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TALES FOR CHILDREN FROM MANY LANDS

      EDITED BY F.C. TILNEY

[Illustration: The heart of Thyrsis left.]

THE ORIGINAL FABLES OF LA FONTAINE

    RENDERED INTO ENGLISH PROSE

               BY

       FREDK. COLIN TILNEY

WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

LONDON: J.M. DENT & SONS LIMITED
NEW YORK: E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY

PREFACE

If deep wisdom, gentle satire, polite cynicism, and, above all,
irresistible humour are qualities which make a book attractive then La
Fontaine's _Fables_ should be in the hands of all. Their charm is
two-fold; for whilst they induce pleasurable reflection in the reader
they delight him by the gaiety of their subject matter.

Notwithstanding the fact that the spell of La Fontaine's verse
necessarily disappears when another tongue is employed, his English
translators, both Elizur Wright and Walter Thornbury, have courageously
attempted to do him justice in prosody. In this little book no such
effort has been made, chiefly for the reason that, for any but the
unusually gifted, to snatch at rhythm and rhyme is often to let drop the
apt and ready word as Æsop's mastiff dropped his dinner. But there is a
further excuse for the present writer. Verse has little attraction for
children unless it jingles merrily, and that is a thing as impossible as
it is undesirable where the claims of a philosophic original make
restrictions. Since the spirit is more likely to survive if the letter
is not exacting, it is difficult to see why custom looks askance upon
prose versions of poetry. But this little book may escape such censure
on the ground of its being but a selection from the complete _Fables_ of
La Fontaine. It presents only those of which the great fabulist was
himself the originator. A selection of some sort being imperative there
seemed to be a simple and easy choice in the condition of absolute
originality; particularly as the older fables are given in another
volume of this series.

This translation (in which I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of my
friend Mrs. A.H. Beddoe) is neither "free" nor literal. It sometimes
amplifies a thought, much as a musician might amplify the harmonies upon
a master's figured bass. But even this is rarely done, and then only
with a view to the youthful reader's pleasure and profit. With that
view, further, the social and political introductions to the fables have
been omitted, as well as the scientific discourses and the allusions to
the unfortunate wars of Louis XIV. and other historical matters, all of
which would have neither meaning nor interest but for "grown-ups" of a
certain class.

F.C. TILNEY.

CONTENTS

                                                         PAGE

THE TWO MULES                                             13

THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE                                15

THE GARDENER AND HIS LANDLORD                             17

THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE                                     20

THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE                            22

THE UNHAPPILY MARRIED MAN                                 25

THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD                            27

THE MAIDEN                                                29

THE WISHES                                                31

THE DAIRY-WOMAN AND THE PAIL OF MILK                      34

THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE                                 36

THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO
WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED                                 38

AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON                                     42

THE FORTUNE-TELLERS                                       44

THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER                             47

THE POWER OF FABLE                                        50

THE DOG WHO CARRIED HIS MASTER'S DINNER                   52

THYRSIS AND AMARANTH                                      54

THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT                                  56

THE HOROSCOPE                                             57

JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS                              60

EDUCATION                                                 62

DEMOCRITUS AND THE PEOPLE OF ABDERA                       64

THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN                                 67

THE SCHOOLBOY, THE PEDANT, AND THE OWNER OF A GARDEN      69

THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER                    71

THE OYSTER AND THE PLEADERS                               73

THE CAT AND THE FOX                                       75

THE MONKEY AND THE CAT                                    77

THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG                        79

THE DOG WITH HIS EARS CROPPED                             86

THE LIONESS AND THE SHE-BEAR                              88

THE RABBITS                                               90

THE GODS WISHING TO INSTRUCT A SON OF JUPITER             93

THE LION, THE MONKEY, AND THE TWO ASSES                   95

THE WOLF AND THE FOX IN THE WELL                          98

THE MICE AND THE SCREECH-OWL                             100

THE COMPANIONS OF ULYSSES                                102

THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE DOGS AND THE CATS AND BETWEEN
THE CATS AND THE MICE                                    106

THE WOLF AND THE FOX                                     109

LOVE AND FOLLY                                           111

THE FOREST AND THE WOODCUTTER                            113

THE FOX AND THE YOUNG TURKEYS                            115

THE APE                                                  117

THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER                                 118

THE ELEPHANT AND JUPITER'S APE                           120

THE LEAGUE OF RATS                                       122

THE ARBITER, THE HOSPITALLER, AND THE HERMIT             124

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE HEART OF THYRSIS LEAPT                      Frontispiece

"YOU BOASTED OF BEING SO SWIFT"            Facing page    14

OVER TOPPLED THE MILK                           "         35

THE GARRET WAS STILL A SIBYL'S DEN              "         46

DELIBERATELY SWALLOWED THE OYSTER               "         74

"WHY CANNOT YOU BE SILENT ALSO?"                "         88

DESCENDED BY HIS GREATER WEIGHT                 "         98

A GUIDE FOR THE FOOTSTEPS OF LOVE               "        111

The poet Jean de la Fontaine was born at Château-Thierry on July 8,
1621. He was a kindly, merry, and generous man and much beloved. His
fables were written in verse and were published in three collections at
different times of his life. Many were new versions of existing fables;
but those of his later years were more often original inventions.

All in this book are of La Fontaine's own invention, although several
have since appeared in collections of Æsop's fables without the
acknowledgment that is La Fontaine's due.

He died on April 13, 1695, at the age of seventy-three.

THE TWO MULES

(BOOK I.--No. 4)

There were two heavily-laden mules making a journey together. One was
carrying oats and the other bore a parcel of silver money collected from
the people as a tax upon salt. This, we learn, was a tax which produced
much money for the government, but it bore very hard upon the people,
who revolted many times against it.

The mule that carried the silver was very proud of his burden, and would
not have been relieved of it if he could. As he stepped out he took care
that the bells upon his harness should jingle well as became a mule of
so much importance.

Suddenly a band of robbers burst into the road, pounced upon the
treasure mule, seized it by the bridle, and stopped it short.
Struggling to defend itself the unhappy creature groaned and sighed as
it cried: "Is this then the fate that has been in store for me: that I
must fall and perish whilst my fellow traveller escapes free from
danger?"

"My friend," exclaimed the mule that carried only the oats, and whom the
robbers had not troubled about, "it is not always good to have exalted
work to do. Had you been like me, a mere slave to a miller, you would
not have been in such a bad way now!"

[Illustration: You boasted of being so swift.]

II

THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE

(BOOK V.--No. 17)

Never mock at other people's misfortune; for you cannot tell how soon
you yourself may be unhappy. Æsop the sage has given us one or two
examples of this truth, and I am going to tell you of a similar one now.

A hare and a partridge were living as fellow-citizens very peacefully in
a field, when a pack of hounds making an onset obliged the hare to seek
refuge. He rushed into his form and succeeded in putting the hounds at
fault. But here the scent from his over-heated body betrayed him.
Towler, philosophising, concluded that this scent came from his hare,
and with admirable zeal routed him out. Then old Trusty, who never is at
fault, proclaimed that the hare was gone away. The poor unfortunate
creature at last died in his form.

The partridge, his companion, thought fit to soothe his last moments
with some scoffing remarks upon his fate. "You boasted of being so
swift," she said "What has come to your feet, then?"

But even as she was chuckling her own turn came. Secure in the belief
that her wings would save her whatever happened, she did not reckon upon
the cruel talons of the hawk.

THE GARDENER AND HIS LANDLORD

(BOOK IV.--No. 4)

A man who had a great fondness for gardening, being half a countryman
and half town-bred, possessed in a certain village a fair-sized plot
with a field attached, and all enclosed by a quickset hedge. Here sorrel
and lettuce grew freely, as well as such flowers as Spanish jasmine and
wild thyme, and from these his good wife Margot culled many a posy for
her high days and holidays.

This happy state of things was soon troubled by the visits of a hare,
and to such an extent that the man had to go to his landlord and lodge a
complaint. "This wretched animal," he said, "comes here and stuffs
himself night and morning, and simply laughs at traps and snares. As for
stones and sticks they make no difference whatever to him. He must be
enchanted."

"Enchanted!" cried the landlord. "I defy enchantment! Were he the devil
himself old Towler would soon rout him out in spite of his tricks. I'll
rid you of him, my man, never fear!"

"And when?" asked the man.

"Oh, to-morrow, without more delay!"

The affair being thus arranged, on the morrow came the landlord with all
his following. "First of all," he said, "how about breakfast? Your
chickens are tender I'll be bound. Come here, my dear," he added,
addressing the man's daughter, and then, to her father, "When are you
going to let her marry? Hasn't a son-in-law come on the scene yet? My
dear fellow, this is a thing that positively must be done you know,
you'll have to put your hand in your pocket to some purpose." So saying
he sat down beside the damsel, took her hand, held her by the arm, toyed
with her fichu, and took other silly and trifling liberties which the
girl resented with great self-respect, whilst the father grew a little
uneasy in his mind.

Nevertheless, the cooking went on. There was quite a run on the kitchen.

"How ripe are your hams? They look good."

"Sir," replied the flattered host, "they are yours."

"Oh, really now! Well I'll take them, and that right gladly."

The landlord and his family, his dogs, his horses, and his men-servants,
all take breakfast with hearty appetites. He assumes the host's place
and privileges, drinks his wine and caresses his daughter. After this a
crowd of hunters take seats at the breakfast table.

Now everybody is lively and busy with preparations for the hunt. They
wind the horns to such purpose that the good man is dumbfounded by the
din. Worse than that they make terrible havoc in the poor garden.
Good-bye to all the neat rows and beds! Good-bye to the chickory and the
leeks! Good-bye to all the pot-herbs!

The hare lies hidden under the leaves of a great cabbage, but being
discovered is quickly started, whereupon he rushes to a hole--nay, worse
than a hole, a great and horrible gap in the poor hedge, made by the
landlord's order, so that they might all burst out of the garden in fine
style; for it would have looked ridiculous for them to ride out at the
gate.

The poor man objected. "This is fine fun for princes, no doubt----"; but
they let him talk, whilst dogs and men together did more harm in one
hour than all the hares in the province would have done in a century.

Little princes, settle your own quarrels amongst yourselves. It is
madness to have recourse to kings. You should never let them engage in
your wars, nor even enter your domains.

IV

THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE

(BOOK I.--No. 11)

Once there was a man who loved himself very much, and who permitted
himself no rivals in that love. He thought his face and figure the
handsomest in all the world. Anything in the shape of a mirror that
could show him his own likeness he took care to avoid; for he did not
want to be reminded that perhaps he was over-rating his beauty. For this
reason he hated looking-glasses and accused them of being false. He made
a very great mistake in this respect; but that he did not mind, being
quite content to live in the happiness the mistake afforded him.

To cure him of so grievous an error, officious Fate managed matters in
such a way that wherever he turned his eyes they would fall on one of
those mute little counsellors that ladies carry and appeal to when they
are anxious about their appearance. He found mirrors in the houses;
mirrors in the shops; mirrors in the pockets of gallants; mirrors even
as ornaments on waist-belts of ladies.

What was he to do--this poor Narcissus? He thought to avoid all such
things by going far away from haunts of mankind, where he should never
have to face a mirror again. But in the woods to which he retreated a
clear rivulet ran. Into this he happened to look and--saw himself again.
Angrily he told himself that his eyes had been deluded by an idle fancy.
Henceforth he would keep away from the water! This he tried his utmost
to do; but who can resist the beauty of a woodland stream? There he was
and remained, always with that which he had determined to shun.

My meaning is easily seen. It applies to everybody; for everybody takes
some joy in harbouring this very error. The man in love with himself
stands for the soul of each one of us. All the mirrors wherein he saw
himself reflected stand for the faults of other people, in which we
really see our own faults though we hate to recognise them as such. As
for the brook, that, as every one knows, stands for the book of maxims
which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld[1] wrote.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: This fable was dedicated to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.]

V

THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE

(BOOK VII.--No. 1)

One of those dread evils which spread terror far and wide, and which
Heaven, in its anger, ordains for the punishment of wickedness upon
earth--a plague in fact; and so dire a one as to make rich in one day
that grim ferryman who takes a coin from all who cross the river Acheron
to the land of the dead--such a plague was once waging war against the
animals. All were attacked, although all did not die. So hopeless was
the case that not one of them attempted to sustain their sinking lives.
Even the sight of food did not rouse them. Wolves and foxes no longer
turned eager and calculating eyes upon their gentle and guileless prey.
The turtle-doves went no more in cooing pairs, but were content to avoid
each other. Love and the joy that comes of love were both at an end.

At length the lion called a council of all the beasts and addressed them
in these words: "My dear friends, it seems to me that it is for our sins
that Heaven has permitted this misfortune to fall upon us. Would it not
be well if the most blameworthy among us allowed himself to be offered
as a sacrifice to appease the celestial wrath? By so doing he might
secure our recovery. History tells us that this course is usually
pursued in such cases as ours. Let us look into our consciences without
self-deception or condoning. For my own part, I freely admit that in
order to satisfy my gluttony I have devoured an appalling number of
sheep; and yet what had they done to me to deserve such a fate? Nothing
that could be called an offence. Sometimes, indeed, I have gone so far
as to eat the shepherd too! On the whole, I think I had better render
myself for this act of sacrifice; that is, if we agree that it is a
thing necessary to the general good. And yet I think it would be only
fair that every one should declare his sins as well as I; for I could
wish that, in justice, it were the most culpable that should perish."

"Sire," said the fox, "you are really too yielding for a king, and your
scruples show too much delicacy of feeling. Eating sheep indeed! What of
that?--a foolish and rascally tribe! Is that a crime? No! a hundred
times no! On the contrary your noble jaws did but do them great honour.
As for the shepherd, it may be fairly said that all the harm he got he
merited, since he was one of those who fancy they have dominion over the
animal kingdom." Thus spake the fox and every other flatterer in the
assembly applauded him. Nor did any seek to inquire deeply into the
least pardonable offences of the tiger, the bear, and the other mighty
ones. All those of an aggressive nature, right down to the simple
watch-dog, were something like saints in their own opinions.

When the ass stood forth in his turn he struck a different note: nothing
of fangs and talons and blood. "I remember," he said, "that once in
passing a field belonging to a monastery I was urged by hunger, by
opportunity, by the tenderness of the grass, and perhaps by the evil one
egging me on, to enter and crop just a taste, about as much as the
length of my tongue. I know that I did wrong, having really no right
there."

At these words all the assembly turned upon him. The wolf took upon
himself to make a speech proving without doubt that the ass was an
accursed wretch, a mangy brute, who certainly ought to be told off for
sacrifice, since through his wickedness all their misfortunes had come
about. His peccadillo was judged to be a hanging matter. "What! eat the
grass belonging to another? How abominable a crime! Nothing but death
could expiate such an outrage!" And forthwith they proved as much to the
poor ass.

Accordingly as your power is great or small, the judgments of a court
will whiten or blacken your reputation.

VI

THE UNHAPPILY MARRIED MAN

(BOOK VII.--No. 2)

If goodness were always the comrade of beauty I would seek a wife
to-morrow; but as divorce between these two is no new thing, and as
there are so few lovely forms that enshrine lovely souls, thus uniting
both one and the other delight, do not take it amiss that I refrain from
seeking such a rare combination.

I have seen many marriages, but not one of them has held out allurements
for me. Nevertheless, nearly the whole four quarters of mankind
courageously expose themselves to this the greatest of all hazards,
and--the whole four quarters usually repent it.

I will tell you of one who, having repented, found that there was
nothing for it but to send home again his quarrelsome, avaricious, and
jealous spouse. She was one whom nothing pleased; for her, nothing was
right. For her, one rose too late; one retired too early. First it was
this, then it was that, and then again 'twas something else. The
servants raged. The husband was at his wit's end. "You think of nothing,
sir." "You spend too much." "You gad about, sir." "You are idle."
Indeed she had so much to say that, in the end, tired of hearing such a
termagant, he sent her to her parents in the country. There she mixed
with those who minded the turkeys and pigs until she was thought to be
somewhat tamed, when the husband sent for her again.

"Well, my dear, how have you been getting on? How did you spend your
time? Did you like the simple life of the country?"

"Oh, pretty well!" she said, "but what annoyed me was to see the
laziness of those people. They are worse there than here. They showed no
care whatever for the herds and flocks they were supposed to mind. I
didn't forget to let them know what I thought of them. Of course, they
didn't like it, and they all hated me in the end."

"Ah! my dear. If you fell foul of people whom you saw for but a moment
or so in the day and when they returned in the evening--if you made them
tired of you; what will the servants in this house become, who must have
you railing at them the whole day long? And what will your poor husband
do whom you expected to have near you all day and night too? Return to
the village, my dear. Adieu! and if during my life the idea should
possess me to have you back again, may I, for my sins, have two such as
you for ever at my elbows in the world to come."

VII

THE RAT RETIRED FROM THE WORLD

(BOOK VII.--No. 3)

The ancients had a legend which told of a certain rat who, weary of the
anxieties of this world, retired to a cheese, therein to live in peace.
Profound solitude reigned around the hermit. He worked so hard with his
feet and his teeth that in a few days he had a spacious dwelling and
food in plenty. What more could he desire? He thrived well, growing
large and fat. Blessings are showered upon those who are vowed to
simplicity and renunciation!

One day a deputation from Rat-land waited upon him, begging that out of
his abundance he would grant a slight dole towards fitting out a journey
to a strange country where the rats hoped to get succour in their great
war against the cat-tribe. Ratopolis was besieged, and owing to the
poverty of the beleaguered republic they were forced to start with empty
wallets. They asked but little, believing that in a few days help would
arrive. "My friends," said the hermit, "earthly affairs no longer
concern me. In what way could a poor recluse assist you? What could he
do but pray for the help you need! My best hopes and wishes you may be
assured of." With these words this latest among the saints shut his
door.

Whom have I in mind, do you think, when I speak of this rat, so sparing
of his help? A monk?--Oh, no! A dervish rather, for a monk, I suppose,
is at all times charitable.

VIII

THE MAIDEN

(BOOK VII.--No. 5)

A certain damsel of considerable pride made up her mind to choose a
husband who should be young, well-built, and handsome; of agreeable
manners and--note these two points--neither cold nor jealous. Moreover,
she held it necessary that he should have means, high birth, intellect;
in fact, everything. But whoever was endowed with everything?

The fates were evidently anxious to do their best for her, for they sent
her some most noteworthy suitors. But these the proud beauty found not
half good enough. "What, men like those! You propose them for me! Why
they are pitiable! Look at them--fine types, indeed!" According to her
one was a dullard; another's nose was impossible. With this it was one
thing; with that it was another; for superior people are disdainful
above all things.

After these eligible gentlemen had been dismissed, came others of less
worth, and at these too she mocked. "Why," said she, "I would not bemean
myself to open the door to such. They must think me very anxious to be
married. Thank Heaven my single state causes me no regrets."

The maiden contented herself with such notions until advancing age made
her step down from her pedestal. Adieu then to all suitors. One year
passed and then another. Her anxiety increased, and after anger came
grief. She felt that those little smiles and glances which, at the
bidding of love, lurk in the countenances of fair maidens were day by
day deserting her. Finally, when love himself departed, her features
gave pleasure to none. Then she had recourse to those hundred little
ruses and tricks of the toilet to repair the ravages of time; but
nothing that she could do arrested the depredations of that despicable
thief. One may repair a house gone to ruin: but the same thing is not
possible with a face!

Her refined ladyship now sang to a different tune, for her mirror
advised her to take a husband without delay. Perhaps also her heart
harboured the wish. Even superior persons may have longings! This one at
last made a choice that people would at one time have thought
impossible; for she was very pleased and happy in marrying an ugly
cripple.

IX

THE WISHES

(BOOK VII.--No. 6)

When the Great Mogul held empire, there were certain little sprites who
used to undertake all sorts of tasks helpful to mankind. They would do
housework, stable-work, and even gardening. But if one interfered with
them, all would be spoilt.

One of these friendly sprites cultivated the garden of a worthy family
living near the Ganges. His duties were performed deftly and
noiselessly. He loved not only his master and mistress, but the garden
also. Possibly the zephyrs, who are said to be friends of the sprites,
helped him in his tasks. At any rate he did his very best, and never
ceased in his efforts to load his hosts with every pleasure. To prove
his zeal he would have stayed with these people for ever, in spite of
the natural propensity of his kind for waywardness. But his mischievous
fellow-sprites fell to plotting. They induced the chief of their band to
remove him to another field of labour. This the chief promised and,
either by caprice or by policy, finally brought about. Orders came that
the devoted worker should set out for the uttermost part of Norway,
there to take charge of a house which at all times of the year was
covered with snow. So from being an Indian, the poor thing became a
Laplander.

"I am forced to leave you," he said to his hosts, "but for what fault of
mine this has come to pass I cannot tell. I only know that go I must,
and in a very little while too; a month perhaps, or maybe only a week.
Make the most of the interval. Fortunately, I can fulfil three wishes
for you; but not more than three."

To mankind there is nothing very out-of-the-way in merely wishing. These
good people decided that their first wish should be for abundance, and
straightway. Abundance, by the double-handful, poured gold into their
coffers; wheat into their granaries; wine into their cellars. Repletion
was everywhere. But, alas, what cares of direction, what account
keeping; what time and anxiety this affluence involved!

Thieves plotted against them. Great lords borrowed from them. The prince
taxed them. They were, in fact, reduced to misery by this excess of good
fortune. At last they could endure it no longer. "Take back this awful
overplus of wealth," they cried. "Even the poor are happy in comparison
with us, and poverty is more covetable than such riches. Away, then,
with these treasures! And thou, sweet Moderation, mother of all peace,
sister of repose, come to us again!" With these words, which made their
second wish, lo! Moderation returned and they received her with open
arms, once again enjoying peace.

Thus at the end of these two wishes they were exactly where they were in
the first place, and so it is with all who are given to wishing, and
wasting in dreams the time they had better have spent in doing. But
being philosophical people they laughed, and the sprite laughed with
them. To profit by his generosity when he had left them, they hazarded
their third wish and asked for wisdom. Wisdom is a treasure which never
embarrasses.

X

THE DAIRY-WOMAN AND THE PAIL OF MILK

(BOOK VII.--No. 10)

A young country woman named Perrette set out one morning from her little
dairy-farm with a pail of milk which she cleverly balanced upon her head
over a pad or cushion. She hurried with sprightly steps to the market
town, and so that she might be the less encumbered, wore a kirtle that
was short and light--in truth a simple petticoat--and shoes low and
easy. As she went, her thoughts ran upon the price to be gained for her
milk, and she schemed a way to lay out the sum in the purchase of one
hundred eggs. She was sure that with care and diligence these would
yield three broods. "It would be quite easy to me," she said, "to raise
the chicks near the house. The fox would be clever who would not leave
me enough to buy one pig. A pig would fatten at the cost of a little
bran, and when he had grown a fair size I should make a bargain of him
for a good round sum. And then, considering the price he will fetch,
what is to prevent my putting into our stable a cow and a calf? I can
fancy how the calf will frisk about among the sheep!" Thereupon Perrette
herself frisked for joy, transported with the picture of her affluence.
Over toppled the milk! Adieu to calf and cow and pig and broods! This
lady of wealth had to leave, with tearful eyes, her dissipated fortunes,
and go straight to her husband framing excuses to avoid a beating.

[Illustration: Overtoppled the milk.]

The farce became known to the whole countryside, and people called
Perrette by the name of "Milkpail" ever after.

Who has never talked wildly? Who has never built castles in Spain? Wise
men as well as milkmaids; sages and fools, all have waking dreams and
find them sweet! Our senses are carried away by some flattering
falsehood, and then wealth, honours, and beauty seem ours to command.

Alone with my thoughts I challenge the bravest. I dethrone monarchs and
the people rejoicing crown me instead, showering diadems upon my head.
Then lo! a little accident happens to bring me back to my senses, and I
am Poor Jack as before.

XI

THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE

(BOOK VII.--No. 11)

There was a funeral. The dead body was progressing sadly towards its
last resting place; and following rather gladly, was the priest who
meant to bury it as soon as possible.

The dead man, in a leaden coffin, was borne in a coach, and was properly
shrouded in that robe the dead always wear be it summer or winter. As
for the priest, he sat near it, intoning as hard as he could all sorts
of orisons, psalms, lessons, verses, and responses, in the hope that the
more he gave the more would be paid for. "Leave it to me, Mr. Deadman,"
his actions seemed to say. "I'll give you a nice selection; a little of
everything. It's only a matter of fees, you know." And the Rev. John
Crow kept his eye on his silent charge as if he expected some one would
make off with it. "Mr. Deadman," his looks proclaimed, "by you I shall
receive so and so much in money, so and so much in wax candles, and,
possibly, a little more in incidental profits.

On the strength of these calculations he promised himself a quarter-cask
of the best wine the neighbourhood could offer. Beyond that he settled
that a certain very attractive niece of his, as well as his housekeeper
Paquette, should both have new dresses.

Whilst these pleasant and generous thoughts were running in his mind
there came a terrific shock. The car overturned. The Rev. John Crow's
head was broken by the coffin which fell upon him. Alas for the poor
priest! he went to heaven with the parishioner he thought only to bury.

In reality, life over and over again is nothing but the fate of the Rev.
John Crow who counted on his dead, and of Perrette who counted on her
chickens.

XII

THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED

(BOOK VII.--No. 12)

Who does not run after Fortune?

I would I were in some spot whence I could watch the eager crowds
rushing from kingdom to kingdom in their vain chase after the daughter
of Chance!

They are indeed but faithful followers of a phantom; for when they think
they have her, lo! she is gone! Poor wretches! One must pity rather than
blame their foolishness. "That man," they say with sanguine voice,
"raised cabbages; and now he is Pope! Are we not as good as he?" Ah!
yes! a hundred times as good perhaps; but what of that? Fortune has no
eyes for all your merit. Besides, is Papacy, after all, worth peace,
which one must leave behind for it? Peace--a treasure that once was the
possession of gods alone--is seldom granted to the votaries of Dame
Fortune. Do not seek her; and then she will seek you. That is the way
with women!

There once were two friends, who lived comfortably and prospered
moderately in a village; but one of them was always wishing to do
better. One day he said to the other, "Suppose we left this place and
tried our luck elsewhere? You know that a prophet is never received in
his own country!"

"You try, by all means," returned his friend, "but as for me, I am
contented where I am. I desire neither better climate nor better
possibilities. You please yourself. Follow your unquiet spirit. You'll
soon return, and I shall sleep soundly enough awaiting you."

So the man of ambition, or the money-grubber, whichever you like to call
him, took to the road, and arrived next day at a place where, if
anywhere, Dame Fortune should be found, namely, the court. He stayed at
court for some long time, never missing an opportunity to put himself in
the way of favours. He was in evidence when the king went to bed, when
he arose, and on all other propitious occasions.

"What's amiss?" he said at last. "Fortune, I am convinced, dwells here;
for I have seen her the guest now of this one and now of that one. How
is it that I cannot entertain the capricious creature? I must try her
elsewhere. I have already been told that the people of this place are
exceedingly ambitious. Evidently there is no room for me here. So,
adieu! gentleman of the court, and follow to the bitter end this
will-o'-the-wisp! They tell me that Dame Fortune has temples in Surat.
Very well! We will go there."

He embarked at once. What hearts of bronze have humankind! The man who
first attempted this awful route and defied its terrors must have had a
heart of adamant. Often did our traveller turn his eyes towards his
little home as first pirates, then contrary winds, then calms, then
rocks--all agents of death--in turn assailed him. Strange it is that men
should take such pains to meet death, since it will come only too
quickly to them in their homes!

Our adventurer arrived in India. There they told him that Japan was the
place where Fortune dispensed her favours. He hurried there. The sea
wearied of carrying him about. In the end all the profit his long
voyages brought him was the lesson which he learnt from savages, and
that was: "Stop in your own country and let Nature instruct you." Japan,
India, or anywhere else; no one place was better than another as a
hunting ground for Fortune; so the conclusion was forced upon him that
he had been wiser had he stayed in his own village. At last he renounced
all these ungrateful wanderings and returned to his own country; and as
he caught sight of his homestead from afar he wept for joy, and cried:
"Happy is the man who, staying in his home, finds constant occupation in
adjusting his desires to his surroundings. To him the court, the sea,
and the land of Fortune are but hearsay. Thou, fickle Dame, flaunting
before our eyes dignities and wealth, dost cause us to follow after
these allurements to the ends of the earth, only to find them empty
shams. Henceforth I wander no more, for here at home a hundred times
more success shall I find."

Having registered this vow against Fortune the wanderer came to the door
of his friend, and lo! there sat Fortune, waiting on the threshold,
whilst his friend slumbered within.

XIII

AN ANIMAL IN THE MOON

(BOOK VII.--No. 18)

Whilst one philosopher tells us that men are constantly the dupes of
their own senses, another will swear that the senses never deceive. Both
are right. Philosophy truly affirms that the senses will deceive so long
as men are content to take upon trust the evidence the senses bring. But
if this evidence is weighed, measured, and tested by every available
resource of science the senses can deceive no one.

In England, not long ago, when a large telescope was levelled to observe
the moon, the observer was astounded to see what he took to be some new
animal in this lovely planet. Everybody was excited about the marvellous
appearance. Something had occurred up above there which, without doubt,
must betoken great changes of some sort. Who could tell but that all the
dreadful wars that were then convulsing Europe had not been caused by
it? The king, who patronised the sciences, hastened to the observatory
to see the sight, and see it he did. There was the monster right
enough!

And what was it after all?--Nothing but a poor little mouse that had by
some unlucky chance got in between the lenses of the telescope. Here was
the cause of all the devastating wars! Everybody laughed....

XIV

THE FORTUNE-TELLERS

(BOOK VII.--No. 15)

Reputations may be made by the merest chances, and yet reputations
control the fashions. That is a little prologue that would fit the case
of all sorts of people. Everywhere around one sees prejudices, scheming,
and obtuseness; but little or no justice. Nothing can be done to stem
this torrent of evil. It must run its course. It always has been and
always will be.

A woman in Paris once made it her profession to tell fortunes. She
became very popular and had great success. Did anybody lose a bit of
finery; had any one a sweetheart; had any wife a husband she was tired
of; any husband a jealous wife, to the prophetess such would run simply
to be told the thing that it was comforting to hear.

The stock-in-trade of this fortune-teller consisted merely of a
convincing manner, a few words of scientific jargon, a great deal of
impudence, and much good luck. All these things together so impressed
the people that as often as not they would cry, "Miraculous!" In short,
although the woman's ignorance was quite twenty-three carat she passed
for a veritable oracle.

Notwithstanding the fact that this oracle only lived in a garret, she
found so many ready to pay her well for her shams that she soon grew
rich enough to improve the position of her husband, to rent an office,
and buy a house.

The garret being left empty was shortly tenanted by another woman to
whom all the town--women, girls, valets, fine gentlemen--everybody in
fact swarmed, as before, to consult their destiny. The former tenant had
built up such a reputation that the garret was still a sibyl's den, in
spite of the fact that quite a different creature dwelt in it. "I tell
fortunes? Surely you're joking! Why, gentlemen, I cannot read, and as
for writing, I never learnt more than to make my mark." But these
disclaimers were useless. People insisted on having their fortunes told,
and she had to do it. In consequence, she put by plenty of money, being
able to earn, in spite of herself, quite as much as two lawyers could.
The poverty of her home was a help rather than a hindrance. Four broken
chairs and a broom-handle savoured of a witch's frolic.

If this woman had told the truth in a room well-furnished she would have
been scorned. The fashion for a garret had set in, and garret it must
be.

In her new chambers the first fortune-teller waited in vain; for it was
the outward sign alone that brought customers, and the sign was poverty.

I have seen in a palace a robe worn awry win much distinction and
success, such crowds of followers and adherents did it draw. You may
well ask me why!

[Illustration: The garret was still a sybil's den.]

XV

THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER

(BOOK VIII.--No. 2)

There was once a cobbler who was so light hearted that he sang from
morning to night. It was wonderful to watch him at his work, and more
wonderful still to hear his runs and trills. He was in fact happier than
the Seven Sages.

This merry soul had a neighbour who was exactly the reverse. He sang
little and slept less; for he was a financier, and made of money, as
they say. Whenever it happened that after a sleepless night he would
doze off in the early morning, the cobbler, who was always up betimes,
would wake him up again with his joyful songs. "Ha!" thought the man of
wealth, "what a misfortune it is that one cannot buy sleep in the open
market as one buys food and drink!" Then an idea came to him. He
invited the cobbler to his house, where he asked him some questions.

"Tell me, Master Gregory, what do you suppose your earnings amount to in
a year?"

"In a year," laughed the cobbler, "that's more than I know. I never keep
accounts that way, nor even keep one day from another. So long as I can
make both ends meet, that's good enough for me!"

"Really!" replied the financier. "But what can you earn in one day?"

"Oh, sometimes more and sometimes less. The mischief of it is that there
are so many fête days and high-days and fast-days crowded into the year,
on which, as the priest tells us, it is wicked to work at all; and worse
still he keeps on finding some new saint or other to give weight to his
sermons. If it were not for that, cobbling would be a fine paying game."

At this the wealthy man laughed. "Look here, my friend, to-day I'll lift
you to the seats of the mighty! Here is a hundred pounds. Guard them and
use them with care."

When the cobbler held the bag of money in his hand he imagined that it
must be as much as would be coined in a hundred years.

Returning home he buried the cash in his cellar. Alas! he buried his joy
with it, for there were no more songs. From the moment he came into
possession of this wealth, the love of which is the root of all evil,
his voice left him, and not only his voice, but his sleep also. And in
place of these came anxiety, suspicion, and alarms; guests which abode
with him constantly. All day he kept his eye on the cellar door. Did a
cat make a noise in the night, then for a certainty that cat was after
his money.

At last, in despair, the wretched cobbler ran to the financier whom he
now no longer kept awake. "Oh, give me back my joy in life, my songs, my
sleep; and take your hundred pounds again."

XVI

THE POWER OF FABLE

(BOOK VIII.--No. 4)

In the old, vain, and fickle city of Athens, an orator,[2] seeing how
the light-hearted citizens were blind to certain dangers which
threatened the state, presented himself before the tribune, and there
sought, by the very tyranny of his forceful eloquence, to move the heart
of the republic towards a sense of the common welfare.

But the people neither heard nor heeded. Then the orator had recourse to
more urgent arguments and stronger metaphors, potent enough to touch
hearts of stone. He spoke in thunders that might have raised the dead;
but his words were carried away on the wind. The beast of many heads[3]
did not deign to hear the launching of these thunderbolts. It was
engrossed in something quite different. A fight between two urchins was
what the crowd found so engaging; not the orator's warnings.

What then did the speaker do? He tried another plan. "Ceres," he began,
"made a voyage one day with an eel and a swallow. After a time the
three travellers were stopped by a river. This the eel got over by
swimming and the swallow by flying----"

"Well! what about Ceres? What did she do?" cried the crowd with one
voice.

"She did what she did!" retorted the speaker in anger. "But first she
raged against you. What! Does it take a child's story to open your ears,
you who should be eager for any news of the peril that menaces; you, the
only state in Greece that takes no heed? You ask what Ceres did. Why do
you not ask what Philip[4] does?"

At this reproach the assembly was stirred. A mere fable brought them
open-eared to all the orator would say.

We are all Athenians in this respect. I myself am, even as I point this
moral. I should take the utmost pleasure now in hearing "The Ass's
Skin"[5] told to me. The world is old, they say: so it is; but,
nevertheless, it is as greedy of amusement as a child.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Elizur Wright explains that the orator was Demades.]

[Footnote 3: Horace spoke of the Roman people as a beast with many
heads.]

[Footnote 4: Philip of Macedon, who was at war against the Greeks.]

[Footnote 5: An old French nursery tale.]

XVII

THE DOG WHO CARRIED HIS MASTER'S DINNER

(BOOK VIII.--No. 7)

Our hands are no more proof against gold than our eyes are proof against
beauty. There are but few who guard their treasures with care enough.

A certain dog who had been taught to carry to his master the mid-day
meal was one day trotting along with the savoury burden slung around his
neck. He was tempted to take a taste himself; but knew that it would be
wrong to do so, and being a temperate, self-governed dog he refrained.
We of the human race allow ourselves to be tempted by covetable things
often enough; but, strange as it is, there seems to be more difficulty
in teaching mankind to resist temptation than there is in teaching dogs
to do so.

On this particular day the dog was met by a mastiff who at once wanted
the dinner, but did not find it so easy to capture as he thought; for
our dog put it down and stood guard over it. There was a mighty tussle.
Soon others arrived; curs that were used to knocks and kicks while
picking up a living in the streets. Seeing that he should be badly
over-matched, and that his master's dinner was in danger of being
devoured by the crowd, he bethought himself how he too might have his
share, if shared it must be. So he very wisely exclaimed, "No fighting,
gentlemen, my bit will suffice me. Do as you please with the rest." With
these words he snapped up a portion, upon which all the rest began to
pull and jostle to their utmost and feasted merrily.

In this I seem to see the picture of one of those unfortunate towns or
states which occasionally have suffered from the greed of their
ministers and officials. Each functionary has an eye to his own
advantage, and the smartest sets a pattern for the others. The way in
which the public funds disappear is amusing. If one sheriff or provost,
having a scruple of conscience, finds a trifling argument in defence of
the public interest the others show him that he is a fool if he utters
half a word. So, with a very little trouble, he gives way, and often
becomes the leading offender.

XVIII

THYRSIS AND AMARANTH

(BOOK VIII.--No. 13)

A shepherd who was deeply in love with a shepherdess was sitting one day
by her side trying to find words to express the emotions her charms
created in his breast.

"Ah! Amaranth, dear," he sighed, "could you but feel, as I do, a certain
pain which, whilst it tears the heart, is so delightful that it
enchants, you would say that nothing under heaven is its equal. Let me
tell you of it. Believe me, trust me. Would I deceive you? You, for whom
I am filled with the tenderest sentiments the heart can feel!"

"And what, my Thyrsis, is the name you give this pleasing pain?"

"It is called love," said Thyrsis.

"Ah!" responded the maiden, "that is a beautiful name. Tell me by what
signs I may know it, if it come to me. What are the feelings it gives
one?"

Thyrsis, taking heart of grace, replied with much ardour: "One feels an
anguish beside which the joys of kings are but dull and insipid. One
forgets oneself, and takes pleasure in the solitudes of the woods. To
glance into a brook is to see, not oneself, but an ever-haunting image.
To any other form one's eyes are blind. It may be that there is a
shepherd in the village at whose voice, at the mention of whose name,
you will blush; at the thought of whom you will sigh. Why, one knows
not! To see him will be a burning desire, and yet you would shrink from
him."

"Oho!" said Amaranth. "Is this then the pain you have preached so much!
It is hardly new to me. I seem to know something of it." The heart of
Thyrsis leapt, for he thought that at last he had gained his end; when
the fair one added, "'Tis just in this way that I feel for Cladimant!"

Imagine the vexation and misery of poor Thyrsis!

How many like him, intending to work solely for themselves, prove only
to have been stepping stones for others.

XIX

THE RAT AND THE ELEPHANT

(BOOK VIII.--No. 15)

An uncommonly small rat was watching an uncommonly big elephant and
sneering at the slowness of his steps.

The enormous animal was heavily laden. On his back rose a three-storied
howdah, wherein were accommodated a celebrated sultana, her dog, her
cat, her monkey, her parrot, her old servant, and all her household.
They were going upon a pilgrimage.

The rat wondered why all the people should express astonishment at
seeing this enormous bulk--"As if the fact of occupying more or less
space implied that one was the more or less important accordingly! What
is it you admire in him, you men? If it is only the weight of his body
which fills the children with terror, then we rats, small as we are,
consider ourselves not one grain less than the elephant." He would have
said more; but the cat, bounding out of her cage, let him see in an
instant that a rat is not an elephant.

XX

THE HOROSCOPE

(BOOK VIII.--No. 16)

Our destiny is frequently met in the very paths we take to avoid it.

A father had an only son whom he loved excessively. His devoted
affection caused him to be so anxious as to the boy's welfare that he
sought to learn from astrologers and fortune-tellers what fate was in
store for the son and heir. One of these soothsayers told him that an
especial danger lay with lions, from which the youth must be guarded
until the age of twenty was reached, but not after. The father, to make
sure of this precaution, upon the issue of which depended the life of
his loved one, commanded that by no chance should the boy ever be
permitted to go beyond the threshold of the house. Ample provision was
made for the satisfaction of all the wishes proper to youth in the way
of play with his companions, jumping, running, walking, and so forth. As
the age approached when the spirits of youth yearn for the chase, he was
taught to hold that sport in abhorrence.

But temperament cannot be changed by persuasion and counsel, nor by
enlightenment. The young man, eager, ardent, and full of courage, no
sooner felt the promptings of his years than he sighed for the
forbidden pleasures. The greater the hindrance the stronger the desire.
Knowing the reason of his galling restrictions, and viewing day by day
in his palatial home the hunting scenes pictured in paint and tapestry
on every wall, his excitement became unrestrained.

Once his eye fell upon a pictured lion. "Ah! Monster!" he exclaimed in a
transport of indignation. "It is to you that the shade and fetters in
which I live are due!" With that he struck the lion's form a heavy blow
with his fist. Hidden under the tapestry a great nail offered its cruel
point, and upon this his hand was impaled. The wound grew beyond the
reach of medical skill, and in the end this life, so guarded and
cherished, was lost by means of the very care taken to preserve it.

The same jealous precaution proved fatal to the poet Æschylus. It is
said that some fortune-teller menaced him with the fall of a house as
his doom, upon which he at once left the town and made his bed in the
open fields, far from roofs and beneath the sky. But an eagle flew by
overhead carrying in its talons a tortoise, and seeing the bald head of
the poet beneath, which it mistook for a stone, the bird let fall its
prey in order to break the shell of the tortoise. Thus were the days of
poor Æschylus ended.

From these two examples it would seem that this art of fortune-telling,
if there be any truth in it, causes one to fall into the very evil one
would be in dread of when one consulted it. But I will demonstrate and
maintain that the art is false. I do not believe that Nature would have
tied her own hands, and ours also, to the extent of marking our fate in
the heavens. For our fate depends upon certain combinations of time,
place, and people; not upon the combinations of charlatans. A shepherd
and a king are born under the same planet: one carries the sceptre; the
other the crook. The planet Jupiter willed it so! But what is this
planet Jupiter? A body without senses. Whence comes it then that its
influence works so differently on these two men? Further, how could its
influence, if it had any, penetrate through endless voids to our world?

Do not attach too much importance to the two instances I have related.
This beloved son and the good man Æschylus are beside the mark.

Nevertheless, however blind and lying is the fortuneteller's art, it may
yet hit home once in a thousand times. That is just a matter of chance.

XXI

JUPITER AND THE THUNDERBOLTS

(BOOK VIII--No. 20)

One day, as Jupiter seated on high looked down upon the world, he was
incensed at the faults committed by mankind. "Let us," he said, "have
some other occupants in the regions of the universe in place of these
present inhabitants who importune and weary me. Go you to Hades,
Mercury, and bring hither the cruellest of the furies. This time, O race
that I have too tenderly nurtured, you shall perish."

After this outburst the temper of the god began to cool.

O ye sovereigns of this world, to whom it has been given to be the
arbiters of our destinies, let a night intervene between your wrath and
the storm which follow!

Mercury, light of wing and sweet of tongue, descended to the abode of
the dread sisters Tisiphone, Megæra, and Alecto, and his choice fell
upon the latter, the pitiless one. She, feeling proud of the preference,
grew so arrogant as to swear by Pluto that the whole of the human brood
should soon people his domains. But Jupiter did not approve of the vow
this member of the Eumenides had sworn, and he sent her back to Hades.
At the same time he launched a thunderbolt upon one particularly
perfidious race of men. This, however, being hurled by a father's arm,
mercifully fell in a desert, causing less ruin than alarm. What followed
from this was simply that the wicked brood took heart at such indulgence
and did not trouble to mend their ways. Then all the gods in Olympus
complained, until he who controls the clouds swore by the Styx that
further storms should be sent and that they should not fail as the other
had.

The Olympians only smiled at this. They told Jupiter that as he was the
father it would be better if he left in other hands the making of
thunderbolts. Vulcan undertook the task. Soon his furnaces glowed with
bolts of two kinds; one that hits its mark with a deadly unerring--and
that is the sort which any of the Olympian gods will hurl; whilst the
other sort was that which becomes scattered on its course and does
damage only to the mountain tops, or perchance is even lost on the way.
It is this kind of thunderbolt that Jupiter sends. His fatherly heart
permits him to use no other.

XXII

EDUCATION

(BOOK VIII.--No. 24)

Once upon a time there were two dogs, one named Lurcher and the other
Cæsar. They were brothers; handsome, well-built, and plucky, and
descended from dogs who were famous in their day. These two brothers,
falling into the hands of different masters, found their destinies
likewise in different spheres; for whilst one haunted the forests, the
other lurched about a kitchen.

The names to which they now answered were not, however, the names that
were first given them. The influence of each one's career upon his
nature brought about a new name and a new reputation; for Cæsar's nature
was improved and strengthened by the life he led, whilst Lurcher's was
made more and more despicable by a degraded existence. A scullion named
him Lurcher; but the other dog received his noble name on account of his
life of high adventure. He had held many a stag at bay, killed many a
hare, and otherwise risen to the position of a Cæsar among dogs. Care
was taken that he should not mate indiscriminately, so that his
descendants' blood should not degenerate. On the other hand, poor
Lurcher bestowed his affections wherever he would and his brood became
populous. He was the progenitor of all turn-spits in France; a variety
which became common enough to form at last a race in themselves. They
show more readiness to flee than to attack, and are the very antipodes
of the Cæsars.

We do not always follow our ancestors, nor even resemble our fathers.
Want of care, the flight of time, a thousand things, cause us to
degenerate.

Ah! how many, Cæsars, failing to cultivate their best nature and their
gifts, become Lurchers!

XXIII

DEMOCRITUS AND THE PEOPLE OF ABDERA

(BOOK VIII.--No. 26)

How I have always hated the opinions of the mob! To me, a mob seems
profane, unjust, and rash, putting false construction on all things, and
judging every matter by a mob-made standard.

Democritus had experience of this. His countrymen thought him mad.
Little minds! But then, no one is a prophet in his own country! The
people themselves were mad, of course, and Democritus was the wise man.
Nevertheless the error went so far that the city of Abdera[6] sent a
messenger to the great physician Hippocrates, requesting him both by
letter and by spoken word to come and restore the sage's reason.

"Our citizen," said the spokesman with tears in his eyes, "has lost his
wits, alas! Study has corrupted Democritus. If he were less wise we
should esteem him much more. He will have it that there is no limit to
the number of worlds like ours and that possibly they are inhabited with
numberless Democrituses. Not satisfied with these wild dreams, he talks
also of atoms--phantoms born only in his own empty brain. Then,
measuring the very heavens, though he remains here below to do it, he
claims to know the universe; yet admits that he does not know himself.
Time was when he could control debates, now he mutters only to himself.
So come, thou divine mortal, for the patient's case is a bad one."

Hippocrates, though he had little faith in these people, went
nevertheless. Now mark, I beg of you, what strange meetings fate may
bring about in this life! Hippocrates arrived just at the time when this
man, who was supposed to have neither sense nor reason, happened to be
searching into a question as to whether this very reason was seated in
the heart or in the head of men and beasts.

Sitting in leafy shade, beside a brook, and with many a volume at his
feet, he was occupied wholly with a study of the convolutions of the
brain; and thus absorbed, as his manner was, he scarcely noticed the
advance of his friend the learned physician. Their greeting was soon
over as you may imagine, for the sage is at all times chary of time and
speech. So having put aside mere trifles of conversation, they reasoned
upon man and his mind, and next fell to talking upon ethics.

It is not necessary that I should here enlarge upon what each had to say
to the other on these matters.

The little tale suffices to show that we may rightly take exception to
the judgments of the mob. That being so, in what sense is it true, as I
have read in a certain passage, that the voice of the people is the
voice of God?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: A city on the shores of Thracia.]

XXIV

THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN

(BOOK IX.--No. 4)

What God does is done well. Without going round the world to seek a
proof of that, I can find one in the pumpkin.

A villager was once struck with the largeness of a pumpkin and the
thinness of the stem upon which it grew. "What could the Almighty have
been thinking about?" he cried. "He has certainly chosen a bad place for
a pumpkin to grow. Eh zounds! Now I would have hung it on one of these
oaks. That would have been just as it should be. Like fruit, like tree!
What a pity, Hodge," said he, addressing himself, "that you were not on
the spot to give advice at the Creation which the parson preaches
about. Everything would have been properly done then. For instance;
wouldn't this acorn, no bigger than my little finger, be better hanging
on this frail stem? The Almighty has blundered there surely! The more I
think about these fruits and their situations, the more it seems to me
that it is all a mistake."

Becoming worried by so much reflection our Hodge cast himself under an
oak saying, "A man can't sleep when he has so much brain." Then he at
once dropped off into a nap.

Presently an acorn fell plump upon his nose. Starting from sleep, he put
his hand up to see what had happened and found the acorn caught in his
beard, whilst his nose began to pain and bleed. "Oh, oh!" he cried, "I
am bleeding. How would it have been if a heavier mass than this had
fallen from the tree: if this acorn had been a pumpkin? The Almighty did
not intend that, I see. Doubtless he was right. I understand the reason
why perfectly now."

So praising God for all things Hodge took his way home.

XXV

THE SCHOOLBOY, THE PEDANT, AND THE OWNER OF A GARDEN

(BOOK IX.--No. 5)

A youngster, who was doubly foolish and doubly a rogue--in which perhaps
he savoured of the school he went to--was given, they say, to robbing a
neighbour's garden of its fruit and flowers. This may have been because
he was too young to know better, and perhaps because teachers do not
always mould the minds of young people in the right way.

The owner of the garden boasted in each season the very best of what was
due. In spring he could show the most delightful blossoms and in autumn
the very pick of all the apples.

One day he espied this schoolboy carelessly climbing a fruit tree and
knocking off the buds, those sweet and fragile forerunners of promised
fruit in abundance. The urchin even broke off a bough, and did so much
other damage that the owner sent a message of complaint to the boy's
schoolmaster. This worthy soon appeared, and behind him a tribe of the
scholars, who swarmed into the orchard and began behaving worse than the
first one. The schoolmaster's plan in thus aggravating the injury was
really to make an opportunity for delivering them all a good lesson,
which they should remember all their lives. He quoted Virgil and
Cicero; he made many scientific allusions and ran his discourse to such
a length that the little wretches were able to get all over the garden
and despoil it in a hundred places.

I hate pompous and pedantic speeches that are out of place and
never-ending; and I do not know a worse fool in the world than a naughty
schoolboy--unless indeed it be the schoolmaster of such a boy. The
better of them would never suit me as a neighbour.

XXVI

THE SCULPTOR AND THE STATUE OF JUPITER

(BOOK IX.--No. 6)

Once a sculptor who saw for sale a block of marble was so struck with
its beauty that he could not resist the temptation to buy it. When it
was in his studio he thought to himself, "Now what shall my chisel make
of it? Shall it be a god, a table, or a basin? It shall be a god. And I,
myself, shall ordain that the god shall poise a thunderbolt in his hand.
So tremble, mortals, and worship! Behold the lord of the earth!"

The artist set to work and expressed so powerfully the attributes of the
god that those who saw it averred that it only lacked speech to be
Jupiter himself. It is said that the sculptor had scarcely completed the
statue when he became so overawed as to fear and tremble before the work
of his own hands.

The poet of old, likewise, greatly dreaded the hate and the wrath of the
gods he himself created: a weakness which left little to choose between
him and the sculptor.

These traits are those of childhood. The minds of children are always
anxious lest any one should maltreat their dolls. The emotions
invariably give the lead to the intellect, and this fact accounts for
the great error of paganism. For that error has been prompted by the
emotions of men in all the peoples of the earth. Men uphold with fanatic
zeal the interests of the unreal creatures of their imagination.
Pygmalion became enamoured of the Venus[7] he had created, and in the
same way every one tries to turn his dreams into reality. Man remains as
ice before truth, but catches fire before illusion.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: La Fontaine forgets. It was Galatea whose image Pygmalion
created and whom Venus brought to life.]

XXVII

THE OYSTER AND THE PLEADERS

(BOOK IX.--No. 9)

One day two pilgrims espied upon the sands of the shore an oyster that
had been thrown up by the tide. They devoured it with their eyes whilst
pointing at it with their fingers; but whose teeth should deal with it
was a matter of dispute.

When one stopped to pick up the prey the other pushed him away saying:
"It would be just as well first to decide which of us is to have the
pleasure of it. He who first saw it should swallow it, and let the other
watch him eat."

"If you settle the affair that way," replied his companion, "I have good
eyes, thank God."

"But my sight is not bad either," said the other, "and I saw it before
you did, and that I'll stake my life upon."

"Well, suppose you did see it, I smelt it."

During this lively interlude Justice Nincompoop arrived on the scene,
and to him they appealed to judge their claims. The justice very gravely
took the oyster, opened it, and put it into his mouth, whilst the two
claimants looked on. Having deliberately swallowed the oyster, the
justice, in the portentous tones of a Lord Chief Justice, said, "The
court here awards each of you a shell, without costs. Let each go home
peaceably."

Reckon what it costs to go to law in these days. Then count what remains
to most families. You will see that Justice Nincompoop draws all the
money and leaves only the empty purse and the shells to the litigants.

[Illustration: Deliberately swallowed the oyster.]

XXVIII

THE CAT AND THE FOX

(BOOK IX.--No. 14)

The cat and the fox, in the manner of good little saints, started out
upon a pilgrimage. They were both humbugs, arch-hypocrites, two
downright highwaymen, who for the expenses of their journey indemnified
themselves by seeing who could devour the most fowls and gobble the most
cheese.

The way was long and therefore wearisome, so they shortened it by
arguing. Argumentation is a great help. Without it one would go to
sleep. Our pilgrims shouted themselves hoarse. Then having argued
themselves out, they talked of other things.

At length the fox said to the cat, "You pretend that you're very clever.
Do you know as much as I? I have a hundred ruses up my sleeve."

"No," answered the cat, "I have but one; but that is always ready to
hand, and I maintain that it is worth a thousand other dodges."

Then they fell again to disputing one against the other on each side of
the question, the whys and the wherefores, raising their voices higher
and higher. Presently the sudden appearance of a pack of hounds stopped
their noise.

The cat said to the fox, "Now, my friend, ransack that cunning brain of
yours for one of your thousand ruses. Fetch down from your sleeve one of
those certain stratagems. As for me, this is my dodge." So saying, he
bounded to a tall tree and climbed to its top with alacrity.

The fox tried a hundred futile doublings; ran into a hundred holes; put
the hounds at fault a hundred times; tried everywhere to find a safe
place of retreat, but everywhere failed between being smoked out of one
and driven out of another by the hounds. Finally, as he came out of a
hole two nimble dogs set upon him and strangled him at the first grip.

Too many expedients may spoil the business. One loses time in choosing
between them and in trying too many. Have only one; but let it be a good
one.

XXIX

THE MONKEY AND THE CAT

(BOOK IX.--No. 17)

Bertrand was a monkey and Ratter was a cat. They shared the same
dwelling and had the same master, and a pretty mischievous pair they
were. It was impossible to intimidate them. If anything was missed or
spoilt, no one thought of blaming the other people in the house.
Bertrand stole all he could lay his hands upon, and as for Ratter, he
gave more attention to cheese than he did to the mice.

One day, in the chimney corner, these two rascals sat watching some
chestnuts that were roasting before the fire. How jolly it would be to
steal them they thought: doubly desirable, for it would not only be joy
to themselves, but an annoyance to others.

"Brother," said Bertrand to Ratter, "this day you shall achieve your
master-stroke: you shall snatch some chestnuts out of the fire for me.
Providence has not fitted me for that sort of game. If it had, I assure
you chestnuts would have a fine time."

No sooner said than done. Ratter delicately stirred the cinders with his
paw, stretched out his claws two or three times to prepare for the
stroke, and then adroitly whipped out first one, then two, then three of
the chestnuts, whilst Bertrand crunched them up between his teeth. In
came a servant, and there was an end of the business. Farewell, ye
rogues!

I am told that Ratter was by no means satisfied with the affair.

And princes are equally dissatisfied when, flattered to be employed in
any uncomfortable concern, they burn their fingers in a distant province
for the profit of some king.

XXX

THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG[8]

(BOOK X.--No. 1)

Do not take it ill if, in these fables, I mingle a little of the bold,
daring, and fine-spun philosophy that is called new.

They say that the lower animals are mere machines: that everything they
do is prompted, not by choice, but by mechanism, coming about as it were
by springs. There is, they say, neither feeling nor soul--nothing but a
mechanical body. It goes just as a watch or clock goes, plodding on with
even motion, blindly and aimlessly.

Open such a machine and examine it; what do we find? Wheels take the
place of intelligence. The first wheel moves the second, and that in
turn moves a third, with the result that, in due time, it strikes the
hour.

According to these new philosophers, that is exactly the case with an
animal. It receives a blow in a certain spot, this spot conveys the
sensation to another spot, and so the message goes on from place to
place until the brain receives it and the impression is made. That is
all very well, but how is the impression made?

It is necessarily made, without passion, without will, say these
philosophers. They tell us that the common idea is that an animal is
actuated by emotions which we know as sorrow, joy, love, pleasure, pain,
cruelty, or some other of these states; but that it is not so. Do not
deceive yourself, they say.

"What is it then?" I ask. A watch, indeed! And pray what of ourselves?

Ah, well! that is perhaps another thing altogether. This is the way
Descartes expounds the theory--Descartes, that mortal who, if he had
lived in pagan times, would have been made a god, and who holds a place
between man and the higher spirits, just as some I could name--beasts of
burden with long ears--hold a place between man and the oysters. Thus, I
say, reasons this author: "I have a gift beyond any possessed by others
of God's creatures, and that is the gift of thought. I know of what I
think."

But from positive science we know that although animals may think, they
cannot reflect upon what they think. Descartes goes further and boldly
states that they do not think at all. That is a statement which need not
worry us.

Nevertheless, when in the woods the blast of a horn and the baying of
hounds agitates the fleeing quarry; when he vainly endeavours, with all
his skill, to confuse and muddle the scent which betrays him to his
pursuers; when, an aged beast with full-grown antlers, he puts in his
place a younger stag and forces it to carry on the chase with its
fresher bait of the scent of its younger body, and thus carry off the
hounds and preserve his days--then surely this beast has reasoned. All
the twisting and turning, all the malice, deception, and the hundred
stratagems to save his life are worthy of the greatest chiefs of war;
and worthy of a better fate than death by being torn to pieces; for that
is the supreme honour of the stag.

Again; when the partridge sees its young in danger, before their wings
have strength enough to bear them away from death, she makes a pretence
of being wounded and flutters along with a trailing wing, enticing the
huntsman and his dogs to follow her, and thus by turning away the danger
saves her little ones. And when the huntsman believes that his dog has
seized her, lo! she rises, laughs at the sportsman, wishes him farewell,
and leaves him confused and watching her flight with his eyes.

Not far from the northern regions there is a country where life goes on
as in the early ages, the inhabitants being profoundly ignorant. I speak
now of the human creatures. The animals are indeed surprisingly
enlightened; for they can construct works which stop the ravages of
swollen torrents and make communication possible from bank to bank. The
structures are safe and lasting, being founded upon wood over which is
laid a bed of mortar. The beavers are the engineers. Each one works. The
task is common to all, and the old ones see that the young ones do not
shirk their labour. There are many taskmasters directing and urging.

To such a colony of cunning amphibians the republic of Plato itself
would be but an apprentice affair. The beavers erect their houses for
the winter time, and make bridges of marvellous construction for passing
over the ponds; whilst the human folk who live there, though this
wonderful work is always before their eyes, can but cross the water by
swimming.

That these beavers are nothing but bodies without minds nothing will
make me believe. But here is something better still. Listen to this
recital which I had from a king great in fame and glory. This king,
defender of the northern world, whom I now cite, is my guarantee: a
prince beloved of the goddess of Victory. His name alone is a bulwark
against the empire of the Turks. I speak of the Polish king.[9] A king,
it is understood, can never lie.

He says, then, that upon the frontiers of his kingdom there are animals
that have always been at war among themselves, their passion for
fighting having been handed down from father to son. These animals, he
explains, are allied to the fox. Never has the science of war been more
skilfully pursued among men than it is pursued by these beasts, not even
in our present century. They have their advanced out-posts, their
sentinels and spies; their ambuscades, their expedients, and a thousand
other inventions of the pernicious and accursed science Warfare, a hag
born, herself, of Styx,[10] but giving birth to heroes.

Properly to sing of the battles of these four-footed warriors Homer
should return from beyond the shores of Acheron.[11] Ah! could he but do
so, and bring with him too the rival of old Epicurus,[12] what would the
latter say as to the examples I have narrated? He would say only what I
have already said, namely, that in the lower animals natural instinct is
sufficient to explain all the wonders I have told: that memory leads the
animal to repeat over and over again the actions it has made before and
found successful.

We, as human beings, do differently. Our wills decide for us; not the
bestial aim, nor the instinct. I walk, I speak, I feel in me a certain
force, an intelligent principle which all my bodily mechanism obeys.
This force is distinct from anything connected with my body. It is
indeed more easily conceived than is the body itself, and of all our
movements it is the supreme controller. But how does the body conceive
and understand this intelligent force? That is the point! I see the tool
obeying the hand; but what guides the hand? Who guides the planets in
their rapid courses? It may be some angel guide controls the whirling
planets; and in like manner some spirit dwells in us and controls all
our machinery. The impulse is given--the impression made--but how, I do
not know! We shall only learn it in the bosom of God; and to speak
frankly, Descartes himself was no wiser. On that point we all are
equals. All that I know is that this intelligent controlling spirit does
not exist in the lower animals. Man alone is its temple.

Nevertheless, we must allow to the beasts a higher plane than that of
plants, notwithstanding the fact that plants breathe.

Is there any explanation to what I shall now relate? Two rats who were
seeking their living had the good fortune to find an egg. Such a dinner
was amply sufficient for folks of their species, they had no need to
look for an ox. With keen delight and an appetite to match they were
just about to eat up the egg between them, when an unbidden guest
appeared in the shape of Master Reynard the fox. This was a most awkward
and vexatious visitation. How was the egg to be saved from the jaws of
him? To wrap it up carefully and carry it away by the fore paws, or to
roll it, or to drag it, were methods as impossible as they were
hazardous. But Necessity, that ingenious mother, furnished the
never-failing invention. The sponger being as yet far enough away to
give the rats time to reach their home, one of them lay upon his back
and took the egg safely between his arms whilst the other, in spite of
sundry shocks and a few slips, dragged him home by the tail.

After this recital, let any one who dare maintain that animals have no
powers of reason.

For my part if I had the portioning of these faculties I would allow as
much reasoning power in animals as in infants, who evidently think from
their earliest years, from which fact we may conclude that one can think
without knowing oneself. I would, similarly, grant the animals a
reason, not such as we possess, but far above a blind instinct. I would
refine a speck of matter, a tiny atom--extract of light--something more
vivid and lively than fire; for since wood can turn to flame, cannot
flame, being further purified, teach us something of the rarity of the
soul? And is not gold extracted from lead? My creatures should be
capable of feeling and judgment; but nothing more. There should be no
argument from apes.

As to mankind, I would have their lot infinitely better. We men should
possess a double treasure; firstly, the soul common to us all, just as
we happen to be, sages or fools, children, idiots, or our dumb
companions the animals; secondly, another soul in common, in a certain
degree, with the angels, and this soul, independent of us though
belonging to us, should be able to reach to heavenly heights, whilst it
could also dwell within a point's space. Having a beginning it should be
without end. Things incredible but true. During infancy this soul,
itself a child of heaven, should appear to us only as a gentle and
feeble light; but as the faculties grew, the stronger reason would
pierce the darkness of matter enveloping our other imperfect and grosser
soul.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: At the time when this was written there was much discussion
among the learned in France as to the powers of reasoning in animals.]

[Footnote 9: The allusion is to Sobieski, whose victory over the Turks
made him famous throughout Europe in 1673. La Fontaine had frequently
met him in the salons of the cultured ladies of France.]

[Footnote 10: A nymph of one of the rivers of Hades named after her. She
became the mother of Zelus (zeal), Nike (victory), Kratos (power), and
Bia (strength).]

[Footnote 11: Also a river of Hades, the realm of the dead.]

[Footnote 12: Descartes is meant as the rival of the old philosopher
Epicurus.]

XXXI

THE DOG WITH HIS EARS CROPPED

(BOOK X.--No. 9)

"What have I done to be treated in this way? Mutilated by my own master!
A nice state to be in! Dare I present myself before other dogs? O ye
kings over the animals, or rather tyrants of them, would any creature do
the same to you?"

Such were the lamentations of poor Fido, a young house-dog, whilst those
who were busy cropping his ears remained quite untouched by his piercing
and dolorous howls.

Fido believed himself to be ruined for life; but he very shortly found
that he was a gainer by the maiming. For being by nature disposed to
pilfer from his companions, it would come within his experience to have
many misadventures wherein his ears would be torn in a hundred places.

Aggressive dogs always have ragged ears. The less they have for other
dogs' teeth to fasten upon the better.

When one has but a single weak place to defend, one protects it against
an onset. Witness Master Fido armed with a spiked collar, and having no
more ears to catch hold of than are on my hand. Even a wolf would not
have known where to take him.

XXXII

THE LIONESS AND THE SHE-BEAR

(BOOK X--No. 13)

Mamma lioness had lost one of her cubs. Some hunter had made away with
it, and the poor unfortunate mother roared out her wailings to such an
extent that all the inhabitants of the forest were seriously disturbed.
The spells of the night, its darkness and its silence, were powerless to
hush the tumult of the queen of the forest. Sleep was driven from every
animal within hearing.

At last the she-bear rose up and coming to the wailing lioness said,
"Good Gossip, just one word with you. All those little ones that have
passed between your teeth, had they neither fathers nor mothers?"

"To be sure they had."

"Then if that be so, and as none have come to mourn their dead in cries
which would split our heads: if so many mothers have borne their loss
silently, why cannot you be silent also?"

"I? I be silent? Unhappy I? Ah! I have lost my son! There is nought for
me but to drag out a miserable old age."

"But pray tell me what obliges you to do so."

"Alas! Destiny. It is Destiny that hates me."

[Illustration: Why cannot you be silent also?]

Those are the words that are for ever in the mouths of us all.

Unhappy human kind, let this address itself to you. I hear nothing but
the echoing murmur of trifling complaints. Whoever, in like case,
believes himself the hated of the gods, let him consider Hecuba,[13] and
he will render thanks for their clemency.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 13: Hecuba was the wife of Priam, King of Troy. When that city
fell Hecuba was chosen by Ulysses as part of his share in the spoils.
She was changed into a dog for avenging the death of her son whose eyes
had been put out by the King of Thracia, and she finally ended her life
by casting herself into the sea.]

XXXIII

THE RABBITS

(BOOK X.--No. 15)

When I have noticed how man acts at times, and how, in a thousand ways,
he comports himself just as the lower animals do, I have often said to
myself that the lord of these lower orders has no fewer faults than his
subjects.

Nature has allowed every living thing a drop or two from the fount at
which the spirits of all creatures imbibe.

I will prove what I say.

If at the hour when night has scarcely passed and day hardly begun I
climb into a tree, on the edge of some wood, and, like a new Jupiter
from the heights of Olympus, I send a shot at some unsuspecting rabbit,
then the whole colony of rabbits, who were enjoying their thyme-scented
meal with open eyes and listening ears upon the heath, immediately
scamper away. The report sends them all to seek refuge in their
subterranean city.

But their great fright is soon over; the danger quickly forgotten. Again
I see the rabbits more light-hearted than ever coming close under my
death-dealing hand.

Does not this give us a picture of mankind? Dispersed by some storm, men
no sooner reach a haven than they are ready again to risk the same winds
and the same distress. True rabbits, they run again into the
death-dealing hands of fortune.

Let us add to this example another of a more ordinary kind.

When strange dogs pass through any spot beyond their customary route
there is a grand to-do. I leave you to picture it. All the dogs of the
district with one idea in their heads join forces, barking and biting,
to chase the intruder beyond the bounds of their territory.

So, it may be, a similar joint-interest in property or in glory and
grandeur leads such people as the governors of states, certain favoured
courtiers, and people of a trade to behave exactly like these jealous
dogs. All of us, as a rule, rob the chance-comer and tear him to pieces.
Vain ladies and men of letters are usually so disposed. Woe betide the
newly-arrived beauty or a new writer!

As few as possible fighting round the cake! That's the best way!

I could bring a hundred examples to bear upon this subject; but the
shorter a discourse is the better. I take the masters of literature for
my model in this and hold that in the best of themes something should be
left unsaid for the reader to consider about. Therefore this discourse
shall end.

XXXIV

THE GODS WISHING TO INSTRUCT A SON OF JUPITER

(BOOK XI.--No. 2)

Jupiter had a son, who, sensible of his lofty origin, showed always a
god-like spirit. Childhood is not much concerned with loving; yet to the
childhood of this young god, loving and wishing to be loved was the
chief concern. In him, love and reason which grow with years, outraced
Time, that light-winged bearer of the seasons which come, alas! only too
quickly.

Flora,[14] with laughing looks and winning airs, was the first to touch
the heart of the youthful Olympian. Everything that passion could
inspire--delicate sentiments full of tenderness, tears, and sighs--all
were there: he forgot nothing. As a son of Jupiter he would by right of
birth be dowered with greater gifts than the sons of other gods; and it
seemed as though all his behaviour were prompted by the reminiscence
that he had indeed already been a lover in some former state, so well
did he play the part.

Nevertheless, it was Jupiter's wish that the boy should be taught, and
assembling the gods in council he said, "So far, I have never been at
fault in the conduct of the universe which I have ruled unaided; but
there are various charges which I now have decided to distribute amongst
the younger gods. This beloved child of mine I have already counted
upon. He is of my own blood and many an altar already flames in his
honour. Yet to merit his rank among the immortals it is necessary that
he should possess all knowledge."

As the god of the thunders ceased the whole assembly applauded. As for
the boy himself, he did not appear to be above the wish to learn
everything.

"I undertake," said Mars, the god of war, "to teach him the art by which
so many heroes have won the glories of Olympus and extended the empire."

"I will be his master in the art of the lyre," promised the fair and
learned Apollo.

"And I," said Hercules with the lion's-skin, "will teach him how to
overcome Vice and quell evil passions, those poisonous monsters which
like Hydras[15] are ever reborn in the heart. A foe to effeminate
pleasures, he shall learn from me those too seldom trodden paths that
lead to honour along the tracks of virtue."

When it came to Cupid, the god of love, to speak he simply said, "I can
show him everything."

And Cupid was right; for what cannot be achieved with wit and the desire
to please?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: The Goddess of Spring and of Flowers, was also regarded by
the Greeks as the Goddess of Youth and its pleasures.]

[Footnote 15: The Hydra was a monster with one hundred heads. If one was
cut off two grew in its place unless the wound was stopped by fire.]

XXXV

THE LION, THE MONKEY, AND THE TWO ASSES

(BOOK XI.--No. 5)

King Lion, thinking that he would govern better if he took a few lessons
in moral philosophy, had a monkey brought to him one fine day who was a
master of arts in the monkey tribe. The first lesson he gave was as
follows:--

"Great King, in order to govern wisely a prince should always consider
the good of the country before yielding to that feeling which is
commonly known as self-love, for that fault is the father of all the
vices one sees in animals. To rid oneself of this sentiment is not an
easy thing to do, and is not to be done in a day. Indeed, merely to
moderate it is to achieve a good deal, and if you succeed so far you
will never tolerate in yourself anything ridiculous or unjust."

"Give me," commanded the king, "an example of each of those faults."

"Every species of creature," continued the philosopher, "esteems itself
in its heart above all the others. These others it regards as
ignoramuses, calling them by many hard names which, after all, hurt
nobody. At the same time this self-love, which sneers at other tribes
and other kinds of beasts, induces the individual to heap praise upon
other individuals of his own species, because that is a very good way of
praising oneself too. From this it is easy to see that many talents here
below are in reality but empty pretence, assumption, and pose, and a
certain gift of making the most of oneself, better understood by
ignorant people than by learned.

"The other day I followed two asses who were offering the incense of
flattery to each other by turns, and heard one say, 'My Lord, do you not
think that man, that perfect animal, is both unjust and stupid? He
profanes our august name by calling every one of his own kind an ass who
is ignorant, or dull, or idiotic; and he calls our laughter and our
discourse by the term "braying." It is very amusing that these human
people pretend to excel us!'

"'My friend,' said his companion, 'it is for you to speak, and for them
to hold their tongues. They are the true brayers. But let us speak no
more of them. We two understand each other; that is sufficient. And as
for the marvels of delight your divine voice lets fall upon our ears,
the nightingale herself is but a novice in comparison. You surpass the
court musician.'

"To this the other donkey replied, 'My lord, I admire in you exactly the
same excellencies.'

"Not content with flattering each other in this way, these two asses
went about the cities singing aloud each other's praises. Either one
thought he was doing a good turn to himself in thus lauding his
companion.

"Well, your majesty, I know of many people to-day, not among asses, but
among exalted creatures, whom heaven has been pleased to raise to a high
degree, who would, if they dared, change their title of 'Excellency to
that of 'Majesty.' I am saying more than I should, perhaps, and I hope
your majesty will keep the secret. You wished to hear of some incident
which would show you, among other things, how self-love makes people
ridiculous, and there I have given you a good instance. Injustice I will
speak of another time, it would take too long now."

Thus spoke the ape. No one has ever been able to tell me whether he ever
did speak of injustice to his king. It would have been a delicate
matter, and our master of arts, who was no fool, regarded the lion as
too terrible a king to submit to being lectured too far.

XXXVI

THE WOLF AND THE FOX IN THE WELL

(BOOK XI.--No. 6)

Why does Æsop give to the fox the reputation of excelling in all tricks
of cunning? I have sought for a reason, but cannot find one. Does not
the wolf, when he has need to defend his life or take that of another,
display as much knowingness as the fox? I believe he knows more, and I
dare, perhaps with some reason, to contradict my master in this
particular.

Nevertheless, here is a case where undoubtedly all the honour fell to
the dweller in burrows.

One evening a fox, who was as hungry as a dog, happened to see the round
reflection of the moon in a well, and he believed it to be a fine
cheese. There were two pails which alternately drew up the water. Into
the uppermost of these the fox leapt, and his weight caused him to
descend the well, where he at once discovered his mistake about the
cheese. He became extremely worried and fancied his end approaching, for
he could see no way to get up again but by some other hungry one,
enticed by the same reflection, coming down in the same way that he had.

Two days passed without any one coming to the well. Time, which is
always marching onward, had, during two nights, hollowed the outline
of the silvery planet, and Reynard was in despair.

[Illustration: Descended by his greater weight.]

At last a wolf, parched with thirst, drew near, to whom the fox called
from below, "Comrade, here is a treat for you! Do you see this? It is an
exquisite cheese, made by Faunus[16] from milk of the heifer Io.[17] If
Jupiter were ill and lost his appetite he would find it again by one
taste of this. I have only eaten this piece out of it; the rest will be
plenty for you. Come down in the pail up there. I put it there on
purpose for you."

A rigmarole so cleverly told was easily believed by the fool of a wolf,
who descended by his greater weight, which not only took him down, but
brought the fox up.

We ought not to laugh at the wolf, for we often enough let ourselves be
deluded with just as little cause. Everybody is ready to believe the
thing he fears and the thing he desires.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: The benign spirit of the fields and woods.]

[Footnote 17: A priestess who was changed by Hera, wife of Zeus, into a
white heifer.]

XXXVII

THE MICE AND THE SCREECH-OWL

(BOOK XI.--No. 9)

It is not always wise to say to your company, "Just listen to this joke"
or "What do you think of this for a marvel?" for one can never be sure
that the listeners will regard the matter in the same way that the
teller does. Yet here is a case that makes an exception to this good
rule, and I maintain that it is in truth wonderful, and, although it has
the appearance of being a fable, it is in reality absolute fact.

There was once an extremely old pine-tree which an owl, that grim bird
which Atropus[18] takes for her interpreter, had made to serve as his
palace. But there were other tenants lodging in its cavernous and
time-rotted trunk. These were mice, well fed, positive balls of fat, but
not one of them had a foot. They had all been mutilated. The owl had
nipped their feet off with his beak, whilst feeding and fostering them
with wheat from neighbouring stacks.

It must be confessed that this bird had reasoned.

Doubtless, in his time, when hunting mice, he had found that after
bringing them home they escaped again from the trunk, and to prevent
the recurrence of such a loss the artful rascal had thenceforth nipped
off the feet of all he caught, keeping them prisoners and eating them
one to-day and one to-morrow. To eat them all at once would have been
impossible. He had his health to think of. His forethought, which went
quite as far as ours, extended to bringing them grain for their
subsistence.

If this is not reasoning, then I do not understand what reasoning is.
See what arguments he used:--

"When these mice are caught they run away, therefore I must eat them as
I catch them. What all? Impossible! But would it not be well to keep
some for a needy future? If so, I must keep them and feed them too,
without their escaping. But how's that to be done? Happy thought! Nip
off their feet!"

Now find me among human beings anything better carried out. Did
Aristotle and his followers do any better thinking, by my faith?

NOTE.--This is not a fable. The thing actually occurred, although
marvellous enough and almost incredible. I have perhaps carried the
forethought of this owl too far, for I do not pretend to establish in
animals a line of reasoning; but in this style of literature a little
exaggeration is pardonable.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: One of the three Fates, the first and second being Clotho
and Lachesis. They spun, measured, and cut off, respectively, the thread
of life for men at their birth.]

XXXVIII

THE COMPANIONS OF ULYSSES

(BOOK XII.--No. 1)

That great hero-wanderer Ulysses had been with his companions driven
hither and thither at the will of the winds for ten years, never knowing
what their ultimate fate was to be. At length they disembarked upon a
shore where Circe, the daughter of Apollo, held her court. Receiving
them she brewed a delicious but baneful liquor, which she made them
drink. The result of this was that first they lost their reason, and a
few moments after, their bodies took the forms and features of various
animals; some unwieldy, some small. Ulysses alone, having the wisdom to
withstand the temptation of the treacherous cup, escaped the
metamorphosis. He, besides possessing wisdom, bore the look of a hero
and had the gift of honeyed speech, so that it came about that the
goddess herself imbibed a poison little different from her own; that is
to say, she became enamoured of the hero and declared her love to him.
Now was the time for Ulysses to profit by this turn of events, and he
was too cunning to miss the opportunity, so he begged and obtained the
boon that his friends should be restored to their natural shapes.

"But will they be willing to accept their own forms again?" asked the
nymph. "Go to them and make them the offer."

Ulysses, glad and eager, ran to his Greeks and cried, "The poisoned cup
has its remedy, and I come to offer it to you. Dear friends of mine,
will you not be glad to have your manly forms again? Speak, for your
speech is already restored."

The lion was the first to reply. Making an effort to roar he said, "I,
for one, am not such a fool. What! renounce all the great advantages
that have just been given me? I have teeth. I have claws. I can pull to
pieces anything that attacks me. I am, in fact, a king. Do you think it
would suit me to become a citizen of Ithaca once more? Who knows but
that you might make of me a common soldier again. Thank you; but I will
remain as I am."

Ulysses, in sad surprise, turned to the bear. "Ah, brother! what form is
this you have taken, you who used to be so handsome?"

"Well, really! I like that!" said the bear in his way. "What form is
this? you ask. Why it is the form that a bear should have. Pray who
instructed you that one form is more handsome than another? Is it your
business to judge between us? I prefer to appeal to the sight of the
gentler sex in our ursine race. Do I displease you? Then pass on. Go
your ways and leave me to mine. I am free and content as I am, and I
tell you frankly and flatly that I will not change my state."

The princely Greek then turned to a wolf with the same proposals, and
risking a similar rebuff said: "Comrade, it overwhelms me that a sweet
young shepherdess should be driven to complain to the echoing crags of
the gluttonous appetite that impelled you to devour her sheep. Time was
when you would have protected her sheepfold. In those days you led an
honest life. Leave your lairs and become, instead of a wolf, an honest
man again."

"What is that?" answered the wolf. "I don't see your point. You come
here treating me as though I were a carnivorous beast. But what are you,
who are talking in this strain? Would not you and yours have eaten these
sheep, which all the village is deploring, if I had not? Now say, on
your oath, do you really think I should have loved slaughter any less if
I had remained a man? For a mere word, you men are at times ready to
strangle each other. Are you not, therefore, as wolves one to another?
All things considered, I maintain as a matter of fact that, rascal for
rascal, it is better to be a wolf than a man. I decline to make any
change in my condition."

In this way did Ulysses go from one to another making the same
representations and receiving from all, large and small alike, the same
refusals. Liberty, unbridled lust of appetite, the ambushes of the
woods, all these things were their supreme delight. They all renounced
the glory attaching to great deeds.

They thought that in following their passions they were enjoying
freedom, not seeing that they were but slaves to themselves.

XXXIX

THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE DOGS AND THE CATS AND BETWEEN THE CATS AND THE
MICE

(BOOK XII--No. 8)

Discord has always reigned in the universe; of this our world furnishes
a thousand different instances, for with us the sinister goddess has
many subjects.

Let us begin with the four elements. Here you may be astonished to
observe that they are, throughout, in antagonism to each other. Besides
these four potentates how many other forces of all descriptions are
everlastingly at war!

In bygone times there was a house which was full of cats and dogs who
lived together like amicable cousins, for this reason: Their master had
made a hundred irrevocable laws and rules, settling their respective
tasks, their meals, and every other incident of their lives, and at the
same time he threatened with the whip the first one who should promote a
quarrel. The kindly, almostly brotherly nature of this union was very
edifying to the neighbours.

But at last the concord ceased. Some little favouritism in the bestowal
of a bone, or a dish of food, caused the outraged remainder to raise
furious protests. I have heard some chroniclers attribute the discord to
an affair of love and jealousy. At any rate, whatever the origin, the
altercation speedily fired both hall and kitchen, and divided the
company into partisans for this cat or for that dog.

A new rule was made, which exasperated the cats, and their complaints
deafened the whole neighbourhood. Their advocate advised returning
absolutely to the old rules and decrees. The law books were searched
for, but could nowhere be found. And that was no wonder, for the books
which had been hidden in a corner by one set of partisans at first had
been at last devoured by mice. This gave rise to another law-suit, which
the mice lost and had to pay for.

Many old cats, cunning, subtle, and sharp, and bearing a grudge against
the whole race of mice beside, lay in wait for them, caught them, and
cleared them out of the house, much to the advantage of the master of
the establishment.

So, returning to my moral, one cannot find under heaven any animal, any
being, any creature who has not his opponent. This appears to be a law
of nature. It would be time wasted to seek for a reason. God does well
whatever he does. Beyond that I know nothing; but I do know that people
come to high words over nothing three times out of four. Ah, ye human
folk! even at the age of sixty you ought to be sent back to the
schoolmaster.

XL

THE WOLF AND THE FOX

(BOOK XII.--No. 9)

A fox once remarked to a wolf, "Dear friend, do you know that the utmost
I can get for my meals is a tough old cock or perchance a lean hen or
two. It is a diet of which I am thoroughly weary. You, on the other
hand, feed much better than that, and with far less danger. My foraging
takes me close up to houses; but you keep far away. I beg of you,
comrade, to teach me your trade. Let me be the first of my race to
furnish my pot with a plump sheep, and you will not find me ungrateful."

"Very well," replied the obliging wolf. "I have a brother recently dead,
suppose you go and get his skin and wear it." This the fox accordingly
did and the wolf commenced to give him lessons. "You must do this and
act so, when you wish to separate the dogs from the flocks." At first
Reynard was a little awkward, but he rapidly improved, and with a little
practice he reached at last the perfection of wolfish strategy. Just as
he had learned all that there was to know a flock approached. The sham
wolf ran after it spreading terror all around, even as Patroclus
wearing[19] the armour of Achilles spread alarm throughout camp and
city, when mothers, wives, and old men hastened to the temples for
protection. "In this case, the bleating army made sure there must be
quite fifty wolves after them, and fled, dog and shepherd with them, to
the neighbouring village, leaving only one sheep as a hostage.

This remaining sheep our thief instantly seized and was making off with
it. But he had not gone more than a few steps when a cock crew near by.
At this signal, which habit of life had led him to regard as a warning
of dawn and danger, he dropped his disguising wolf-skin and, forgetting
his sheep, his lesson, and his master, scampered off with a will.

Of what use is such shamming? It is an illusion to suppose that one is
really changed by making the pretence. One resume's one's first nature
upon the earliest occasion for hiding it.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 19: At the Siege of Troy. He was mistaken for Achilles.]

[Illustration: A guide for the footsteps of love.]

XLI

LOVE AND FOLLY

(BOOK XII.--No. 14)

Everything to do with love is mystery. Cupid's arrows, his quiver, his
torch, his boyhood: it is more than a day's work to exhaust this
science. I make no pretence here of explaining everything. My object is
merely to relate to you, in my own way, how the blind little god was
deprived of his sight, and what consequences followed this evil which
perchance was a blessing after all. On the latter point I will decide
nothing, but will leave it to lovers to judge upon.

One day as Folly and Love were playing together, before the boy had lost
his vision, a dispute arose. To settle this matter Love wished to lay
his cause before a council of the gods; but Folly, losing her patience,
dealt him a furious blow upon the brow. From that moment and for ever
the light of heaven was gone from his eyes.

Venus demanded redress and revenge, the mother and the wife in her
asserting themselves in a way which I leave you to imagine. She deafened
the gods with her cries, appealing to Jupiter, Nemesis, the judges from
Hades, in fact all who would be importuned. She represented the
seriousness of the case, pointing out that her son could now not make a
step without a stick. No punishment, she urged, was heavy enough for so
dire a crime, and she demanded that the damage should be repaired.

When the gods had each well considered the public interest on the one
hand and the complainant's demands upon the other, the supreme court
gave as its verdict that Folly was condemned for ever more to serve as a
guide for the footsteps of Love.

XLII

THE FOREST AND THE WOODCUTTER

(BOOK XII.--No. 16)

A woodcutter had broken or lost the handle of his hatchet and found it
not easy to get it repaired at once. During the time, therefore, that it
was out of use, the woods enjoyed a respite from further damage. At last
the man came humbly and begged of the forest to allow him gently to take
just one branch wherewith to make him a new haft, and promised that then
he would go elsewhere to ply his trade and get his living. That would
leave unthreatened many an oak and many a fir that now won universal
respect on account of its age and beauty.

The innocent forest acquiesced and furnished him with a new handle. This
he fixed to his blade and, as soon as it was finished, fell at once upon
the trees, despoiling his benefactress, the forest, of her most
cherished ornaments. There was no end to her bewailings: her own gift
had caused her grief.

Here you see the way of the world and of those who follow it. They use
the benefit against the benefactors. I weary of talking about it. Yet
who would not complain that sweet and shady spots should suffer such
outrage. Alas! it is useless to cry out and be thought a nuisance:
ingratitude and abuses will remain the fashion none the less.

XLIII

THE FOX AND THE YOUNG TURKEYS

(BOOK XII.--No. 18)

Some young turkeys were lucky enough to find a tree which served them as
a citadel against the assaults of a certain fox. He, one night, having
made the round of the rampart and seen each turkey watching like a
sentinel, exclaimed, "What! These people laugh at me, do they? And do
they think that they alone are exempt from the common rule? No! by all
the gods! no!"

He accomplished his design.

The moon shining brilliantly seemed to favour the turkey folk against
the fox. But he was no novice in the laying of sieges, and had recourse
to his bag of rascally tricks. He pretended to climb the tree; stood
upon his hind legs; counterfeited death; then came to life again.
Harlequin himself could not have acted so many parts. He reared his tail
and made it gleam in the moonshine, and practised a hundred other
pleasantries, during which no turkey could have dared to go to sleep.
The enemy tired them out at last by keeping their eyes fixed upon him.
The poor birds became dazed. One lost its balance and fell. Reynard put
it by. Then another fell and was caught and laid on one side. Nearly
half of them at length succumbed and were taken off to the fox's larder.

To concentrate too much attention upon a danger may cause us to tumble
into it.

XLIV

THE APE

(BOOK XII.--No. 19)

There is an ape in Paris to whom a wife was once given; and he,
imitating many another husband, beat the poor creature to such an extent
that she sighed all the breath out of her body and died.

Their son uttered the most doleful howls as a protest to this terrible
business.

The father laughs now. His wife is dead and he already has found other
lady companions, whom, no doubt, he beats in the same way; for he haunts
the taverns and is frequently tipsy.

Never expect anything good from people who imitate, whether they be apes
or authors. Of the two the worst kind is the imitating author.

XLV

THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER

(BOOK XII.--No. 20)

A certain austere philosopher of Scythia, wishing to follow a pleasant
life, travelled through the land of the Greeks, and there he found in a
quiet spot a sage, one such as Virgil has written of; a man the equal of
kings, the peer almost of the gods, and like them content and tranquil.

The happiness of this sage lay entirely in his beautiful garden. There
the Scythian found him, pruning hook in hand, cutting away the useless
wood from his fruit trees; lopping here, pruning there, trimming this
and that, and everywhere aiding Nature, who repaid his care with usury.

"Why this wrecking?" asked the philosopher. "Is it wisdom thus to
mutilate these poor dwellers in your garden? Drop that merciless tool,
your pruning hook. Leave the work to the scythe of time. He will send
them, soon enough, to the shores of the river of the departed."

"I am taking away the superfluous," answered the sage, "so that what is
left may flourish the better."

The Scythian returned to his cheerless abode and, taking a bill-hook,
cut and trimmed every hour in the day, advising his neighbours to do
likewise and prescribing to his friends the means and methods. A
universal cutting-down followed. The handsomest boughs were lopped; his
orchard mutilated beyond all reason. The seasons were disregarded, and
neither young moons nor old were noted. In the end everything languished
and died.

This Scythian philosopher resembles the indiscriminating Stoic who cuts
away from the soul all passions and desires, good as well as bad, even
to the most innocent wishes. For my own part, I protest against such
people strongly. They take from the heart its greatest impulses and we
cease to live before we are dead.

XLVI

THE ELEPHANT AND JUPITER'S APE

(BOOK XII.--No. 21)

Once in the olden times the elephant and the rhinoceros disputed as to
which was the more important, and which should, therefore, have empire
over the other animals. They decided to settle the point by battle in an
enclosed field.

The day was fixed, and all in readiness, when somebody came and informed
them that Jupiter's ape, bearing a caduceus, had been seen in the air.
The fact of his holding a caduceus[20] proved him to be acting as
official messenger from Olympus, and the elephant immediately took it
for granted that the ape came as ambassador with greetings to his
highness. Elated with this idea he waited for Gille, for that was the
name of the ape, and thought him rather tardy in presenting his
credentials. But at length Master Gille did salute his excellency as he
passed, and the elephant prepared himself for the message. But not a
word was forthcoming.

It was evident that the gods were not giving so much attention to these
matters as the elephant supposed.

What does it matter to those in high places whether one is an elephant
or a fly?

The would-be monarch was reduced to the necessity of opening the
conversation himself. "My cousin Jupiter," he began, "will soon be able
to watch a rather fine combat from his supreme throne, and his court
will see some splendid sport."

"What combat?" asked the ape rather severely.

"What! Do you not know that the rhinoceros denies me precedence: that
the Elephantidæ are at war with the Rhinocerotidæ? You surely know these
families: they have some reputation."

"I am charmed to learn their names," replied Master Gille. "We are
little concerned about such matters in our vast halls."

This shamed and surprised the elephant. "Eh! What, then, is the reason
of your visit amongst us?"

"Oh, it was to divide a blade of grass between two ants. We care for
all. As for your affair, nothing has been said about it in the council
of the gods. The little and the great are equal in their eyes."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: The wand or official staff of Hermes.]

XLVII

THE LEAGUE OF RATS

(BOOK XII.--No. 26)

There was once a mouse who lived in terrible fear of a cat that had lain
in wait watching for her. She was in great anxiety to know what she
could do to escape the threatening danger.

Being prudent and wise she consulted her neighbour, a large and
important rat. His lordship the rat had taken up his abode in a very
good inn, and had boasted a hundred times that he had no fear for either
tom-cat or she-cat. Neither teeth nor claws caused him any anxious
thought.

"Dame Mouse," said this boaster, "whatever I do, I cannot, upon my word,
chase away this cat that threatens you without some help. But let me
call together all the rats hereabouts and I'll play him a sorry trick or
two."

The mouse curtsied humbly her thanks and the rat ran with speed to the
head-quarters; that is to say to the larder, where the rats were in the
habit of assembling. Arriving out of breath and perturbed in mind he
found them making a great feast at the expense of their host.

"What ails you?" asked one of the feasters. "Speak!"

"In two words," answered he, "the reason for my coming among you in
this way is simply that it has become absolutely necessary to help the
mice; for Grimalkin is abroad making terrible slaughter among them.
This, the most devilish of cats, will, when she has no mice left, turn
her attention to the eating of rats."

"He says what is true," cried they all. "To arms, to arms!" Nothing
could stem the tide of their impetuosity; although, it is said, a few
she-rats shed tears. It was no matter. Every one overhauled his
equipment, and filled his wallet with cheese. To risk life was the
determination of all. They set off, as if to a fête, with happy minds
and joyful hearts.

Alas, for the mouse! These warriors were a moment too late. The cat had
her already by the head. Advancing at the double the rats ran to the
succour of their good little friend; but the cat swore, and stalked away
in front of the enemy, having no intention of surrendering her prey.

At the sound of the cat's defiance, the prudent rats, fearing ill fate,
beat a safe retreat without carrying any further their intended
onslaught. Each one ran to his hole, and whenever any ventured out again
it was always with the utmost caution to avoid the cat.

XLVIII

THE ARBITER, THE HOSPITALLER, AND THE HERMIT

(BOOK XII.--No. 28)

Three saints, all equally zealous and anxious for their salvation, had
the same ideal, although the means by which they strove towards it were
different. But as all roads lead to Rome, these three were each content
to choose their own path.

One, touched by the cares, the tediousness, and the reverses which seem
to be inevitably attached to lawsuits, offered, without any reward, to
judge and settle all causes submitted to him. To make a fortune on this
earth was not an end he had in view.

Ever since there have been laws, man, for his sins, has condemned
himself to litigation half his lifetime. Half? three-quarters, I should
say, and sometimes the whole. This good conciliator imagined he could
cure the silly and detestable craze for going to law.

The second saint chose the hospitals as his field of labour. I admire
him. Kindly care taken to alleviate the sufferings of mankind is a
charity I prefer before all others.

The sick of those days were much as they are now--peevish, impatient,
and ever grumbling. They gave our poor hospitaller plenty of work. They
would say, "Ah! he cares very particularly for such and such. They are
his friends, hence we are neglected."

But bad as were these complaints they were nothing to those which the
arbiter had to face. He got himself into a sorry tangle. No one was
content. Arbitration pleased neither one side nor the other. According
to them the judge could never succeed in holding the balance level. No
wonder that at last the self-appointed judge grew weary.

He betook himself to the hospitals. There he found that the
self-sacrificing hospitaller had nothing better to tell of his results.
Complaints and murmurs were all that either could gain.

With sad hearts they gave up their endeavours and repaired to the silent
wood, there to live down their sorrows. In these retreats, at a spot
sheltered from the sun, gently tended by the breezes, and near a pure
rivulet, they found the third saint, and of him they asked advice.

"Advice," said he, "is only to be sought of yourselves; for who, better
than yourselves, can know your own needs? The knowledge of oneself is
the first care imposed upon mankind by the Almighty. Have you obeyed
this mandate whilst out in the world? If there you did not learn to know
yourselves, these tranquil shades will certainly help you; for nowhere
else is it possible. Stir up this stream. Do you now see yourselves
reflected in it? No! How could you, when the mud is like a thick cloud
between us and the crystal? But let it settle, my brothers, and then you
will see your image. The better to study yourselves live in the
desert."

The lonely hermit was believed and the others followed his wise counsel.

It does not follow that people should not be well employed. Since some
must plead; since men die and fall ill, doctors are a necessity and so
also are lawyers. These ministers, thank God, will never fail us. The
wealth and honours to be won make one sure of that. Nevertheless, in
these general needs one is apt to neglect oneself. And you, judges,
ministers, and princes, who give all your time to the public weal; you,
who are troubled by countless annoyances and disappointments,
disheartened by failure and corrupted by good fortune--you do not see
yourselves. You see no one. Should some good impulse lead you to think
over these matters, some flatterer breaks in and distracts you.

This lesson is the ending of this work. May the centuries to come find
it a useful one. I present it to kings. I propose it to the wise. What
better ending could I make?

LETCHWORTH

THE TEMPLE PRESS

PRINTERS