Sir Isegrim, the Wolf, was grown old. The years that had passed over his
head, too, had brought with them changes hardly to be expected in a wolf
at any season of life. All his fierceness and ferocity were gone; he was
no longer the slayer of sheep and terror of shepherds: no; he had lost
his teeth, and was now a philosopher. To superficial observers, perhaps,
the alteration in his character might not have been very obvious; but
he himself knew that he was no more what he had been--that his lupuline
prowess had departed from him. He resolved accordingly on showing
mankind what a reformation had overtaken him. “One of my brethren,”
said he, “once assumed the garb of a lamb, but he was still a wolf at
heart. I reverse the fable; I seem outwardly a wolf, but at heart I am
a lamb. Appearances are deceptive; whatever prejudices may be excited
against me by my exterior, with which I was born, and for which I am not
accountable, I have that within which passeth show. I trust that I feel
an exemplary horror for the blood-thirstiness of my juvenile instincts,
and the savage revellings of my maturer years. I am determined,
therefore, to accommodate my way of life in future to the usages of
society--to march with the spirit of the age--to cut no more throats--to
become in short quite civilized--and set an example which may have the
effect of eventually bringing all the wolves of the forest into the same
reputable position as my own.”
Full of these thoughts, and possibly some others, which he kept to
himself, he set out upon a journey to the hut of the nearest shepherd,
which he soon reached.
“Shepherd,” said he, “I have come to talk over a little matter with
you, personal to myself. You have been long the object of my esteem; I
entertain a special regard for you; but you requite my esteem and regard
with suspicion and hatred. You think me a lawless and sanguinary robber.
My friend, you labour under a deplorable prejudice. What have I done,
at least for many years back, worse than others? The head and front of
my offending is that I eat sheep. Suppose so: must not every animal
eat some other animal? I have the misfortune to be subject, like all
quadrupeds (as well as bipeds), to hunger. Only guarantee me from the
attacks of hunger; and upon my honour, Shepherd, I will never even dream
of pillaging your fold. Give me enough to eat, and you may turn your dogs
loose, and sleep in security. Ah! Shepherd, believe me, you do not know
what a gentle, meek, sleek-tempered animal I can become when I have got
what I think enough.”
“When you have got what you think enough!” retorted the Shepherd, who
had listened to this harangue with visible impatience; “ay, but when did
you ever get what you thought enough? Did Avarice ever think it had got
enough? No: you would cram your maw as the miser would his chest, and
when both were gorged to repletion, the cry would still be, More! More!
Go your way; you are getting into years; but I am even older than you;
and your cajolery is wasted. Try somebody else, old Isegrim!”