
'Remove this affluence!' they pray;
The poor are happier than they
Whose riches make them slaves.
'Go, treasures, to the winds and waves;
Come, goddess of the quiet breast,
Who sweet'nest toil with rest,
Dear Mediocrity, return!'
The prayer was granted as we learn.
Two wishes thus expended,
Had simply ended
In bringing them exactly where,
When they set out they were.
So, usually, it fares
With those who waste in such vain prayers
The time required by their affairs.
The goblin laugh'd, and so did they.
However, ere he went away,
To profit by his offer kind,
They ask'd for wisdom, wealth of mind,--
A treasure void of care and sorrow--
A treasure fearless of the morrow,
Let who will steal, or beg, or borrow.
VII.--THE LION'S COURT.[10]
His lion majesty would know, one day,
What bestial tribes were subject to his sway.
He therefore gave his vassals all,
By deputies a call,
Despatching everywhere
A written circular,
Which bore his seal, and did import
His majesty would hold his court
A month most splendidly;--
A feast would open his levee,
Which done, Sir Jocko's sleight
Would give the court delight.
By such sublime magnificence
The king would show his power immense.
Now were they gather'd all
Within the royal hall.--
And such a hall! The charnel scent
Would make the strongest nerves relent.
The bear put up his paw to close
The double access of his nose.
The act had better been omitted;
His throne at once the monarch quitted,
And sent to Pluto's court the bear,
To show his delicacy there.
The ape approved the cruel deed,
A thorough flatterer by breed.
He praised the prince's wrath and claws,
He praised the odour and its cause.
Judged by the fragrance of that cave,
The amber of the Baltic wave,
The rose, the pink, the hawthorn bank,
Might with the vulgar garlic rank.
The mark his flattery overshot,
And made him share poor Bruin's lot;
This lion playing in his way,
The part of Don Caligula.
The fox approach'd. 'Now,' said the king,
'Apply your nostrils to this thing,
And let me hear, without disguise,
The judgment of a beast so wise.'
The fox replied, 'Your Majesty will please
Excuse'--and here he took good care to sneeze;--
'Afflicted with a dreadful cold,
Your majesty need not be told:
My sense of smell is mostly gone.'
From danger thus withdrawn,
He teaches us the while,
That one, to gain the smile
Of kings, must hold the middle place
'Twixt blunt rebuke and fulsome praise;
And sometimes use with easy grace,
The language of the Norman race.[11]
[10] Phaedrus. IV. 13.
[11] The Normans are proverbial among the French for the oracular
noncommittal of their responses.--_Un Normand_, says the proverb,
_a son dit et son détit._--Translator.
VIII.--THE VULTURES AND THE PIGEONS.[12]
Mars once made havoc in the air:
Some cause aroused a quarrel there
Among the birds;--not those that sing,
The courtiers of the merry Spring,
And by their talk, in leafy bowers,
Of loves they feel, enkindle ours;
Nor those which Cupid's mother yokes
To whirl on high her golden spokes;
But naughty hawk and vulture folks,
Of hooked beak and talons keen.
The carcass of a dog, 'tis said,
Had to this civil carnage led.
Blood rain'd upon the swarded green,
And valiant deeds were done, I ween.
But time and breath would surely fail
To give the fight in full detail;
Suffice to say, that chiefs were slain,
And heroes strow'd the sanguine plain,
Till old Prometheus, in his chains,
Began to hope an end of pains.
'Twas sport to see the battle rage,
And valiant hawk with hawk engage;
'Twas pitiful to see them fall,--
Torn, bleeding, weltering, gasping, all.
Force, courage, cunning, all were plied;
Intrepid troops on either side
No effort spared to populate
The dusky realms of hungry Fate.
This woful strife awoke compassion
Within another feather'd nation,
Of iris neck and tender heart.
They tried their hand at mediation--
To reconcile the foes, or part.
The pigeon people duly chose
Ambassadors, who work'd so well
As soon the murderous rage to quell,
And stanch the source of countless woes.
A truce took place, and peace ensued.
Alas! the people dearly paid
Who such pacification made!
Those cursed hawks at once pursued
The harmless pigeons, slew and ate,
Till towns and fields were desolate.
Small prudence had the friends of peace
To pacify such foes as these!
The safety of the rest requires
The bad should flesh each other's spears:
Whoever peace with them desires
Had better set them by the ears.
[12] Abstemius.
IX.--THE COACH AND THE FLY.[13]
Upon a sandy, uphill road,
Which naked in the sunshine glow'd,
Six lusty horses drew a coach.
Dames, monks, and invalids, its load,
On foot, outside, at leisure trode.
The team, all weary, stopp'd and blow'd:
Whereon there did a fly approach,
And, with a vastly business air.
Cheer'd up the horses with his buzz,--
Now pricked them here, now prick'd them there,
As neatly as a jockey does,--
And thought the while--he knew 'twas so--
He made the team and carriage go,--
On carriage-pole sometimes alighting--
Or driver's nose--and biting.
And when the whole did get in motion,
Confirm'd and settled in the notion,
He took, himself, the total glory,--
Flew back and forth in wondrous hurry,
And, as he buzz'd about the cattle,
Seem'd like a sergeant in a battle,
The files and squadrons leading on
To where the victory is won.
Thus charged with all the commonweal,
This single fly began to feel
Responsibility too great,
And cares, a grievous crushing weight;
And made complaint that none would aid
The horses up the tedious hill--
The monk his prayers at leisure said--
Fine time to pray!--the dames, at will,
Were singing songs--not greatly needed!
Thus in their ears he sharply sang,
And notes of indignation ran,--
Notes, after all, not greatly heeded.
Erelong the coach was on the top:
'Now,' said the fly, 'my hearties, stop
And breathe;--I've got you up the hill;
And Messrs. Horses, let me say,
I need not ask you if you will
A proper compensation pay.'
Thus certain ever-bustling noddies
Are seen in every great affair;
Important, swelling, busy-bodies,
And bores 'tis easier to bear
Than chase them from their needless care.
[13] Aesop; also Phaedrus, III., 6.
X.--THE DAIRYWOMAN AND THE POT OF MILK.
A pot of milk upon her cushion'd crown,
Good Peggy hasten'd to the market town;
Short clad and light, with speed she went,
Not fearing any accident;
Indeed, to be the nimbler tripper,
Her dress that day,
The truth to say,
Was simple petticoat and slipper.
And, thus bedight,
Good Peggy, light,--
Her gains already counted,--
Laid out the cash
At single dash,
Which to a hundred eggs amounted.
Three nests she made,
Which, by the aid
Of diligence and care were hatch'd.
'To raise the chicks,
I'll easy fix,'
Said she, 'beside our cottage thatch'd.
The fox must get
More cunning yet,
Or leave enough to buy a pig.
With little care
And any fare,
He'll grow quite fat and big;
And then the price
Will be so nice,
For which, the pork will sell!
'Twill go quite hard
But in our yard
I'll bring a cow and calf to dwell--
A calf to frisk among the flock!'
The thought made Peggy do the same;
And down at once the milk-pot came,
And perish'd with the shock.
Calf, cow, and pig, and chicks, adieu!
Your mistress' face is sad to view;
She gives a tear to fortune spilt;
Then with the downcast look of guilt
Home to her husband empty goes,
Somewhat in danger of his blows.
Who buildeth not, sometimes, in air
His cots, or seats, or castles fair?
From kings to dairy women,--all,--
The wise, the foolish, great and small,--
Each thinks his waking dream the best.
Some flattering error fills the breast:
The world with all its wealth is ours,
Its honours, dames, and loveliest bowers.
Instinct with valour, when alone,
I hurl the monarch from his throne;
The people, glad to see him dead,
Elect me monarch in his stead,
And diadems rain on my head.
Some accident then calls me back,
And I'm no more than simple Jack.[14]
[14] This and the following fable should be read together. See note to
next fable.
XI.--THE CURATE AND THE CORPSE.[15]
A dead man going slowly, sadly,
To occupy his last abode,
A curate by him, rather gladly,
Did holy service on the road.
Within a coach the dead was borne,
A robe around him duly worn,
Of which I wot he was not proud--
That ghostly garment call'd a shroud.
In summer's blaze and winter's blast,
That robe is changeless--'tis the last.
The curate, with his priestly dress on,
Recited all the church's prayers,
The psalm, the verse, response, and lesson,
In fullest style of such affairs.
Sir Corpse, we beg you, do not fear
A lack of such things on your bier;
They'll give abundance every way,
Provided only that you pay.
The Reverend John Cabbagepate
Watch'd o'er the corpse as if it were
A treasure needing guardian care;
And all the while, his looks elate,
This language seem'd to hold:
'The dead will pay so much in gold,
So much in lights of molten wax,
So much in other sorts of tax:'
With all he hoped to buy a cask of wine,
The best which thereabouts produced the vine.
A pretty niece, on whom he doted,
And eke his chambermaid, should be promoted,
By being newly petticoated.
The coach upset, and dash'd to pieces,
Cut short these thoughts of wine and nieces!
There lay poor John with broken head,
Beneath the coffin of the dead!
His rich, parishioner in lead
Drew on the priest the doom
Of riding with him to the tomb!
The Pot of Milk,[16] and fate
Of Curate Cabbagepate,
As emblems, do but give
The history of most that live.
[15] This fable is founded upon a fact, which is related by Madame de
Sévigné in her _Letters_ under date Feb. 26, 1672, as
follows:--"M. Boufflers has killed a man since his death: the
circumstance was this: they were carrying him about a league from
Boufflers to inter him; the corpse was on a bier in a coach; his own
curate attended it; the coach overset, and the bier falling upon the
curate's neck choaked him." M. de Boufflers had fallen down dead a
few days before. He was the eldest brother of the Duke de Boufflers.
In another _Letter_, March 3, 1672, Madame de Sévigné
says:--"Here is Fontaine's fable too, on the adventure of M. de
Boufflers' curate, who was killed in the coach by his dead patron.
There was something very extraordinary in the affair itself: the
fable is pretty; but not to be compared to the one that follows it:
I do not understand the Milk-pot."
[16] This allusion to the preceding fable must be the "milk-pot" which
Madame de Sévigné did "not understand" (_vide_ last note);
Madame can hardly have meant the "milk-pot" fable, which is easily
understood. She often saw La Fontaine's work before it was
published, and the date of her letter quoted at p. 161 shows that
she must so have seen the "Curate and the Corpse," and that,
perhaps, without so seeing the "Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk."
XII.--THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE, AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN
HIS BED.
Who joins not with his restless race
To give Dame Fortune eager chase?
O, had I but some lofty perch,
From which to view the panting crowd
Of care-worn dreamers, poor and proud,
As on they hurry in the search,
From realm to realm, o'er land and water,
Of Fate's fantastic, fickle daughter!
Ah! slaves sincere of flying phantom!
Just as their goddess they would clasp,
The jilt divine eludes their grasp,
And flits away to Bantam!
Poor fellows! I bewail their lot.
And here's the comfort of my ditty;
For fools the mark of wrath are not
So much, I'm sure, as pity.
'That man,' say they, and feed their hope,
'Raised cabbages--and now he's pope.
Don't we deserve as rich a prize?'
Ay, richer? But, hath Fortune eyes?
And then the popedom, is it worth
The price that must be given?--
Repose?--the sweetest bliss of earth,
And, ages since, of gods in heaven?
'Tis rarely Fortune's favourites
Enjoy this cream of all delights.
Seek not the dame, and she will you--
A truth which of her sex is true.
Snug in a country town
A pair of friends were settled down.
One sigh'd unceasingly to find
A fortune better to his mind,
And, as he chanced his friend to meet,
Proposed to quit their dull retreat.
'No prophet can to honour come,'
Said he, 'unless he quits his home;
Let's seek our fortune far and wide.'
'Seek, if you please,' his friend replied:
'For one, I do not wish to see
A better clime or destiny.
I leave the search and prize to you;
Your restless humour please pursue!
You'll soon come back again.
I vow to nap it here till then.'
The enterprising, or ambitious,
Or, if you please, the avaricious,
Betook him to the road.
The morrow brought him to a place
The flaunting goddess ought to grace
As her particular abode--
I mean the court--whereat he staid,
And plans for seizing Fortune laid.
He rose, and dress'd, and dined, and went to bed,
Exactly as the fashion led:
In short, he did whate'er he could,
But never found the promised good.
Said he, 'Now somewhere else I'll try--
And yet I fail'd I know not why;
For Fortune here is much at home
To this and that I see her come,
Astonishingly kind to some.
And, truly, it is hard to see
The reason why she slips from me.
'Tis true, perhaps, as I've been told,
That spirits here may be too bold.
To courts and courtiers all I bid adieu;
Deceitful shadows they pursue.
The dame has temples in Surat;
I'll go and see them--that is flat.'
To say so was t' embark at once.
O, human hearts are made of bronze!
His must have been of adamant,
Beyond the power of Death to daunt,
Who ventured first this route to try,
And all its frightful risks defy.
'Twas more than once our venturous wight
Did homeward turn his aching sight,
When pirate's, rocks, and calms and storms,
Presented death in frightful forms--
Death sought with pains on distant shores,
Which soon as wish'd for would have come,
Had he not left the peaceful doors
Of his despised but blessed home.
Arrived, at length, in Hindostan,
The people told our wayward man
That Fortune, ever void of plan,
Dispensed her favours in Japan.
And on he went, the weary sea
His vessel bearing lazily.
This lesson, taught by savage men,
Was after all his only gain:--
Contented in thy country stay,
And seek thy wealth in nature's way.
Japan refused to him, no less
Than Hindostan, success;
And hence his judgment came to make
His quitting home a great mistake.
Renouncing his ungrateful course,
He hasten'd back with all his force;
And when his village came in sight,
His tears were proof of his delight.
'Ah, happy he,' exclaimed the wight,
'Who, dwelling there with mind sedate,
Employs himself to regulate
His ever-hatching, wild desires;
Who checks his heart when it aspires
To know of courts, and seas, and glory,
More than he can by simple story;
Who seeks not o'er the treacherous wave--
More treacherous Fortune's willing slave--
The bait of wealth and honours fleeting,
Held by that goddess, aye retreating.
Henceforth from home I budge no more!'
Pop on his sleeping friends he came,
Thus purposing against the dame,
And found her sitting at his door.[17]
[17] See note to preceding fable, for Madame de Sévigné's opinion.
XIII.--THE TWO COCKS.[18]
Two cocks in peace were living, when
A war was kindled by a hen.
O love, thou bane of Troy! 'twas thine
The blood of men and gods to shed
Enough to turn the Xanthus red
As old Port wine!
And long the battle doubtful stood:
(I mean the battle of the cocks;)
They gave each other fearful shocks:
The fame spread o'er the neighbourhood,
And gather'd all the crested brood.
And Helens more than one, of plumage bright,
Led off the victor of that bloody fight.
The vanquish'd, drooping, fled,
Conceal'd his batter'd head,
And in a dark retreat
Bewail'd his sad defeat.
His loss of glory and the prize
His rival now enjoy'd before his eyes.
While this he every day beheld,
His hatred kindled, courage swell'd:
He whet his beak, and flapp'd his wings,
And meditated dreadful things.
Waste rage! His rival flew upon a roof
And crow'd to give his victory proof.--
A hawk this boasting heard:
Now perish'd all his pride,
As suddenly he died
Beneath that savage bird.
In consequence of this reverse,
The vanquish'd sallied from his hole,
And took the harem, master sole,
For moderate penance not the worse.
Imagine the congratulation,
The proud and stately leading,
Gallanting, coaxing, feeding,
Of wives almost a nation!
'Tis thus that Fortune loves to flee
The insolent by victory.
We should mistrust her when we beat,
Lest triumph lead us to defeat.
[18] Aesop.
XIV.--THE INGRATITUDE AND INJUSTICE OF MEN TOWARDS FORTUNE.[19]
A trader on the sea to riches grew;
Freight after freight the winds in favour blew;
Fate steer'd him clear; gulf, rock, nor shoal
Of all his bales exacted toll.
Of other men the powers of chance and storm
Their dues collected in substantial form;
While smiling Fortune, in her kindest sport,
Took care to waft his vessels to their port.
His partners, factors, agents, faithful proved;
His goods--tobacco, sugar, spice--
Were sure to fetch the highest price.
By fashion and by folly loved,
His rich brocades and laces,
And splendid porcelain vases,
Enkindling strong desires,
Most readily found buyers.
In short, gold rain'd where'er he went--
Abundance, more than could be spent--
Dogs, horses, coaches, downy bedding--
His very fasts were like a wedding.
A bosom friend, a look his table giving,
Inquired whence came such sumptuous living.
'Whence should it come,' said he, superb of brow,
'But from the fountain of my knowing how?
I owe it simply to my skill and care
In risking only where the marts will bear.'
And now, so sweet his swelling profits were,
He risk'd anew his former gains:
Success rewarded not his pains--
His own imprudence was the cause.
One ship, ill-freighted, went awreck;
Another felt of arms the lack,
When pirates, trampling on the laws,
O'ercame, and bore it off a prize.
A third, arriving at its port,
Had fail'd to sell its merchandize,--
The style and folly of the court
Not now requiring such a sort.
His agents, factors, fail'd;--in short,
The man himself, from pomp and princely cheer,
And palaces, and parks, and dogs, and deer,
Fell down to poverty most sad and drear.
His friend, now meeting him in shabby plight,
Exclaim'd, 'And whence comes this to pass?'
'From Fortune,' said the man, 'alas!'
'Console yourself,' replied the friendly wight:
'For, if to make you rich the dame denies,
She can't forbid you to be wise.'
What faith he gain'd, I do not wis;
I know, in every case like this,
Each claims the credit of his bliss,
And with a heart ingrate
Imputes his misery to Fate.[20]
[19] Abstemius.
[20] On this favourite subject with the easy-going La Fontaine--man's
ungracious treatment of Fortune--see also the two preceding fables,
and some neighbouring ones.
XV.--THE FORTUNE-TELLERS.
'Tis oft from chance opinion takes its rise,
And into reputation multiplies.
This prologue finds pat applications
In men of all this world's vocations;
For fashion, prejudice, and party strife,
Conspire to crowd poor justice out of life.
What can you do to counteract
This reckless, rushing cataract?
'Twill have its course for good or bad,
As it, indeed, has always had.
A dame in Paris play'd the Pythoness[21]
With much of custom, and, of course, success.
Was any trifle lost, or did
Some maid a husband wish,
Or wife of husband to be rid,
Or either sex for fortune fish,
Resort was had to her with gold,
To get the hidden future told.
Her art was made of various tricks,
Wherein the dame contrived to mix,
With much assurance, learned terms.
Now, chance, of course, sometimes confirms;
And just as often as it did,
The news was anything but hid.
In short, though, as to ninety-nine per cent.,
The lady knew not what her answers meant,
Borne up by ever-babbling Fame,
An oracle she soon became.
A garret was this woman's home,
Till she had gain'd of gold a sum
That raised the station of her spouse--
Bought him an office and a house.
As she could then no longer bear it,
Another tenanted the garret.
To her came up the city crowd,--
Wives, maidens, servants, gentry proud,--
To ask their fortunes, as before;
A Sibyl's cave was on her garret floor:
Such custom had its former mistress drawn
It lasted even when herself was gone.
It sorely tax'd the present mistress' wits
To satisfy the throngs of teasing cits.
'I tell your fortunes! joke, indeed!
Why, gentlemen, I cannot read!
What can you, ladies, learn from me,
Who never learn'd my A, B, C?'
Avaunt with reasons! tell she must,--
Predict as if she understood,
And lay aside more precious dust
Than two the ablest lawyers could.
The stuff that garnish'd out her room--
Four crippled chairs, a broken broom--
Help'd mightily to raise her merits,--
Full proof of intercourse with spirits!
Had she predicted e'er so truly,
On floor with carpet cover'd duly,
Her word had been a mockery made.
The fashion set upon the garret.
Doubt that?--none bold enough to dare it!
The other woman lost her trade.
All shopmen know the force of signs,
And so, indeed, do some divines.
In palaces, a robe awry
Has sometimes set the wearer high;
And crowds his teaching will pursue
Who draws the greatest listening crew.
Ask, if you please, the reason why.
[21] _Pythoness_.--The Pythoness was the priestess who gave out the
oracles at Delphi.
XVI.--THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE YOUNG RABBIT.[22]
John Rabbit's palace under ground
Was once by Goody Weasel found.
She, sly of heart, resolved to seize
The place, and did so at her ease.
She took possession while its lord
Was absent on the dewy sward,
Intent upon his usual sport,
A courtier at Aurora's court.
When he had browsed his fill of clover
And cut his pranks all nicely over,
Home Johnny came to take his drowse,
All snug within his cellar-house.
The weasel's nose he came to see,
Outsticking through the open door.
'Ye gods of hospitality!'
Exclaim'd the creature, vexèd sore,
'Must I give up my father's lodge?
Ho! Madam Weasel, please to budge,
Or, quicker than a weasel's dodge,
I'll call the rats to pay their grudge!'
The sharp-nosed lady made reply,
That she was first to occupy.
The cause of war was surely small--
A house where one could only crawl!
And though it were a vast domain,
Said she, 'I'd like to know what will
Could grant to John perpetual reign,--
The son of Peter or of Bill,--
More than to Paul, or even me.'
John Rabbit spoke--great lawyer he--
Of custom, usage, as the law,
Whereby the house, from sire to son,
As well as all its store of straw,
From Peter came at length to John.
Who could present a claim, so good
As he, the first possessor, could?
'Now,' said the dame, 'let's drop dispute,
And go before Raminagrobis, [23]
Who'll judge, not only in this suit,
But tell us truly whose the globe is.'
This person was a hermit cat,
A cat that play'd the hypocrite,
A saintly mouser, sleek and fat,
An arbiter of keenest wit.
John Rabbit in the judge concurr'd,
And off went both their case to broach
Before his majesty, the furr'd.
Said Clapperclaw, 'My kits, approach,
And put your noses to my ears:
I'm deaf, almost, by weight of years.'
And so they did, not fearing aught.
The good apostle, Clapperclaw,
Then laid on each a well-arm'd paw,
And both to an agreement brought,
By virtue of his tuskèd jaw.
This brings to mind the fate
Of little kings before the great.
[22] Fables of Bidpaii, "The Rat and the Cat." In Knatchbull's English
edition it will be found at p. 275. Also in the Lokman Collection.
[23] _Raminagrobis._--This name occurs in Rabelais (Book III., ch.
21), where, however, it is not the name of a cat, but of a
poet--understood to be meant for Guillaume Cretin, who lived in the
times of Kings Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. See note to
Bohn's edition of Rabelais.
XVII.--THE HEAD AND THE TAIL OF THE SERPENT.[24]
Two parts the serpent has--
Of men the enemies--
The head and tail: the same
Have won a mighty fame,
Next to the cruel Fates;--
So that, indeed, hence
They once had great debates
About precedence.
The first had always gone ahead;
The tail had been for ever led;
And now to Heaven it pray'd,
And said,
'O, many and many a league,
Dragg'd on in sore fatigue,
Behind his back I go.
Shall he for ever use me so?
Am I his humble servant;
No. Thanks to God most fervent!
His brother I was born,
And not his slave forlorn.
The self-same blood in both,
I'm just as good as he:
A poison dwells in me
As virulent as doth[25]
In him. In mercy, heed,
And grant me this decree,
That I, in turn, may lead--
My brother, follow me.
My course shall be so wise,
That no complaint shall rise.'
With cruel kindness Heaven granted
The very thing he blindly wanted:
To such desires of beasts and men,
Though often deaf, it was not then.
At once this novel guide,
That saw no more in broad daylight
Than in the murk of darkest night,
His powers of leading tried,
Struck trees, and men, and stones, and bricks,
And led his brother straight to Styx.
And to the same unlovely home,
Some states by such an error come.
[24] Plutarch's Lives, _Agis_, "The fable of the servant, enforcing
the moral that you cannot have the same man both for your governor
and your slave."
[25] An ancient mistake in natural history.--Translator.
XVIII.--AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON.[26]
While one philosopher[27] affirms
That by our senses we're deceived,
Another[28] swears, in plainest terms,
The senses are to be believed.
The twain are right. Philosophy
Correctly calls us dupes whene'er
Upon mere senses we rely.
But when we wisely rectify
The raw report of eye or ear,
By distance, medium, circumstance,
In real knowledge we advance.
These things hath nature wisely plann'd--
Whereof the proof shall be at hand.
I see the sun: its dazzling glow
Seems but a hand-breadth here below;
But should I see it in its home,
That azure, star-besprinkled dome,
Of all the universe the eye,
Its blaze would fill one half the sky.
The powers of trigonometry
Have set my mind from blunder free.
The ignorant believe it flat;
I make it round, instead of that.
I fasten, fix, on nothing ground it,
And send the earth to travel round it.
In short, I contradict my eyes,
And sift the truth from constant lies.
The mind, not hasty at conclusion,
Resists the onset of illusion,
Forbids the sense to get the better,
And ne'er believes it to the letter.
Between my eyes, perhaps too ready,
And ears as much or more too slow,
A judge with balance true and steady,
I come, at last, some things to know.
Thus when the water crooks a stick,[29]
My reason straightens it as quick--
Kind Mistress Reason--foe of error,
And best of shields from needless terror!
The creed is common with our race,
The moon contains a woman's face.
True? No. Whence, then, the notion,
From mountain top to ocean?
The roughness of that satellite,
Its hills and dales, of every grade,
Effect a change of light and shade
Deceptive to our feeble sight;
So that, besides the human face,
All sorts of creatures one might trace.
Indeed, a living beast, I ween,
Has lately been by England seen.
All duly placed the telescope,
And keen observers full of hope,
An animal entirely new,
In that fair planet, came to view.
Abroad and fast the wonder flew;--
Some change had taken place on high,
Presaging earthly changes nigh;
Perhaps, indeed, it might betoken
The wars[30] that had already broken
Out wildly o'er the Continent.
The king to see the wonder went:
(As patron of the sciences,
No right to go more plain than his.)
To him, in turn, distinct and clear,
This lunar monster did appear.--
A mouse, between the lenses caged,
Had caused these wars, so fiercely waged!
No doubt the happy English folks
Laugh'd at it as the best of jokes.
How soon will Mars afford the chance
For like amusements here in France!
He makes us reap broad fields of glory.
Our foes may fear the battle-ground;
For us, it is no sooner found,
Than Louis, with fresh laurels crown'd,
Bears higher up our country's story.
The daughters, too, of Memory,--
The Pleasures and the Graces,--
Still show their cheering faces:
We wish for peace, but do not sigh.
The English Charles the secret knows
To make the most of his repose.
And more than this, he'll know the way,
By valour, working sword in hand,
To bring his sea-encircled land
To share the fight it only sees to-day.
Yet, could he but this quarrel quell,
What incense-clouds would grateful swell!
What deed more worthy of his fame!
Augustus, Julius[31]--pray, which Caesar's name
Shines now on story's page with purest flame?
O people happy in your sturdy hearts!
Say, when shall Peace pack up these bloody darts,
And send us all, like you, to softer arts?
[26] This fable is founded on a fact which occurred in the experience of
the astronomer Sir Paul Neal, a member of the Royal Society of
London.--Translator. Sir Paul Neal, whose _lapsus_ suggested
this fable, thought he had discovered an animal in the moon.
Unluckily, however, after having made his "discovery" known, it was
found that the ground of it was simply the accidental presence of a
mouse in the object-glass of his telescope. Samuel Butler, the
author of "Hudibras," has also made fun of this otherwise rather
tragical episode in the early history of the Royal Society of
London, _vide_ his "Elephant in the Moon."
[27] _One philosopher._--Democritus, the so-called "laughing (or
scoffing) philosopher." He lived B.C. about 400 years. Fable XXVI.,
Book VIII., is devoted to him and how he was treated by his
contemporaries.
[28] _Another._--Epicurus, founder of the Epicurean philosophy. He
lived B. C. about 300 years.
[29] _Water crooks a stick_.--An allusion to the bent appearance
which a stick has in water, consequent upon the refraction of light.
[30] _The wars_.--This fable appears to have been composed about the
beginning of the year 1677. The European powers then found
themselves exhausted by wars, and desirous of peace. England, the
only neutral, became, of course, the arbiter of the negotiations
which ensued at Nimeguen. All the belligerent parties invoked her
mediation. Charles II., however, felt himself exceedingly
embarrassed by his secret connections with Louis XIV., which made
him desire to prescribe conditions favourable to that monarch;
while, on the other hand, he feared the people of England, if,
treacherous to her interests, he should fail to favour the nations
allied and combined against France.--Translator. _Vide_ Hume:
who also says that the English king "had actually in secret sold his
neutrality to France, and he received remittances of 1,000,000
livres a year, which was afterwards increased to 2,000,000 livres; a
considerable sum in the embarrassed state of his revenue." Hume's
_Hist. England_, Bell's edit., 1854, vol. vi., p. 242.
[31] _Augustus, Julius._--Augustus Caesar was eminent for his pacific
policy, as Julius Caesar was eminent for his warlike policy.
* * * * *
BOOK VIII.
I.--DEATH AND THE DYING.[1]
Death never taketh by surprise
The well-prepared, to wit, the wise--
They knowing of themselves the time
To meditate the final change of clime.
That time, alas! embraces all
Which into hours and minutes we divide;
There is no part, however small,
That from this tribute one can hide.
The very moment, oft, which bids
The heirs of empire see the light
Is that which shuts their fringèd lids
In everlasting night.
Defend yourself by rank and wealth,
Plead beauty, virtue, youth, and health,--
Unblushing Death will ravish all;
The world itself shall pass beneath his pall.
No truth is better known; but, truth to say,
No truth is oftener thrown away.
A man, well in his second century,
Complain'd that Death had call'd him suddenly;
Had left no time his plans to fill,
To balance books, or make his will.
'O Death,' said he, 'd' ye call it fair,
Without a warning to prepare,
To take a man on lifted leg?
O, wait a little while, I beg.
My wife cannot be left alone;
I must set out my nephew's son,
And let me build my house a wing,
Before you strike, O cruel king!'
'Old man,' said Death, 'one thing is sure,--
My visit here's not premature.
Hast thou not lived a century!
Darest thou engage to find for me?
In Paris' walls two older men
Has France, among her millions ten?
Thou say'st I should have sent thee word
Thy lamp to trim, thy loins to gird,
And then my coming had been meet--
Thy will engross'd,
Thy house complete!
Did not thy feelings notify?
Did not they tell thee thou must die?
Thy taste and hearing are no more;
Thy sight itself is gone before;
For thee the sun superfluous shines,
And all the wealth of Indian mines;
Thy mates I've shown thee dead or dying.
What's this, indeed, but notifying?
Come on, old man, without reply;
For to the great and common weal
It doth but little signify
Whether thy will shall ever feel
The impress of thy hand and seal.'
And Death had reason,--ghastly sage!
For surely man, at such an age,
Should part from life as from a feast,
Returning decent thanks, at least,
To Him who spread the various cheer,
And unrepining take his bier;
For shun it long no creature can.
Repinest thou, grey-headed man?
See younger mortals rushing by
To meet their death without a sigh--
Death full of triumph and of fame,
But in its terrors still the same.--
But, ah! my words are thrown away!
Those most like Death most dread his sway.
[1] Abstemius.
II.--THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER.
A cobbler sang from morn till night;
'Twas sweet and marvellous to hear,
His trills and quavers told the ear
Of more contentment and delight,
Enjoy'd by that laborious wight
Than e'er enjoy'd the sages seven,
Or any mortals short of heaven.
His neighbour, on the other hand,
With gold in plenty at command,
But little sang, and slumber'd less--
A financier of great success.
If e'er he dozed, at break of day,
The cobbler's song drove sleep away;
And much he wish'd that Heaven had made
Sleep a commodity of trade,
In market sold, like food and drink,
So much an hour, so much a wink.
At last, our songster did he call
To meet him in his princely hall.
Said he, 'Now, honest Gregory,
What may your yearly earnings be?'
'My yearly earnings! faith, good sir,
I never go, at once, so far,'
The cheerful cobbler said,
And queerly scratch'd his head,--
'I never reckon in that way,
But cobble on from day to day,
Content with daily bread.'
'Indeed! Well, Gregory, pray,
What may your earnings be per day?'
'Why, sometimes more and sometimes less.
The worst of all, I must confess,
(And but for which our gains would be
A pretty sight, indeed, to see,)
Is that the days are made so many
In which we cannot earn a penny--
The sorest ill the poor man feels:
They tread upon each other's heels,
Those idle days of holy saints!
And though the year is shingled o'er,
The parson keeps a-finding more!'[2]
With smiles provoked by these complaints,
Replied the lordly financier,
'I'll give you better cause to sing.
These hundred pounds I hand you here
Will make you happy as a king.
Go, spend them with a frugal heed;
They'll long supply your every need.'
The cobbler thought the silver more
Than he had ever dream'd before,
The mines for ages could produce,
Or world, with all its people, use.
He took it home, and there did hide--
And with it laid his joy aside.
No more of song, no more of sleep,
But cares, suspicions in their stead,
And false alarms, by fancy fed.
His eyes and ears their vigils keep,
And not a cat can tread the floor
But seems a thief slipp'd through the door.
At last, poor man!
Up to the financier he ran,--
Then in his morning nap profound:
'O, give me back my songs,' cried he,
'And sleep, that used so sweet to be,
And take the money, every pound!'
[2] _The parson keeps a-finding more!_--Under the old regime of
France the parish priest of each church had usually every Sunday, at
sermon time, to announce more than one religious fast or feast for
the coming week, which the poor at least were expected to observe.
III.--THE LION, THE WOLF, AND THE FOX.[3]
A lion, old, and impotent with gout,
Would have some cure for age found out.
Impossibilities, on all occasions,
With kings, are rank abominations.
This king, from every species,--
For each abounds in every sort,--
Call'd to his aid the leeches.
They came in throngs to court,
From doctors of the highest fee
To nostrum-quacks without degree,--
Advised, prescribed, talk'd learnedly;
But with the rest
Came not Sir Cunning Fox, M.D.
Sir Wolf the royal couch attended,
And his suspicions there express'd.
Forthwith his majesty, offended,
Resolved Sir Cunning Fox should come,
And sent to smoke him from his home.
He came, was duly usher'd in,
And, knowing where Sir Wolf had been,
Said, 'Sire, your royal ear
Has been abused, I fear,
By rumours false and insincere;
To wit, that I've been self-exempt
From coming here, through sheer contempt.
But, sire, I've been on pilgrimage,
By vow expressly made,
Your royal health to aid,
And, on my way, met doctors sage,
In skill the wonder of the age,
Whom carefully I did consult
About that great debility
Term'd in the books senility,
Of which you fear, with reason, the result.
You lack, they say, the vital heat,
By age extreme become effete.
Drawn from a living wolf, the hide
Should warm and smoking be applied.
The secret's good, beyond a doubt,
For nature's weak, and wearing out.
Sir Wolf, here, won't refuse to give
His hide to cure you, as I live.'
The king was pleased with this advice.
Flay'd, jointed, served up in a trice,
Sir Wolf first wrapp'd the monarch up,
Then furnish'd him whereon to sup.
Beware, ye courtiers, lest ye gain,
By slander's arts, less power than pain;
For in the world where ye are living,
A pardon no one thinks of giving.
[3] Aesop; also Bidpaii, and Lokman.
IV.--THE POWER OF FABLES.
To M. De Barillon.[4]
Can diplomatic dignity
To simple fables condescend?
Can I your famed benignity
Invoke, my muse an ear to lend?
If once she dares a high intent,
Will you esteem her impudent?
Your cares are weightier, indeed,
Than listening to the sage debates
Of rabbit or of weasel states:
So, as it pleases, burn or read;
But save us from the woful harms
Of Europe roused in hostile arms.
That from a thousand other places
Our enemies should show their faces,
May well be granted with a smile,
But not that England's Isle
Our friendly kings should set
Their fatal blades to whet.
Comes not the time for Louis to repose?
What Hercules, against these hydra foes,
Would not grow weary? Must new heads oppose
His ever-waxing energy of blows?
Now, if your gentle, soul-persuasive powers,
As sweet as mighty in this world of ours,
Can soften hearts, and lull this war to sleep,[5]
I'll pile your altars with a hundred sheep;
And this is not a small affair
For a Parnassian mountaineer.
Meantime, (if you have time to spare,)
Accept a little incense-cheer.
A homely, but an ardent prayer,
And tale in verse, I give you here.
I'll only say, the theme is fit for you.
With praise, which envy must confess
To worth like yours is justly due,
No man on earth needs propping less.
In Athens, once, that city fickle,
An orator,[6] awake to feel
His country in a dangerous pickle,
Would sway the proud republic's heart,
Discoursing of the common weal,
As taught by his tyrannic art.
The people listen'd--not a word.
Meanwhile the orator recurr'd
To bolder tropes--enough to rouse
The dullest blocks that e'er did drowse;
He clothed in life the very dead,
And thunder'd all that could be said.
The wind received his breath,
As to the ear of death.
That beast of many heads and light,[7]
The crowd, accustom'd to the sound
Was all intent upon a sight--
A brace of lads in mimic fight.
A new resource the speaker found.
'Ceres,' in lower tone said he,
'Went forth her harvest fields to see:
An eel, as such a fish might he,
And swallow, were her company.
A river check'd the travellers three.
Two cross'd it soon without ado;
The smooth eel swam, the swallow flew.--'
Outcried the crowd
With voices loud--
'And Ceres--what did she?'
'Why, what she pleased; but first
Yourselves she justly cursed--
A people puzzling aye your brains
With children's tales and children's play,
While Greece puts on her steel array,
To save her limbs from, tyrant chains!
Why ask you not what Philip[8] does?'
At this reproach the idle buzz
Fell to the silence of the grave,
Or moonstruck sea without a wave,
And every eye and ear awoke
To drink the words the patriot spoke.
This feather stick in Fable's cap.
We're all Athenians, mayhap;
And I, for one, confess the sin;
For, while I write this moral here,
If one should tell that tale so queer
Ycleped, I think, "The Ass's Skin,"[9]
I should not mind my work a pin.
The world is old, they say; I don't deny it;--
But, infant still
In taste and will,
Whoe'er would teach, must gratify it.[10]
[4] _M. De Barillon._--Ambassador to the Court of St.
James.--Translator. M. De Barillon was a great friend of La Fontaine,
and also of other literary lights of the time.
[5] _And lull this war to sleep._--The parliament of England was
determined that, in case Louis XIV. did not make peace with the
allies, Charles II. should join them to make war on
France.--Translator.
[6] _An orator._--Demades.--Translator.
[7] _That beast of many heads._--Horace, speaking of the Roman
people, said, "Bellua multorum est capitum."--_Epist. I., Book
I._, 76.--Translator.
[8] _Philip._--Philip of Macedon, then at war with the Greeks.
[9] "The Ass's Skin,"--an old French nursery tale so called.
[10] La Fontaine's views on "the power of fables" are further given in
Fable I., Book II.; Fable I., Book III.; Fable I., Book V.; Fable
I., Book VI; the Introduction to Book VII., and Fable I., Book IX.
V.--THE MAN AND THE FLEA.[11]
Impertinent, we tease and weary Heaven
With prayers which would insult mere mortals even.
'Twould seem that not a god in all the skies
From our affairs must ever turn his eyes,
And that the smallest of our race
Could hardly eat, or wash his face,
Without, like Greece and Troy for ten years' space,
Embroiling all Olympus in the case.
A flea some blockhead's shoulder bit,
And then his clothes refused to quit.
'O Hercules,' he cried, 'you ought to purge
This world of this far worse than hydra scourge!
O Jupiter, what are your bolts about,
They do not put these foes of mine to rout?'
To crush a flea, this fellow's fingers under,
The gods must lend the fool their club and thunder!
[11] Aesop.
VI.--THE WOMEN AND THE SECRET.[12]
There's nothing like a secret weighs;
Too heavy 'tis for women tender;
And, for this matter, in my days,
I've seen some men of female gender.
To prove his wife, a husband cried,
(The night he knew the truth would hide,)
'O Heavens! What's this? O dear--I beg--
I'm torn--O! O! I've laid an egg!'
'An egg?' 'Why, yes, it's gospel-true.
Look here--see--feel it, fresh and new;
But, wife, don't mention it, lest men
Should laugh at me, and call me hen:
Indeed, don't say a word about it.'
On this, as other matters, green and young,
The wife, all wonder, did not doubt it,
And pledged herself by Heaven to hold her tongue.
Her oath, however, fled the light
As quick as did the shades of night.
Before Dan Phoebus waked to labour
The dame was off to see a neighbour.
'My friend,' she said, half-whispering.
'There's come to pass the strangest thing--
If you should tell, 'twould turn me out of door:--
My husband's laid an egg as big as four!
As you would taste of heaven's bliss,
Don't tell a living soul of this.'
'I tell! why if you knew a thing about me,
You wouldn't for an instant doubt me;
Your confidence I'll ne'er abuse.'
The layer's wife went home relieved;
The other broil'd to tell the news;
You need not ask if she believed.
A dame more busy could not be;
In twenty places, ere her tea,
Instead of one egg, she said three!
Nor was the story finish'd here:
A gossip, still more keen than she,
Said four, and spoke it in the ear--
A caution truly little worth,
Applied to all the ears on earth.
Of eggs, the number, thanks to Fame,
As on from mouth to mouth she sped,
Had grown a hundred, soothly said,
Ere Sol had quench'd his golden flame!
[12] Abstemius.
VII.--THE DOG THAT CARRIED HIS MASTER'S DINNER.
Our eyes are not made proof against the fair,
Nor hands against the touch of gold.
Fidelity is sadly rare,
And has been from the days of old.
Well taught his appetite to check,
And do full many a handy trick,
A dog was trotting, light and quick,
His master's dinner on his neck.
A temperate, self-denying dog was he,
More than, with such a load, he liked to be.
But still he was, while many such as we
Would not have scrupled to make free.
Strange that to dogs a virtue you may teach,
Which, do your best, to men you vainly preach!
This dog of ours, thus richly fitted out,
A mastiff met, who wish'd the meat, no doubt.
To get it was less easy than he thought:
The porter laid it down and fought.
Meantime some other dogs arrive:
Such dogs are always thick enough,
And, fearing neither kick nor cuff,
Upon the public thrive.
Our hero, thus o'ermatch'd and press'd,--
The meat in danger manifest,--
Is fain to share it with the rest;
And, looking very calm and wise,
'No anger, gentlemen,' he cries:
'My morsel will myself suffice;
The rest shall be your welcome prize.'
With this, the first his charge to violate,
He snaps a mouthful from his freight.
Then follow mastiff, cur, and pup,
Till all is cleanly eaten up.
Not sparingly the party feasted,
And not a dog of all but tasted.
In some such manner men abuse
Of towns and states the revenues.
The sheriffs, aldermen, and mayor,
Come in for each a liberal share.
The strongest gives the rest example:
'Tis sport to see with what a zest
They sweep and lick the public chest
Of all its funds, however ample.
If any commonweal's defender
Should dare to say a single word,
He's shown his scruples are absurd,
And finds it easy to surrender--
Perhaps, to be the first offender.
VIII.--THE JOKER AND THE FISHES.[13]
Some seek for jokers; I avoid.
A joke must be, to be enjoy'd,
Of wisdom's words, by wit employ'd.
God never meant for men of sense,
The wits that joke to give offence.
Perchance of these I shall be able
To show you one preserved in fable.
A joker at a banker's table,
Most amply spread to satisfy
The height of epicurean wishes,
Had nothing near but little fishes.
So, taking several of the fry,
He whisper'd to them very nigh,
And seem'd to listen for reply.
The guests much wonder'd what it meant,
And stared upon him all intent.
The joker, then with sober face,
Politely thus explain'd the case:
'A friend of mine, to India bound,
Has been, I fear,
Within a year,
By rocks or tempests wreck'd and drown'd.
I ask'd these strangers from the sea
To tell me where my friend might be.
But all replied they were too young
To know the least of such a matter--
The older fish could tell me better.
Pray, may I hear some older tongue?'
What relish had the gentlefolks
For such a sample of his jokes,
Is more than I can now relate.
They put, I'm sure, upon his plate,
A monster of so old a date,
He must have known the names and fate
Of all the daring voyagers,
Who, following the moon and stars,
Have, by mischances, sunk their bones,
Within the realms of Davy Jones;
And who, for centuries, had seen,
Far down, within the fathomless,
Where whales themselves are sceptreless,
The ancients in their halls of green.
[13] Abstemius.
IX.--THE RAT AND THE OYSTER[14]
A country rat, of little brains,
Grown weary of inglorious rest,
Left home with all its straws and grains,
Resolved to know beyond his nest.
When peeping through the nearest fence,
'How big the world is, how immense!'
He cried; 'there rise the Alps, and that
Is doubtless famous Ararat.'
His mountains were the works of moles,
Or dirt thrown up in digging holes!
Some days of travel brought him where
The tide had left the oysters bare.
Since here our traveller saw the sea,
He thought these shells the ships must be.
'My father was, in truth,' said he,
'A coward, and an ignoramus;
He dared not travel: as for me,
I've seen the ships and ocean famous;
Have cross'd the deserts without drinking,
And many dangerous streams unshrinking;
Such things I know from having seen and felt them.'
And, as he went, in tales he proudly dealt them,
Not being of those rats whose knowledge
Comes by their teeth on books in college.
Among the shut-up shell-fish, one
Was gaping widely at the sun;
It breathed, and drank the air's perfume,
Expanding, like a flower in bloom.
Both white and fat, its meat
Appear'd a dainty treat.
Our rat, when he this shell espied,
Thought for his stomach to provide.
'If not mistaken in the matter,'
Said he, 'no meat was ever fatter,
Or in its flavour half so fine,
As that on which to-day I dine.'
Thus full of hope, the foolish chap
Thrust in his head to taste,
And felt the pinching of a trap--
The oyster closed in haste.
We're first instructed, by this case,
That those to whom the world is new
Are wonder-struck at every view;
And, in the second place,
That the marauder finds his match,
And he is caught who thinks to catch.
[14] Abstemius; also Aesop.
X.--THE BEAR AND THE AMATEUR GARDENER.[15]
A certain mountain bear, unlick'd and rude,
By fate confined within a lonely wood,
A new Bellerophon,[16] whose life,
Knew neither comrade, friend, nor wife,--
Became insane; for reason, as we term it,
Dwells never long with any hermit.
'Tis good to mix in good society,
Obeying rules of due propriety;
And better yet to be alone;
But both are ills when overdone.
No animal had business where
All grimly dwelt our hermit bear;
Hence, bearish as he was, he grew
Heart-sick, and long'd for something new.
While he to sadness was addicted,
An aged man, not far from there,
Was by the same disease afflicted.
A garden was his favourite care,--
Sweet Flora's priesthood, light and fair,
And eke Pomona's--ripe and red
The presents that her fingers shed.
These two employments, true, are sweet
When made so by some friend discreet.
The gardens, gaily as they look,
Talk not, (except in this my book;)
So, tiring of the deaf and dumb,
Our man one morning left his home
Some company to seek,
That had the power to speak.--
The bear, with thoughts the same,
Down from his mountain came;
And in a solitary place,
They met each other, face to face.
It would have made the boldest tremble;
What did our man? To play the Gascon
The safest seem'd. He put the mask on,
His fear contriving to dissemble.
The bear, unused to compliment,
Growl'd bluntly, but with good intent,
'Come home with me.' The man replied:
'Sir Bear, my lodgings, nearer by,
In yonder garden you may spy,
Where, if you'll honour me the while,
We'll break our fast in rural style.
I've fruits and milk,--unworthy fare,
It may be, for a wealthy bear;
But then I offer what I have.'
The bear accepts, with visage grave,
But not unpleased; and on their way,
They grow familiar, friendly, gay.
Arrived, you see them, side by side,
As if their friendship had been tried.
To a companion so absurd,
Blank solitude were well preferr'd,
Yet, as the bear scarce spoke a word,
The man was left quite at his leisure
To trim his garden at his pleasure.
Sir Bruin hunted--always brought
His friend whatever game he caught;
But chiefly aim'd at driving flies--
Those hold and shameless parasites,
That vex us with their ceaseless bites--
From off our gardener's face and eyes.
One day, while, stretch'd upon the ground
The old man lay, in sleep profound,
A fly that buzz'd around his nose,--
And bit it sometimes, I suppose,--
Put Bruin sadly to his trumps.
At last, determined, up he jumps;
'I'll stop thy noisy buzzing now,'
Says he; 'I know precisely how.'
No sooner said than done.
He seized a paving-stone;
And by his modus operandi
Did both the fly and man die.
A foolish friend may cause more woe
Than could, indeed, the wisest foe.
[15] Bidpaii.
[16] _Bellerophon_.--The son of King Glaucus, who, after a wandering
life, died a prey to melancholy.
XI.--THE TWO FRIENDS.[17]
Two friends, in Monomotapa,
Had all their interests combined.
Their friendship, faithful and refined,
Our country can't exceed, do what it may.
One night, when potent Sleep had laid
All still within our planet's shade,
One of the two gets up alarm'd,
Runs over to the other's palace,
And hastily the servants rallies.
His startled friend, quick arm'd,
With purse and sword his comrade meets,
And thus right kindly greets:--
'Thou seldom com'st at such an hour;
I take thee for a man of sounder mind
Than to abuse the time for sleep design'd.
Hast lost thy purse, by Fortune's power?
Here's mine. Hast suffer'd insult, or a blow,
I've here my sword--to avenge it let us go.'
'No,' said his friend, 'no need I feel
Of either silver, gold, or steel;
I thank thee for thy friendly zeal.
In sleep I saw thee rather sad,
And thought the truth might be as bad.
Unable to endure the fear,
That cursed dream has brought me here.'
Which think you, reader, loved the most!
If doubtful this, one truth may be proposed:
There's nothing sweeter than a real friend:
Not only is he prompt to lend--
An angler delicate, he fishes
The very deepest of your wishes,
And spares your modesty the task
His friendly aid to ask.
A dream, a shadow, wakes his fear,
When pointing at the object dear.[18]
[17] Bidpaii.
[18] This fable is thought to have been inspired by the friendship of La
Fontaine for Fouquet, the minister whom Louis XIV., actuated mostly
by jealousy and envy, disgraced and imprisoned. See the Translator's
Preface.
XII.--THE HOG, THE GOAT, AND THE SHEEP.[19]
A goat, a sheep, and porker fat,
All to the market rode together.
Their own amusement was not that
Which caused their journey thither.
Their coachman did not mean to 'set them down'
To see the shows and wonders of the town.
The porker cried, in piercing squeals,
As if with butchers at his heels.
The other beasts, of milder mood,
The cause by no means understood.
They saw no harm, and wonder'd why
At such a rate the hog should cry.
'Hush there, old piggy!' said the man,
'And keep as quiet as you can.
What wrong have you to squeal about,
And raise this dev'lish, deaf'ning shout?
These stiller persons at your side
Have manners much more dignified.
Pray, have you heard
A single word
Come from that gentleman in wool?
That proves him wise.' 'That proves him fool!'
The testy hog replied;
'For did he know
To what we go,
He'd cry almost to split his throat;
So would her ladyship the goat.
They only think to lose with ease,
The goat her milk, the sheep his fleece:
They're, maybe, right; but as for me,
This ride is quite another matter.
Of service only on the platter,
My death is quite a certainty.
Adieu, my dear old piggery!'
The porker's logic proved at once
Himself a prophet and a dunce.
Hope ever gives a present ease,
But fear beforehand kills:
The wisest he who least foresees
Inevitable ills.
[19] Aesop.
XIII.--THYRSIS AND AMARANTH.
For Mademoiselle De Sillery.[20]
I had the Phrygian quit,
Charm'd with Italian wit;[21]
But a divinity
Would on Parnassus see
A fable more from me.
Such challenge to refuse,
Without a good excuse,
Is not the way to use
Divinity or muse.
Especially to one
Of those who truly are,
By force of being fair,
Made queens of human will.
A thing should not be done
In all respects so ill.
For, be it known to all,
From Sillery the call
Has come for bird, and beast,
And insects, to the least;
To clothe their thoughts sublime
In this my simple rhyme.
In saying Sillery,
All's said that need to be.
Her claim to it so good,
Few fail to give her place
Above the human race:
How could they, if they would?
Now come we to our end:--
As she opines my tales
Are hard to comprehend--
For even genius fails
Some things to understand--
So let us take in hand
To make unnecessary,
For once, a commentary.
Come shepherds now,--and rhyme we afterwards
The talk between the wolves and fleecy herds.
To Amaranth, the young and fair,
Said Thyrsis, once, with serious air,--
'O, if you knew, like me, a certain ill,
With which we men are harm'd,
As well as strangely charm'd,
No boon from Heaven your heart could like it fill!
Please let me name it in your ear,--
A harmless word,--you need not fear.
Would I deceive you, you, for whom I bear
The tenderest sentiments that ever were?'
Then Amaranth replied,
'What is its name? I beg you, do not hide'
''Tis LOVE.'--' The word is beautiful! reveal
Its signs and symptoms, how it makes one feel.'--
'Its pains are ecstacies. So sweet its stings,
The nectar-cups and incense-pots of kings,
Compared, are flat, insipid things.
One strays all lonely in the wood--
Leans silent o'er the placid flood,
And there with great complacency,
A certain face can see--
'Tis not one's own--but image fair,
Retreating,
Fleeting,
Meeting,
Greeting,
Following everywhere.
For all the rest of human kind,
One is as good, in short, as blind.
There is a shepherd wight, I ween,
Well known upon the village green,
Whose voice, whose name, whose turning of the hinge
Excites upon the cheek a richer tinge--
The thought of whom is signal for a sigh--
The breast that heaves it knows not why--
Whose face the maiden fears to see,
Yet none so welcome still as he.'--
Here Amaranth cut short his speech:
'O! O! is that the evil which you preach?
To me I think it is no stranger;
I must have felt its power and danger.'
Here Thrysis thought his end was gain'd,
When further thus the maid explain'd:
''Tis just the very sentiment
Which I have felt for Clidamant!'
The other, vex'd and mortified,
Now bit his lips, and nearly died.
Like him are multitudes, who when
Their own advancement they have meant,
Have play'd the game of other men.
[20] _Mdlle. de Sillery_.--Gabrielle-Françoise Brulart de Sillery,
niece of La Fontaine's friend and patron, the Duke de La
Rochefoucauld (author of the _Maximes_). She married Louis de
Tibergeau, Marquis de La Motte-au-Maine, and died in 1732.
[21] _Italian wit_.--Referring to his Tales, in which he had
borrowed many subjects from Boccaccio.--Translator.
XIV.--THE FUNERAL OF THE LIONESS.[22]
The lion's consort died:
Crowds, gather'd at his side,
Must needs console the prince,
And thus their loyalty evince
By compliments of course;
Which make affliction worse.
Officially he cites
His realm to funeral rites,
At such a time and place;
His marshals of the mace
Would order the affair.
Judge you if all came there.
Meantime, the prince gave way
To sorrow night and day.
With cries of wild lament
His cave he well-nigh rent.
And from his courtiers far and near,
Sounds imitative you might hear.
The court a country seems to me,
Whose people are, no matter what,--
Sad, gay, indifferent, or not,--
As suits the will of majesty;
Or, if unable so to be,
Their task it is to seem it all--
Chameleons, monkeys, great and small.
'Twould seem one spirit serves a thousand bodies--
A paradise, indeed, for soulless noddies.
But to our tale again:
The stag graced not the funeral train;
Of tears his cheeks bore not a stain;
For how could such a thing have been,
When death avenged him on the queen,
Who, not content with taking one,
Had choked to death his wife and son?
The tears, in truth, refused to run.
A flatterer, who watch'd the while,
Affirm'd that he had seen him smile.
If, as the wise man somewhere saith,
A king's is like a lion's wrath,
What should King Lion's be but death?
The stag, however, could not read;
Hence paid this proverb little heed,
And walk'd, intrepid, to'ards the throne;
When thus the king, in fearful tone:
'Thou caitiff of the wood!
Presum'st to laugh at such a time?
Joins not thy voice the mournful chime?
We suffer not the blood
Of such a wretch profane
Our sacred claws to stain.
Wolves, let a sacrifice be made,
Avenge your mistress' awful shade.'
'Sire,' did the stag reply,
The time for tears is quite gone by;
For in the flowers, not far from here,
Your worthy consort did appear;
Her form, in spite of my surprise,
I could not fail to recognise.
"My friend," said she, "beware
Lest funeral pomp about my bier,
When I shall go with gods to share,
Compel thine eye to drop a tear.
With kindred saints I rove
In the Elysian grove,
And taste a sort of bliss
Unknown in worlds like this.
Still, let the royal sorrow flow
Its proper season here below;
'Tis not unpleasing, I confess."'
The king and court scarce hear him out.
Up goes the loud and welcome shout--
'A miracle! an apotheosis!'
And such at once the fashion is,
So far from dying in a ditch,
The stag retires with presents rich.
Amuse the ear of royalty
With pleasant dreams, and flattery,--
No matter what you may have done,
Nor yet how high its wrath may run,--
The bait is swallow'd--object won.
[22] Abstemius.
XV.--THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT.
One's own importance to enhance,
Inspirited by self-esteem,
Is quite a common thing in France;
A French disease it well might seem.
The strutting cavaliers of Spain
Are in another manner vain.
Their pride has more insanity;
More silliness our vanity.
Let's shadow forth our own disease--
Well worth a hundred tales like these.
A rat, of quite the smallest size,
Fix'd on an elephant his eyes,
And jeer'd the beast of high descent
Because his feet so slowly went.
Upon his back, three stories high,
There sat, beneath a canopy,
A certain sultan of renown,
His dog, and cat, and concubine,
His parrot, servant, and his wine,
All pilgrims to a distant town.
The rat profess'd to be amazed
That all the people stood and gazed
With wonder, as he pass'd the road,
Both at the creature and his load.
'As if,' said he, 'to occupy
A little more of land or sky
Made one, in view of common sense,
Of greater worth and consequence!
What see ye, men, in this parade,
That food for wonder need be made?
The bulk which makes a child afraid?
In truth, I take myself to be,
In all aspects, as good as he.'
And further might have gone his vaunt;
But, darting down, the cat
Convinced him that a rat
Is smaller than an elephant.
XVI.--THE HOROSCOPE.
On death we mortals often run,
Just by the roads we take to shun.
A father's only heir, a son,
Was over-loved, and doted on
So greatly, that astrology
Was question'd what his fate might be.
The man of stars this caution gave--
That, until twenty years of age,
No lion, even in a cage,
The boy should see,--his life to save.
The sire, to silence every fear
About a life so very dear,
Forbade that any one should let
His son beyond his threshold get.
Within his palace walls, the boy
Might all that heart could wish enjoy--
Might with his mates walk, leap, and run,
And frolic in the wildest fun.
When come of age to love the chase,
That exercise was oft depicted
To him as one that brought disgrace,
To which but blackguards were addicted.
But neither warning nor derision
Could change his ardent disposition.
The youth, fierce, restless, full of blood,
Was prompted by the boiling flood
To love the dangers of the wood.
The more opposed, the stronger grew
His mad desire. The cause he knew,
For which he was so closely pent;
And as, where'er he went,
In that magnificent abode,
Both tapestry and canvas show'd
The feats he did so much admire,
A painted lion roused his ire.
'Ah, monster!' cried he, in his rage,
'Tis you that keep me in my cage.'
With that, he clinch'd his fist,
To strike the harmless beast--
And did his hand impale
Upon a hidden nail!
And thus this cherish'd head,
For which the healing art
But vainly did its part,
Was hurried to the dead,
By caution blindly meant
To shun that sad event.
The poet Aeschylus, 'tis said,
By much the same precaution bled.
A conjuror foretold
A house would crush him in its fall;--
Forth sallied he, though old,
From town and roof-protected hall,
And took his lodgings, wet or dry,
Abroad, beneath the open sky.
An eagle, bearing through the air
A tortoise for her household fare,
Which first she wish'd to break,
The creature dropp'd, by sad mistake,
Plump on the poet's forehead bare,
As if it were a naked rock--
To Aeschylus a fatal shock!
From these examples, it appears,
This art, if true in any wise,
Makes men fulfil the very fears
Engender'd by its prophecies.
But from this charge I justify,
By branding it a total lie.
I don't believe that Nature's powers
Have tied her hands or pinion'd ours,
By marking on the heavenly vault
Our fate without mistake or fault.
That fate depends upon conjunctions
Of places, persons, times, and tracks,
And not upon the functions
Of more or less of quacks.
A king and clown beneath one planet's nod
Are born; one wields a sceptre, one a hod.
But it is Jupiter that wills it so!
And who is he?[23] A soulless clod.
How can he cause such different powers to flow
Upon the aforesaid mortals here below?
And how, indeed, to this far distant ball
Can he impart his energy at all?--
How pierce the ether deeps profound,
The sun and globes that whirl around?
A mote might turn his potent ray
For ever from its earthward way.
Will find, it, then, in starry cope,
The makers of the horoscope?
The war[24] with which all Europe's now afflicted--
Deserves it not by them to've been predicted?
Yet heard we not a whisper of it,
Before it came, from any prophet.
The suddenness of passion's gush,
Of wayward life the headlong rush,--
Permit they that the feeble ray
Of twinkling planet, far away,
Should trace our winding, zigzag course?
And yet this planetary force,
As steady as it is unknown,
These fools would make our guide alone--
Of all our varied life the source!
Such doubtful facts as I relate--
The petted child's and poet's fate--
Our argument may well admit.
The blindest man that lives in France,
The smallest mark would doubtless hit--
Once in a thousand times--by chance.
[23] _And who is he_?--By Jupiter, "the soulless clod," is of course
meant the planet, not the god.
[24] _The war_.--See note to Fable XVIII., Book VII.
XVII.--THE ASS AND THE DOG.[25]
Dame Nature, our respected mother,
Ordains that we should aid each other.
The ass this ordinance neglected,
Though not a creature ill-affected.
Along the road a dog and he
One master follow'd silently.
Their master slept: meanwhile, the ass
Applied his nippers to the grass,
Much pleased in such a place to stop,
Though there no thistle he could crop.
He would not be too delicate,
Nor spoil a dinner for a plate,
Which, but for that, his favourite dish,
Were all that any ass could wish.
'My dear companion,' Towser said,--
''Tis as a starving dog I ask it,--
Pray lower down your loaded basket,
And let me get a piece of bread.'
No answer--not a word!--indeed,
The truth was, our Arcadian steed[26]
Fear'd lest, for every moment's flight,
His nimble teeth should lose a bite.
At last, 'I counsel you,' said he, 'to wait
Till master is himself awake,
Who then, unless I much mistake,
Will give his dog the usual bait.'
Meanwhile, there issued from the wood
A creature of the wolfish brood,
Himself by famine sorely pinch'd.
At sight of him the donkey flinch'd,
And begg'd the dog to give him aid.
The dog budged not, but answer made,--
'I counsel thee, my friend, to run,
Till master's nap is fairly done;
There can, indeed, be no mistake,
That he will very soon awake;
Till then, scud off with all your might;
And should he snap you in your flight,
This ugly wolf,--why, let him feel
The greeting of your well-shod heel.
I do not doubt, at all, but that
Will be enough to lay him flat.'
But ere he ceased it was too late;
The ass had met his cruel fate.
Thus selfishness we reprobate.
[25] Abstemius.
[26] _Arcadian steed_.--La Fontaine has "roussin d'Arcadie." The ass
was so derisively nicknamed. See also Fable XIX., Book VI.
XVIII.--THE PASHAW AND THE MERCHANT.[27]
A trading Greek, for want of law,
Protection bought of a pashaw;
And like a nobleman he paid,
Much rather than a man of trade--
Protection being, Turkish-wise,
A costly sort of merchandise.
So costly was it, in this case,
The Greek complain'd, with tongue and face.
Three other Turks, of lower rank,
Would guard his substance as their own,
And all draw less upon his bank,
Than did the great pashaw alone.
The Greek their offer gladly heard,
And closed the bargain with a word.
The said pashaw was made aware,
And counsel'd, with a prudent care
These rivals to anticipate,
By sending them to heaven's gate,
As messengers to Mahomet--
Which measure should he much delay,
Himself might go the self-same way,
By poison offer'd secretly,
Sent on, before his time, to be
Protector to such arts and trades
As flourish in the world of shades.
On this advice, the Turk--no gander--
Behaved himself like Alexander.[28]
Straight to the merchant's, firm and stable,
He went, and took a seat at table.
Such calm assurance there was seen,
Both in his words and in his mien,
That e'en that weasel-sighted Grecian
Could not suspect him of suspicion.
'My friend,' said he, 'I know you've quit me,
And some think caution would befit me,
Lest to despatch me be your plan:
But, deeming you too good a man
To injure either friends or foes
With poison'd cups or secret blows,
I drown the thought, and say no more.
But, as regards the three or four
Who take my place,
I crave your grace
To listen to an apologue.
'A shepherd, with a single dog,
Was ask'd the reason why
He kept a dog, whose least supply
Amounted to a loaf of bread
For every day. The people said
He'd better give the animal
To guard the village seignior's hall;
For him, a shepherd, it would be
A thriftier economy
To keep small curs, say two or three,
That would not cost him half the food,
And yet for watching be as good.
The fools, perhaps, forgot to tell
If they would fight the wolf as well.
The silly shepherd, giving heed,
Cast off his dog of mastiff breed,
And took three dogs to watch his cattle,
Which ate far less, but fled in battle.
His flock such counsel lived to rue,
As doubtlessly, my friend, will you.
If wise, my aid again you'll seek--'
And so, persuaded, did the Greek.
Not vain our tale, if it convinces
Small states that 'tis a wiser thing
To trust a single powerful king,
Than half a dozen petty princes.
[27] Gilbert Cousin.
[28] _Alexander_.--Who took the medicine presented to him by his
physician Philip, the moment after he had received a letter
announcing that that very man designed to poison him.--Arrian, L.
II. Chap. XIV.--Translator.
XIX.--THE USE OF KNOWLEDGE.[29]
Between two citizens
A controversy grew.
The one was poor, but much he knew:
The other, rich, with little sense,
Claim'd that, in point of excellence,
The merely wise should bow the knee
To all such money'd men as he.
The merely fools, he should have said;
For why should wealth hold up its head,
When merit from its side hath fled?
'My friend,' quoth Bloated-purse,
To his reverse,
'You think yourself considerable.
Pray, tell me, do you keep a table?
What comes of this incessant reading,
In point of lodging, clothing, feeding?
It gives one, true, the highest chamber,
One coat for June and for December,
His shadow for his sole attendant,
And hunger always in th' ascendant.
What profits he his country, too,
Who scarcely ever spends a sou--
Will, haply, be a public charge?
Who profits more the state at large,
Than he whose luxuries dispense
Among the people wealth immense?
We set the streams of life a-flowing;
We set all sorts of trades a-going.
The spinner, weaver, sewer, vender,
And many a wearer, fair and tender,
All live and flourish on the spender--
As do, indeed, the reverend rooks
Who waste their time in making books.'
These words, so full of impudence,
Received their proper recompense.
The man of letters held his peace,
Though much he might have said with ease.
A war avenged him soon and well;
In it their common city fell.
Both fled abroad; the ignorant,
By fortune thus brought down to want,
Was treated everywhere with scorn,
And roamed about, a wretch forlorn;
Whereas the scholar, everywhere,
Was nourish'd by the public care.
Let fools the studious despise;
There's nothing lost by being wise.
[29] Abstemius.
XX.--JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS.
Said Jupiter, one day,
As on a cloud he lay,
'Observing all our crimes,
Come, let us change the times,
By leasing out anew
A world whose wicked crew
Have wearied out our grace,
And cursed us to our face.
Hie hellward, Mercury;
A Fury bring to me,
The direst of the three.
Race nursed too tenderly,
This day your doom shall be!'
E'en while he spoke their fate,
His wrath began to moderate.
O kings, with whom His will
Hath lodged our good and ill,
Your wrath and storm between
One night should intervene!
The god of rapid wing,
And lip unfaltering,
To sunless regions sped,
And met the sisters dread.
To grim Tisiphone,
And pale Megaera, he
Preferr'd, as murderess,
Alecto, pitiless.
This choice so roused the fiend,
By Pluto's beard she swore
The human race no more
Should be by handfuls glean'd,
But in one solid mass
Th' infernal gates should pass.
But Jove, displeased with both
The Fury and her oath,
Despatched her back to hell.
And then a bolt he hurl'd,
Down on a faithless world,
Which in a desert fell.
Aim'd by a father's arm,
It caused more fear than harm.
(All fathers strike aside.)
What did from this betide?
Our evil race grew bold,
Resumed their wicked tricks,
Increased them manifold,
Till, all Olympus through,
Indignant murmurs flew.
When, swearing by the Styx,
The sire that rules the air
Storms promised to prepare
More terrible and dark,
Which should not miss their mark.
'A father's wrath it is!'
The other deities
All in one voice exclaim'd;
'And, might the thing be named,
Some other god would make
Bolts better for our sake.'
This Vulcan undertook.
His rumbling forges shook,
And glow'd with fervent heat,
While Cyclops blew and beat.
Forth, from the plastic flame
Two sorts of bolts there came.
Of these, one misses not:
'Tis by Olympus shot,--
That is, the gods at large.
The other, bearing wide,
Hits mountain-top or side,
Or makes a cloud its targe.
And this it is alone
Which leaves the father's throne.
XXI.--THE FALCON AND THE CAPON.[30]
You often hear a sweet seductive call:
If wise, you haste towards it not at all;--
And, if you heed my apologue,
You act like John de Nivelle's dog.[31]
A capon, citizen of Mans,
Was summon'd from a throng
To answer to the village squire,
Before tribunal call'd the fire.
The matter to disguise
The kitchen sheriff wise
Cried, 'Biddy--Biddy--Biddy!--'
But not a moment did he--
This Norman and a half[32]--
The smooth official trust.
'Your bait,' said he, 'is dust,
And I'm too old for chaff.'
Meantime, a falcon, on his perch,
Observed the flight and search.
In man, by instinct or experience,
The capons have so little confidence,
That this was not without much trouble caught,
Though for a splendid supper sought.
To lie, the morrow night,
In brilliant candle-light,
Supinely on a dish
'Midst viands, fowl, and fish,
With all the ease that heart could wish--
This honour, from his master kind,
The fowl would gladly have declined.
Outcried the bird of chase,
As in the weeds he eyed the skulker's face,
'Why, what a stupid, blockhead race!--
Such witless, brainless fools
Might well defy the schools.
For me, I understand
To chase at word
The swiftest bird,
Aloft, o'er sea or land;
At slightest beck,
Returning quick
To perch upon my master's hand.
There, at his window he appears--
He waits thee--hasten--hast no ears?'
'Ah! that I have,' the fowl replied;
'But what from master might betide?
Or cook, with cleaver at his side?
Return you may for such a call,
But let me fly their fatal hall;
And spare your mirth at my expense:
Whate'er I lack, 'tis not the sense
To know that all this sweet-toned breath
Is spent to lure me to my death.
If you had seen upon the spit
As many of the falcons roast
As I have of the capon host,
You would, not thus reproach my wit.'
[30] In the Bidpaii Fables it is "The Falcon and the Cock."
[31] _John de Nivelle's dog_.--A dog which, according to the French
proverb, ran away when his master called him.--Translator.
[32] _This Norman and a half_.--Though the Normans are proverbial
for their shrewdness, the French have, nevertheless, a proverb that
they come to Paris to be hanged. Hence La Fontaine makes his capon,
who knew how to shun a similar fate, _le Normand et demi_--the
Norman and a half.--Translator.
XXII.--THE CAT AND THE RAT.[33]
Four creatures, wont to prowl,--
Sly Grab-and-Snatch, the cat,
Grave Evil-bode, the owl,
Thief Nibble-stitch, the rat,
And Madam Weasel, prim and fine,--
Inhabited a rotten pine.
A man their home discover'd there,
And set, one night, a cunning snare.
The cat, a noted early-riser,
Went forth, at break of day,
To hunt her usual prey.
Not much the wiser
For morning's feeble ray,
The noose did suddenly surprise her.
Waked by her strangling cry,
Grey Nibble-stitch drew nigh:
As full of joy was he
As of despair was she,
For in the noose he saw
His foe of mortal paw.
'Dear friend,' said Mrs. Grab-and-Snatch,
'Do, pray, this cursed cord detach.
I've always known your skill,
And often your good-will;
Now help me from this worst of snares,
In which I fell at unawares.
'Tis by a sacred right,
You, sole of all your race,
By special love and grace,
Have been my favourite--
The darling of my eyes.
'Twas order'd by celestial cares,
No doubt; I thank the blessed skies,
That, going out to say my prayers,
As cats devout each morning do,
This net has made me pray to you.
Come, fall to work upon the cord.'
Replied the rat, 'And what reward
Shall pay me, if I dare?'
'Why,' said the cat, 'I swear
To be your firm ally:
Henceforth, eternally,
These powerful claws are yours,
Which safe your life insures.
I'll guard from quadruped and fowl;
I'll eat the weasel and the owl.'
'Ah,' cried the rat, 'you fool!
I'm quite too wise to be your tool.'
He said, and sought his snug retreat,
Close at the rotten pine-tree's feet.
Where plump he did the weasel meet;
Whom shunning by a happy dodge,
He climb'd the hollow trunk to lodge;
And there the savage owl he saw.
Necessity became his law,
And down he went, the rope to gnaw.
Strand after strand in two he bit,
And freed, at last, the hypocrite.
That moment came the man in sight;
The new allies took hasty flight.
A good while after that,
Our liberated cat
Espied her favourite rat,
Quite out of reach, and on his guard.
'My friend,' said she, 'I take your shyness hard;
Your caution wrongs my gratitude;
Approach, and greet your staunch ally.
Do you suppose, dear rat, that I
Forget the solemn oath I mew'd?'
'Do I forget,' the rat replied,
'To what your nature is allied?
To thankfulness, or even pity,
Can cats be ever bound by treaty?'
Alliance from necessity
Is safe just while it has to be.
[33] Another rendering of "The Rat and the Cat" of the Bidpaii
collection. See Fable XVI., Book VII.
XXIII.--THE TORRENT AND THE RIVER.[34]
With mighty rush and roar,
Adown a mountain steep
A torrent tumbled,--swelling o'er
Its rugged banks,--and bore
Vast ruin in its sweep.
The traveller were surely rash
To brave its whirling, foaming dash,
But one, by robbers sorely press'd,
Its terrors haply put to test.
They were but threats of foam and sound,
The loudest where the least profound.
With courage from his safe success,
His foes continuing to press,
He met a river in his course:
On stole its waters, calm and deep,
So silently they seem'd asleep,
All sweetly cradled, as I ween,
In sloping banks, and gravel clean,--
They threaten'd neither man nor horse.
Both ventured; but the noble steed,
That saved from robbers by his speed,
From that deep water could not save;
Both went to drink the Stygian wave;
Both went to cross, (but not to swim,)
Where reigns a monarch stern and grim,
Far other streams than ours.
Still men are men of dangerous powers;
Elsewhere, 'tis only ignorance that cowers.
[34] Abstemius.
XXIV.--EDUCATION.
Lapluck and Caesar brothers were, descended
From dogs by Fame the most commended,
Who falling, in their puppyhood,
To different masters anciently,
One dwelt and hunted in the boundless wood;
From thieves the other kept a kitchen free.
At first, each had another name;
But, by their bringing up, it came,
While one improved upon his nature,
The other grew a sordid creature,
Till, by some scullion called Lapluck,
The name ungracious ever stuck.
To high exploits his brother grew,
Put many a stag at bay, and tore
Full many a trophy from the boar;
In short, him first, of all his crew,
The world as Caesar knew;
And care was had, lest, by a baser mate,
His noble blood should e'er degenerate.
Not so with his neglected brother;
He made whatever came a mother;
And, by the laws of population,
His race became a countless nation--
The common turnspits throughout France--
Where danger is, they don't advance--
Precisely the antipodes
Of what we call the Caesars, these!
Oft falls the son below his sire's estate:
Through want of care all things degenerate.
For lack of nursing Nature and her gifts.
What crowds from gods become mere kitchen-thrifts!
XXV.--THE TWO DOGS AND THE DEAD ASS.[35]
The Virtues should be sisters, hand in hand,
Since banded brothers all the Vices stand:
When one of these our hearts attacks,
All come in file; there only lacks,
From out the cluster, here and there,
A mate of some antagonizing pair,
That can't agree the common roof to share.
But all the Virtues, as a sisterhood,
Have scarcely ever in one subject stood.
We find one brave, but passionate;
Another prudent, but ingrate.
Of beasts, the dog may claim to be
The pattern of fidelity;
But, for our teaching little wiser,
He's both a fool and gormandiser.
For proof, I cite two mastiffs, that espied
A dead ass floating on a water wide.
The distance growing more and more,
Because the wind the carcass bore,--
'My friend,' said one, 'your eyes are best;
Pray let them on the water rest:
What thing is that I seem to see?
An ox, or horse? what can it be?'
'Hey!' cried his mate; 'what matter which,
Provided we could get a flitch?
It doubtless is our lawful prey:
The puzzle is to find some way
To get the prize; for wide the space
To swim, with wind against your face.[36]
Let's drink the flood; our thirsty throats
Will gain the end as well as boats.
The water swallow'd, by and bye
We'll have the carcass, high and dry--
Enough to last a week, at least.'
Both drank as some do at a feast;
Their breath was quench'd before their thirst,
And presently the creatures burst!
And such is man. Whatever he
May set his soul to do or be,
To him is possibility?
How many vows he makes!
How many steps he takes!
How does he strive, and pant, and strain,
Fortune's or Glory's prize to gain!
If round my farm off well I must,
Or fill my coffers with the dust,
Or master Hebrew, science, history,--
I make my task to drink the sea.
One spirit's projects to fulfil,
Four bodies would require; and still
The work would stop half done;
The lives of four Methuselahs,
Placed end to end for use, alas!
Would not suffice the wants of one.
[35] Aesop; also Lokman.
[36] _With the wind against your face_.--Did La Fontaine, to enhance
the folly of these dogs, make them bad judges of the course of the
wind, or did he forget what he had said a few lines
above?--Translator.
XXVI.--DEMOCRITUS AND THE PEOPLE OF ABDERA.
How do I hate the tide of vulgar thought!
Profane, unjust, with childish folly fraught;
It breaks and bends the rays of truth divine,
And by its own conceptions measures mine.
Famed Epicurus' master[37] tried
The power of this unstable tide.
His country said the sage was mad--
The simpletons! But why?
No prophet ever honour had
Beneath his native sky.
Democritus, in truth, was wise;
The mass were mad, with faith in lies.
So far this error went,
That all Abdera sent
To old Hippocrates
To cure the sad disease.
'Our townsman,' said the messengers,
Appropriately shedding tears,
'Hath lost his wits! Democritus,
By study spoil'd, is lost to us.
Were he but fill'd with ignorance,
We should esteem him less a dunce.
He saith that worlds like this exist,
An absolutely endless list,--
And peopled, even, it may be,
With countless hosts as wise as we!
But, not contented with such dreams,
His brain with viewless "atoms" teems,
Instinct with deathless life, it seems.
And, never stirring from the sod below,
He weighs and measures all the stars;
And, while he knows the universe,
Himself he doth not know.
Though now his lips he strictly bars,
He once delighted to converse.
Come, godlike mortal, try thy art divine
Where traits of worst insanity combine!'
Small faith the great physician lent,
But still, perhaps more readily, he went.
And mark what meetings strange
Chance causes in this world of change!
Hippocrates arrived in season,
Just as his patient (void of reason!)
Was searching whether reason's home,
In talking animals and dumb,
Be in the head, or in the heart,
Or in some other local part.
All calmly seated in the shade,
Where brooks their softest music made,
He traced, with study most insane,
The convolutions of a brain;
And at his feet lay many a scroll--
The works of sages on the soul.
Indeed, so much absorb'd was he,
His friend, at first, he did not see.
A pair so admirably match'd,
Their compliments erelong despatch'd.
In time and talk, as well as dress,
The wise are frugal, I confess.
Dismissing trifles, they began
At once with eagerness to scan
The life, and soul, and laws of man;
Nor stopp'd till they had travell'd o'er all
The ground, from, physical to moral.
My time and space would fail
To give the full detail.
But I have said enough to show
How little 'tis the people know.
How true, then, goes the saw abroad--
Their voice is but the voice of God?
[37] _Epicurus' master_.--Democritus and Epicurus lived about a
century apart. The latter was disciple to the former only because in
early life he adopted some of Democritus's philosophy. Later
Epicurus rejected more than he accepted of what his "master" taught.
XXVII.--THE WOLF AND THE HUNTER.[38]
Thou lust of gain,--foul fiend, whose evil eyes
Regard as nought the blessings of the skies,
Must I for ever battle thee in vain?
How long demandest thou to gain
The meaning of my lessons plain?
Will constant getting never cloy?
Will man ne'er slacken to enjoy?
Haste, friend; thou hast not long to live:
Let me the precious word repeat,
And listen to it, I entreat;
A richer lesson none can give--
The sovereign antidote for sorrow--
ENJOY!--'I will.'--But when?--'To-morrow.--'
Ah! death may take you on the way,
Why not enjoy, I ask, to-day?
Lest envious fate your hopes ingulf,
As once it served the hunter and the wolf.
The former, with his fatal bow,
A noble deer had laid full low:
A fawn approach'd, and quickly lay
Companion of the dead,
For side by side they bled.
Could one have wished a richer prey?
Such luck had been enough to sate
A hunter wise and moderate.
Meantime a boar, as big as e'er was taken,
Our archer tempted, proud, and fond of bacon.
Another candidate for Styx,
Struck by his arrow, foams and kicks.
But strangely do the shears of Fate
To cut his cable hesitate.
Alive, yet dying, there he lies,
A glorious and a dangerous prize.
And was not this enough? Not quite,
To fill a conqueror's appetite;
For, ere the boar was dead, he spied
A partridge by a furrow's side--
A trifle to his other game.
Once more his bow he drew;
The desperate boar upon him came,
And in his dying vengeance slew:
The partridge thank'd him as she flew.
Thus much is to the covetous address'd;
The miserly shall have the rest.
A wolf, in passing, saw that woeful sight.
'O Fortune,' cried the savage, with delight,
'A fane to thee I'll build outright!
'Four carcasses! how rich! But spare--
'I'll make them last--such luck is rare,'
(The miser's everlasting plea.)
'They'll last a month for--let me see--
One, two, three, four--the weeks are four
If I can count--and some days more.
Well, two days hence
And I'll commence.
Meantime, the string upon this bow
I'll stint myself to eat;
For by its mutton-smell I know
'Tis made of entrails sweet.'
His entrails rued the fatal weapon,
Which, while he heedlessly did step on,
The arrow pierced his bowels deep,
And laid him lifeless on the heap.
Hark, stingy souls! insatiate leeches!
Our text this solemn duty teaches,--
Enjoy the present; do not wait
To share the wolf's or hunter's fate.
[38] Bidpaii; and the _Hitopadesa_. See extract from Sir William
Jones's translation of the latter in Translator's Preface.
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