The Fables of La Fontaine

by Jean de La Fontaine · English · Gutenberg #50316 · 595,332 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Fables of La Fontaine

Author: Jean de La Fontaine

Illustrator: Gustave Doré

Translator: Walter Thornbury

Release date: October 26, 2015 [eBook #50316]
Most recently updated: October 22, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50316

Credits: Produced by Madelaine Kilsby, Laura Natal Rodriguez and Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust and Gallica, Bibliothèque nationale de France, for the illustrations)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FABLES OF LA FONTAINE ***
THE FABLES

LA FONTAINE.

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE BY WALTER THORNBURY,

WITH

ILLUSTRATIONS

GUSTAVE DORÉ.

CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN,

LONDON AND NEW YORK.

1886

[Illustration: Jean de la Fontaine]

CONTENTS

As Essay on the Life and Works of Jean de la Fontaine
The Life of Æsop, the Phrygian
Dedication to Monseigneur the Dauphin
Preface
To Monseigneur the Dauphin

The Grasshopper and the Ant
The Raven and the Fox
The Frog that Wished to make Herself as Big as the Ox
The Two Mules
The Wolf and the Dog
The Heifer, the She-goat, and the Lamb, in Partnership with the Lion
The Wallet
The Swallow and the Little Birds
The Town Rat and the Country Rat
The Man and his Image
The Dragon with many Heads, and the Dragon with many Tails
The Wolf and the Lamb
The Robbers and the Ass
Death and the Woodcutter
Simonides rescued by the Gods
Death and the Unhappy Man
The Wolf turned Shepherd
The Child and the Schoolmaster
The Pullet and the Pearl
The Drones and the Bees
The Oak and the Reed
Against Those Who are Hard to Please
The Council held by the Rats
The Wolf Pleading against the Fox before the Ape
The Middle-Aged Man and the Two Widows
The Fox and the Stork
The Lion and the Gnat
The Ass Laden with Sponges, and the Ass Laden with Salt
The Lion and the Rat
The Dove and the Ant
The Astrologer Who let Himself Fall into the Well
The Hare and the Frogs
The Two Bulls and the Frog
The Peacock Complaining to Juno
The Bat and the Two Weasels
The Bird Wounded by an Arrow
The Miller, his Son, and the Ass
The Cock and the Fox
The Frogs Who Asked for a King
The Dog and Her Companion
The Fox and the Grapes
The Eagle and the Beetle
The Raven Who Wished to Imitate the Eagle
The Wolves and the Sheep
The Cat Changed into a Woman
Philomel and Progne
The Lion and the Ass
The Cat and the Old Rat
A Will Interpreted by Æsop
The Lion in Love
The Fox and the Goat
The Shepherd and the Sea
The Drunkard and His Wife
King Caster and the Members
The Monkey and the Dolphin
The Eagle, the Wild Sow, and the Cat
The Miser Who Lost His Treasure
The Gout and the Spider
The Eye of the Master
The Wolf and the Stork
The Lion Defeated by Man
The Swan and the Cook
The Wolf, the Goat, and the Kid
The Wolf, the Mother, and the Child
The Lion Grown Old
The Drowned Woman
The Weasel in the Granary
The Lark and Her Little Ones With the Owner of a Field
The Fly and the Ant
The Gardener and his Master
The Woodman and Mercury
The Ass and the Little Dog
Man and the Wooden Idol
The Jay Dressed in Peacock's Plumes
The Little Fish and the Fisherman
Battle Between the Rats and Weasles
The Camel and the Drift-Wood
The Frog and the Rat
The Old Woman and Her Servants
The Animals Sending a Tribute to Alexander
The Horse Wishing to be Revenged on the Stag
The Fox and the Bust
The Horse and the Wolf
The Saying of Socrates
The Old Man and His Children
The Oracle and the Impious Man
The Mountain in Labour
Fortune and the Little Child
The Earthen Pot and the Iron Pot
The Hare's Ears
The Fox with His Tail Cut Off
The Satyr and the Passer-By
The Doctors
The Labouring Man and His Children
The Hen with the Golden Eggs
The Ass that Carried the Relics
The Serpent and the File
The Hare and the Partridge
The Stag and the Vine
The Lion Going to War
The Ass in the Lion's Skin
The Eagle and the Owl
The Shepherd and the Lion
The Lion and the Hunter
Phœbus and Boreas
The Bear and the Two Friends
Jupiter and the Farmer
The Stag Viewing Himself in the Stream
The Cockerel, the Cat, and the Little Rat
The Fox, the Monkey, and the Other Animals
The Mule That Boasted of His Family
The Old Man and the Ass
The Countryman and the Serpent
The Hare and the Tortoise
The Sick Lion and the Fox
The Ass and His Masters
The Sun and the Frogs
The Carter Stuck in the Mud
The Doc and the Shadow
The Bird-Catcher, the Hawk, and the Skylark
The Horse and the Ass
The Charlatan
The Young Widow
Discord
The Animals Sick of the Plague
The Rat Who Retired From the World
The Heron
The Man Badly Married
The Maiden
The Wishes
The Vultures and the Pigeons
The Court of the Lion
The Milk-Maid and the Milk-Pail
The Curate and the Corpse
The Man Who Runs After Fortune, and the Man Who Waits for Her
The Two Fowls
The Coach and the Fly
The Ingratitude and Injustice of Men Towards Fortune
An Animal in the Moon
The Fortune-Teller
The Cobbler and the Banker
The Cat, the Weasel, and the Little Rabbit
The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
The Head and the Tail of the Serpent
The Dog Which Carried Round His Neck His Master's Dinner
Death and the Dying Man
The Power of Fables
The Bear and the Amateur of Gardening
The Man and the Flea
The Woman and the Secret
Tircis and Amaranth
The Joker and the Fishes
The Rat and the Oyster
The Two Friends
The Pig, the Goat, and the Sheep
The Rat and the Elephant
The Funeral or the Lioness
The Bashaw and the Merchant
The Horoscope
The Torrent and the River
The Ass and the Dog
The Two Dogs and the Dead Ass
The Advantage of Being Clever
The Wolf and the Hunter
Jupiter and the Thunderbolts
The Falcon and the Capon
The Two Pigeons
Education
The Madman Who Sold Wisdom
The Cat and the Rat
Democritus and the Anderanians
The Oyster and Its Claimants
The Fraudulent Trustee
Jupiter and the Traveller
The Ape and the Leopard
The Acorn and the Gourd
The School-Boy, the Pedant, and the Nursery Gardener
The Cat and the Fox
The Sculptor and the Statue of Jupiter
The Mouse Metamorphosed Into a Girl
The Monkey and the Cat
The Wolf and the Starved Dog
The Wax Candle
"Not Too Much"
The Two Rats, the Fox, and the Egg
The Cormorant and the Fishes
The Husband, the Wife, and the Robber
The Shepherd and the King
The Two Men and the Treasure
The Shepherd and His Flock
The Kite and the Nightingale
The Fish and the Shepherd Who Played on the Clarionet
The Man and the Snake
The Tortoise and the Two Ducks
The Two Adventurers and the Talisman
The Miser and his Friend
The Wolf and the Peasants
The Rabbits
The Swallow and the Spider
The Partridge and the Fowls
The Lion
The Dog Whose Ears Were Cut
The Two Parrots, the Monarch, and His Son
The Peasant of the Danube
The Lioness and She-Bear
The Merchant, the Nobleman, the Shepherd, and the King's Son
The Old Man and the Three Young Men
The Gods as Instructors of Jupiter's Son
The Owl and the Mice
The Companions of Ulysses
The Farmer, the Dog, and the Fox
The Dream of an Inhabitant of Mogul
The Two Goats
The Lion, the Ape, and the Two Asses
The Wolf and the Fox
The Sick Stag
The Cat and the Two Sparrows
The Miser and the Ape
To the Duke of Burgundy
The Old Cat and the Young Mouse
The Bat, the Bush, and the Duck
The Eagle and the Magpie
The Quarrel of the Dogs and the Cats; and, Also, That of the Cats and
the Mice
Love and Folly
The Wolf and the Fox
The Crab and Its Daughter
The Forest and the Woodman
The Fox, the Flies, and the Hedge-Hog
The Hawk, the King, and the Falcon
The Fox and the Turkeys
The Crow, the Gazelle, the Tortoise, and the Rat
The English Fox
The Ape
The Fox, the Wolf, and the Horse
The League of the Rats
A Scythian Philosopher
Daphnis and Alcimadura
The Elephant and Jupiter's Monkey
The Madman and the Philosopher
The Frogs and the Sun
The Arbitrator, Almoner, and Hermit

LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

The Grasshopper and the Ant
The Two Mules
The Swallow and the Little Birds
The Town Rat and the Country Rat
The Wolf and the Lamb
The Robbers and the Ass
Death and the Woodcutter
The Wolf Turned Shepherd
The Oak and the Reed
The Council Held by the Rats
The Lion and the Gnat
The Lion and the Rat
The Hare and the Frogs
The Peacock Complaining to Juno
The Miller, His Son, and the Ass
The Frogs Who Asked For a King
The Fox and the Grapes
The Wolves and the Sheep
Philomel and Progne
The Cat and the Old Rat
The Lion in Love
The Shepherd and the Sea
The Monkey and the Dolphin
The Miser Who Lost His Treasure
The Eye of the Master
The Wolf, the Mother, and the Child
The Lark and Her Little Ones
The Woodman and Mercury
The Little Fish and the Fisherman
The Old Woman and Her Servants
The Horse and the Wolf
Fortune and the Little Child
The Doctors
The Hen With the Golden Eggs
The Stag and the Vine
The Eagle and the Owl
The Bear and the Two Friends
The Stag Viewing Himself in the Stream
The Countryman and the Serpent
The Sick Lion and the Fox
The Carter Stuck in the Mud
The Young Widow
The Animals Sick of the Plague
The Maiden
The Vultures and the Pigeons
The Milkmaid and the Milk-Pail
The Two Fowls
An Animal in the Moon
The Fortune-Teller (To face page)
The Cobbler and the Banker
The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
The Dog and His Master's Dinner
The Bear and the Amateur of Gardening
Tircis and Amaranth
The Rat and the Elephant
The Bashaw and the Merchant
The Torrent and the River
The Two Dogs and the Dead Ass
The Wolf and the Hunter
The Two Pigeons
The Madman Who Sold Wisdom
The Oyster and Its Claimants
Jupiter and the Traveller
The Cat and the Fox
The Monkey and the Cat
The Two Rats, the Fox, and the Egg
The Cormorant and the Fishes
The Shepherd and the King
The Fish and the Shepherd Who Played on the Clarionet
The Two Adventurers and the Talisman
The Rabbits
The Lion
The Peasant of the Danube
The Old Man and the Three Young Men
The Owl and the Mice
The Companions of Ulysses
The Two Goats
The Sick Stag
The Eagle and the Magpie
Love and Folly
The Forest and the Woodman
The Fox and the Turkeys
The English Fox
The League of the Rats
Daphnis and Alcimadura
The Arbitrator, Almoner, and Hermit

AN ESSAY ON THE LIFE AND WORKS

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

There are some writers the facts about whom can never be entirely told,
because they are inexhaustible, and speaking of whom we do not fear
to be blamed for repetition, because, though well known, they furnish
topics which never weary. La Fontaine is one of this class. No poet
has been praised oftener, or by more able critics, and of no poet has
the biography been so frequently written, and with such affectionate
minuteness. Nevertheless, it is certain that there will yet arise fresh
critics and new biographers, who will be as regardless as ourselves of
the fact that the subject has been so frequently enlarged upon. And
why, indeed, should we refuse to ourselves, or forbid to others, the
pleasure of speaking of an old friend of our childhood, whose memory is
always fresh and always dear?

This truly worthy man was born in Château-Thierry, a little town of
Champagne, where his father, Charles de la Fontaine, was a supervisor
of woods and forests. His mother, Françoise Piloux, was the daughter
of a mayor of Coulommiers. An amiable but careless child, he was lazy
in his studies, and certainly did not display, by the direction of
his earlier inclinations, the germs of his future genius. At twenty
years of age, after the perusal of some religious works, he formed the
idea that his vocation was the Church, and entered the seminary of
Saint Magloire, where, however, he remained only one year. His example
was followed by his brother Claude, with this difference, that the
latter persevered to the end. On quitting the seminary, La Fontaine,
in the paternal mansion, led that life of idleness and pleasure which
so frequently, especially in the provinces, enervates young men of
family. To bring him back to a more orderly course of life, his father
procured him a wife, and gave him the reversion of his office. He was
then twenty-six years of age, and the demon of poetry had not yet taken
possession of him. La Fontaine never hurried himself about anything.

The accidental recitation in his presence of an ode by Malherbe aroused
in his soul, which had hitherto been devoted to pleasure and idleness,
a taste for poetry. He read the whole of Malherbe's writings with
enthusiasm, and endeavoured to imitate him. Malherbe alone would have
spoiled La Fontaine, had not Pintrel and Maucroix, two of his friends,
led him to the study of the true models. La Fontaine himself has left
a confession of these first flights of his muse. Plato and Plutarch,
amongst the ancients, were his favourite authors; but he could read
them only by the aid of translations, as he had never studied Greek.
Horace, Virgil, and Terence, whose writings he could approach in the
original, also charmed him. Of modern authors his favourites were
Rabelais, Marot, De Periers, Mathurin, Régnier, and D'Urfé, whose
"Astræa" was his especial delight.

Marriage had not by any means fixed his inconstant tastes. Marie
Héricart, whom he had been induced to marry in 1647, was endowed with
beauty and intellect, but was unsupplied with those solid qualities,
love of order, industry, and that firmness of character which might
have exercised a wholesome discipline over her husband. Whilst she
was reading romances, La Fontaine sought amusement away from home, or
brooded either over his own poems or those of his favourite authors.
The natural consequence was, that the affairs of the young people soon
fell into disorder; in addition to this, when La Fontaine's father
died, he left our poet an inheritance encumbered with mortgages, which
had been the only means of paying debts, and preserving the family
estate intact; these became fresh sources of embarrassment to our poet,
who being, as may well be supposed, anything but a man of business,
incapable of self-denial, and unassisted by his wife, soon, as he
himself gaily expressed it, devoured both capital and income, and in a
few years found himself without either.

La Fontaine seems to have confined his duties, as supervisor of woods
and waters, to simply taking long rambles under the venerable trees of
the forests submitted to his care, or to enjoying prolonged slumbers on
the verdant banks of murmuring brooks. And that this was the case we
may reasonably suppose, since at sixty years of age he declared that he
did not know what foresters meant by round timber, ornamental timber,
or bois de touche.

His soul was wrapped up in poetry. His first poems were what might be
called album verses, and could scarcely have been understood beyond
Château-Thierry. These verses, however, obtained so favourable a
reception, that at length he ventured to attempt a comedy. But, as the
faculty of construction had been denied him, he only adapted one
of Terence's plays, changing the names of the characters, and taking
certain liberties with the situations. The piece which he had selected,
the "Eunuchus," was very unsuited to the boards of the French stage,
and he never attempted to get it produced; but he published it, and it
was by means of this mediocre, although neatly versified work, that his
name first became known to the public, when he had already entered his
thirty-third year.

It was about this period that one of his relations, J. Jannart, a
counsellor of the king, presented the poet to Fouquet, for whom
Jannart acted as deputy in the Parliament of Paris. The Surintendant,
partial to men of letters, gave La Fontaine a cordial reception, and
bestowed upon him a liberal pension. La Fontaine became, not a mere
accessory, but one of the most valued elements of the royal luxury of
Fouquet's house, or, rather, court; and it was through his protégé,
at a later period, that Fouquet received the only consolation that
soothed his disgrace. La Fontaine, established as poet-in-ordinary to
Fouquet, received a pension of a thousand livres, on condition that he
furnished, once in every three months, a copy of laudatory verses. He
was henceforth a guest at a perpetual round of fêtes; his eyes were
dazzled, his heart was moved, and his mind at last awoke. The years
which he passed in the midst of this voluptuous magnificence were years
of enchantment, of which he has left traces in the "Songe de Vaux," the
earliest indication of a talent which was to develop into genius. The
first efforts of his muse at this period were laid at the shrine of
gratitude, but grief more happily inspired him, for the "Elegy to
the Nymphs of Vaux," the subject matter of which was the disgrace of
the Surintendant, raised him to the front rank amongst the masters of
his art. Up to this time La Fontaine had been only a pleasant, lively,
and ingenious versifier; but on this occasion he proved himself a true
poet, and the lines which we have just named are still regarded as
amongst the choicest productions of the sort in the French language.
"La Fontaine did not merely bewail, in the fall of Fouquet, the loss
of his own hopes and pleasures, but the misfortunes of the one friend
to whom he was gratefully attached, and of whose brilliant qualities
he had the highest admiration. The emotion which he expressed was no
fleeting one, for, some years afterwards, when passing by Amboise, the
faithful friend desired to visit the apartment in which Fouquet had
endured the first period of his imprisonment. He could not enter it,
but paused on the threshold, weeping bitterly; and it was only at the
approach of night that he could be induced to leave the spot."

Our poet's success amongst the crowd of brilliant men and distinguished
women who formed Fouquet's court, could never be understood, if we gave
full credence to those stories of odd eccentricities, simplicities, and
blunders of which he has so frequently been made the hero. It cannot be
denied that he was frequently a dreamer, absorbed in his own thoughts,
and too apt to be credulous and absent in mind; but the greeting which
was accorded to him, and the eagerness with which his acquaintance was
courted in such a place, are sufficient evidences that he could be a
charming companion when he pleased. He could be abstracted enough when
surrounded by uncongenial spirits; he opened his heart only to those
who pleased him: but on his friends he lavishly bestowed his joyous but
refined wit, and his delightful bonhomie. The inborn carelessness
of his nature rendered him averse to everything like effort; he was
dumb to those who knew not how to touch the keynote of his soul; to
such he was present, indeed, in the body, but his soul was cold and
inharmonious. It may even be added, that reverie with him was a species
of politeness by which he was wont to conceal his weariness. On such
occasions he doubtless fled to the companionship of his fabulous
beasts, although he refrained from saying so. Abstraction was to La
Fontaine a means of becoming independent, and it is not, therefore,
very surprising that he should have allowed people to attribute to him,
in an exaggerated degree, a defect which he found so useful.

Fouquet's disgrace threw La Fontaine once more into that family life
for the earnest and monotonous duties of which he had now grown more
than ever unfitted. A son had been born to him, and this might have
been supposed to attach him to his home; but the truth is, that
children, whom he has for so many generations amused, were regarded
by La Fontaine as his natural enemies, and he never let slip any
occasion of expressing this opinion. "The little people," as he called
them, were always obnoxious to him. It must be admitted that they are
importunate, noisy, ever clamorous for small attentions, and they
appear tyrannical to the last degree, in the eyes, at least, of those
who have no warm affection for them. And it must also be admitted that
La Fontaine was frequently their rival; for he always desired to be,
and was, the spoilt child of the house, the child whose caprices were
ever humoured, whose tastes were ever consulted. His life was, indeed,
one long period of childhood. He arrived at manhood, became grey, and
grew old, without ceasing to be a child; and to understand him rightly
we must remember this fact. It is the key to, and some excuse for, that
neglect of all serious duties which we should have to severely blame in
him, if we applied to his case the rules of rigorous morality.

Constituted as he was, La Fontaine would naturally seize every
opportunity of quitting his family and that Château-Thierry which he
now regarded as a species of tomb. To distract himself from his grief,
whilst apparently clinging to it more closely, he followed to Limoges
his relation Jannart, who had been exiled by lettre de cachet with
Madame Fouquet, to whom he served as secretary and steward. Our poet
has written a narrative of this journey in a series of letters to his
wife, interspersed with pretty verses, and abounding in vivacity. His
stay at Limoges was short, and we soon after find him dividing his
time between Paris and Château-Thierry, sometimes alone, and sometimes
with Madame de La Fontaine, who at first frequently accompanied him in
his excursions. The expense of these frequent journeys was naturally
calculated to add to the disorder of his affairs; but he troubled
himself little on this score, and it was some consolation that his own
property alone was melting away, and that his wife would by-and-by be
able to live by herself on property devoted to her own use. Let us also
remark, in passing, that he did not altogether neglect that son of his
who, at a later period, he describes as a charming boy, in that short
and singular interview which has been so frequently discussed, and to
whose education he attended until he was relieved of that duty by the
generosity of the Procureur-General, De Harlay.

To this period must be referred his intimacy with Racine, also a
"Champenois," and a brother poet--an intimacy which was due to the
good offices of Molière, whom La Fontaine had known, and, consequently
admired and loved, when residing with Fouquet. His acquaintance with
Racine led again to that with Boileau and Molière Chapelle, that
incurable promoter of orgies, that wine-bibbing Anacreon, who was
always at war with our four poets, especially towards the conclusion of
their suppers. Boileau, the Severe, endeavoured sometimes to curb his
joyous comrades, but with scant success, and it is on record that on a
certain occasion Chapelle got drunk during the course of an impromptu
sermon of Boileau's on the virtues of temperance. Our good friends led
a joyous life, which, however, was nearly having a tragic termination,
since once, after a dinner at Auteuil, over deep potations of wine,
they were led to become philosophic in so melancholy a fashion, that
they resolved to drown their several griefs in the Seine, and would
have done so, had not Molière happily remarked that it would be more
heroic to perform the deed on the morrow. This joyous fraternity soon
broke up. Molière was driven away by an ill-judged action on the part
of Racine. The royal favour induced Boileau and Racine to become more
circumspect; Chapelle gave himself up to inordinate debauchery; and La
Fontaine, whilst retaining his friendships, went to dream and amuse
himself elsewhere.

Whilst this intimacy lasted, La Fontaine frequently took Racine and
Boileau to Château-Thierry, whither he went from time to time to sell
a few acres of land, in order to enable him to balance his receipts
against his expenditure. The amiable Maucroix, another Epicurean,
arrived in his turn to complete the revel which was now carried on
at Rheims, to which city he gladly enticed his dear La Fontaine, who
desired nothing better than to follow him thither, for, as he has
himself told us,

"Of all fair cities do I most love Rheims,
At once the beauty and the pride of France."

Madame de la Fontaine soon became weary of this life of dissipation,
and ceased to follow her volatile husband to Paris. The separation
between the spouses was effected, if not without disputes, at any rate
without any legal process. Racine frequently urged his friend to become
reconciled to his wife, and it was in compliance with such counsels
that he made that celebrated journey to Château-Thierry, from which he
returned without having even seen Madame de La Fontaine. The anecdote
is well known. "Well, have you seen your wife? Are you reconciled?"
"I went to see her; but she was in retirement." "Ah! how charmingly
naive!" exclaim the biographers; "what a delightful illustration of the
poet's habitual bonhomie and abstraction!" Alas! it is nothing of the
kind. La Fontaine knew what he was about. He had set out in compliance
with his friend's wish, and, in fulfilment of his promise, he had gone
to his house door; but, having found no one at home, he had quietly
returned, only too glad that he had redeemed his promise, and avoided
an interview which he dreaded. Then, returning to his friends, he put
them off with a childish excuse, at which he would not be the last to
laugh with all his heart. The whole incident is quite in accordance
with the man's character. His weak resolution induced him at first to
yield, but the natural buoyancy of his spirit recovered itself, and
triumphed in the end.

La Fontaine was now more than forty years of age, and, with the
exception of his frigid imitation of Terence's comedy, and his
admirable elegy on Fouquet, he had produced nothing which proved
that he was anything more than a pleasant and elegant versifier. We
must remark, however, that he obtained at this time the position of
Gentleman-in-Waiting to the Dowager Duchess of Orleans, widow of
Gaston, brother of Louis XIII. The little court of the Luxembourg, at
least, if not that of the grand King's, was thrown open to La Fontaine,
and he was received there on terms of the pleasantest intimacy. The
office to which he was appointed was not merely honorary, and it
justified his acceptance of liberalities of which he was not a little
in need. The Duchess of Bouillon also became a patroness of our poet,
whom she had met at Château-Thierry; and he was now engaged by this
princess of easy manners and voluptuous disposition, to apply his
talents to, the imitation in verse of those somewhat too gallant tales
which Ariosto and Boccaccio borrowed from our Trouvères. This advice,
eagerly followed, opened up to La Fontaine a new vein of his genius,
and threw him upon apologue as one of the means of poetic expression.
"Joconde" was his first effort in this style; and this tale, freely
rendered from Ariosto, was the cause of a literary discussion, in
which Boileau broke a lance in the service of his friend with another
imitator against whom La Fontaine was then pitted, and who has since
been forgotten: it was like Pradon being compared to Racine. The
success of this first effort encouraged the author to make fresh ones,
and he speedily produced new tales, as ingenious and indecent as the
first. Such fame as Fontaine acquired by these tales must not be
dilated on; for, although there was nothing in the corrupt ingenuity of
the pleasant poet that was deliberately vicious, and although he was
sincerely astonished that, on account of a few rather free narratives,
he should be accused of corrupting the innocence of youth, we must
nevertheless hold that the accusation was well founded.

Recognised and appreciated as La Fontaine's talents now were, he would
doubtless have been the object of some of those distinguishing marks of
favour which Louis XIV. was ever ready to bestow upon men of genius,
had not his irregular mode of life, and the character of some of his
later productions, offended the susceptibilities of the monarch and
those of the severe Colbert, the administrator of his liberalities.
That La Fontaine should have once been the friend of Fouquet is not
sufficient to account for this denial of royal favour, since Pélisson,
the eloquent defender of the Surintendant, was himself at this period
the object of distinguished royal patronage. The fall of Fouquet was,
indeed, so terribly complete and hopeless, that his enemies could well
afford to allow his friends to shelter themselves under the cloak of
amnesty. To say, as some have done, that La Fontaine was neglected
because he belonged to the "party of the opposition," is idle; for,
in the first place, le bonne homme had not the courage to resist the
majority, and in the second place, there was nothing he more eagerly
desired than to be one of the Court poets. Indeed, he seized every
opportunity of celebrating the glories of the reign of Louis the Great.

The real truth is, that he was treated coldly on account of the
licentiousness, equally great, both of his verses and his mode of life,
at a time when he would merely have had to promise amendment for the
future, to have been a participator in the royal benefits, and to have
been made a member of the Academy.

La Fontaine had not a conscience entirely pure, and, accordingly,
strove to hide his misdoings under cover of works perfectly
irreproachable. Uninvited, he now proposed to himself the task
of amusing and instructing the Dauphin, whose education had then
commenced. It was an honourable method of paying homage to the
Court, and of atoning for past errors. The elegance of Phædrus and
the simplicity of Æsop had already fascinated him--he was ambitious
of imitating them; but although thoroughly skilled in the art of
narrating, he never suspected that he was about to eclipse his
models. He set himself below Phædrus, and Fontenelle has declared
that his doing so was one of his blunders--a piquant word, which we
may translate in this instance as "a sincere and even exaggerated
admiration for consecrated names." A feeling of and a taste for
perfection are, moreover, the surest curb-reins to self-love. The
playfulness, delicacy, and ingenuity of La Fontaine's spirit, as well
as the natural simplicity of his character, preserved him from the
illusions of vanity, and caused him even to misconceive the real value
of his genius. It was necessary, then, in the first place, that his
true vocation should be revealed to him, and actual fame alone could
show that his talent had raised him to the first rank.

His first collection of fables, arranged in six books, appeared in
1668, under the modest title of "Æsop's Fables: Translated into Verse
by M. de la Fontaine." The work was dedicated to the Dauphin, and
this dedication reveals to us the poet's secret intention in the
publication of the volume. At a later period we find him taking a more
direct part in the education of the grandson of Louis XIV., through
the medium of Fénélon. And now, as we have followed so many others
in judging of these inimitable compositions, we remark how slowly La
Fontaine's talent developed itself, the better to attain the highest
state of maturity. If the poet, on the one hand, careless as to
fortune, allowed his patrimony to melt away, let us observe how much
time, pure air, and sunlight he has given to the peaceful cultivation
of his genius. The tree has been covered with branches, the leaves in
due season have adorned them, and then fruits the most delicious have
appeared craving to be gathered. Oh, careless great one! full well
had you the right to spurn all vulgar cares; to devour, as you have
said, your capital together with your revenue, since you stored up for
yourself another capital, which will give you immortal wealth!

La Fontaine's improvidence may be attributed in some degree to his
friends, who seem never to have failed him in any necessity. When
death had deprived him of the protection of the Duchess of Orleans, he
was immediately adopted, so to speak, by the Duchess de la Sablière,
whose generosity provided for all his wants, and whose delicate
kindness anticipated all his wishes. It was, doubtless, the gratitude
with which this lady inspired him, that drew from La Fontaine's heart
those verses, which so many others have since recited in a spirit of
bitterness--

"Oh, what it is to have a faithful friend," &amp;c.

And here we have another of those names on which one loves to dwell so
fondly. Madame de la Sablière was a genuine patroness of philosophers
and men of letters. Her house was always open to them, and her fortune
encouraged them to prosecute their labours. Sauveur, Roberval, and
Bernier experienced her discreet liberality, which disguised itself
only that it might be the more freely bestowed. She loved knowledge,
and possessed it without the desire of display; she had a passion for
doing good, yet she employed an innocent art in concealing it. The
devotion which she displayed in an unholy love was, for this woman,
otherwise so irreproachable, only a transition to those transports of
sincere piety which occupied the closing years of her life. La Fontaine
was, up to the seventy-second year of his life, the familiar genius of
Madame de la Sablière's mansion, and passed more than twenty years in
it in complete tranquillity, at first as one of a most select circle
of wits and philosophers, and afterwards as an independent host, doing
himself the honours of the house to a rather miscellaneous circle of
visitors, which he gathered round him during the prolonged religious
seclusions of his patroness, who latterly devoted herself entirely to
care for the safety of her soul.

La Fontaine had no longer any need to secure fresh protectors. His
destiny was secured, for, like the rat in the fable,

"Provisions and lodgings! what wanted he more?"

We may now, therefore, be as tranquil on his account as he was himself,
merely observing that he took advantage of this security to deliver
himself up with a species of fury to the demon of poetry, which never
deserted him. His first fables were received with favour, and when
he published others he met with a good fortune which is accorded to
but few poets, for even the later ones increased his fame. However,
this, his favourite species of writing, had not completely absorbed
his attention; the romance of "Psyche," and some theatrical pieces,
occupied his time at intervals. "Psyche," which still amuses us, amused
him also much. He worked at it when he wished to rest from other
labours, and also at length completed it. The "Songe de Vaux" was
less happy; but how could he recall the enchantments and fairy lore
of that château where Fouquet had passed the last years of his life
in hopeless captivity? Versailles had surpassed it in magnificence,
and La Fontaine employed his descriptive talents in describing the
palace whose increasing marvels, which struck every eye, he attached
incidentally to the plot of his allegorical fable, already complicated
with interlocutors, who may be easily recognised under feigned names
as Molière, Boileau, Racine, and La Fontaine. The publication of this
romance, of which the prose is elegant, and which also contains many
excellent verses, took place soon after that of the first fables. It
was received with much favour, and Molière, assisted by Corneille
and De Quinault, extracted from it an opera, the music of which was
composed by Lulli.

La Fontaine's dramatic attempts were, it must be confessed, seldom
happy; but Furetierè certainly exaggerates when he tells us that
managers never ventured to give a second representation of his pieces,
for fear of being pelted. However this may be, the theatre had a great
attraction for La Fontaine, and the society of actors a still greater.
When Madame de la Sablière's drawing-room appeared too serious to him,
he would go to amuse himself at Champmeslé's, and, whilst Racine
shaped the talents of this great actress, La Fontaine assisted her
husband in the composition of mediocre comedies, in which we can find
but few traces of the poet's skill. It is on this account that he has
been made to share the responsibility of the authorship of "Ragotin,"
a dull imitation of the "Roman Comique." There is little more, indeed,
to be said in favour of "Je vous prends sans Verts," which has been
attributed to him, and which we may surrender to Champmeslé, who will
not gain much, while La Fontaine would certainly lose by it. Of all
the pieces put on the stage by Champmeslé, there is only one that
we should wish to be able, with a clear conscience, to assign to La
Fontaine, and that is "Le Florentin," an amusing little comedy, which
contains one scene worthy of Molière. The share which La Fontaine took,
or is asserted to have taken, in the composition of these comedies,
is difficult to determine. What there can be no doubt of is, that
at one time he formed the design of writing a tragedy, and this,
perhaps, at the instigation of Racine, who could never refrain from
a joke, especially at the expense of his friends. Achilles was the
hero selected by our poet; but he prudently paused after having made a
commencement.

This brings us to the mention of La Fontaine's one great, solitary, and
brief fit of anger. Always ready to yield to the advice of his friends,
he imprudently listened to Lulli, who had importuned him to produce,
at a very short notice, the libretto of an opera. The music was to be
marvellous, the Court would applaud to the skies the author and the
composer, and the poet would be free of the theatre, and have acquired
all the rights of dramatic authorship. What a temptation was this! La
Fontaine courageously set himself to work under the guidance of Lulli,
who urged him forward, and day by day made fresh suggestions. The poet
readily obeyed the spur, and even yielded to the sacrifice of some of
his verses; but he had scarcely finished, when he discovered that his
perfidious employer had passed over, with all his musical baggage,
to the Proserpine of Quinault. We may judge of the poet's rage. The
four months' labour utterly lost; the nights passed without sleep; the
treachery of the instigation; the heartless abandonment! Ah! how many
causes of complaint had the poet against this traitor! La Fontaine
could not contain himself, and wrote a satire, compound of gall and
bile, in which he complains of having been made a fool of. This fit of
passion, however, did not last long. Madame de Thianges brought about
a reconciliation between the culprit and the victim, and that without
much difficulty, for, after all, Lulli was an excellent companion,
and La Fontaine was incapable of nursing anger long. To be angry
was a trouble to him, and consequently he never kept up a sense of
ill-feeling for any length of time. His friends might become estranged
from or quarrel with each other; but he remained on the best of terms
with them, and saw them separately. One might have thought that he had
taken for his motto the verse of the old poet, Garnier--

"To love I am plighted, but never to hate."

The poetical excursions of La Fontaine out of his own domain added
nothing to his renown, and were scarcely perceived amidst the rays of
his glory as a fabulist--the title by which he is known to posterity;
and it may be added, that the Fable, as it is fashioned by La Fontaine,
is one of the happiest creations of the human mind. It is, properly
speaking, a charm, as he has said, for in it all the resources of
poetry are enclosed in one frame. La Fontaine's apologue is connected
with the épopée by the narrative, with the descriptive style by his
pictures, with the drama by the play of various personages, and the
representation of various characters, and with didactic poetry by the
precepts which he inculcates. Nor is this all; for the poet frequently
speaks in his own person. The supreme charm of his compositions
consists in the vitality with which they are imbued. The illusion is
complete, and passes from the poet who has been first subjected to
it, to the spectator, whom it entrances. Homer is the only poet who
possesses this characteristic in the same degree. La Fontaine has
always before his eyes all that he describes, and his description is
an actual painting. His spirit, gently moved by the spectacle which at
first it enjoys alone, reproduces it in vivid pictures. That simplicity
for which he has been praised exists but in the nature of the images
which he has chosen as the best means of representing his thoughts,
or, rather, his emotions. Properly speaking, we do not so much read La
Fontaine's fables as gaze at them; we do not know them by heart, but we
have them constantly before our eyes. Let us take as an example "Death
and the Woodman," since on this subject two great poets have weakly
contended against our fabulist. In this laughable rivalry Boileau and
J. B. Rousseau are killed by the spirit of abstraction; whilst La
Fontaine triumphs by means of the image which glows before the eyes
and penetrates the heart. If we add to the constant attractiveness of
living reality the pleasure caused by the representation of humanity
under animal symbols, we shall have before us the two active principles
of the universal interest excited by La Fontaine's fables--I mean
illusion, which excites the imagination; and allusion, which has a
reduplicate action on the mind.

We do not pretend to assert that there were no French fabulists in
France before La Fontaine. The Trouvères were fabulists, and one of
the most remarkable specimens of the literature of the middle ages,
the "Romance of the Fox," is a genuine study of feudal society, in the
guise of personages selected from the animal kingdom. The resemblance
of men to animals in this work is complete, and this strange épopée
derives its interest from the allusion, which was so remarkable a
characteristic of La Fontaine's fables. But our poet never drew from
this abundant source, and was also unaware that Marie de France in the
thirteenth century had adopted, in imitation of Æsop, the simplicity of
treatment which he himself had surpassed, and that other poets of the
same period had not only treated of similar subjects, but had written
verses on them, which he reproduced in the full confidence that they
were original. La Fontaine drew his materials directly from the Greek,
the Latin, or the Oriental, Æsop, Phædrus, and Pilpay were his models;
but it must be observed that he might have found amongst French writers
guides to that perfection which he alone has attained. P. Blanchet,
in "L'Avocat Patelin," has inserted the fable of "The Crow and the
Fox," to the first of whom he has given the name of Maitre, adopted
by La Fontaine. Clément Marot wrote a little drama, full of grace and
playfulness, on the subject of the fable of "The Rat and the Lion;"
and Régnier has illumined with his genius the oft-told story of "The
Wolf and the Horse." La Fontaine knew no other predecessors, amongst
modern poets, than the three above mentioned, and he was at no pains
to imitate them. In spite of some few scattered similarities between
his writings and theirs, La Fontaine was, on the whole, completely
original.

La Fontaine's originality does not consist solely in the particular
bent of his imagination, but also in his language. It is true that his
style bears the impress of the purity and elegance of the language of
his age, and is characterised by that finish which is common to all
the great writers of his time; but there is also a peculiar richness,
suppleness, and naturalness about his idiom. There is, indeed, a Gallic
tone in his writings, which is to be found in the works of no other
authors of the same period, and which, though derived from old sources,
gives to his works a surprising air of novelty. The use of old words
and phrases, which he has revived, is a genuine conquest over the lapse
of time, and a convenient method of setting forth ideas which would
have been unsuited to the over-strained dignity of classic language.
Marot, Rabelais, and Bonaventure des Periers, all contributed to enable
La Fontaine to make use of the best colloquial language that has
ever been employed by any writer; but La Fontaine's thefts are never
discoverable; they blend with such exquisite effect with his own ideas,
that they seem rather to be reminiscences than robberies. It is in this
way that he has robbed the ancients without betraying himself, and that
Horace, Virgil, and Plato, even, have furnished him with happy phrases,
which have been obdurate to the efforts of all their translators;
phrases which La Fontaine has unconsciously appropriated. His brain
took them as they fell in with the current of his thought, and they
flowed on with it as though from the same source. Virgil may discover
his frigus captabis opacum in "Gouter l'Ombre, et le Frais;" Horace,
his O! imitatores, servum pecus in "Quelques Imitateurs sot Bétail,
je l'Avoue;" and, again, his at nostri proavi in "Nos Aïeux, Bonnes
Gens." But if either Virgil or Horace were to meet with La Fontaine,
they would neither exclaim against him as a traitor nor a thief, but
only hail him as a brother poet.

La Fontaine was permitted to present his second collection of fables to
Louis XIV., and obtained a privilege with respect to its publication
which was almost unique; a eulogium on the work being included in
its authorisation. Our poet at this period assumed a most discreet
air, and out of regard, doubtless, for his patroness, avoided all
occasion for scandal. Another, and perhaps a stronger reason was, that
he cherished a secret ambition of becoming a member of the Academy.
Inspired by this hope, he prevailed on himself so far as to praise
Colbert, who had been the vindictive means of the fall of Fouquet.
The illustrious fraternity, it must be observed, had given him some
intimation that it was willing to elect him, and entreated him to act
in such a manner that the election might be unanimous. The goodwill of
the Academy was so decided, that, at the death of Colbert, it preferred
the fabulist to Boileau, who had the support of the royal favour. But
a delay was necessary. The Academy's choice was neither annulled nor
confirmed; the final decision being delayed until the death of another
of the immortals had created a fresh vacancy, and Boileau and La
Fontaine entered the Academy side by side; Boileau as soon as elected,
and La Fontaine after a year's delay. As we have already said, he had
performed his purgatory, and Louis XIV. had been willing to believe
that he would henceforth be discreet. We shall see, however, that La
Fontaine had only strength enough to promise, and that he was a living
example of the refrain of one of his most charming ballads--

"A promise is one thing-- the keeping another."

The desire to become a member of the Academy had been with La Fontaine
a passion. He was attracted to the honour as well by his friendship
for his comrades as by his love for literature. He rendered himself
noticeable by the constancy with which he frequented the Academy,
always joining its sittings in time to receive his fee for attendance.
One day he was late, and, strict as the rule was, the members present,
who knew that this little weekly payment was about all the pocket
money their comrade enjoyed, proposed that the rule for that occasion
should be relaxed; but La Fontaine was inflexible. Nevertheless, this
act of heroism did not prevent Furetière, in the course of his quarrel
with the Academy, from stigmatising La Fontaine as a jetonnier. It
is well known why this lexicographical abbé, as bilious as reforming
grammarians mostly are, entered upon a campaign against his comrades,
and how his obstinacy and evil deeds, although he was really in the
right, caused his exclusion from the Academy. Fontaine, either through
inadvertence or from a feeling of esprit de corps, which is more
probably the case, had deposited the fatal black ball for the exclusion
of his obstinate friend. The consequence was, that Furetière pursued
him with implacable animosity, and showered upon the head of the
good old fabulist more than his share of epigrams, which were rather
venomous than witty. It was the only attack of this sort that La
Fontaine had to endure, but it was a particularly sharp one. To style
the most inoffensive of men "a monster of perfidy" was the slightest of
the onslaughts of the rancorous Abbé of Chalivoix. May Heaven preserve
us all from the vengeance of soured friends, for there is nothing to
equal their venom and malice!

La Fontaine found himself mixed up in another not less animated
Academical quarrel, one in which his opponents did not display so great
an absence of courtesy. I refer to the controversy between the ancient
and modern schools, which was revived in full Academy by Christopher
Perrault. Boileau was as eager in the matter as Racine. La Fontaine
enrolled himself in their ranks, with less of partisanship, but equal
decision. Thus, the three best instances that the panegyrist of the
moderns could have employed in support of his position, were found
ranged against him. The turn which the dispute took is singular indeed.
Those who were really the rivals of antiquity declared themselves in
its favour, while writers of mediocrity, who had much less personal
interest in the question than they themselves imagined, proclaimed with
fervour the superiority of the moderns. Saint-Sorlin had begun the
battle. On Perrault's signal the weapons were snatched up once more,
and Lamotte-Houdard continued the war. Strange champions of progress in
letters! whom the absurdity of the contrast between their pretensions
on behalf of their school and the little merits of themselves, its
examples, have almost alone saved from oblivion. In fact, the only
thing which remains of the least interest in the bulky files of this
controversy is our poet's admirable epistle to the learned Huet, at the
time Bishop of Soissons.

As long as La Fontaine was under the watchful eye of Madame de la
Sablière, he was guilty of nothing worse than mere peccadilloes; but as
soon as she had closed her saloon--having been abandoned by the Marquis
de la Fare--and had given herself up to the practice of the most
austere devotion, the old infant, whom she had left without a guardian,
took advantage of his independence precisely as any school-boy might
have done. The princes of the house of Vendôme, who amused themselves
in the Temple like real Templars, invited him to their festivals,
and led him on by their example. Fresh seductions enticed him to an
improper indulgence in pleasures suited only to a time of life far
different from his own. It is sad to have to record these weaknesses
on the part of our poet, but we have, at least, the consolation of
knowing that they were expiated by a most sincere repentance.

A serious illness at length warned La Fontaine that it was time for
him to refrain from the pursuit of pleasure, and to contemplate the
approach of death. He had never, even in the midst of his wildest
dissipation, failed in respect for religion: he had neither insulted
nor neglected it. The easy morals of men and women of the world in
the seventeenth century were by no means a systematic revolt against
religious principles. Such persons were quite conscious that they were
offending against that which is right, and had no idea of maintaining
the contrary. The most licentious of them intended to repent some day.
Where such a tone of feeling prevails, a change of life need not be
despaired of. It must be acknowledged that La Fontaine was slow to make
such a change; but when he did make it, he returned completely to that
fervent piety which had led him to resolve in his youth to adopt the
sacred calling. Racine, who had long since discarded the brief errors
of his youth, nursed his friend during this illness, and procured his
reconciliation with the Church. It was he, when at the sick man's
pillow, to whom La Fontaine naively proposed to distribute in alms the
price which he was to receive for certain copies of a new edition of
his "Tales." However, his illness grew daily more serious, and a young
vicar of Saint Roch, the Abbé Poujet, was charged with the duty of
giving the final direction to Fontaine's penitence. He found him in the
best frame of mind, and La Fontaine not only consented to disavow and
apologise for his literary offences before a deputation of the Academy,
but also promised, should he survive, to write only on moral or
religious subjects; and, finally, agreed to sacrifice to the scruples
of his director, and the Sorbonne, a comedy in verse, which was about
to be represented, and which the poet loved as the child of his old
age. This sacrifice was truly meritorious, for it was not accomplished
without many regrets. No doubt could exist as to the sincerity of his
conversion. La Fontaine accordingly received the last sacrament; and
when a rumour was spread abroad that he was dead, it was declared that
he had died as a saint. This rumour of his departure, however, was
not well founded, for health had returned with peace of soul, and he
was yet allowed time to prove, by the rigorous practice of the duties
of a Christian, the sincerity of his repentance. Whilst following all
the phases of this solemn preparation for death, I am astonished and
saddened by the fact that I can behold around the sick man's couch
academicians, clergy, and crowds of friends, but neither wife nor child.

While the illustrious and henceforth Christian guest of Madame de la
Sablière was recovering his health, his patroness had died at the
Incurables, to which she had retired. La Fontaine had scarcely regained
his health, when he had to leave the mansion which had afforded him an
asylum for more than twenty-two years; he was on the point of quitting
it when he met M. d'Hervart, who had come to propose that he should go
with him to his hotel in the Rue Plâtrière. La Fontaine's answer is
well known. He accepted the offer.

"Which of them loved the other the better?"

It was in this magnificent abode, adorned by the pencil of Mignard,
that La Fontaine passed in peace the two years which yet remained to
him of life. He still visited the Academy, but he went more frequently
to church; he put a few psalms into verse, paraphrased the Dies
Iræ, and even yet occasionally found time for the composition of
fresh fables. It was in this way that Fénélon was able to give him a
share in the education of the young Duke of Burgundy, who furnished
subjects which the good old poet put into verse with an infantine
delight. The preceptor and his royal pupil rivalled each other in
delicate attentions towards the amiable old man, who had not lost by
his conversion either his good temper or his wit. Thanks to this high
protection, to the vigilance of friendship and the consolation of
religion, we shall be able to say, of him when he shall have closed his
eyes, "His end was as calm as the close of a summer day."

La Fontaine passed away gently, after a few weeks of extreme weakness,
on the 13th of February, 1695, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
Racine saw him die with extreme regret, and Fénélon, deeply affected,
expressed in exquisite terms the admiration of his contemporaries.
Let us quote the last sentences of this brief funeral oration:--"Read
him, and then say whether Anacreon be more gracefully playful; whether
Horace has adorned morality with more varied and more attractive
ornaments; whether Terence has painted the manners of mankind with more
nature and truth; and finally, whether Virgil himself is more touching
or more harmonious." We shall not seek for any further homage to his
genius; but, as regards his character, we obtain a precious testimony,
which has hitherto been unknown to his biographers. On learning of the
death of his old friend, Maucroix wrote these touching lines:--"My
very dear and faithful friend, M. de La Fontaine, is dead. We were
friends for more than fifty years; and I thank God that he allowed our
great friendship to survive to a good old age without any interruption
or diminution, and that I am able sincerely to say, that I have also
tenderly loved him, as much at the last as at the first. God, in his
merciful wisdom, has thought fit to take him to his own holy repose.
His soul was the most sincere and candid that I have ever met with, and
was totally free from anything like guile. I believe that he never told
a falsehood in his life."

GERUZEZ.

THE LIFE OF ÆSOP, THE PHRYGIAN.

We have no certain records concerning the births of either Homer or
Æsop; and scarcely any important circumstance is known respecting
their lives: which is somewhat strange, since history readily fathers
facts far less interesting and useful. Many destroyers of nations,
many ignoble princes, too, have found chroniclers of the most
trifling particulars of their lives, and yet we are ignorant of the
most important of those of Homer and Æsop--that is to say, of the
two persons who have most deserved well of posterity: for Homer is
not only the father of the gods, but also of all good poets; whilst
Æsop seems to me to be one of those who ought to be reckoned amongst
the wise men for whom Greece is so celebrated, since he taught true
wisdom, and taught it with more skill than is employed by those who lay
down mere definitions and rules. Biographies of these two great men
have certainly been written, but the best critics regard both these
narratives as fabulous, and particularly that written by Planudes.
For my own part I cannot coincide in this criticism; for as Planudes
lived in an age when the remembrance of circumstances respecting Æsop
might well be still kept alive,[1] I think it is probable that he had
learnt by tradition the particulars he has left us concerning him.
Entertaining this belief, I have followed him, suppressing nothing
which he has said of Æsop,[2] save such particulars as have appeared to
me either too puerile or else wanting in good taste.

Æsop was a Phrygian, a native of a town called Amorium, and was
born about the fifty-seventh Olympiad, some two centuries after the
foundation of Rome. It is hard to say whether he had to thank or to
complain of Nature; for whilst she gave him a keen intelligence, she
also afflicted him with a deformed body and ugly face--so deformed
and so ugly, indeed, that he scarcely resembled a man; and, moreover,
she had almost entirely deprived him of the use of speech. Encumbered
by such defects as these, if he had not been born a slave, he could
scarcely have failed to become one; but at the same time his soul ever
remained free and independent of the freaks of fortune.

The first master whom he had sent him to labour in the fields, either
because he thought him unfitted for anything else, or because he
wished to avoid the sight of so disagreeable an object. It happened,
on a certain occasion, that this master, on paying a visit to his
country house, was presented by a peasant with some figs, which he
found so good that he had them carefully locked up, giving directions
to his butler, who was named Agathopus, to bring them to him when he
should leave the bath. It chanced that Æsop had occasion to visit the
mansion at this time, and as soon as he had entered it, Agathopus
took advantage of the opportunity to share the figs with some of
his friends, and then throw the blame of the theft on Æsop, never
supposing that he would be able to defend himself from the charge, as
he not only stammered, but appeared to be an idiot. The punishments
inflicted on their slaves by the ancients were very cruel, and this
was an aggravated theft. Poor Æsop threw himself at his master's feet,
and making himself understood as well as he could, he begged that his
punishment might be deferred for a few moments. This favour having been
accorded him, he fetched some warm water, and having drunk it in his
master's presence, thrust his finger down his throat. He vomited, and
nothing came up but the water as it went down. Having thus proved his
own innocence, he made signs that the others should be compelled to
do as he had done. Every one was astonished, scarcely believing that
Æsop could have devised such a scheme. Agathopus and his companions in
the theft drank the water and thrust their fingers down their throats,
as the Phrygian had done, and straightway the figs, still undigested,
re-appeared with the water. By this means Æsop proved his innocence,
and his accusers were punished for their theft and malice.

On the following day, when the master had set off for town, and Æsop
was at his usual work, some travellers who had lost their way entreated
him, in the name of hospitable Jove, to show them their right road to
the town. Upon this, Æsop first prevailed upon them to repose for a
time in the shade, and then, after having refreshed them with a slight
collation, became himself their guide, not leaving them until he had
put them well on their right road. The good people raised their hands
to heaven, and besought Jupiter that he would not leave this charitable
act unrewarded. Æsop had scarcely left them, when, overcome with heat
and with weariness, he fell asleep. During his slumber he dreamt the
goddess Fortune appeared before him, and, having untied his tongue,
bestowed upon him that art of which he may be termed the author.
Startled with delight at such a dream, he at once awoke, and, leaping
up, exclaimed, "What is this? my voice is free, and I can pronounce the
words 'plough,' 'rake,' and, in fact, everything I choose!"

This miracle was the cause of his changing masters, for a certain
Zenas, who acted as steward on the estate, and who superintended the
slaves, having beaten one outrageously for a fault which did not merit
such severe punishment, Æsop could not refrain from reproving him, and
threatened to make known his bad conduct. Zenas, with the purpose of
anticipating Æsop and avenging himself upon him, went to the master
and told him a prodigy had happened in his house--that the Phrygian
had recovered the use of speech, but that the wretch only made use of
his gift to blaspheme and say evil things of his master. The latter
believed him, and went beyond this, for he gave Æsop to Zenas, with
liberty to do what he liked with him. On returning to the fields, Zenas
was met by a merchant, who asked him whether he would sell him some
beast of burden. "I cannot do that," said Zenas; "but I will sell you,
if you like, one of our slaves;" and then sent for Æsop. On seeing
Æsop the merchant said, "Is it to make fun of me that you propose to
sell me such a thing as that? One would take him for an ape." Having
thus spoken, the merchant went off, half grumbling and half laughing
at the beautiful object which had just been shown him. But Æsop called
him back, and said, "Take courage and buy me, and you will find that
I shall not be useless. If you have children who cry and are naughty,
the very sight of me will make them quiet; I shall serve, in fact,
as a real old bogy." This suggestion so amused the merchant, that he
purchased Æsop for three oboli, and said to him, laughing, "The gods be
praised! I have not got hold of any great prize; but then on the other
hand I have not spent much money."

Amongst other goods this merchant bought and sold slaves: and as he
was on his way to Ephesus to offer for sale those that he had, such
things as were required for use on the journey were laid on the backs
of each slave in proportion to his strength. Æsop prayed that, out of
regard to the smallness of his stature, and the fact that he was a new
comer, he might be treated gently; his comrades replied that he might
refrain from carrying anything at all, if he chose. But as Æsop made it
a point of honour to carry something like the rest, they allowed him to
select his own burden, and he selected the bread-basket, which was the
heaviest burden of all. Every one believed that he had done this out
of sheer folly; but at dinner-time the basket was lightened of some of
its load; the same thing happened at supper, then on the following day,
and so on; so that on the second day he walked free of any burden, and
was much admired for the keenness of his wit.

As for the merchant, he got rid of his slaves, with the exception of
a grammarian, a singer, and Æsop, whom he intended to expose for sale
at Samos. Before taking them to the market-place he had the two first
dressed as well as he could, whilst Æsop, on the other hand, was only
clad in an old sack, and placed between his two companions to set them
off. Some intending purchasers soon presented themselves, and amongst
others a philosopher named Xantus. He asked of the grammarian and the
singer what they could do. "Everything," they replied; on which Æsop
laughed in a manner which may be well imagined, and, indeed, Planudes
asserts that his grin was so terrible that the bystanders were almost
on the point of taking flight. The merchant valued the singer at
a thousand oboli, the grammarian at three thousand, and said that
whoever first purchased one of the two should have the other thrown
in. The high price of the singer and the grammarian disgusted Xantus,
but, that he might not return home without having made some purchase,
his disciples persuaded him to buy that little make-believe of a man
who had laughed with such exquisite grace. He would be useful as a
scarecrow, said some; as a buffoon, said others. Xantus allowed himself
to be persuaded, and consented to give sixty oboli for Æsop, but before
he completed the bargain demanded of him, as he had of his comrades,
for what work he was fitted; to which Æsop replied, "For nothing, as
his two companions had monopolised all possible work." The clerk of the
market, taking the droll nature of the purchase into consideration,
graciously excused Xantus from paying the usual fee.

Xantus had a wife of very delicate tastes, who was extremely particular
as to the style of persons she allowed to be about her. Xantus knew,
therefore, that to present his new slave to her in the ordinary way
would be to excite not only her ridicule but her anger. He resolved,
accordingly, to make the presentation a subject of pleasantry, and
spread a report through the mansion that he had purchased a young slave
as handsome as ever was seen. Having heard this, the young girls who
waited on the mistress were ready to tear each other to pieces for the
sake of having the new slave as her own particular servant; and their
astonishment at the appearance of the new-comer may well be imagined.
One hid her face in her hands, another fled, and a third screamed. The
mistress of the house, for her part, said that she could very well see
that this monster had been brought to drive her away from the house,
and that she had long perceived that the philosopher was tired of her.
Word followed word, and the quarrel at length became so hot that the
lady demanded her goods, and declared that she would return to her
parents. Xantus, however, by means of his patience, and Æsop by means
of his wit, contrived to arrange matters. The lady resigned her project
of insisting upon a divorce from bed and board, and admitted that she
might possibly in time become accustomed to even so ugly a slave.

I have omitted many little circumstances in which Æsop displayed
the liveliness of his wit; for although they all serve as proofs of
the keenness of his mind, they are not sufficiently important to be
recorded. We will merely give here a single specimen of his good sense
and of his master's ignorance. The latter on a certain occasion went
to a gardener's to choose a salad for himself; and when the herbs had
been selected, the gardener begged the philosopher to satisfy him
with respect to something which concerned him, the philosopher, as
much as it concerned gardening in general, and it was this: that the
herbs which he planted and cultivated with great care did not prove
so valuable as those which the earth produced of itself without any
thought. Xantus attributed the whole thing to the will of Providence,
as persons are apt to do when they are puzzled. Æsop having overheard
the conversation, began to laugh, and having drawn his master aside,
advised him to say that he had made so general a reply because it was
not suited to his dignity to answer such trivial questions, but that he
would leave its solution to his slave-boy, who would doubtless satisfy
the inquirer. Then, Xantus having gone to walk at the other end of
the garden, Æsop compared the garden to a woman who, having children
by a first husband, should espouse a second husband who should have
children by a first wife. His new wife would not fail to form feelings
of aversion for her step-children, and would deprive them of their
due nourishment for the sake of benefiting her own. And it was thus
with the earth, which adopted only with reluctance the productions of
labour and culture, and reserved all her tenderness and benefits for
her own productions alone--being a step-mother to the former, and a
passionately fond mother of the latter. The gardener was so delighted
with this answer, that he offered Æsop the choice of anything in his
garden.

Some time after this a great difference took place between Xantus
and his wife. The philosopher, being at a feast, put aside certain
delicacies, and said to Æsop, "Carry these to my loving pet;" upon
which Æsop gave them to a little dog of which his master was very fond.
Xantus, on returning home, did not fail to inquire how his wife liked
his present, and as the latter evidently did not understand what he
meant, Æsop was sent for to give an explanation. Xantus, who was only
too willing to find a pretext for giving his slave a thrashing, asked
him whether he had not expressly said, "Carry those sweet things from
me to my loving pet?" To which Æsop replied, that Xantus's loving
pet was not his wife, who for the least word threatened to sue for
a divorce, but his little dog, who patiently endured the harshest
language, and which, even after having been beaten, returned to be
caressed. The philosopher was silenced by this reply, but his wife
was thrown into such a passion by it that she left the house. Xantus
employed in vain every relation and friend to endeavour to induce her
to return, both prayers and arguments being equally lost upon her. In
this dilemma Æsop advised his master to have recourse to a stratagem.
He went to the market, and having bought a quantity of game and such
things, as though for a sumptuous wedding, managed to be met by one of
the lady's servants. The latter, of course, asked why he had bought
all those good things, upon which Æsop replied that his master, being
unable to persuade his wife to return to him, was about to wed another.
As soon as the lady heard this news she was naturally constrained, by
the spirit of jealousy and contradiction, to return to her husband's
side. She did not do this, however, without being resolved to be
avenged some time or other on Æsop, who day after day played some
prank, and yet always succeeded by some witty scheme in avoiding
punishment. The philosopher found his new slave more than his match.

On a certain market-day Xantus, having resolved to regale some friends,
ordered Æsop to purchase the best of everything, and nothing else.
"Ah!" said the Phrygian to himself, "I will teach you to specify what
you want, and not to trust to the discretion of a slave." He went
accordingly and purchased a certain number of tongues, which he had
served up with various sauces as entrées, entremets, and so forth.
When the tongues first appeared at table, the guests praised the
choice of this dish, but when it appeared in constant succession, they
became disgusted with it; and Xantus exclaimed, "Did I not bid you buy
whatever was best in the market?" "Well," replied Æsop, "and what is
better than the tongue? It is the very bond of civilised life, the key
of all the sciences, the organ of reason and truth; by its aid we build
cities and organise municipal institutions; we instruct, persuade, and,
what is more than all, we perform the first of all duties, which is
that of offering up prayers to the gods." "Ah! well," said Xantus, who
thought that he would catch him in a trap at last, "purchase then for
me to-morrow the worst of everything; the same gentlemen who are now
present will dine with me, and I should like to give them some variety."

On the following day Æsop had only the same dish served at table,
saying that "the tongue is the worst thing which there is in the world;
for it is the author of wars, the source of law-suits, and the mother
of every species of dissension. If it be argued that it is the organ
of truth, it may with equal veracity be maintained that it is the
organ of error, and, what is worse, of calumny. By its means cities
are destroyed, and men exhorted to the performance of evil deeds. If,
on the one hand, it sometimes praises the gods, on the other it more
frequently blasphemes them." Upon this one of the company said to
Xantus, that certainly this varlet was very necessary to him, for he
was more calculated than any one else to exercise the patience of a
philosopher.

"About what are you in trouble?" said Æsop. "Ah! find me," replied
Xantus, "a man who troubles himself about nothing." Æsop went on the
following day to the market-place, and perceiving there a peasant who
regarded all things with the utmost stolidity, he took him to his
master's house. "Behold," said he to Xantus, "the man without cares
whom you have demanded." Xantus then bade his wife heat some water, put
it in a basin, and wash with her own hands the stranger's feet. The
peasant allowed this to be done, although he knew very well that he
did not deserve any such honour, and merely said to himself, "Perhaps
it is the custom in this part of the world." He was then conducted to
the place of honour, and took his seat without ceremony. During the
repast Xantus did nothing but blame his cook. Nothing pleased him.
If anything was sweet, he declared that it was too salt, and blamed
everything that was salt for being repulsively sweet. The man without
cares let him talk on, and meanwhile ate away with all his might. At
dessert a cake was placed on the table, which had been made by the
philosopher's wife, and which Xantus scoffed at, although it was in
reality very good. "Behold!" cried the philosopher, "the most wretched
pastry I have ever eaten. The maker of it must be burnt alive, for she
will never do any good in the world. Let faggots be brought!" "Wait,"
said the peasant, "and I will go and fetch my wife, so that they may
be both burned at the same stake." This final speech disconcerted the
philosopher, and deprived him of the hope of being able to catch Æsop
in a trap.

But it was not only with his master that Æsop played jokes and found
opportunities for witticisms. Xantus having sent him to a certain
place, he met on his way a magistrate, who asked him where he was
going; and Æsop, either out of thoughtlessness or for some other
reason, replied that he did not know. The magistrate, regarding this
answer as a mark of disrespect to himself, had him conveyed to prison.
But as the officers were hauling him off, Æsop cried out, "Did I not
give a proper reply? Could I know that I was going to prison?" Upon
this the magistrate had him released, and considered Xantus fortunate
in having so witty a slave.

Xantus now began to perceive how important it was for his own interests
to have a slave in his possession who did him so much honour. Well,
it occurred on a certain occasion that Xantus, having a revel with
his disciples, it became soon evident to Æsop, who was in attendance,
that the master was becoming as drunk as the scholars. "The effects of
drinking wine," said he to them, "may be divided into three different
stages. In the first stage the result is pleasurable emotions; in the
second, mere intoxication; and in the third, madness." These remarks
were received with a roar of laughter, and the wine-bibbing went on
more furiously than before. Xantus, in fact, got so drunk that he lost
all command over his brains, and swore that he could drink up the sea.
This declaration, of course, raised a great guffaw amongst his boon
companions, and the natural result was, that Xantus, irritated beyond
all bounds, offered to wager his house that he would drink up the whole
sea, and, to bind the wager, deposited a valuable ring which he wore on
his finger.

On the following day, when the vapours of the wine had evaporated,
Xantus was extremely surprised to find that his ring had disappeared
from his finger, and with horror learned from Æsop that not only his
ring, but his house also, were the forfeitures of the ridiculous wager
which he had made over-night. Vexed beyond measure, the philosopher
condescended to entreat Æsop to help him out of his difficulty. And
this is what came of the Phrygian's advice. When the day arrived for
the decision of the wager, the whole population of Samos rushed to the
sea-shore to be witnesses of the philosopher's defeat; but, just as
one of his disciples who had made the bet with him began to glory in
his victory, the philosopher said to the assembled multitude, "It is
quite true that I have bet that I would drink up the whole of the sea;
but I certainly never engaged to drink up all the rivers which flow
into it. I must request, therefore, that the gentleman with whom I
have made the bet will first prevent the rivers from flowing into the
sea. When he has done that, I shall be very happy to fulfil my portion
of the wager." It need scarcely be said that every one applauded
the adroitness with which Xantus had got out of his difficulty. The
disciple confessed that he was vanquished, begged his master's pardon,
and Xantus was conducted to his home with great applause.

As a recompense for this happy hint, Æsop begged for his liberty, which
Xantus refused, saying that the moment for Æsop's freedom had not
yet come; but that if the gods should intimate that it had, he would
willingly grant it. If, for instance, he said, two crows should meet
his sight on his first leaving the house, he would grant the request;
but that if he should see one only, Æsop should continue to be a slave.
Æsop at once went out, whilst his master retired to a neighbouring
grove. Our Phrygian had scarcely sallied forth when he perceived two
crows caw-caw-ing together upon a lofty branch, and ran to tell his
master. Of course, Xantus hastened to see the fact for himself, and
before he could reach the spot one of the crows had flown away. "Ah,
ah!" said the philosopher to Æsop, "you are determined to be always
cheating me, are you? Here, you fellows, give this rascal a good
horse-whipping." This order was at once carried into effect, and whilst
the punishment was going on Xantus was invited to a repast, and he sent
word to say that he would attend at the time and place appointed.
"Alas!" exclaimed Æsop, "what lies, then, are the forewarnings of
heaven! Here am I, who have seen two crows, suffering the torments
of the lash, whilst my master, who has seen but one, is invited to a
nuptial feast." This sarcasm so pleased Xantus that he gave orders that
Æsop should be taken down from the triangles; but, nevertheless, he
could not as yet prevail upon himself to give the Phrygian his often
promised liberty.

One day as the master and man were wandering amongst old monuments,
reading with much pleasure the inscriptions, Xantus came to one which
he could not understand, although he remained a considerable time
trying to explain it. It was composed of the first letters of certain
words, and the philosopher avowed that he could not solve the problem
which it presented. "If I help you to find a treasure by means of
those letters," said Æsop, "what will you give me?" Xantus promised
him his liberty and half the treasure. "They mean, then," said Æsop,
"that four paces from this column a treasure lies concealed." After
having dug for some time they found that such was indeed the case.
The philosopher was now called upon to keep his word; but he still
declined to do so. "May the gods forbid I should set you free," said he
to Æsop, "before you have explained the mystery of those letters. To
know that will be a greater treasure to me than what we have found."
"Well," said Æsop, "they have been engraved here as the first letters
of these words, Απόβας Βήματα, &amp;c.; that is to say, If you step back
four paces and then dig, you will find a treasure." "As you are so
clever," said Xantus, "I should be wrong to part with you; so give up
the idea that you will ever be free." "And I, for my part," said Æsop,
"will denounce you to King Denys, for it is to him that the treasure
belongs, and these letters are the initials of other words which state
the fact." The philosopher, alarmed, told his slave to take his part
of the treasure and to say nothing about it; on which Æsop declared
that he was under no obligation to him, for that these letters had
been selected in such a manner that they contained a triple sense, and
signified still further, "As you go away, you will divide the treasure
which you have discovered." When they had returned home, Xantus ordered
that Æsop should be put in irons and imprisoned, for fear that he
should make the adventure known. "Alas!" cried Æsop, "is it thus that
these philosophers fulfil their promises? But do as you will, Master
Xantus, you shall set me free at last in spite of yourself."

This prediction turned out to be true. A prodigy appeared, by which the
Samians were greatly frightened. An eagle carried off the public ring
(some seal apparently which was affixed to the proceedings of the Town
Council), and let it drop into the bosom of a slave. The philosopher
was consulted on the matter, both in his capacity as a philosopher
and as being one of the Republic. He asked for time, and had recourse
to his usual oracle, Æsop. The latter advised him to produce him in
public, since, if he succeeded well, the philosopher would have the
honour, and if he failed, he, Æsop, would alone bear the blame. Xantus
approved of this course, and presented him before the chief assembly of
the citizens. As soon as the Phrygian appeared, every one burst into a
fit of laughter; no one supposed that anything sensible could come from
the mouth of one so grotesquely formed. Æsop told them, however, that
they should not consider the fashion of the vase, but the liquor which
it contained; whereupon the Samians cried out to him to say without
fear what he thought of the prodigy. But Æsop excused himself on the
ground that he dare not. "Fortune," he said, "had raised a strife for
glory between the master and the slave. If the slave spoke badly, he
would be beaten; and if he spoke better than his master, he would still
be beaten." Upon this every one pressed Xantus to set the Phrygian
free. The philosopher obstinately resisted for some time; but at length
the provost of the town threatened to do so himself, in virtue of his
magisterial power. This had the desired effect, and Æsop was set free,
upon which he declared the Samians were threatened by this prodigy
with being reduced to a state of servitude, and that the carrying off
of their ring by the eagle was symbolic of a powerful monarch who was
desirous of subjugating them.

Shortly afterwards Crœsus, King of the Lydians, announced to the
Samians that if they did not become his tributaries, he would compel
them to do so by force of arms. The greater number were for obeying his
commands. Æsop told them that Fortune offered to men the choice of two
roads: the one, that of liberty, rough and thorny at the commencement,
but afterwards very pleasant; and the other that of slavery, which at
first was easy, but was afterwards very laborious. This was, in effect,
plain advice to the Phrygians to defend their liberties; so they
dismissed the monarch's envoy, unsatisfied as to his demands.

Crœsus at once made preparations to attack them, but was informed by
his ambassador that, as long as they had Æsop amongst them, he would
find it difficult to reduce them, such well-grounded confidence had
they in that person's wisdom. Crœsus accordingly sent to the Samians
to demand the Phrygian of them; declaring that, if they would give
him up to him, he would respect their liberty. The rulers of the
state regarded these conditions as advantageous, and thought that
the sacrifice of Æsop would be a cheap means of obtaining peace. The
Phrygian, however, made them change this opinion by telling them how
the wolves and the sheep, having made a treaty of peace, the latter
gave up their dogs as hostages. When they no longer had protectors,
the wolves were able to devour them with less trouble than formerly.
This fable had its effect, and the Samians then came to a resolution
precisely contrary to the one they had just adopted. Æsop, however, was
desirous of his own accord of going to Crœsus, and said that he could
serve them better if he were with the king than if he remained at Samos.

When Crœsus saw him, he was astonished that so mean-looking a person
had been such an obstruction to his plans. "What!" he cried, "see
what sort of a creature it is that has dared to oppose my will!" Æsop
prostrated himself, and said, "A man in pursuit of locusts happened to
catch hold of a grasshopper, and was about to kill it, when the insect
exclaimed to the man, 'What have I done that you should kill me? I
have not devoured your corn; I have done you no sort of harm. My only
peculiarity is a loud voice, of which I make a very innocent use.' Ah!
mighty monarch! I resemble that grasshopper. I only possess powers of
speech, and I have not used them to injure you." Crœsus, moved with
admiration and pity, not only pardoned Æsop, but left the Samians alone
on his account.

It was at this time that the Phrygian composed his fables, which he
left with the King of Lydia, when he was sent by the latter to the
Samians, who accorded him great honours. He then took it into his head
to travel about the world, and to hold high converse with those who
were generally regarded as philosophers; and at length it happened
that he obtained an exalted place in the esteem of Lycerus, King of
Babylon.[3] At this period kings were in the habit of sending to each
other problems to solve, on condition that certain tributes should be
paid, according as the questions were answered well or ill, on the one
side or the other; and in this sort of game Lycerus, by the assistance
of Æsop, rendered himself especially illustrious, whether as proposer
or answerer.

In the course of time Æsop married, and as no children came to him
he adopted a young man of noble extraction, named Ennus. The latter
rewarded this kindness by ingratitude, and was, indeed, so base as to
sully his master's bed. This having come to the knowledge of Æsop,
he drove the rascal from his house, and the latter, in order to be
revenged upon him, forged letters by which it was made to appear
that Æsop was in the pay of kings who were at enmity with Lycerus.
Lycerus, deceived by the apparent genuineness of the seals and
signatures appended to those letters, ordered one of his officers,
named Hermippus, without seeking any further proofs of the Phrygian's
treachery, to put Æsop to death. This Hermippus, however, being a
friend of Æsop's, saved his life, and secretly fed him for some time in
a sepulchre, until Necténabo, King of Egypt, believing in the report
of Æsop's death, thought that he should now be able to compel Lycerus
to become his tributary. He commenced provoking him by defying him to
send him a man who could build a tower in the air, and who could answer
all sorts of questions. Lycerus, having read these letters, and having
submitted them to the most able men of his kingdom, found that none of
them were prepared to give satisfactory answers, and deeply regretted
Æsop. Upon this Hermippus confessed his disobedience of orders, and
produced Æsop, who was very well received, and, having proved his
innocence of the charge against him, was most graciously pardoned.
As for the letter from the King of Egypt, he only laughed at it, and
directed Lycerus to reply that he would send the required architects
in the spring, and also one who could answer all sorts of questions.
Lycerus replaced Æsop in possession of all his property, and at the
same time delivered up Ennus to him, to deal with him as he pleased.
Æsop received the latter as though he had been his own son, and only
punished him by recommending him to honour the gods and his king; to
make himself feared by his enemies; to render himself useful to others;
to treat his wife well, but at the same time never to trust her with
his secrets; to speak little, and to avoid the company of babblers;
never to give way to misfortune; to have a care for the morrow,
since it is better to enrich one's enemies by one's death than to be
troublesome to one's friends whilst living; and, above all, never to be
envious of the happiness or the good qualities of others, since that is
but to inflict an injury on ourselves. Ennus, touched by this advice,
and by Æsop's goodness towards him, died soon afterwards, as though he
had been stabbed to the heart.

To return to Necténabo's challenge. Æsop procured some eagles, and
taught them (a difficult thing to do, but he did it) to carry each of
them a basket in which was a child, and when the spring-time had come,
he set off with them, to the great wonder of all the people whom he met
who had heard of his design. Necténabo, who had only sent his puzzle
because he had heard of Æsop's death, was greatly surprised as well as
greatly disgusted at seeing him. He asked Æsop, however, whether he
had brought the architects and the man who could answer all sorts of
questions. To which Æsop replied, that the latter was himself, and that
the architects should be produced at the proper place. They proceeded
to the open country, where the eagles soared up aloft with the
children, who cried out to those below to hand them up stones, mortar,
&amp;c. "You see," said Æsop to Necténabo, "that I have brought you the
workmen; it is for you to supply them with the materials." Necténabo
acknowledged that in this Lycerus was the conqueror. He proposed,
however, this question to Æsop: "I have mares in Egypt which reply to
the neighings of the horses about Babylon. What may that mean?" The
Phrygian deferred his answer, and returning to his lodging, bade some
children take a cat and whip it along the streets. The Egyptians,
who worship this animal, regarded this as an extremely scandalous
proceeding, and snatching the creature from the children's hands,
went to complain to the king. The Phrygian was at once ordered to the
presence, and the king said to him, "Do you not know that this animal
is one of our gods? Why, then, have you had it treated in this way?"
"For an offence which he has committed against Lycerus," replied Æsop;
"for the other night it strangled an extremely courageous cock which
crowed at every hour." "You are a liar," replied the monarch; "how
could the cat have made so long a journey in so short a time?" "Just as
possible," rejoined Æsop, "as that your mares should hear our stallions
neigh at so great a distance."

After this the king had certain ingenious persons brought from
Heliopolis, and gave them a great banquet, to which the Phrygian was
invited. During the repast they proposed to Æsop various enigmas, and
this amongst others: "There is a vast temple supported on a column,
which is surrounded by twelve cities, each of which has thirty
buttresses, and around these buttresses walk, one after the other, two
women, the one white, the other black." "Such a question as that," said
Æsop, "is only fit for little children. The temple is the world; the
column is the year; the cities are the months; the buttresses are the
days; around which move, after each other, the day and night."

On the following day Necténabo assembled all his friends, and said to
them, "Is it to be borne that such a pigmy of a man, such an abortion,
should enable Lycerus to gain the prize and vanquish me?" One of them
then advised him to request Æsop to ask them questions about things
of which they had never heard. On this Æsop wrote out a memorandum,
according to which Necténabo acknowledged that he owed Lycerus two
thousand talents. The memorandum was placed sealed in Necténabo's
hands; and before it was opened Necténabo's friends declared that the
thing which he held in his hands was well known to them. When it was
opened, Necténabo exclaimed, "Behold the greatest falsehood that was
ever concocted! I take you all to witness!" "Certainly," they replied;
"we have never heard of such a thing." "Therefore," said Æsop, "I have
satisfied your demand." Upon this Necténabo dismissed Æsop, burdened
with presents both for himself and his master.

This residence of Æsop in Egypt may, perhaps, have been the origin of
the story that he was a slave there with Rhodope, who, by the aid of
the presents made her by her lovers, erected one of the three Pyramids
which still exist, and are regarded with such admiration. The legend
refers to the smallest of the three, but the one built with the most
skill.

Æsop, on his return to Babylon, was received by Lycerus with great
demonstrations of joy and good-will, and had a statue erected to him.
His desire, however, to see the world and acquire knowledge, induced
him to renounce all honours. He accordingly quitted the court of
Lycerus, where he enjoyed everything that could be wished, and took
leave of this prince, for the purpose of visiting Greece. Lycerus did
not allow him to leave without bestowing upon him the greatest marks
of affection, nor without making him swear that he would return to end
his days with him.

Amongst the cities which he visited, Delphi was one of the principal.
The Delphians were very willing to listen to him, but they paid him no
honours, and Æsop, piqued by this lack of respect, compared them to
sticks which float on the water, which at some distance off seem to
be something important, but when close at hand are discovered to be
worthless. This comparison, however, cost him dear, for the Delphians
conceived such a dislike to him, and such a vehement desire of being
avenged on him (as well as being impressed by a fear that he would
defame them), that they resolved to compass his death. To attain this
end, they concealed amongst his goods one of their sacred vessels,
intending to accuse him of theft and sacrilege, and then to condemn him
to death.

As Æsop was setting out from Delphi, and journeying towards Phocis,
the Delphians ran after him with every appearance of great wrath, and
accused him of having stolen their sacred vessel. Æsop denied the
theft with solemn oaths, but when his baggage was searched it was
found amongst it; therefore, all that Æsop could say did not prevent
them from treating him as an infamous criminal. He was conveyed back
to Delphi, loaded with irons, cast into a dungeon, and condemned to be
thrown headlong from a rock. It was in vain that, attempting to defend
himself with his ordinary weapons, he recited fables. The Delphians
only laughed at them.

"The frog," he said, "had invited the rat to come to see her. In order
to enable him to pass across the pond, she tied him to her foot. As
soon as he was fairly on the water she tried to drag him to the bottom,
in order to drown him, and then make a meal of him. The unfortunate
rat resisted for some little time; and whilst he was struggling on
the surface, a bird of prey perceived him, pounced on him, and having
carried him off, together with the frog, who could not extricate
herself, made a meal of both. And thus, O Delphians, one more powerful
than either of us will avenge me. I shall perish; but you will perish
also."

As Æsop was being led to his place of punishment, he found means to
escape, and entered a little chapel dedicated to Apollo, from which,
however, the Delphians tore him. "You violate this asylum," he said
to them, "because it is only a little chapel; but a day will come
when your wickedness will find no hiding-place--no, not even in your
great temple. The same thing will happen to you that happened to the
eagle, which, in spite of the prayers of the beetle, carried off the
leveret, which had taken refuge with the insect. The eagle's offspring
was punished for this, even when it had sought shelter in Jupiter's
bosom." The Delphians, however, little moved by these remarks, cast
Æsop headlong from the rock.

Soon after Æsop's death a pestilence spread havoc throughout the
Delphian land. The inhabitants asked of the oracle by what means they
might appease the wrath of the gods; the oracle replied, that the only
means by which they could do this was by expiating their crime and
laying Æsop's ghost. On this a pyramid was immediately erected to his
memory. But it was not Heaven alone that testified its displeasure at
Æsop's murder; man also avenged the sage's death. Greece instantly sent
a commission to inquire into the circumstances, and inflicted a severe
punishment on the criminals.[4]

[1] The chronology of our worthy La Fontaine is here at fault,
for between the times of Æsop and Planudes there was an interval of
nearly twenty centuries; Æsop having flourished in the sixth century
before Christ, and Planudes having lived in the fourteenth century of
the Christian era.

[2] This life of Æsop, composed by a monk of the fourteenth
century, is a legend which has replaced history by disfiguring it. If
we confine ourselves exclusively to the testimonies of the ancients,
we shall be able to tell in a few words all that has come down to us
that is at all likely to be true respecting the life of Æsop. Although
various authors have attributed his birth-place in turn to Mesembria in
Thrace, to Samos, and to Sardis in Lydia, it is almost certain that he
was born in Phrygia, either at Amorium, or in another city of the same
province named Cotisium. The deformity which has been attributed to him
is simply an exaggeration of a certain ugliness of countenance; and as
he also stammered, he has been declared to have been almost dumb. The
first portion of his life was passed in slavery, at first under the
Lydian philosopher Xantus, and then under Iadmo at Samos, where he had
for a companion the celebrated courtesan, Rhodope. Having been freed by
Iadmo, he went to the court of Crœsus, where he enjoyed great favour.
Employed by this prince to convey his presents to the temple at Delphi,
and certain liberalities to the inhabitants, the perfidy and resentment
of the people, whom he had not deemed worthy of his master's gifts,
were the cause of his death. He was accused of having stolen a sacred
vase which had been treacherously concealed amongst his goods. Both
gods and men avenged his death. His journeys to Babylon and in Egypt
are pure inventions. If we may believe Plutarch, he was present at the
banquet of the Seven Wise Men at Corinth. The contradictory accounts
given by authors as to the place of his birth may be explained by his
many journeys; for he has been said to have been born wherever he
resided. It will be seen by this brief sketch, that the life of Æsop by
Planudes is not a pure invention, and that we may say with respect to
it--

"However great the lie may he.
Therein some grains of truth we see."

[3] In the lists of the Kings of Babylon there is found no
monarch of this name, and this is another proof amongst many that the
life of Æsop by Planudes is a fiction.

[4] The Athenians erected a statue to Æsop, which was the work
of the celebrated Lysippus, and it was placed opposite those of the
Seven Wise Men.

DEDICATION

MONSEIGNEUR THE DAUPHIN[1]

MONSEIGNEUR,

If there be anything ingenious in the republic of letters, it may be
said that it is the manner in which Æsop has deduced his moral. It
were truly to be wished that other hands than mine had added to the
fable the ornaments of poetry, since the wisest of the ancients[2] has
decided that they are not useless. I venture, Monseigneur, to submit to
you certain attempts in this manner, as being not altogether unsuited
to your earlier years. You are of an age[3] at which amusements
and sports are allowed to princes; but at the same time you should
devote some portion of your attention to serious reflections. This
is precisely what we meet with in the fables which we owe to Æsop.
At first sight they appear puerile; but their puerility is only the
covering of important truths.

I do not doubt, Monseigneur, that you entertain a favourable opinion
of compositions which are at once so useful and so agreeable; for
what more can one desire than the useful and the agreeable? It is
these that have been the means of introducing knowledge amongst men.
Æsop has discovered the singular art of joining the one to the other.
The perusal of his works invariably plants in the soul the seeds of
virtue, and teaches it to know itself, without letting it feel that
it is pursuing a study, whilst, in fact, it even believes that it is
otherwise engaged. It is a means of instruction which has been happily
made use of by him whom His Majesty has selected as your tutor.[4] He
teaches you all that a prince should learn in such a manner that you
study not only without trouble, but even with pleasure. We hope much
from this; but, to tell the truth, there are things from which we hope
infinitely more, and those, Monseigneur, are the qualities which our
invincible monarch has bestowed upon you by the mere circumstance of
your birth, and the example which he gives you day by day. When you see
him forming such grand designs; when you see him calmly regarding the
agitation of Europe and the efforts which it makes to divert him from
his enterprises;[5] when you see him penetrating by a single effort
the heart of one province[6] bristling against him with insurmountable
obstacles, and subjugating another[7] within eight days, during that
season which is the most hostile of all others to the operations of
war, and when the courts of other princes are redolent only of peace
and pleasure; when you see him not content with merely subduing men,
but resolved also to vanquish the elements; and when, I say, on his
return from this expedition, in which he has conquered like another
Alexander, you see him ruling his people like another Augustus,--admit,
Monseigneur, that, in spite of the tenderness of your years, you
sigh for glory as ardently as your father, and that you await with
impatience the moment when you will be able to declare yourself his
rival in your worship of this divine mistress. But, no; you do not
await it, Monseigneur; you anticipate it; and in proof of this I need
no other witnesses than that noble restlessness, that vivacity, that
ardour, those many evidences of spirit, of courage, of greatness of
soul, which you so continually display. It must, doubtless, be the
greatest gratification to our monarch, as it is a most agreeable
spectacle to the universe, to see you thus growing up, a young plant
which will one day protect with its shadow peoples and nations.

I might enlarge upon this subject. But as the plan I have proposed to
myself of amusing you is more suited to my powers than that of praising
you, I shall hasten to have recourse to my fables, and will add to
the truths I have told you but this--and that is, Monseigneur, that I
am, with respectful zeal, your very humble, very obedient, and very
faithful servant,

DE LA FONTAINE.

[1] Louis, Dauphin of France, son of Louis XIV., and of Marie
Theresa of Austria, was born at Fontainebleau on the 1st of November,
1661, and died at Meudon on the 14th of April, 1671.

[2] Socrates.

[3] The Dauphin was six years and five months old when La
Fontaine published the collection of fables to which this Dedication
is prefixed. It was completed on the 3rd of March, 1668.

[4] Monseigneur the Dauphin had two tutors: the first being M. the
President de Perigni, and the second M. Bossuet, the Bishop of Meaux.
La Fontaine, in the above passage, alludes to M. de Perigni.

[5] This refers to the Triple Alliance formed between England,
Spain, and Holland, for the purpose of checking the conquests of the
French monarch.

[6] Flanders, in which the French king made a campaign in
1667, when he took Douai, Tournoi, Oudenarde, Ath, Alost, and Lille.

[7] Franche-Comté, which he subdued in 1668.

PREFACE.

The indulgence with which some of my fables have been received[1] has
induced me to hope that this present collection may meet with the same
favour. At the same time I must admit that one of the masters of our
eloquence[2] has disapproved of the plan of rendering these fables in
verse, since he believes that their chief ornament consists in having
none; and that, moreover, the restraints of poetry, added to the
severity of our language, would frequently embarrass me, and deprive
most of these narratives of that brevity which may be styled the very
soul of the art of story-telling, since without it a tale necessarily
becomes tame and languid. This opinion could only have been expressed
by a man of exquisite taste, and I will merely ask of him that he
will in some degree relax it, and will admit that the Lacedemonian
graces are not so entirely opposed to the French language, that it is
impossible to make them accord.

After all, I have but followed the example, I will not say of the
ancients, which would not affect me in this case, but that of the
moderns. In every age, amongst every poetical people, Parnassus has
deemed this species of composition its own. Æsop's fables had scarcely
seen the light, when Socrates[3] thought proper to dress them in
the livery of the Muses; and what Plato says on this subject is so
pleasant, that I cannot refrain from making it one of the ornaments
of this Preface. He says, then, that Socrates having been condemned
to death, his punishment was respited on account of the occurrence
of certain fêtes. Cébès went to see him on the day of his death, and
Socrates then told him that the gods had several times warned him by
dreams that he should devote himself to music before he died. He did
not at first understand the signification of these dreams; for, as
music does not improve a man's moral nature, of what use could it be to
him?[4] It was evident, however, that there was some mystery involved,
for the gods never ceased to give him the same warning, and it had come
to him again on the occasion of one of the fêtes to which I have above
alluded. At length, after having deeply reflected on what it might be
that Heaven intended him to do, he concluded that as music and poetry
are so closely allied, it probably meant him to turn his attention to
the latter. There can be no good poetry without harmony; but to good
poetry fiction is also equally necessary, and Socrates only knew how
to tell the truth. At length, however, he discovered a compromise;
selecting such fables as those of Æsop, which always contain something
of truth in them, he employed the last moments of his life in rendering
them into verse.

Socrates is not the only one who has regarded fables and poetry as
sisters. Phædrus has also declared that he held this opinion, and
by the excellence of his work we are able to judge of that of the
philosopher. After Phædrus, Avienus treated the same subject in the
same way; finally, the moderns have also followed their example,
and we find instances of this not only amongst foreign nations, but
in our own. It is true, that when our own countrymen devoted their
attention to this species of composition, the French language was so
different from what it now is, that we may regard them in this case
as foreigners. This has not deterred me from my enterprise. On the
contrary, I have flattered myself with the hope that, if I did not
pursue this career with success, I should at least earn the credit of
having opened the road.

It may possibly happen that my labours will induce others to continue
the work; and, indeed, there is no reason why this species of
composition should be exhausted until there shall remain no fresh
fables to put in verse. I have selected the best; that is to say, those
which seem to me to be so; but, in addition to the fact that I may
have erred in my selection, it will be by no means a difficult thing
for others to give a different rendering even to those which I have
selected; and if their renderings should be briefer than mine, they
will doubtless be more approved. In any case, some praise will always
be due to me, either because my rashness has had a happy result, and
that I have not departed too far from the right path, or, at least,
because I shall have instigated others to do better.

I think that I have sufficiently justified my design. As regards the
execution, I shall leave the public to be the judge. There will not be
found in my renderings the elegance and extreme brevity which are the
charms of Phædrus, for these qualities are beyond my powers; and that
being the case, I have thought it right to give more ornament to my
work than he has done. I do not blame him for having restricted himself
in length, for the Latin language enabled him to be brief; and, indeed,
if we take the trouble to examine closely, we shall find in this author
all the genuine characteristics and genius of Terence. The simplicity
of these great men is magnificent; but, not possessing the powers
of language of these authors, I cannot attain their heights. I have
striven, therefore, to compensate in some degree for my failings in
this respect, and I have done this with all the more boldness because
Quintilian has said that one can never deviate too much in narrative.
It is not necessary in this place to prove whether this be true or not;
it is sufficient that Quintilian has made the statement.[5]

I have also considered that, as these fables are already known to all
the world, I should have done nothing if I had not rendered them in
some degree new, by clothing them with certain fresh characteristics.
I have endeavoured to meet the wants of the day, which are novelty and
gaiety; and by gaiety I do not mean merely that which excites laughter,
but a certain charm, an agreeable air, which may be given to every
species of subject, even the most serious.

It is not, however, by the outward form which I have given it that
the value of my work should be alone judged, but by the quality of
the matter of which it is composed, and by its utility. For what is
there that is worthy of praise in the productions of the mind which is
not to be found in the apologue? There is something so grand in this
species of composition, that many of the ancients have attributed the
greater part of these fables to Socrates; selecting as their author
that individual amongst mortals who was most directly in communication
with the gods. I am rather surprised that they have not maintained
that these fables descended direct from heaven,[6] or that they have
not attributed their guardianship to some one special deity, as they
have done in the case of poetry and eloquence. And what I say is not
altogether without foundation, since, if I may venture to speak of that
which is most sacred in our eyes in the same breath with the errors of
the ancients, we find that Truth has spoken to men in parables; and
is the parable anything else than a fable? that is to say, a feigned
example of some truth, which has by so much the more force and effect
as it is the more common and familiar?

It is for these reasons that Plato, having banished Homer from his
Republic, has given a very honourable place in it to Æsop. He maintains
that infants suck in fables with their mothers' milk, and recommends
nurses to teach them to them, since it is impossible that children
should be accustomed at too early an age to the accents of wisdom and
virtue. If we would not have to endure the pain of correcting our
habits, we should take care to render them good whilst as yet they are
neither good nor bad. And what better aids can we have in this work
than fables? Tell a child that Crassus, when he waged war against the
Parthians, entered their country without considering how he should
be able to get out of it again, and that this was the cause of the
destruction of himself and his whole army, and how great an effort will
the infant have to make to remember the fact! But tell the same child
that the fox and the he-goat descended to the bottom of a well for the
purpose of quenching their thirst, and that the fox got out of it by
making use of the shoulders and horns of his companion as a ladder, but
that the goat remained there in consequence of not having had so much
foresight, and that, consequently, we should always consider what is
likely to be the result of what we do,--tell a child these two stories,
I say, and which will make the most impression on his mind? Is it not
certain that he will cling to the latter version as more conformable
and less disproportioned than the other to the tenderness of his brain?
It is useless for you to reply that the ideas of childhood are in
themselves sufficiently infantine, without filling them with a heap of
fresh trifles. These trifles, as you may please to call them, are only
trifles in appearance; in reality, they are full of solid sense. And as
by the definition of the point, the line, the surface, and the other
well-known elements of form, we obtain a knowledge which enables us to
measure not only the earth but the universe, in the same manner, by
the aid of the truths involved in fables, we finally become enabled to
form correct opinions of what is right and what is wrong, and to take a
foremost place in the ranks of life.

The fables which are included in this collection are not merely moral,
but are, to a certain extent, an encyclopædia of the qualities and
characteristics of animals, and, consequently, of our own; since we men
are, in fact, but a summary of all that is good and bad in the lower
ranks of creatures. When Prometheus determined upon creating man, he
took the dominant characteristic of each beast, and of these various
characteristics composed the human species. It follows, therefore,
that in these fables, in which beasts play so great a part, we may
each of us find some feature which we may recognise as our own. The
old may find in them a confirmation of their experiences, and the
young may learn from them that which they ought to know. As the latter
are but strangers in the world, they are as yet unacquainted with its
inhabitants; they are even unacquainted with themselves. They ought
not to be left in this ignorance, but should be instructed as to the
qualities of the lion, the fox, and so forth, and as to the why and
the wherefore a man is sometimes compared to the said lion and fox. To
effect this instruction is the object of these fables.

I have already overstepped the ordinary limits of a Preface, but I have
still a few remarks to make on the principles on which the present work
has been constructed.

The fable proper is composed of two parts, of which one may be termed
the body, and the other the soul. The body is the subject-matter of
the fable, and the soul is the moral. Aristotle will admit none but
animals into the domain of fabledom, and rigorously excludes from it
both men and plants. This rule, however, cannot be strictly necessary,
since neither Æsop, Phædrus, nor any of the fabulists[7] have observed
it; but, on the other hand, a moral is to a fable an indispensable
adjunct, and if I have in any instances omitted it, it is only in those
cases in which it could not be gracefully introduced, or in which it
was so obvious that the reader could deduce it for himself. The great
rule in France is to value only that which pleases, and I have thought
it no crime, therefore, to cancel ancient customs when they would not
harmonise with modern ones. In Æsop's time the fable was first related
as a simple story, and then supplemented by a moral which was distinct
in itself. Next Phædrus came, who was so far from complying with this
rule, that he sometimes transposed the moral from the end to the
commencement. For my own part, I have never failed to follow Æsop's
rule, except when it was necessary to observe a no less important one
laid down by Horace, to the effect that no writer should obstinately
struggle against the natural bent of his mind or the capabilities of
his subject. A man, he asserts, who wishes to succeed will never pursue
such a course, but will at once abandon a subject when he finds that he
cannot mould it into a creditable shape:

"Et quæ
Desperat tractata intescere posse, relinquit."[8]

It only remains to speak of the life of Æsop, whose biography by
Planudes is almost universally regarded as fabulous. It is supposed
that this writer formed the design of attributing a character and
adventures to his hero which should bear some resemblance to his
fables. This criticism, at first glance, appeared to me sufficiently
specious, but I have since found that it has no solid basis. It is
partly founded on what took place between Xantus and Æsop, and the
quantities of nonsense there contrasted. To which I reply, Who is the
sage to whom such things have not happened? The whole of the life even
of Socrates was not serious; and what confirms me in my favourable
opinion is, that the character which Planudes gives to Æsop is similar
to that which Plutarch gives him in his Banquet of the Seven Wise
Men--that is, the character of a keen and all-observant man. It may
be objected, I know, that the Banquet of the Seven Wise Men is in
itself a fiction; and I admit that it is possible to be doubtful about
everything. For my own part, I cannot well see why Plutarch should have
desired to deceive posterity on this subject, when he has professed
to be truthful on every other, and to give to each of his personages
his real character. But however this may be, I would ask, Shall I be
less likely to be believed if I endorse another man's falsehoods than
if I invented some of my own? I might certainly fabricate a tissue of
conjectures, and entitle them the "Life of Æsop;" but whatever air of
genuineness it might wear, no one could rely upon such a work, and, if
he must put up with fiction, the reader would always prefer that of
Planudes to mine.

[1] Before the year 1668, when the present collection of
fables was first published. Fontaine had already published a few
separately, and others had circulated in manuscript.

[2] Patru, a celebrated lawyer, a member of the French
Academy, and one of La Fontaine's friends, who made a strange mistake
in trying to divert him from a species of composition which has
immortalised him.

[3] These fables had long been known when Socrates came into
the world, and the Father of Philosophy only took the trouble to render
them into verse during the imprisonment which preceded his death.

[4] The word Μουσιχὴ implied amongst the Greeks all the arts
to which the Muses devote themselves. It comprises the employments of
the mind in opposition to γυμναστιχὴ, which means the exercises of the
body. La Fontaine does not give Plato's meaning quite correctly. The
philosopher, at the commencement of the "Phædo," makes Socrates say
that, having been several times warned in dreams by the gods to study
music, he had only regarded it as an encouragement to persevere in
the pursuit of truth; but that, since his imprisonment, he had given
another interpretation to those warnings, and had decided that he
should better obey the wishes of the gods by making verses.

[5] The following is the passage in Quintilian to which the
poet alludes:--"Ego vero narrationem, at si ullam partem orationis,
omni qua potest gratia et venere exorundam."--Quint., "Hist Orat."
lib. ix., cap iv.

[6] La Fontaine has not ventured altogether to repair the
oversight of the ancients, for he has left the origin of fables a
doubtful point between heaven and earth, when he says, in a dedication
to Madame de Montespan, "The fable is a gift which comes from the
immortals; if it were the gift of man, he who gave it us would indeed
deserve a temple."

[7] The word fabulist was invented by La Fontaine, and has
no equivalent either in the Greek or Latin languages. La Motte only
ventured to use it under cover of the authority of our poet; and the
French Academy, having declined to admit it into the first edition of
its Dictionary, which was published after La Fontaine's death, only did
so when it had been sanctioned by usage and public admiration.

[8] Hor., "Ars Poet.," v. 150.

MONSEIGNEUR THE DAUPHIN.

I sing the heroes who call Æsop father,
Whose history, although deceitful rather,
Some truths and useful lessons, too, contains.
Everything finds a tongue in these my strains;
And what they say is wholesome: now and then
My animals I use as texts for men.
Illustrious branch of one the gods hold dear,
And by the whole world held in love and fear,
He who the proudest chiefs at once defies,
And counts the days by glorious victories,
Others will better tell, and higher soar,
To sing your mighty ancestors of yore;
But I would please thee in a humbler way,
And trace in verse the sketches I essay;
Yet if to please thee I do not succeed,
At least the fame of trying be my meed.

[Illustration: THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT.]

FABLE I.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT.

The Grasshopper, so blithe and gay,
Sang the summer time away.
Pinched and poor the spendthrift grew,
When the sour north-easter blew.
In her larder not a scrap,
Bread to taste, nor drink to lap.
To the Ant, her neighbour, she
Went to moan her penury,
Praying for a loan of wheat,
Just to make a loaf to eat,
Till the sunshine came again.
"All I say is fair and plain,
I will pay you every grain,
Principal and interest too,
Before harvest, I tell you,
On my honour--every pound,
Ere a single sheaf is bound."
The Ant's a very prudent friend,
Never much disposed to lend;
Virtues great and failings small,
This her failing least of all.
Quoth she, "How spent you the summer?"
"Night and day, to each new comer
I sang gaily, by your leave;
Singing, singing, morn and eve."
"You sang? I see it at a glance.
Well, then, now's the time to dance."

FABLE II.

THE RAVEN AND THE FOX.

Master Raven, perched upon a tree,
Held in his beak a savoury piece of cheese;
Its pleasant odour, borne upon the breeze,
Allured Sir Reynard, with his flattery.
"Ha! Master Raven, 'morrow to you, sir;
How black and glossy! now, upon my word,
I never--beautiful! I do aver.
If but your voice becomes your coat, no bird
More fit to be the Phœnix of our wood--
I hope, sir, I am understood?"
The Raven, flattered by the praise,
Opened his spacious beak, to show his ways
Of singing: down the good cheese fell.
Quick the Fox snapped it. "My dear sir, 'tis well,"
He said. "Know that a flatterer lives
On him to whom his praise he gives;
And, my dear neighbour, an' you please,
This lesson's worth a slice of cheese."--
The Raven, vexed at his consenting,
Flew off, too late in his repenting.

FABLE III.

THE FROG THAT WISHED TO MAKE HERSELF AS BIG AS THE OX.

A Frog, no bigger than a pullet's egg,
A fat Ox feeding in a meadow spied.
The envious little creature blew and swelled;
In vain to reach the big bull's bulk she tried.
"Sister, now look! observe me close!" she cried.
"Is this enough?"--"No!" "Tell me! now then see!"
"No, no!" "Well, now I'm quite as big as he?"
"You're scarcely bigger than you were at first!"
One more tremendous puff--she grew so large--she burst.
The whole world swarms with people not more wise:
The tradesman's villa with the palace vies.
Ambassadors your poorest Princelings send,
And every Count has pages without end.

[Illustration: THE TWO MULES.]

FABLE IV.

THE TWO MULES.

Two Mules were journeying--one charged with oats,
The other with a tax's golden fruit.
This last betrayed that manner which denotes
Excessive vanity in man or brute.
Proudly self-conscious of his precious load,
He paced, and loud his harness-bells resounded;
When suddenly upon their lonely road,
Both Mules and masters were by thieves surrounded.
The money-bearer soon was put to death:
"Is this the end that crowns my high career?
Yon drudge," he murmured with his latest breath,
"Escapes unhurt, while I must perish here!"
"My friend," his fellow-traveller made reply,
"Wealth cannot always at the poor man scoff.
If you had been content to do as I,
You'd not at present be so badly off."

FABLE V.

THE WOLF AND THE DOG.

A Wolf, who was but skin and bone,
So watchful had the sheep-dogs grown,
Once met a Mastiff fat and sleek,
Stern only to the poor and weak.
Sir Wolf would fain, no doubt, have munched
This pampered cur, and on him lunched;
But then the meal involved a fight,
And he was craven, save at night;
For such a dog could guard his throat
As well as any dog of note.

So the Wolf, humbly flattering him,
Praised the soft plumpness of each limb.
"You're wrong, you're wrong, my noble sir,
To roam in woods indeed you err,"
The dog replies, "you do indeed;
If you but wish, with me you'll feed.
Your comrades are a shabby pack,
Gaunt, bony, lean in side and back,
Pining for hunger, scurvy, hollow,
Fighting for every scrap they swallow.
Come, share my lot, and take your ease."
"What must I do to earn it, please?"
"Do?--why, do nothing! Beggar-men
Bark at and chase; fawn now and then
At friends; your master always flatter.
Do this, and by this little matter
Earn every sort of dainty dish--
Fowl-bones or pigeons'--what you wish--
Aye, better things; and with these messes,
Fondlings, and ceaseless kind caresses."
The Wolf, delighted, as he hears
Is deeply moved--almost to tears;
When all at once he sees a speck,
A gall upon the Mastiff's neck.
"What's that?"--"Oh, nothing!" "Nothing?"--"No!"
"A slight rub from the chain, you know."
"The chain!" replies the Wolf, aghast;
"You are not free?--they tie you fast?"
"Sometimes. But, law! what matters it?"--
"Matters so much, the rarest bit
Seems worthless, bought at such a price."
The Wolf, so saying, in a trice,
Ran off, and with the best goodwill,
And very likely's running still.

FABLE VI.

THE HEIFER, THE SHE-GOAT, AND THE LAMB, IN
PARTNERSHIP WITH THE LION.

The Heifer, Lamb, and Nanny-goat were neighbours,
With a huge Lion living close at hand,
They shared the gains and losses of their labours
(All this was long ago, you understand).
One day a stag was taken as their sport;
The Goat, who snared him, was of course enraptured,
And sent for all the partners of her toil,
In order to divide the treasure captured.
They came. The Lion, counting on his claws,
Quartered the prey, and thus addressed the trio--

"The parts are four. I take the first, because
I am your monarch, and my name is Leo:
Being the strongest, I annex the second;
As bravest, I can claim another share,
Should any touch the fourth, or say I reckoned
Unjustly, I shall kill him. So beware."

FABLE VII.

THE WALLET.

Said Jupiter one day, "Let all that breathe
Come and obeisance make before my throne.
If at his shape or being any grieve,
Let them cast fears aside. I'll hear their groan.
Come, Monkey, you be first to speak. You see
Of animals this goodly company;
Compare their beauties with your own.
Are you content?" "Why not? Good gracious me!"
The monkey said,
No whit afraid--
"Why not content? I have four feet like others,
My portrait no one sneers at--do they, brothers?
But cousin Bruins hurriedly sketched in,
And no one holds his likeness worth a pin."
Then came the Bear. One thought he would have found
Something to grumble at. Grumble! no, not he.
He praised his form and shape, but, looking round,
Turned critic on the want of symmetry
Of the huge shapeless Elephant, whose ears
Were much too long; his tail too short, he fears.
The Elephant was next.
Though wise, yet sadly vexed
To see good Madam Whale, to his surprise,
A cumbrous mountain of such hideous size.
Quick Mrs. Ant thinks the Gnat far too small,
Herself colossal.--Jove dismisses all,
Severe on others, with themselves content.
'Mong all the fools who that day homeward went,
Our race was far the worst: our wisest souls
Lynxes to others', to their own faults moles.
Pardon at home they give, to others grace deny,
And keep on neighbours' sins a sleepless eye.
Jove made us so,
As we all know,
We wear our Wallets in the self-same way--
This current year, as in the bye-gone day:
In pouch behind our own defects we store,
The faults of others in the one before.

FABLE VIII.

THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS.

A Swallow, in his travels o'er the earth,
Into the law of storms had gained a peep;
Could prophesy them long before their birth,
And warn in time the ploughmen of the deep.
Just as the month for sowing hemp came round,
The Swallow called the smaller birds together.
"Yon' hand," said he, "which strews along the ground
That fatal grain, forbodes no friendly weather.
The day will come, and very soon, perhaps,
When yonder crop will help in your undoing--

[Illustration: THE SWALLOW AND THE LITTLE BIRDS.]

When, in the shape of snares and cruel traps,
Will burst the tempest which to-day is brewing.
Be wise, and eat the hemp up now or never;
Take my advice." But no, the little birds,
Who thought themselves, no doubt, immensely clever,
Laughed loudly at the Swallow's warning words.
Soon after, when the hemp grew green and tall,
He begged the Birds to tear it into tatters.
"Prophet of ill," they answered one and all,
"Cease chattering about such paltry matters."
The hemp at length was ripe, and then the Swallow,
Remarking that "ill weeds were never slow,"
Continued--"Though it's now too late to follow
The good advice I gave you long ago,
You still may manage to preserve your lives
By giving credit to the voice of reason.
Remain at home, I beg you, with your wives,
And shun the perils of the coming season.
You cannot cross the desert or the seas,
To settle down in distant habitations;
Make nests, then, in the walls, and there, at ease,
Defy mankind and all its machinations."
They scorned his warnings, as in Troy of old
Men scorned the lessons that Cassandra taught.
And shortly, as the Swallow had foretold,
Great numbers of them in the traps were caught.

To instincts not our own we give no credit,
And till misfortune comes, we never dread it.

[Illustration: THE TOWN RAT AND THE COUNTRY RAT.]

FABLE IX.

THE TOWN RAT AND THE COUNTRY RAT.

A Rat from town, a country Rat
Invited in the civilest way;
For dinner there was just to be
Ortolans and an entremet.

Upon a Turkey carpet soft
The noble feast at last was spread;
I leave you pretty well to guess
The merry, pleasant life they led.

Gay the repast, for plenty reigned,
Nothing was wanting to the fare;
But hardly had it well begun
Ere chance disturbed the friendly pair.

A sudden racket at the door
Alarmed them, and they made retreat;
The City Rat was not the last,
His comrade followed fast and fleet.

The noise soon over, they returned,
As rats on such occasions do;
"Come," said the liberal citizen,
"And let us finish our ragout."

"Not a crumb more," the rustic said;
"To-morrow you shall dine with me;
Don't think me jealous of your state,
Or all your royal luxury;

"But then I eat so quiet at home,
And nothing dangerous is near;
Good-bye, my friend, I have no love
For pleasure when it's mixed with fear."

FABLE X.

THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE.

FOR M. THE DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

A man who had no rivals in the love
He bore himself, thought that he won the bell
From all the world, and hated every glass
That truths less palatable tried to tell.
Living contented in the error,
Of lying mirrors he'd a terror.
Officious Fate, determined on a cure,
Raised up, where'er he turned his eyes,
Those silent counsellors that ladies prize.
Mirrors old and mirrors newer;
Mirrors in inns and mirrors in shops;
Mirrors in pockets of all the fops;
Mirrors in every lady's zone.
What could our poor Narcissus do?
He goes and hides him all alone
In woods that one can scarce get through.
No more the lying mirrors come,
But past his new-found savage home
A pure and limpid brook runs fair.--
He looks. His ancient foe is there!
His angry eyes stare at the stream,
He tries to fancy it a dream.
Resolves to fly the odious place, and shun
The image; yet, so fair the brook, he cannot run.

My meaning is not hard to see;
No one is from this failing free.
The man who loved himself is just the Soul,
The mirrors are the follies of all others.
(Mirrors are faithful painters on the whole;)
And you know well as I do, brothers, that the brook
Is the wise "Maxim-book."[1]

[1] Rochefoucauld's Maxims are the most extraordinary
dissections of human selfishness ever made.

FABLE XI.

THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS, AND THE DRAGON
WITH MANY TAILS.

An Envoy of the Grand Signor
(I can't say more)
One day, before the Emperor's court,
Vaunted, as some historians report,
That his royal master had a force
Outnumbering all the foot and horse
The Kaiser could bring to the war.
Then spoke a choleric attendant:
"Our Prince has more than one dependant
That keeps an army at his own expense."
The Pasha (man of sense),
Replied: "By rumour I'm aware
What troops the great electors spare,
And that reminds me, I am glad,
Of an adventure I once had,
Strange, and yet true.
I'll tell it you.

Once through a hedge the hundred heads I saw
Of a huge Hydra show.
My blood, turned ice, refused to flow:
And yet I felt that neither fang nor claw
Could more than scare me--for no head came near.
There was no room. I cast off fear.
While musing on this sight,
Another Dragon came to light.
Only one head this time;
But tails too many to count up in rhyme.
The fit again came on,
Worse than the one just gone.
The head creeps first, then follows tail by tail;
Nothing can stop their road, nor yet assail;
One clears the way for all the minor powers:
The first's your Emperor's host, the second ours."

[Illustration: THE WOLF AND THE LAMB.]

FABLE XII.

THE WOLF AND THE LAMB.

The reasoning of the strongest has such weight,
None can gainsay it, or dare prate,
No more than one would question Fate.
A Lamb her thirst was very calmly slaking,
At the pure current of a woodland rill;
A grisly Wolf, by hunger urged, came making
A tour in search of living things to kill.
"How dare you spoil my drink?" he fiercely cried;
There was grim fury in his very tone;
"I'll teach you to let beasts like me alone.
"Let not your Majesty feel wrath," replied
The Lamb, "nor be unjust to me, from passion;
I cannot, Sire, disturb in any fashion
The stream which now your Royal Highness faces,
I'm lower down by at least twenty paces."
"You spoil it!" roared the Wolf; "and more, I know,
You slandered me but half a year ago."
"How could I do so, when I scarce was born?"
The Lamb replied; "I was a suckling then."
"Then 'twas your brother held me up to scorn."
"I have no brother." "Well, 'tis all the same;
At least 'twas some poor fool that bears your name.
You and your dogs, both great and small,
Your sheep and shepherds, one and all,
Slander me, if men say but true,
And I'll revenge myself on you."
Thus saying, he bore off the Lamb
Deep in the wood, far from its dam.
And there, not waiting judge nor jury,
Fell to, and ate him in his fury.

FABLE XIII.

THE ROBBERS AND THE ASS.

Two Thieves were fighting for a prize,
A Donkey newly stolen; sell or not to sell--
That was the question--bloody fists, black eyes:
While they fought gallantly and well,
A third thief happening to pass,
Rode gaily off upon the ass.

The ass is some poor province it may be;
The thieves, that gracious potentate, or this,
Austria, Turkey, or say Hungary;
Instead of two, I vow I've set down three
(The world has almost had enough of this),
And often neither will the province win:
For third thief stepping in,
'Mid their debate and noisy fray,
With the disputed donkey rides away.

[Illustration: THE ROBBERS AND THE ASS.]

FABLE XIV.

DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER.

A poor Woodcutter, covered with his load,
Bent down with boughs and with a weary age,
Groaning and stooping, made his sorrowing stage
To reach his smoky cabin; on the road,
Worn out with toil and pain, he seeks relief
By resting for a while, to brood on grief.--
What pleasure has he had since he was born?
In this round world is there one more forlorn?
Sometimes no bread, and never, never rest.
Creditors, soldiers, taxes, children, wife,
The corvée. Such a life!
The picture of a miserable man--look east or west.
He calls on Death--for Death calls everywhere--
Well,--Death is there.
He comes without delay,
And asks the groaner if he needs his aid.
"Yes," said the Woodman, "help me in my trade.
Put up these faggots--then you need not stay."

Death is a cure for all, say I,
But do not budge from where you are;
Better to suffer than to die,
Is man's old motto, near and far.

[Illustration: DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER.]

FABLE XV.

SIMONIDES RESCUED BY THE GODS.

Three sorts of persons can't he praised too much:
The Gods, the King, and her on whom we doat.
So said Malherbe, and well he said, for such
Are maxims wise, and worthy of all note.
Praise is beguiling, and disliked by none:
A lady's favour it has often won.
Let's see whate'en the gods have ere this done
To those who praised them. Once, the eulogy
Of a rough athlete was in verse essayed.
Simonides, the ice well broken, made
A plunge into a swamp of flattery.
The athlete's parents were poor folk unknown;
The man mere lump of muscle and of bone--
No merit but his thews,
A barren subject for the muse.
The poet praised his hero all he could,
Then threw him by, as others would.
Castor and Pollux bringing on the stage,
He points out their example to such men,
And to all strugglers in whatever age;
Enumerates the places where they fought,
And why they vanished from our mortal ken.
In fact, two-thirds of all his song was fraught
With praise of them, page after page.
A Talent had the athlete guaranteed,
But when he read he grudged the meed,
And gave a third: frank was his jest,--
"Castor and Pollux pay the rest;
Celestial pair! they'll see you righted,--
Still I will feast you with the best;
Sup with me, you will be delighted;
The guests are all select, you'll see,
My parents, and friends loved by me;
Be thou, too, of the company."
Simonides consents, partly, perhaps, in fear
To lose, besides his due, the paltry praise.
He goes--they revel and discuss the cheer;
A merry night prepares for jovial days.
A servant enters, tells him at the door
Two men would see him, and without delay.
He leaves the table, not a bit the more
Do jaws and fingers cease their greedy play.
These two men were the Gemini he'd praised.
They thanked him for the homage he had paid;
Then, for reward, told him the while he stayed
The doom'd house would be rased,
And fall about the ears
Of the big boxer and his peers.
The prophecy came true--yes, every tittle;
Snap goes a pillar, thin and brittle.
The roof comes toppling down, and crashes
The feast--the cups, the flagons smashes.
Cupbearers are included in the fall;
Nor is that all:
To make the vengeance for the bard complete,
The athlete's legs are broken too.
A beam snapped underneath his feet,
While half the guests exclaim,
"Lord help us! we are lame."
Fame, with her trumpet, heralds the affair;
Men cry, "A miracle!" and everywhere
They give twice over, without scoff or sneer,
To poet by the gods held dear.
No one of gentle birth but paid him well,
Of their ancestors' deeds to nobly tell.

Let me return unto my text: it pays
The gods and kings to freely praise;
Melpomene, moreover, sometimes traffic makes
Of the ingenious trouble that she takes.
Our art deserves respect, and thus
The great do honour to themselves who honour us.
Olympus and Parnassus once, you see,
Were friends, and liked each other's company.

FABLE XVI.

DEATH AND THE UNHAPPY MAN.

A Miserable Man incessant prayed
To Death for aid.
"Oh, Death!" he cried. "I love thee as a friend!
Come quickly, and my life's long sorrows end!"
Death, wishing to oblige him, ran,
Knocked at the door, entered, and eyed the man.
"What do I see? begone, thou hideous thing!
The very sight
Strikes me with horror and affright!
Begone, old Death!--Away, thou grisly King!"
Mecænas (hearty fellow) somewhere said;
"Let me be gouty, crippled, impotent and lame,
'Tis all the same.
So I but keep on living. Death, thou slave!
Come not at all, and I shall be content."
And that was what the man I mention meant.

[Illustration: THE WOLF TURNED SHEPHERD.]

FABLE XVII.

THE WOLF TURNED SHEPHERD.

A Wolf who found in cautious flocks
His tithes beginning to be few,
Thought that he'd play the part of Fox,
A character at least quite new.
A Shepherd's hat and coat he took,
And from a branch he made a hook;
Nor did the pastoral pipe forget.
To carry out his schemes he set,
He would have liked to write upon his hat,
"I'm Guillot, Shepherd of these sheep!"

And thus disguised, he came, pit-pat,
And softly stole where fast asleep
Guillot himself lay by a stack,
His dog close cuddling at his back;
His pipe too slept; and half the number
Of the plump sheep was wrapped in slumber.
He's got the dress--could he but mock
The Shepherd's voice, he'd lure the flock:
He thought he could.
That spoiled the whole affair--he'd spoken;
His howl re-echoed through the wood.
The game was up--the spell was broken!
They all awake, dog, Shepherd, sheep.
Poor Wolf, in this distress
And pretty mess,
In clumsy coat bedight,
Could neither run away nor fight.

At last the bubble breaks;
There's always some mistake a rascal makes.
The Wolf like Wolf must always act;
That is a very certain fact.

FABLE XVIII.

THE CHILD AND THE SCHOOLMASTER.

This fable serves to tell, or tries to show
A fools remonstrance often is in vain.
A child fell headlong in the river's flow,
While playing on the green banks of the Seine:
A willow, by kind Providence, grew there,
The branches saved him (rather, God's good care);
Caught in the friendly boughs, he clutched and clung.
The master of the school just then came by.
"Help! help! I'm drowning!" as he gulping hung,
He shouts. The master, with a pompous eye,
Turns and reproves him with much gravity.
"You little ape," he said, "now only see
What comes of all your precious foolery;
A pretty job such little rogues to guard.
Unlucky parents who must watch and thrash.
Such helpless, hopeless, good-for-nothing trash.
I pity them; their woes I understand."
Having said this, he brought the child to land.

In this I blame more people than you guess--
Babblers and censors, pedants, all the three;
Such creatures grow in numbers to excess,
Some blessing seems to swell their progeny.
In every crisis theories they shape,
And exercise their tongues with perfect skill;
Ha! my good friends, first save me from the scrape,
Then make your long speech after, if you will.

FABLE XIX.

THE PULLET AND THE PEARL.

A Fowl, while scratching in the straw,
Finding a pearl without a flaw,
Gave it a lapidary of the day.
"It's very fine, I must repeat;
And yet a single grain of wheat
Is very much more in my way."

A poor uneducated lad
A manuscript as heirloom had.
He took it to a bookseller one day:
"I know," said he, "it's very rare;
But still, a guinea as my share
Is very much more in my way."

FABLE XX.

THE DRONES AND THE BEES.

A Workman by his work you always know.
Some cells of honey had been left unclaimed.
The Drones were first to go
The Bees, to try and show
That they to take the mastership were not ashamed.
Before a Wasp the cause at last they bring;
It is not easy to decide the thing.
The witnesses deposed that round the hive
They long had seen wing'd, buzzing creatures fly,
Brown, and like bees. "Yes, true; but, man alive,
The Drones are also brown; so do not try
To prove it so." The Wasp, on justice bent,
Made new investigations
(Laws of all nations).
To throw more light upon the case,
Searched every place,
Heard a whole ants' nest argue face to face,
Still it grew only darker; that's a fact
(Lease or contract?)
"Oh, goodness gracious! where's the use, my son?"
Cried a wise Bee;
"Why, only see,
For six months now the cause is dragging on,
And we're no further than we were at first;
But what is worst,
The honey's spoiling, and the hive is burst.
'Tis time the judge made haste,
The matter's simmered long enough to waste,
Without rebutters or fi, fa,
Without rejoinders or ca, sa,
John Doe,
Or Richard Roe.
Let's go to work, the wasps and us,
We'll see who best can build and store
The sweetest juice." It's settled thus.
The Drones do badly, as they've done of yore;
The art's beyond their knowledge, quite beyond.
The Wasp adjudges that the honey goes
Unto the Bees: would those of law so fond
Could thus decide the cases justice tries.
Good common sense, instead of Coke and code,
(The Turks in this are really very wise,)
Would save how many a debtor's heavy load.
Law grinds our lives away
With sorrow and delay.
In vain we groan, and grudge
The money given to our long-gowned tutors.
Always at last the oyster's for the judge,
The shells for the poor suitors.

[Illustration: THE OAK AND THE REED.]

FABLE XXI.

THE OAK AND THE REED.

The Oak said one day to a river Reed,
"You have a right with Nature to fall out.
Even a wren for you's a weight indeed;
The slightest breeze that wanders round about
Makes you first bow, then bend;
While my proud forehead, like an Alp, braves all,
Whether the sunshine or the tempest fall--
A gale to you to me a zephyr is.
Come near my shelter: you'll escape from this;
You'll suffer less, and everything will mend.
I'll keep you warm
From every storm;
And yet you foolish creatures needs must go,
And on the frontiers of old Boreas grow.
Nature to you has been, I think, unjust."
"Your sympathy," replied the Reed, "is kind,
And to my mind
Your heart is good; and yet dismiss your thought.
For us, no more than you, the winds are fraught
With danger, for I bend, but do not break.
As yet, a stout resistance you can make,
And never stoop your back, my friend;
But wait a bit, and let us see the end."
Black, furious, raging, swelling as he spoke,
The fiercest wind that ever yet had broke
From the North's caverns bellowed through the sky.
The Oak held firm, the Reed bent quietly down.
The wind blew faster, and more furiously,
Then rooted up the tree that with its head
Had touched the high clouds in its majesty,
And stretched far downwards to the realms of dead.

FABLE XXII.

AGAINST THOSE WHO ARE HARD TO PLEASE.

Had I when born, from fair Calliope
Received a gift such as she can bestow
Upon her lovers, it should pass from me
To Æsop, and that very soon, I know;
I'd consecrate it to his pleasant lies.
Falsehood and verse have ever been allies;
Far from Parnassus, held in small esteem,
I can do little to adorn his theme,
Or lend a fresher lustre to his song.
I try, that's all--and plan what one more strong
May some day do--
And carry through.
Still, I have written, by-the-bye,
The wolf's speech and the lamb's reply.
What's more, there's many a plant and tree
Were taught to talk, and all by me.
Was that not my enchantment, eh?
"Tut! Tut!" our peevish critics say,
"Your mighty work all told, no more is
Than half-a-dozen baby stories.
Write something more authentic then,
And in a higher tone."--Well, list, my men!--
After ten years of war around their towers,
The Trojans held at bay the Grecian powers;
A thousand battles on Scamander's plain,
Minings, assaults, how many a hero slain!
Yet the proud city stoutly held her own.
Till, by Minerva's aid, a horse of wood,
Before the gates of the brave city stood.
Its flanks immense the sage Ulysses hold,
Brave Diomed, and Ajax, churlish, bold;
These, with their squadrons, will the vast machine
Bear into fated Troy, unheard, unseen--
The very gods will be their helpless prey.
Unheard-of stratagem; alas! the day,
That will the workmen their long toil repay.--
"Enough, enough!" our critics quickly cry,
"Pause and take breath; you'll want it presently.
Your wooden horse is hard to swallow,
With foot and cavalry to follow.
Why this is stranger stuff, now, an' you please,
Than Reynard cheating ravens of their cheese;
What's more, this grand style does not suit you well,
That way you'll never bear away the bell."
Well, then, we'll lower the key, if such your will is.--
Pensive, alone, the jealous Amaryllis
Sighed for Alcippus--in her care,
She thinks her sheep and dog alone will share.
Tircis, perceiving her, slips all unseen
Behind the willows' waving screen,
And hears the shepherdess the zephyrs pray,
To bear her words to lover far away.--
"I stop you at that rhyme,"
Cries out my watchful critic,
Of phrases analytic;
"It's not legitimate; it cannot pass this time.
And then I need not show, of course,
The line wants energy and force;
It must be melted o'er again, I say."
You paltry meddler, prate no more,
I write my stories at my ease.
Easier to sit and plan a score,
Than such a one as you to please.

Fastidious men and overwise,
There's nothing ever satisfies.

[Illustration: THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS.]

FABLE XXIII.

THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS.

A Tyrant Cat, by surname Nibblelard,
Through a Rat kingdom spread such gloom
By waging war and eating hard,
Only a few escaped the tomb;
The rest, remaining in their hiding-places,
Like frightened misers crouching on their pelf,
Over their scanty rations made wry faces,
And swore the Cat was old King Nick himself.
One day, the terror of their life
Went on the roof to meet his wife:
During the squabbling interview
(I tell the simple truth to you),
The Rats a chapter called. The Dean,
A cautious, wise, old Rat,
Proposed a bell to fasten on the Cat.
"This should be tried, and very soon, I mean;
So that when war was once begun,
Safe underground their folk could run,--
This was the only thing that could be done."
With the wise Dean no one could disagree;
Nothing more prudent there could be:
The difficulty was to fix the bell!
One said, "I'm not a fool; you don't catch me:"
"I hardly seem to see it!" so said others.
The meeting separated--need I tell,
The end was words--but words. Well, well, my brothers,
There have been many chapters much the same;
Talking, but never doing--there's the blame.
Chapters of monks, not rats--just so!
Canons who fain would bell the cats, you know.

To talk, and argue, and refute,
The court has lawyers in long muster-roll;
But when you want a man who'll execute,
You cannot find a single soul.

FABLE XXIV.

THE WOLF PLEADING AGAINST THE FOX BEFORE THE APE.

A Wolf who'd suffered from a thief,
His ill-conditioned neighbour Mr. Fox
Brought up (and falsely, that is my belief)
Before the Ape, to fill the prisoner's box.
The plaintiff and defendant in this case
Distract the place
With questions, answers, cries, and boisterous speeches,
So angry each is.
In an Ape's memory no one saw
An action so entangled as to law.
Hot and perspiring was the judge's face,
He saw their malice, and, with gravity,
Decided thus:--"I know you well of old, my friends,
Both must pay damages, I see;
You, Wolf, because you've brought a groundless charge:
You, Fox, because you stole from him; on that I'll not enlarge."

The judge was right; it's no bad plan,
To punish rascals how you can.

FABLE XXV.

THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN AND THE TWO WIDOWS.

A Man of middle age,
Fast getting grey,
Thought it would be but sage
To fix the marriage day.
He had in stocks,
And under locks,
Money enough to clear his way.
Such folks can pick and choose; all tried to please
The moneyed man; but he, quite at his ease,
Showed no great hurry,
Fuss, nor scurry.
"Courting," he said, "was no child's play."
Two widows in his heart had shares--
One young; the other, rather past her prime,
By careful art repairs
What has been carried off by Time.
The merry widows did their best
To flirt and coax, and laugh and jest;
Arranged, with much of bantering glee,
His hair, and curled it playfully.
The eldest, with a wily theft,
Plucked one by one the dark hairs left.
The younger, also plundering in her sport,
Snipped out the grey hair, every bit.
Both worked so hard at either sort,
They left him bald--that was the end of it.
"A thousand thanks, fair ladies," said the man;
"You've plucked me smooth enough;
Yet more of gain than loss, so quantum suff.,
For marriage now is not at all my plan.
She whom I would have taken t'other day
To enroll in Hymen's ranks,
Had but the wish to make me go her way,
And not my own;
A head that's bald must live alone:
For this good lesson, ladies, many thanks."

FABLE XXVI.

THE FOX AND THE STORK.

The Fox invited neighbour Stork to dinner,
But Reynard was a miser, I'm afraid;
He offered only soup, and that was thinner
Than any soup that ever yet was made.
The guest--whose lanky beak was an obstruction,
The mixture being served upon a plate--
Made countless vain experiments in suction,
While Reynard feasted at a rapid rate.
The victim, bent upon retaliation,
Got up a little dinner in return.
Reynard accepted; for an invitation
To eat and drink was not a thing to spurn.
He reached the Stork's at the appointed hour,
Flattered the host, as well as he was able,
And got his grinders ready to devour
Whatever dishes might be brought to table.
But, lo! the Stork, to punish the offender,
Had got the meat cut very fine, and placed
Within a jug; the neck was long and slender,
Suited exactly to its owner's taste.
The Stork, whose appetite was most extensive,
Emptied the jug entirely to the dregs;
While hungry Reynard, quite abashed and pensive,
Walked homewards with his tail between his legs.

Deceivers reap the fruits of their deceit,
And being cheated may reform a cheat.

[Illustration: THE LION AND THE GNAT.]

FABLE XXVII.

THE LION AND THE GNAT.

"Go, paltry insect, refuse of the earth!"
Thus said the Lion to the Gnat one day.
The Gnat held the Beast King as little worth;
Immediate war declared--no joke, I say.
"Think you I care for Royal name?
I care no button for your fame;
An ox is stronger far than you,
Yet oxen often I pursue."
This said; in anger, fretful, fast,
He blew his loudest trumpet blast,
And charged upon the Royal Nero,
Himself a trumpet and a hero.
The time for vengeance came;
The Gnat was not to blame.
Upon the Lion's neck he settled, glad
To make the Lion raving mad;
The monarch foams: his flashing eye
Rolls wild. Before his roaring fly
All lesser creatures; close they hide
To shun his cruelty and pride:
And all this terror at
The bite of one small Gnat,
Who changes every moment his attack,
First on the mouth, next on the back;
Then in the very caverns of the nose,
Gives no repose.
The foe invisible laughed out,
To see a Lion put to rout;
Yet clearly saw
That tooth nor claw
Could blood from such a pigmy draw.
The helpless Lion tore his hide,
And lashed with furious tail his side;
Lastly, quite worn, and almost spent,
Gave up his furious intent.
With glory crowned, the Gnat the battle-ground
Leaves, his victorious trump to sound,
As he had blown the battle charge before,
Still one blast for the conquest more.
He flies now here, now there,
To tell it everywhere.
Alas! it so fell out he met
A spider's ambuscaded net,
And perished, eaten in mid-air.

What may we learn by this? why, two things, then:
First, that, of enemies, the smaller men
Should most be dreaded; also, secondly,
That passing through great dangers there may be
Still pitfalls waiting for us, though too small to see.

FABLE XXVIII.

THE ASS LADEN WITH SPONGES, AND THE ASS LADEN WITH SALT.

A Peasant, like a Roman Emperor bearing
His sceptre on his shoulder, proudly
Drove his two steeds with long cars, swearing
At one of them, full often and full loudly.
The first, with sponges laden, fast and fleet
Moved well its feet:
The second (it was hardly its own fault)
Bore bags of salt.
O'er mountain, dale, and weary road.
The weary pilgrims bore their load,
Till to a ford they came one day;
They halted there
With wondering air;
The driver knowing very well the way,
Leaped on the Ass the sponges' load that bore,
And drove the other beast before.
That Ass in great dismay
Fell headlong in a hole;
Then plashed and scrambled till he felt
The lessening salt begin to melt;
His shoulders soon had liberty,
And from their heavy load were free.
His comrade takes example from his brother,
As sheep will follow one another;
Up to his neck the creature plunges
Himself, his rider, and the sponges;
All three drank deep, the man and Ass
Tipple together many a glass.
The load seemed turned to lead;
The Ass, now all but dead,
Quite failed to gain the bank: his breath
Was gone: the driver clung like death
Till some one came, no matter who, and aid.
Enough, if I have shown by what I've said,
That all can't act alike, you know;
And this is what I wished to show.

FABLE XXIX.

THE LION AND THE RAT.

It's well to please all people when you can;
There's none so small but one his aid may need.
Here are two fables, if you give good heed,
Will prove the truth to any honest man.

A Rat, in quite a foolish way,
Crept from his hole between a Lion's paws;
The king of animals showed on that day
His royalty, and never snapped his jaws.
The kindness was not unrepaid;
Yet, who'd have thought a Lion would need aid

[Illustration: THE LION AND THE RAT.]

From a poor Rat?
Soon after that
The Lion in the forest brake,
In their strong toils the hunters take;
In vain his roars, his frenzy, and his rage.
But Mr. Rat runs up; a mesh or two
Nibbles, and lets the Lion through

Patience and length of time may sever,
What strength and empty wrath could never.

FABLE XXX.

THE DOVE AND THE ANT.

The next example we must get
From creatures even smaller yet.
A Dove came to a brook to drink,
When, leaning on the crumbling brink,
An Ant fell in, and failed to reach,
Through those vast ocean waves, the beach.
The Dove, so full of charity is she,
Threw down a blade of grass, a promontory,
Unto the Ant, who so once more,
Grateful and glad, escaped to shore.
Just then passed by
A scampish poacher, soft, bare-footed, came
Creeping and sly;
A crossbow in his hand he bore:
Seeing the Dove, he thought the game
Safe in the pot, and ready for the meal:
Quick runs the Ant, and stings his heel;
The angry rascal turns his head;
The Dove, who sees the scoundrel stoop,
Flies off, and with her flies his soup.

FABLE XXXI.

THE ASTROLOGER WHO LET HIMSELF FALL INTO THE WELL.

To an Astrologer, who by a blunder
Fell in a well, said one, "You addle-head,
Blind half an inch before your nose, I wonder
How you can read the planets overhead."

This small adventure, not to go beyond,
A useful lesson to most men may be;
How few there are at times who are not fond
Of giving reins to their credulity,
Holding that men can read,
In times of need,
The solemn Book of Destiny,
That book, of which old Homer sung,
What was the ancient chance, in common sense,
but modern Providence?
Chance that has always bid defiance
To laws and schemes of human science.
If it were otherwise, a single glance
Would tell us there could be no fortune and no chance.
All things uncertain;
Who can lift the curtain?
Who knows the will of the Supreme?
He who made all, and all with a design;
Who but himself can know them? who can dream
He reads the thoughts of the Divine,
Did God imprint upon the star or cloud
The secrets that the night of Time enshroud,
In darkness hid?--only to rack the brains
Of those who write on what each sphere contains.
To help us shun inevitable woes,
And sadden pleasure long before its close;
Teaching us prematurely to destroy,
And turn to evil every coming joy,
This is an error, nay, it is a crime.
The firmament rolls on, the stars have destined time.
The sun gives light by day,
And drives the shadows of the night away.
Yet what can we deduce but that the will Divine
Bids them rise and bids them shine,
To lure the seasons on, to ripen every seed,
To shed soft influence on men;
What has an ordered universe to do indeed,
With chance, that is beyond our ken.
Horoscope-makers, cheats, and quacks.
On Europe's princes turn your backs,
And carry with you every bellows-working alchymist:
You are as bad as they, I wist.--
But I am wandering greatly, as I think,
Let's turn to him whom Fate forced deep to drink.
Besides the vanity of his deceitful art,
He is the type of those who at chimeras gape,
Forgetting danger's simpler shape,
And troubles that before us and behind us start.

[Illustration: THE HARE AND THE FROGS.]

FABLE XXXII.

THE HARE AND THE FROGS.

One day sat dreaming in his form a Hare,
(And what but dream could one do there?)
With melancholy much perplexed
(With grief this creature's often vexed).
"People with nerves are to be pitied,
And often with their dumps are twitted;
Can't even eat, or take their pleasure;
Ennui," he said, "torments their leisure.
See how I live: afraid to sleep,
My eyes all night I open keep.
'Alter your habits,' some one says;
But Fear can never change its ways:
In honest faith shrewd folks can spy,
That men have fear as well as I."
Thus the Hare reasoned; so he kept
Watch day and night, and hardly slept;
Doubtful he was, uneasy ever;
A breath, a shadow, brought a fever.
It was a melancholy creature,
The veriest coward in all nature;
A rustling leaf alarmed his soul,
He fled towards his secret hole.
Passing a pond, the Frogs leaped in,
Scuttling away through thick and thin,
To reach their dark asylums in the mud.
"Oh! oh!" said he, "then I can make them scud
As men make me; my presence scares
Some people too! Why, they're afraid of Hares!
I have alarmed the camp, you see.
Whence comes this courage? Tremble when I come;
I am a thunderbolt of war, may be;
My footfall dreadful as a battle drum!"

There's no poltroon, be sure, in any place,
But he can find a poltroon still more base.

FABLE XXXIII.

THE TWO BULLS AND THE FROG.

Two Bulls were butting in rough battle,
For the fair belle of all the cattle;
A Frog, who saw them, shuddering sighed.
"What ails you?" said a croaker by his side.
"What? why, good gracious! don't you see
The end of all this fight will be
That one will soon be chased, and yield
The empire of this flowery field;
And driven from rich grass to feed,
Searching the marsh for rush and reed,
He'll trample many a back and head,
And every time he moves we're dead.
'Tis very hard a heifer should occasion
To us so cruel an invasion."
There was good sense in the old croaker's fear,
For soon the vanquished Bull came near:
Treading with heedless, brutal power,
He crushed some twenty every hour.

The poor in every age are forced by Fate
To expiate the follies of the great.

[Illustration: THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.]

FABLE XXXIV.

THE PEACOCK COMPLAINING TO JUNO.

The Peacock to great Juno came:
"Goddess," he said, "they justly blame
The song you've given to your bird:
All nature thinks it most absurd,
The while the Nightingale, a paltry thing,
Is the chief glory of the spring:
Her note so sweet, and deep, and strong."
"I do thee, jealous bird, no wrong,"
Juno, in anger, cried:
"Restrain thy foolish pride.
Is it for you to envy other's song?--
You who around your neck art wearing
Of rainbow silks a hundred different dyes?--
You, who can still display to mortal's eyes
A plume that far outfaces
A lapidary's jewel-cases?
Is there a bird beneath the skies
More fit to please and strike?
No animal has every gift alike:
We've given you each one his special dower;
This one has beauty, and that other power.
Falcons are swift; the Eagle's proud and bold;
By Ravens sorrow is foretold;
The Crow announces miseries to come;
All are content if singing or if dumb.
Cease, then, to murmur, lest, as punishment,
The plumage from thy foolish back be rent."

FABLE XXXV.

THE BAT AND THE TWO WEASELS.

A Bat one day into a Weasel's hole
Went boldly; well, it was a special blunder.
The Weasel, hating mice with heart and soul,
Ran up to eat the stranger--where's the wonder?
"How do you dare," he said, "to meet me here,
When you and I are foes, and always were?
Aint you a mouse?--lie not, and cast off fear;
You are; or I'm no Weasel: have a care."
"Now, pardon me," replied the Bat,
"I'm really anything but that.
What! I a mouse? the wicked tattlers lie.
Thanks to the Maker of all human things,
I am a bird--here are my wings:
Long live the cleavers of the sky!"
These arguments seemed good, and so
The Weasel let the poor wretch go.
But two days later, though it seems absurd,
The simpleton into another hole intruded.
This second Weasel hated every bird,
And darted on the rash intruder.
"There you mistake," the Bat exclaimed;
"Look at me, ain[']t I rashly blamed?
What makes a bird? its feathers?--yes.
I am a mouse--long live the rats,
And Jupiter take all the cats."
So twice, by his supreme address,
This Bat was saved--thanks to finesse.

Many there are who, changing uniform,
Have laughed at every danger and intrigue;
The wise man cries, to 'scape the shifting storm,
"Long live the King!" or, "Glory to the League!"

FABLE XXXVI.

THE BIRD WOUNDED BY AN ARROW.

A bird by well-aimed arrow shot,
Dying, deplored its cruel lot;
And cried, "It doubles every pain
When from oneself the cause of ruin's ta'en.
Oh, cruel men, from our own wings you drew
The plume that winged the shaft that slew;
But mock us not, you heartless race,
You too will some time take our place;
For half at least of Japhet's brothers
Forge swords and knives to slay the others."

FABLE XXXVII.

THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.

The Arts are birthrights; true, and being so,
The fable to the ancient Greeks we owe;
But still the field can ne'er be reaped so clean
As not to let the later comers glean.
The world of fiction's full of deserts bare,
Yet still our authors make discoveries there.
Let me repeat a story, good, though old,
That Malherbe to Racan, 'tis rumoured, told;
Rivals of Horace, heirs in every way,
Apollo's sons, our masters, I should say:
They met one time in friendly solitude,
Unbosoming those cares that will obtrude.
Racan commences thus,--"Tell me, my friend,
You, who the clue of life, from end to end,
Know well, and step by step, and stage by stage,
Have lost no one experience of age;
How shall I settle? I must choose my station.
You know my fortune, birth, and education.
Shall I the provinces make my resort,
Carry the colours, or push on at court?
The world has bitterness, and it has charms,
War has its sweets, and marriage its alarms:
Easy to follow one's own natural bent,
But I've both court and people to content."
"Please everybody!" Malherbe says, with crafty eye,
"Now hear my story ere you make reply.
I've somewhere read, a Miller and his Son,
One just through life, the other scarce begun
(Boy of fifteen, if I remember well),
Went one fair day a favourite Ass to sell;
To take him fresh--according to wise rules--
They tied his feet and swung him--the two fools--
They carried him just like a chandelier.
Poor simple rustics (idiots, I fear),
The first who met them gave a loud guffaw,
And asked what clumsy farce it was he saw.
'The greatest ass is not the one who walks,'
So sneeringly the passing horseman talks.
The Miller frees the beast, by this convinced.
The discontented creature brayed and winced
In its own patois; for the change was bad:
Then the good Miller mounted the poor lad.
As he limped after, there came by that way
Three honest merchants, who reviling say,
'Dismount! why, that won't do, you lazy lad;
Give up the saddle to your grey-haired dad;
You go behind, and let your father ride.'
'Yes, masters,' said the Miller, 'you decide
Quite right; both ways I am content.'
He took his seat, and then away they went.
Three girls next passed: 'Oh, what a shame!' says one,
'A father treating like a slave his son!
The churl rides like a bishop's calf. 'Not I,'
The Miller made the girls a sharp reply:
'Too old for veal, you hussies, and ill-famed.'
Still with such jesting he became ashamed,
Thought he'd done wrong; and changing his weak mind,

[Illustration: THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS.]

Took up his son upon the croup behind.
But three yards more, a third, sour, carping set,
Began to cavil,--'Biggest fools we've met!
The beast is done--he'll die beneath their blows.
What! load a poor old servant!' so it grows:
'They'll go to market, and they'll sell his skin.'
'Parbleu!' the Miller said, 'not worth a pin
The fellow's brains who tries with toil and strife
To please the world, his neighbour, and his wife.
But still we'll have a try as we've begun:'
So off the Ass they jumped, himself and son.
The Ass in state goes first, and then came they.
A quidnunc met them--What! is that the way?
The Ass at ease, the Miller quite foot-sore!
That seems an Ass that's greatly held in store.
Set him in gold--frame him--now, by the mass,
Wear out one's shoes, to save a paltry Ass!
Not so went Nicolas his Jeanne to woo;
The song says that he rode to save his shoe.
There go three asses.' 'Right,' the Miller cries;
'I am an Ass, it's true, and you are wise;
But henceforth I don't care, so let them blame
Or praise, no matter, it shall be the same;
Let them be quiet, pshaw! or let them tell,
I'll go my own way now;'" and he did well.

Then follow Mars, or Cupid, or the Court,
Walk, sit, or run, in town or country sport,
Marry or take the cowl, empty or fill the bag,
Still never doubt the babbling tongues will wag.

FABLE XXXVIII.

THE COCK AND THE FOX.

Upon a branch a crafty sentinel,
A very artful old bird, sat.
"Brother," a Fox said, "greet you well"
(He speaks so soft--there's guile in that);
"Our quarrel's over, peace proclaimed:
I bring the news; come down, embrace:
Do not delay: I shall be blamed
If soon not twenty stages from this place.
Now you and yours can take your ease:
Do what you please,
Without a fear;
We're brothers now, you know, my dear.
Light up the bonfires everywhere:
Dismiss all care;
But let us first, to seal the bliss,
Have one fraternal, tender kiss."
"Friend," said the Cock, "upon my word,
More glorious news I never heard.
This peace.
May it increase;
It's double joy to hear it, friend, from thee.
Ha! there I see
Two greyhounds--couriers, doubtless, as you are--
Coming fast down yonder scaur:
They'll be here in a minute,
Ah! yes, there's something in it--
I'll come down quick:--we'd better kiss all round."
"Adieu," the Fox said; "Sir, my business presses;
We shall meet shortly, I'll be bound:
Another time we can exult
Over this end of our distresses."
Then off the rascal ran to ground,
Full of chagrin and discontent.
The Cock laughed loud, to see his fear,
And clapped his wings, his wives to cheer.

It is a pleasure doubly sweet
To trick the scoundrel and the cheat.

FABLE XXXIX.

THE FROGS WHO ASKED FOR A KING.

Of Democrats the Frogs grew tired,
And unto Monarchy aspired;
Clamour so loud, that from a cloud
Great Jove in pity dropped a King,
Silent and peaceful, all allowed;
And yet he fell with such a splash, the thing
Quite terrified those poor marsh folks,
Not fond of jokes,
Foolish and timid, all from him hid;
And each one brushes

[Illustration: THE FROGS WHO ASKED FOR A KING.]

To hide in reeds, or sneak in rushes;
And from their swampy holes, poor little souls!
For a long time they dared not peep
At the great giant, still asleep.
And yet the monarch of the bog
Was but a LOG,
Whose solemn gravity inspired with awe
The first who venturing saw:
He hobbled somewhat near,
With trembling and with fear;
Then others followed, and another yet,
Until a crowd there met;
At last the daring mob grew bolder,
And leaped upon the royal shoulder;
Good man, he did not take it ill,
But as before kept still.
Soon Jupiter is deafened with the din--
"Give us a king who'll move," they all begin.
The monarch of the gods sends down a Crane,
Who with a vengeance comes to reign.
He gobbles and he munches,
He sups and lunches;
Till louder still the Frogs complain.
"Why, see!" great Jupiter replied,
"How foolishly you did decide.
You'd better kept your first--the last is worst.
You must allow, if you are fair,
King Log was calm and debonair:
With him, then, be ye now content,
For fear a third, and worse, be sent."

FABLE XL.

THE DOG AND HER COMPANION.

A Dog, proud of her new-born family,
And needing shelter for her restless brood,
Begged a snug kennel with such urgency,
A generous friend at last was found who would
Supply her pressing need--so it was lent.
After a week or so the good soul went
And asked it back.--"Only a fortnight more:"
The little ones could hardly walk as yet;
'Twas kindly granted as before.
The second term expired, again they met:
The friend demands her house, her room, her bed.
This time the graceless Dog showed teeth, and scowled;
"I and my children are prepared to go," she growled,
"If you can put us out and reign instead."
By this time they were grown,
And better left alone.

Lend to bad men, and you'll regret it much;
To draw from them the money right,
You must plead, and you must fight,
Or else your gold you'll never touch.
Only the truth I mean to tell:
Give them an inch, they'll take an ell.

[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.]

FABLE XLI.

THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.

A Certain hungry Fox, of Gascon breed
(Or Norman--but the difference is small),
Discovered, looking very ripe indeed,
Some Grapes that hung upon an orchard-wall.
Striving to clamber up and seize the prey,
He found the fruit was not within his power;
"Well, well," he muttered, as he walked away,
"It's my conviction that those Grapes are sour."

The Fox did wisely to accept his lot;
'Twas better than complaining, was it not?

FABLE XLII.

THE EAGLE AND THE BEETLE.

John Rabbit, by an Eagle followed, fled,
And in his terror hid his head
In a poor Beetle's hole, that happened to be there.
You well may guess that this poor lair
Was insecure; but where to hide? alack!
He crouched--the Eagle pounced upon his back.
The friendly Beetle intercedes,
And, all in tears, he kindly pleads:
"Queen of the Birds! no doubt, in spite of me,
You can this trembling creature bear away;
But spare me this affront, this grief, I pray.
John Rabbit begs his little life of thee;
Grant it for pity's sake, sweet ma'am, now do!"
The bird of Jove disdained to make reply,
But struck the Beetle with her wing--one--two--
Then bore John Rabbit to the upper sky.
Indignant Beetle, of revenge in quest,
Flew straight to the proud Eagle's nest;
Broke in her absence all her eggs--the lot--
Her sweetest hopes--the eggs she held so dear.
Angry people have no fear.
The Eagle, coming to the well-loved spot,
And seeing all the hideous fricassee,
Filled heaven with shrieks; but could not find
On whom to vent her wrath--you see,
Her fury made her blind.
She mourned in vain; that year it was her fate
Childless to be, and desolate.
The next she built a loftier nest--in vain,
The Beetle addled all the eggs again.
John Rabbit's death was well avenged indeed!
For six long months the Eagle's moanings flew,
And woke the echoing forest through.
The bird that bore off Ganymede,
Furious and loud remonstrance made,
And flew to Jupiter for aid.
Her eggs she placed upon the Thunderer's lap--
There could come no mishap;
Jove must defend them: who would dare
To touch the objects of his care?
The enemy now changed his note; he soared,
And let some earth fall where they're stored;
The god, his vestment shaking carelessly,
Let the eggs fall into infinity.
The Eagle, mad with rage at the event
(Merely an accident),
Swore she would leave the wicked court,
And make the desert her resort;
With such vagaries.--
(In rage all fair is.)
Poor Jupiter in silence heard;
The Beetle came, and charged the bird--
In the tribunal of the upper air
Related the affair.
The god pronounced the Eagle in the wrong,
But still the mutual hate was strong.
To make a truce, Jove then arranged
The time for Eagles' hatching should be changed
To winter, when the marmots sleep,
And Beetles from the daylight keep.

[Illustration]

FABLE XLIII.

THE RAVEN WHO WISHED TO IMITATE THE EAGLE.

The bird of Jove bore off a heavy "mutton;"
A Raven, witness of the whole affair,
Weaker in back, but scarcely less a glutton,
Resolved to do the same, whate'er
Might come of it.
With greedy wit,
Around the flock he made a sweep,
Marking, among the fattest sheep,
One of enormous size,
Fit for a sacrifice.
Said Master Raven, winking both his eyes,
"Your nurse's name I cannot tell,
But such fat flesh will suit me well:
You're ready for my eating."
Then on the sheep, slow, sluggish, bleating,
The Raven settled down, not knowing
The beast weighed more than a mere cream-cheese could.
It had a fleece as thickly growing
As beard of Polyphemus--tangled wood--
That clung to either claw; the animal could not withdraw.
The shepherd comes, and calling to his boy,
Gives him the Raven for a toy.

We must take care; the moral is quite clear--
The footpad mustn't rob on the highway.
Example is a dangerous lure, I fear:
Men-eaters are not all great people; no, I say,
Where wasps passed last week gnats are crushed to-day.

[Illustration]

FABLE XLIV.

THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.

After a thousand years of open war,
The Wolves signed treaty with their foes, the Sheep:
It seemed to be the best for both, by far;
For if the Wolves contrived their tithes to reap,
The shepherds liked a coat of tanned Wolf-skin.
No liberty for pasture had there been,
Neither for carnage; never was there rest!
None could enjoy what pleasures seemed the best;
Peace was concluded--hostages surrendered.
The Wolves their cubs, the Sheep their watch-dogs rendered;

[Illustration: THE WOLVES AND THE SHEEP.]

Th' exchange was made in form and order due,
Commissioners were there and not a few;
Some time elapsed, but soon the Wolf-cubs grew
To perfect Wolves, and with a taste for killing;
They chose a time the shepherds were away,
Choked all the fattest lambs that they could slay,
And bore them to the woods; no whit unwilling,
Their fellow-plotters waited for them there.
The dogs, who, full of trust, had thrown by care,
Were slain so quickly, that not one e'en knew
Who their assailants were that bit and slew.
War 'gainst the bad, a war that never ends;
Peace is a wholesome thing, good men are friends.
That I allow; yet peace is but a word, a senseless joke,
With wicked people, and such faithless folk.

FABLE XLV.

THE CAT CHANGED INTO A WOMAN.

A Man loved, heart and soul, his favourite Cat;
She was his pet, his beauty, and all that.
Her mewing was so sweet, and was so sad:--
He was far madder than the mad.
This man, then, by his tears and praying,
By wizard charms and much soothsaying,
Wrought things so well, that Destiny,
One fine day, changed the Cat into a Woman
(A change uncommon).
And they were married, soon as they could be.
Mad friends became mad lovers then;
And not the fairest dame e'er known
Had ever such affection shown
To him she'd chosen from all men.
The love-blind fool, delighted with his bride,
Found not a trace of Cat was left at all,
No scratch or caterwaul;
He fondles her, she him: she is his pride;
She is the fairest of her kind,
A perfect woman, to his mind.
One night some mice came gnawing at the curtain;
It broke the lady's sleep, that's certain;
At once she leaped upon her feet--
To cats revenge is very sweet--
And on all-fours she ran to seize
Those creatures always prone to tease;
But she was changed--in shape and wit--
They did not care for her a bit
This aberration on her part
Was grief perpetual to his heart.
It never ceased to be the way
Whenever mice were out at play;
For when a certain time has gone,
The jug is seasoned; and the cloth gets wrinkles.
In vain we try to alter what is done,
The warning bell unheeded tinkles.
Things will not change again; one knows
There is no way to end the matter,
Neither by pitchforks nor by blows;
Though Habit you should beat and tatter.
You'll not be master of the place,
Saddle or bridle--how you will;
For if the door's slammed in its face,
It comes back o'er the window-sill.

[Illustration: PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.]

FABLE XLVI.

PHILOMEL AND PROGNE.

Progne, the Swallow, set forth from her dwelling,
And, leaving the cities afar, took flight
For the grove that Philomel chose for telling
Her ancient griefs to the listening night.
"Sister," said Progne, "I have not met you
For nearly the space of a thousand years.
Why are we parted? I cannot forget you,
Nor banish our Thracian trials and tears.
Come, leave this wood; it is dark and lonely."
"What haunt could be pleasanter?" Philomel asked.
"And is it," said Progne, "for animals only,
Or peasants at best, that your efforts are tasked?
With a note so rich 'tis a thousand pities
To scatter its charms to the desert air.
Come, quit this grove to delight our cities,
And waste no longer a gift so rare.
These woods, my sister, must oft remind you
Of all the sorrow King Tereus wrought.
Leave, leave the terrible days behind you,
And give to the past not a tearful thought."
"'Tis the memory, dear, of our Thracian troubles,"
Said Philomel, sadly, "that bids me stay;
For the sight of humanity only doubles
The grief of the times that have passed away!"

[Illustration]

FABLE XLVII.

THE LION AND THE ASS.

The King of Animals a battue made
Upon his birthday, bent to fill his bags.
The Lion's game is not with sparrows played;
But boars of bulk, and good-sized portly stags.
For an ally in this affair,
He had an able minister.
The Ass, with Stentor's voice, served as his hunting-horn;
The Lion hid deep 'mid the thickest wood,
And ordered him to bray loud as he could;
So that the clamour shrilly borne,
Might drive from every nook and lair
Those not initiated to the sound.
The hideous tempest came; the air
Shook with the dreadful discord; round
It flew, and scared the fiercest forest creatures;
They fled with terror-stricken features.
And fell into the ready snare,
Where the King Lion stood to meet his prey.
"Have I not served thee brave and true?"
The Ass said, taking to himself the palm.
"Yes," quoth the Lion, grave and calm,
"'Twas nobly brayed; I own to you,
Had I not known your name and race,
I had been almost frightened too!"
Had he been rash, the Ass, his rage
Would not have hidden, I'll engage.
Just was the rallying, though severe;
For who can bear a bragging Ass?
It does not fit their rank or class,
And very ill becomes their business here.

[Illustration]

FABLE XLVIII.

THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT.

I've read in some old Fabulist, I know,
A second Nibblelard, of Cats
The Alexander, and of Rats
The Attila, struck many a fatal blow;
And this exterminating creature
Was quite a Cerberus by nature.
(The author writes) For miles away,
This Cat was feared; he'd vowed, they say,
To clear the world of mice,
And in a trice.
The disks within a jar hung gingerly,
"The death to Rats:" the traps, and gins, and springs,
The nooses, poisons, and such things,
Were nothing to this Cat, but merely toys.
Soon as he heard no longer stir or noise,
The mice being prisoned in each hole,
Cheek and jowl;
So that it was in vain to hope for prey,
He tried another "lay."
Shammed death, laid down fast holding by a cord;
A trickster, eager for the horde--
The mice, good folk, deem he is hung
For stealing meat or cheese, tight strung
For scratching some one, or for breaking done.
At last they think the monster's sand is run;
His funeral will be quite a gala day.
Then out they slowly creep,
First one small nose, and then another,
Next a young mouse, then an old brother,
And then they scurry back in fright;
But four step once more to the light,
And lastly all come out to play,
And now begins another sort of treat:

[Illustration: THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT.]

The dead Cat falls upon his nimble feet,
Snaps up the slowest, head and tail.
"Ha! ha!" he gobbling cried, "It could not fail,
My ruse de guerre; no holes avail
To save these creatures, and I warn them now,
They all will come to the same mouth, I trow."
His prophecy came true--the master of his art,
A second time played well his part.
His fur he whitened o'er with flour,
That very hour,
And hid within
A white meal bin.
No bad contrivance, every one must own.
The Rats could not leave well alone;
One Rat was wary, shy to venture out,
And pry about--
Man of the world, and master of finesse,
He'd lost his tail in battle, too,
And half a dozen tricks he knew.
"This mass of white may be all sham, I guess,"
He cried, still shunning the Cat's ambuscade:
"Beneath the stuff I fear some trap is laid;
No matter if it's flour or no,
It may be so;
But sack or not, still I won't venture near."
'Twas neatly said, his prudence and his fears
I much approve; Experience told him true,
Suspicion's Safety's mother,
And Wisdom's foster brother.

[Illustration]

FABLE XLIX.

A WILL INTERPRETED BY ÆSOP.

If what they say of Æsop's truth,
He was the oracle of Greece indeed;
And all the Areopagus, in sooth,
Was not so wise. And here, if you would plead
For proof, I'll give one, in a pleasant tale,
My friends and readers to regale.

A certain man had daughters three,
Each of a different turn of mind:
The one a toper, loving company;
The second, fond of all coquetry;
The third a miser, and to save inclined.
The man left them, by will and deed,
As laws municipal decreed,
Half his estate, divided equally;
And to their mother just the same:
But only in her power to claim
When all the daughters had their own
And nothing more but that alone.
The father dead, the daughters ran
To read the will--they were not slow
To con it; yet, do what they can,
They could not understand it--no.
What did he wish?--yes, that's the question
That took a good deal of digestion.
'Each one that had her part, no more,
Should to her mother pay it o'er.'
It was not quite the usual way,
With no gold left, to go and pay:
What meant their worthy father, then?
They run and ask the black-gowned men,
Who turn the case for many days--
Turn it a hundred thousand ways;
Yet after all, in sheer vexation,
Throw down their wigs in perturbation.
At last the judge advised the heirs
At once to settle the affairs.
As to the widow's part, the counsels say
A third each sister's bound to pay,
Upon demand, unless she choose to take
A life annuity, for quietness' sake,
Beginning from the day her husband died,
And so they all decide.
Then in three lots they part the whole estate:
In number one the plate;
The mighty cellars; summer-houses built
Beneath the vine;
The stores of rich Malvoisin wine;
The spits, the bowls of silver gilt,
And all the tribes of slaves who wait;--
In short, the perfect apparatus,
That gives an epicure his social status.
The second lot comprises
All that a flirting girl surprises:
Embroiderer's, and many a lady's maid,
Jewels, and costly robes;--be sure
The town house, and the furniture,
And stately eunuchs, rich arrayed.
Lot three comprises farming-stock,
Pastures and houses, fold and flock;
Labourers and horses, stores and herds.
This done, they fix, with many words,
That since the lottery won't select
What each one would the most affect,
The eldest have what she likes best,
Leaving the same choice to the rest.
In Athens it fell out,
This pleased the motley rout,
Both great and small.
The judge was praised by all;
Æsop alone derided
The way they had decided.
After much time and pains, they'd gone, he thought,
And set the wishes of the man at nought.
"If the dead came to life," he said,
"Athens aloud he would upbraid.
What! men who cherish subtlety,
To blunder o'er a will so stupidly!"
Then quickly he divides,
And thus the sage decides:--
To each he gave the part
Least grateful to her heart:
Pressing on them what they most hate.
To the coquette the cups and bowls
Cherished and loved by thirsty souls;
The toper had the farm; still worse than that,
The miser had the slaves and dresses.
This is the way, Æsop confesses,
To make the sisters alienate
Their shares of the bequeathed estate;
Nor would they longer single tarry,
But run post haste, and quickly marry;
So very soon the father's gold, set free,
Would to the mother come, with certainty,
Which was the meaning of the testament.
The people wondered, as they homeward went,
That he alone should have more brains
Than all the lawyers and their trains.

FABLE L.

THE LION IN LOVE.

TO MADEMOISELLE SEVIGNE.

Lady, whose charms were meant to be
A model for the Graces three;
Lend graciously your gentle ear,
And but one simple fable hear;
You'll see, without profound alarm,
A Lion quelled by Cupid's arm.
Love rules with such a tyranny,
Happy those shunning slavery;
Who the harsh monarch only know
By song and poem, not by blow.

[Illustration: THE LION IN LOVE.]

When I dare speak of love to you,
Pardon the fable, no whit true,
That gives me courage to bring it,
Perhaps with more of zeal than wit,
A simple offering, rough and rude,
Of my devoted gratitude.
In times when animals could speak,
The Lion came intent to seek
Mankind'

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