FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[50]In the whole range of literature there are no apter similes than these: the darkness and gloom of the fool's heart and the closeness of the miser's fist.[51]A nobleman of the East, famous for his hospitality.[52]'About a dozen instances or so must stand for the present as representing the contribution of the Jātakas to the question of the origin of Æsop's fables.'—Jacobs: 'History of Fable.'[53]In her 'Commonplace Book,' Longmans, 1854, pp. 142, 143.

[50]In the whole range of literature there are no apter similes than these: the darkness and gloom of the fool's heart and the closeness of the miser's fist.

[51]A nobleman of the East, famous for his hospitality.

[52]'About a dozen instances or so must stand for the present as representing the contribution of the Jātakas to the question of the origin of Æsop's fables.'—Jacobs: 'History of Fable.'

[53]In her 'Commonplace Book,' Longmans, 1854, pp. 142, 143.

'Lie gently on their ashes, gentle earth.'Beaumont and Fletcher.

'Lie gently on their ashes, gentle earth.'

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Itis a remarkable circumstance in connection with the literature of fable, that those who have excelled in it are comparatively few. The principal names that occur to us are Æsop, La Fontaine, Gay, Lessing, Krilof; 'the rest are all but leather or prunello,' if we except a few rare examples from Northcote and Cowper. The composition of fables seems to call for the exercise of a talent which is peculiar and rare. La Fontaine says[54]that the writing of apologues is a gift sent down from the immortals. Not even those who have practised the art have always succeeded in it to perfection. Gay, who is esteemed the best of the English fabulists, is often prolix and lacking in point. La Fontaine, sprightly as are his renderings of the ancient fables which he foundready to his hand, is weak and commonplace in his attempts at originality. Dodsley is too didactic and goody-goody; Northcote is stilted, and often unnatural. Even Krilof, admirable as he generally is, is sometimes darkly obscure, and his moral difficult to find. Lessing comes nearest to the terseness and concentration of the Æsopian model, but many of his so-called fables are better described as epigrams and witticisms. True, all these writers have sometimes, like the Phrygian, 'hit the mark,' but oftener they have missed not only the bull's-eye, but the target itself; and the arrows of their satire are frequently lost in the mazes of verbiage. Æsop alone is in the fable what Shakespeare is in the drama, a paragon without a peer, and all competitors with either of these master minds must be content to take a lower place—to stand on a lower plane.

Excellent as many modern fables fare, full of instruction and entertainment, it is but few of them that spontaneously recur to us in connection with the affairs of daily life.

Amongst modern fabulists, La Fontaine stands in the front rank. Jean de la Fontaine was born at Chateau-Thierry on July 8, 1621; died in Paris, March 15, 1695,[55]in his seventy-fourth year; and was buried in the cemetery of St.Joseph, near the remains of his friend Molière. He was one of the galaxy of great men and writers that adorned the age of Louis XIV. His fables, as is well known, are in verse, and include the best of those from ancient sources, with others of his own invention. He may be said to have turned Æsop into rhyme. The happy spirit of the genial Frenchman inspires them all. They are written with a vivacity and sprightliness all his own, and these qualities, with the humour which he infuses into them, make their perusal exhilarating and health-giving.

'I have considered,' says he, 'that as these fables are already known to all the world, I should have done nothing if I had not rendered them in some degree new, by clothing them with certain fresh characteristics. I have endeavoured to meet the wants of the day, which are novelty and gaiety; and by gaiety I do not mean merely that which excites laughter, but a certain charm, an agreeable air, which may be given to every species of subject, even the most serious.'[56]He had attained to middle age before he found his true vocation in literature, his first collection of fables in six books being published in 1668, when he was forty-seven years of age.

La Fontaine is well known in this country by the English translations of his work. A versioncontaining some of his best fables was published anonymously in 1820, but is known to be from the pen of John Matthews of Herefordshire. In his preface, Matthews states that the fables are not altogether a translation or an imitation of La Fontaine, because in most of them are allusions to public characters and the events of the times, where they are suggested by the subject. These allusions are largely political. The fables, apart from these ephemeral references to personages and events, are written with great cleverness and vivacity, full of humour, and in many instances are well suited for recitation.

The Fox and the Storkis a good example of his style:

'For sport once Renard, sly old sinner,Press'd gossip Stork to share his dinner."Neighbour, I must entreat you'll stayAnd take your soup with me to-day.My praise shall not my fare enhance,But let me beg you'll take your chance;You're kindly welcome were it better."She yielded as he thus beset her,And soon arrived the pottage smokingIn plates of shallow depth provoking.'Twas vain the guest essay'd to fillWith unsubstantial fare her bill.'Twas vain she fish'd to find a collop,The host soon lapp'd the liquor all up.Dame Stork conceal'd her deep displeasure,But thought to find revenge at leisure;And said, "Ere long, my friend, you'll tryMy humble hospitality.I know your taste, and we'll contrive—To-morrow I'm at home at five."With punctual haste the wily scofferAccepts his neighbour's friendly offer,And ent'ring cries, "Dear Stork, how is it?You see I soon return your visit,I can't resist when you invite;I've brought a famous appetite.The steam which issues from your kitchenProves that your pot there's something rich in."The Stork with civil welcome greeted,And soon at table they were seated,When lo! there came upon the boardHash'd goose in two tall pitchers pour'd—Pitchers whose long and narrow neckSly Renard's jaws completely check,Whilst the gay hostess, much diverted,Her bill with perfect ease inserted.The Fox, half mad at this retorter,Sought dinner in some other quarter.Hoaxers, for you this tale is written,Learn hence that biters may be bitten.'

Matthews adds this note: 'Hoaxers, for you, this tale is written.The word "hoax," though sufficiently expressive, and admitted into general use, has not, perhaps, found its way into the dictionaries. It is, however, of some importance, as it serves in some measure to characterize the times we live in. Former periods have been distinguished by the epithets golden, silver, brazen, iron. Notwithstanding the multiplicity of metals which chemistry has now discovered, none of them may be sufficiently descriptive of the manners of menin these days. Quitting, therefore, the ancient mode of classification, the present may not be unaptly designated the hoaxing age. The term deserves a definition. A hoax may be said to bea practical joke, calculated more or less to injure its object, sometimes accompanied by a high degree of criminality. This definition, which is much at the service of future English lexicographers, includes not only the minor essays of mischievous humour, which assembles all the schoolmasters of the Metropolis at one house; the medical professors and undertakers at another; the milliners, mantua-makers, and mercers at a third; whilst the street before the victim's door is blocked up by grand pianofortes, Grecian couches, caravans of wild beasts, and patent coffins; but also the more sublime strokes of genius, which would acquire sudden wealth by throwing Change Alley into an uproar—which would gain excessive popularity by gulling the English people with a show of mock patriotism—which can make bankrupts in fortune and reputation leaders of thousands and tens of thousands, so as to threaten destruction to the State. The performers of all these notable exploits may be denominated hoaxers, most of whom may, in the end, find themselves involved in the predicament expressed in the concluding couplet of the fable.'

We are tempted to give another very fineexample from Matthews, containing as it does an interesting reference to the two mighty men of letters of the first quarter of the present century—The Viper and the File:

'A Viper chanc'd his head to popInto a neighbouring blacksmith's shop.Long near the place had he been lurking,And stayed till past the hours for working.As with keen eyes he glanc'd aroundIn search of food, a File he found:Of meats he saw no single itemWhich tempted hungry jaws to bite 'em.So with his fangs the eager foolAttack'd the rough impassive tool;And whilst his wounded palate bled,Fancied on foreign gore he fed.When thus the File retorted coolly:"Viper! this work's ingenious, truly!No more those idle efforts try;Proof 'gainst assaults like yours am I.On me you'd fracture ev'ry bone;I feel the teeth of Time alone."Thus did a Poet,[57]vain and young(Who since has palinody sung),His fangs upon a Minstrel's lay[58]Fix hard. 'Twas labour thrown away!On that sweet Bard of Doric strainThis venom'd bite was tried in vain:His flights, thro' no dark medium view'd,Derive from fog no magnitude;But bright and clear to charm our eyesHis vivid pictures boldly rise.In painting manners, arms, and dress, sureTime show'd him all his form and pressure.Bard of the North! thou still shalt beA File to Critics, harsh as he.Tho' Time has teeth, thou need'st not fear 'em;Thy verse defies old Edax Rerum!'

It must be confessed that the general moral here is not very obvious, though the special application of the fable to the circumstances of Byron's attack on Scott, and his subsequent recantation—with the fabulist's eulogy of the 'Bard of the North'—are expressed in charming and faultless verse.

John Gay, who was born in the parish of Landkey, near Barnstaple, Devonshire, in 1685, and died in London, on December 4, 1732, aged forty-seven, is, without question, the best of the English fabulists. Unlike most writers in this department of literature, his fables are almost all original. His language is choice and elegant, yet well suited to his subject. His rhymes are perfect, and at times he almost rises into poetry. His fables, however, are lacking in humour, and they have not that aboundingespritandnaïvetéwhich characterize La Fontaine.

Gay was a writer of much industry,[59]producing during his lifetime almost every species of composition. His 'Beggar's Opera' is yet occasionallyseen on the stage, and this, after his fables, is his best-known work.

He was essentially Bohemian in disposition and habits, and lacking in business capacity; a man of culture, however, a pleasant companion, and a warm-hearted friend. He was on intimate terms with Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and other distinguished men of letters and wits of his day, and the eccentric but kind-hearted Duchess of Queensberry was his patron and friend. Unfortunately, he was too much given to dangling at the skirts of the great, and sueing for place at Court instead of depending on his own genius, which was unquestionably of no mean order. Notwithstanding this failing, he was no sycophant or flatterer, but exposed the follies and vices of human nature, as exemplified in the characters of the rich and great, as in those of the humbler ranks, without fear or favour. His best-known fables are probablyThe Hare and many Friends, andThe Miser and Plutus.

Many of Gay's lines, both from his fables and plays, have become widely popular, for example:

'Princes, like beauties, from their youthAre strangers to the voice of truth.Learn to contemn all praise betimes,For Flattery's the nurse of crimes.''In every age and clime we seeTwo of a trade can ne'er agree.''While there's life there's hope.''Those who in quarrels interposeMust often wipe a bloody nose.''When a lady's in the caseYou know all other things give place.''And what's a butterfly? At bestHe's but a caterpillar dressed.'''Tis woman that seduces all mankind.''How happy could I be with eitherWere t'other dear charmer away.'

'Princes, like beauties, from their youthAre strangers to the voice of truth.Learn to contemn all praise betimes,For Flattery's the nurse of crimes.'

'In every age and clime we seeTwo of a trade can ne'er agree.'

'While there's life there's hope.'

'Those who in quarrels interposeMust often wipe a bloody nose.'

'When a lady's in the caseYou know all other things give place.'

'And what's a butterfly? At bestHe's but a caterpillar dressed.'

''Tis woman that seduces all mankind.'

'How happy could I be with eitherWere t'other dear charmer away.'

And his own epitaph, written by himself:

'Life's a jest, and all things show it;I thought so once, and now I know it.'

In the letter to Pope in which this distich is given, he says: 'If anybody should ask how I could communicate this after death, let it be known it is not meant so, but my present sentiments in life.'

Gay was buried in Westminster Abbey. The monument which marks his grave bears the well-known lines composed by Pope:

'Of manners gentle, of Affections mild,In wit a Man, simplicity, a child;With native Humour, temp'ring Virtuous Rage,Formed to delight at once and lash the Age:Above Temptation in a low Estate,And uncorrupted, e'en among the great.A safe Companion, and an easy Friend,Unblam'd thro' life, lamented in thy End.These are thy Honours! Not that here thy BustIs mix'd with Heroes, or with Kings thy Dust:But that the Worthy and the Good shall say,Striking their pensive bosoms,—here lies Gay.'

The piece we have selected,The Miser and Plutus, as an example of his work as a fabulist, is in his best style, and the moral is irreproachable:

'The wind was high, the window shakes,With sudden start the Miser wakes;Along the silent room he stalks,Looks back, and trembles as he walks.Each lock and every bolt he tries,In every creek and corner pries;Then opes the chest with treasure stor'd,And stands in rapture o'er his hoard:But now with sudden qualms possest,He wrings his hands, he beats his breast;By conscience stung he wildly stares,And thus his guilty soul declares:"Had the deep earth her stores confin'd,This heart had known sweet peace of mind.But virtue's sold. Good gods! what priceCan recompense the pangs of vice?O bane of good! seducing cheat!Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?Gold banish'd honour from the mind,And only left the name behind;Gold sow'd the world with every ill;Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill.'Twas gold instructed coward heartsIn treachery's more pernicious arts.Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?Virtue resides on earth no more!"He spoke, and sighed. In angry moodPlutus, his god, before him stood.The Miser, trembling, locked his chest;The Vision frowned, and thus address'd:"Whence is this vile ungrateful rant,Each sordid rascal's daily cant?Did I, base wretch! corrupt mankind?The fault's in thy rapacious mind.Because my blessings are abused,Must I be censur'd, curs'd, accus'd?Ev'n virtue's self by knaves is madeA cloak to carry on the trade;And power (when lodg'd in their possession)Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.Thus when the villain crams his chest,Gold is the canker of the breast;'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,And ev'ry shocking vice beside;But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,It blesses, like the dews of Heaven;Like Heaven, it hears the orphan's cries,And wipes the tears from widows' eyes.Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay?Let bravos, then, when blood is spilt,Upbraid the passive sword with guilt."'

FOOTNOTES:[54]In his dedication to Madame de Montespan.[55]Geruzez gives February 13 as the date of La Fontaine's death.[56]Preface, 'Fables,' 1668.[57]Byron.[58]Scott's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.'[59]The opposite of this has been said, but without good reason. The number and variety of his productions attest his industry.

[54]In his dedication to Madame de Montespan.

[55]Geruzez gives February 13 as the date of La Fontaine's death.

[56]Preface, 'Fables,' 1668.

[57]Byron.

[58]Scott's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.'

[59]The opposite of this has been said, but without good reason. The number and variety of his productions attest his industry.

'A tale may find him who a sermon flies.'George Herbert.

'A tale may find him who a sermon flies.'

George Herbert.

Robert Dodsley, born at Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, in 1703, died at Durham, December 25, 1764, buried in the abbey churchyard there, author of 'The Economy of Human Life' and other estimable works, compiled a volume of fables (1761). This was the favourite collection in this country at the end of last and the beginning of the present century. The contents of the volume are in three parts, and comprise 'Ancient Fables,' 'Modern Fables,' and 'Fables Newly Invented.' The first two divisions of the volume are Æsopian in character. The fables contained in the last were not all written by Dodsley, some of them being contributed, as he states in his preface, 'by authors with whom it is an honour to be connected, and who having condescended to favour him with their assistance,have given him an opportunity of making some atonement for his own defects.' It is to be regretted that he did not give the names of the authors referred to. The work contains a life of Æsop 'by a learned friend' (no name given),[60]and an excellent, though somewhat pedantic, 'Essay on Fable.'

The following are three original fables from Dodsley's collection:

'The Miser and the Magpie.—As a miser sat at his desk counting over his heaps of gold, a magpie eloped from his cage, picked up a guinea, and hopped away with it. The miser, who never failed to count his money over a second time, immediately missed the piece, and rising up from his seat in the utmost consternation, observed the felon hiding it in a crevice of the floor. "And art thou," cried he, "that worst of thieves, who hast robbed me of my gold without the plea of necessity, and without regard to its proper use? But thy life shall atone for so preposterous a villainy." "Soft words, good master!" quoth the magpie. "Have I, then, injured you in any other sense than you defraud the public? And am I not using your money in the same manner you do yourself? If I must lose my life for hiding a single guinea, what do you,I pray, deserve, who secrete so many thousands?"'

'The Toad and the Ephemeron.—As some workmen were digging in a mountain of Scythia, they discerned a toad of enormous size in the midst of a solid rock. They were very much surprised at so uncommon an appearance, and the more they considered the circumstances of it, the more their wonder increased. It was hard to conceive by what means the creature had preserved life and received nourishment in so narrow a prison, and still more difficult to account for his birth and existence in a place so totally inaccessible to all of his species. They could conclude no other than that he was formed together with the rock in which he had been bred, and was coeval with the mountain itself. While they were pursuing these speculations, the toad sat swelling and bloating till he was ready to burst with pride and self-importance, to which at last he thus gave vent: "Yes," says he, "you behold in me a specimen of the antediluvian race of animals. I was begotten before the flood; and who is there among the present upstart race of mortals that shall dare to contend with me in nobility of birth or dignity of character?" An ephemeron, sprung that morning from the river Hypanis, as he was flying about from place to place, chanced to be present, and observed all that passed with great attention andcuriosity. "Vain boaster," says he, "what foundation hast thou for pride, either in thy descent, merely because it is ancient, or thy life, because it hath been long? What good qualities hast thou received from thy ancestors? Insignificant even to thyself, as well as useless to others, thou art almost as insensible as the block in which thou wast bred. Even I, that had my birth only from the scum of the neighbouring river, at the rising of this day's sun, and who shall die at its setting, have more reason to applaud my condition than thou hast to be proud of thine. I have enjoyed the warmth of the sun, the light of the day, and the purity of the air; I have flown from stream to stream, from tree to tree, and from the plain to the mountain; I have provided for posterity, and shall leave behind me a numerous offspring to people the next age of to-morrow; in short, I have fulfilled all the ends of my being, and I have been happy. My whole life, 'tis true, is but of twelve hours, but even one hour of it is to be preferred to a thousand years of mere existence, which have been spent, like thine, in sloth, ignorance and stupidity."'

'The Bee and the Spider.—On the leaves and flowers of the same shrub, a spider and a bee pursued their several occupations, the one covering her thighs with honey, the other distending his bag with poison. The spider, as he glanced hiseye obliquely at the bee, was ruminating with spleen on the superiority of her productions. "And how happens it," said he, in a peevish tone, "that I am able to collect nothing but poison from the selfsame plant that supplies thee with honey? My pains and industry are not less than thine; in those respects we are each indefatigable." "It proceeds only," replied the bee, "from the different disposition of our nature; mine gives a pleasing flavour to everything I touch, whereas thine converts to poison what by a different process had been the purest honey."'

James Northcote, R.A., the indefatigable painter, who, when a youth, enjoyed the friendship of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and was occasionally one of the company at his hospitable table, along with Johnson, Goldsmith, Burke, Garrick and Boswell, published two volumes of original and selected fables in 1828-33, when he was eighty-two years of age. When a boy, living at Plymouth, where he was born on October 22, 1746, he took pleasure in copying the pictures from an edition of Æsop's fables. The memory of these clung to him through life, and, as occasion offered, he occupied himself in composing apologues in imitation of those with which he was familiar in his early years.

The diction of Northcote's fables is admirable. They are in the choicest phraseology, both intheir verse and prose, for he practised both forms of composition, though chiefly the latter. Neither crisp nor brilliant, they are now and again lighted up with scintillations of humour. His applications are delivered with grave solemnity befitting a judge or a philosopher—not to say a bore; and in many instances they extend to three or four times the length of the fable itself.

Northcote died in London at the ripe age of eighty-five, and was buried beneath the New Church of St. Marylebone.

Perhaps his best fables areThe Jay and the Owl,Echo and the Parrot,Stone Broth, andThe Trooper and his Armour. None of Northcote's fables have become popular with the multitude, though many of them are good examples of this class of composition. We give the last-named piece as a specimen of his work as a fabulist. The application is well conceived, but it is scarcely indicated in the fable:

'A trooper, in the time of battle, picked up the shoe of a horse that lay in his way, and quickly by a cord suspended it from his neck. Soon after, in a skirmish with the enemy, a shot struck exactly on the said horseshoe and saved his life,[61]as it fell harmless to the ground. "Well done,"said the trooper, "I see that a very little armour is sufficient when it is well placed."

'Application: Although the trooper's good luck with his bit of armour may appear to be the effect of chance, yet certain it is that prudent persons are always prepared to receive good fortune, or may be said to meet it half-way, turning every accident if possible to good, which gives an appearance as if they were the favourites of fortune; whilst the thoughtless and improvident, on the contrary, often neglect to embrace the very blessings which chance throws in their way, and then survey with envy those who prosper by their careful and judicious conduct, and blame their partial or hard fortune for all those privations and sufferings which their mismanagement alone has brought upon themselves.'

FOOTNOTES:[60]It has been suggested, that Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith were the 'authors,' and Goldsmith the 'learned friend.' See the preface by Edwin Pearson to the 1871 edition, of Bewick's 'Select Fables of Æsop.'[61]Northcote's grammar is at fault here.

[60]It has been suggested, that Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith were the 'authors,' and Goldsmith the 'learned friend.' See the preface by Edwin Pearson to the 1871 edition, of Bewick's 'Select Fables of Æsop.'

[61]Northcote's grammar is at fault here.

'Great thoughts, great feelings, come to themLike instincts, unawares.'R. M. Milnes.

'Great thoughts, great feelings, come to themLike instincts, unawares.'

R. M. Milnes.

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, born January 22, 1729, at Kamenz, died February 15, 1781, aged fifty-two years, was a distinguished German scholar, poet and dramatist. As a fabulist, Lessing is noted for epigrammatic point rather than humour, though he is by no means lacking in the latter characteristic. He is perhaps the most original writer of fables amongst the moderns. Sagacious, wise, witty, his apologues (1759) have nothing superfluous about them. They are nearly all brief, pithy, and very much to the point. In these respects they follow the Æsopian model more than those of any other modern writer. The following are good examples of his style:

'Æsop and the Ass.—"The next time you write afable about me," said the donkey to Æsop, "make me say something wise and sensible."

'"Something sensible from you!" exclaimed Æsop; "what would the world think? People would call you the sage, and me the donkey!"

'The Shepherd and the Nightingale.—"Sing to me, dearest nightingale," said a shepherd to the silent songstress one beautiful spring evening.

'"Alas!" said the nightingale, "the frogs make so much noise that I have no inclination to sing. Do you not hear them?"

'"Undoubtedly I hear them," replied the shepherd, "but it is owing to your silence."

'Solomon's Ghost.—A venerable old man, despite his years and the heat of the day, was ploughing his field with his own hand, and sowing the grain in the willing earth, in anticipation of the harvest it would produce.

'Suddenly, beneath the deep shadow of a spreading oak, a divine apparition stood before him! The old man was seized with affright.

'"I am Solomon," said the phantom encouragingly, "what dost thou here, old friend?"

'"If thou art Solomon," said the owner of the field, "how canst thou ask? In my youth I learnt from the ant to be industrious and to accumulate wealth. That which I then learnt I now practise."

'"Thou hast learnt but half of thy lesson," pursued the spirit. "Go once more to the ant,and she will teach thee to rest in the winter of thy existence, and enjoy what thou hast earned."'

Don Tomas de Yriarte, or Iriarte, a Spanish fabulist of the eighteenth century, born at Teneriffe in 1750, is held in much esteem by cultured readers in Spain. His 'Fabulas Literarias,' or Literary Fables (1782), sixty-seven in all, and mostly original, were written with a view to inculcating literary truths. In other words, their object was to praise or censure literary work according to its supposed deserts. Their moral or application is therefore limited in scope; they do not touch human nature as a whole, and being thus restricted in their range, they are deficient in general interest and value. Obviously, however, it is possible to give a wider application to the truths enforced in the apologues, and this is sometimes done by omitting the special moral supplied by the writer. Yriarte's versification is graceful and sprightly, 'combining the exquisite simplicity of the old Spanish romances and songs with the true spirit of Æsopian fable;'[62]some of them are composed in the redondilla measure much affected by the lyrical poets of Spain, and please by their style quite as much as by their intrinsic merits. Yriarte died in 1791. We select the piece which follows to illustrate his skill as a fabulist:

'A sage old thrush was once disciplingHis grandson thrush, a hair-brained stripling,In the purveying art. He knew,He said, where vines in plenty grew,Whose fruit delicious when he'd comeHe might attackad libitum."Ha!" said the young one, "where's this vine?Let's see this fruit you think so fine.""Come then, my child, your fortune's great; youCan't conceive what feasts await you!"He said, and gliding through the airThey reached a vine, and halted there.Soon as the grapes the youngster spied,"Is this the fruit you praise?" he cried;"Why, an old bird, sir, as you are,Should judge, I think, more wisely farThan to admire, or hold as good,Such half-grown, small, and worthless food.Come, see a fruit which I possessIn yonder garden; you'll confess,When you behold it, that it isBigger and better far than this.""I'll go," he said; "but ere I seeThis fruit of yours, whate'er it be,I'm sure it is not worth a stoneOr grape-skin from my vines alone."They reached the spot the thrushlet named,And he triumphantly exclaimed:"Show me the fruit to equal mine!A size so great, a shape so fine;What luxury, however rare,Can e'en your grapes with this compare?"The old bird stared, as well he might,For lo! a pumpkin met his sight.Now, that a thrush should take this fancyWithout much marvelling I can see;But it is truly monstrous whenMen, who are held as learned men,All books, whatever they be, despiseUnless of largest bulk and size.A book is great, if good at all;If bad, it cannot be too small.'

Ivan Andreivitch Krilof, or Krilov, the Russian, who was born in Moscow, February 2, 1768, O.S., and died in St. Petersburg on November 9, 1844, aged seventy-six years, was one of the greatest original fabulists of modern times. One writer (an Englishman) goes so far as to claim for him the position of 'the crowned King of the fabulists of all languages.' His published fables amount altogether to two hundred and two, of which thirty-five only are borrowed, the rest being original. They are in rhymed verse in the Russian, and an English translation, also in verse, and with a close adherence to the text in the original, has been made by Mr. J. Henry Harrison.[63]An excellent prose translation, with a life of Krilof, by the late Mr. W. R. S. Ralston, M.A., was published in 1868.[64]

Krilof is characterized by rich common sense and sound judgment, a rare vein of satire and an excellent humour. He indeed brims over withsarcastic humour. A kind of rugged directness of language, well calculated to undermine the shams and abuses at which he aimed, also distinguishes his apologues. He deserves to be better known in this country.

Krilof was a journalist, and wrote a number of dramas, both in tragedy and comedy, before turning his attention to fables. It is on these latter that his claim to distinction rests. He rose to high eminence in his native country, where his name is a household word; he was patronized by royalty, and beloved by the common people, and at his death a monument to his memory was erected in the Summer Garden at St. Petersburg.

The following translation of Krilof's beautiful fable ofThe Leaves and the Rootsis from a brilliant article inFraser's Magazinefor February, 1839:

''Twas on a sunny summer day,Exulting in the flickering shadeThey cast athwart the greensward glade,The leaves, a fluttering host,Thus 'gan their worth to boast,And to each other say:"Is it not weThat deck the tree—Its stem and branches all arrayIn verdant pomp and vigorous grace?Deprived of us, how altered were their case!Is it not we who form the grateful screenOf foliage and luxuriant green,Welcome to traveller and to swain?Yes! we may be deeméd vain,But we it is whose charms inviteYouths and maidens to the grove;And we it is, too, who at nightShelter in her retired alcoveThe songstress of the woods, whose strainWafts music over dale and plain!In us the zephyrs most rejoice:Our emerald beauty to caress,On silken wings they fondly press!""Most true; but yetYou ought not to forgetWe too exist," replied a voiceThat issued from the earth;"We sure possess some little worth.""And who are ye? where do ye grow?""Buried are we here below,Deep in the ground. 'Tis we who nourishThe stem and you, and make you flourish:For understand, we are the rootsFrom whom the tree itself upshoots:'Tis we by whom you thrive—From whom your beauty ye derive;Unlike to you, we are not fair,Nor dwell we in the upper air;Yet do we not, like you, decay—Winter tears us not away.Ye fall, yet still remains the tree;But should it chance thatweOnce cease to live, adieuBoth to the tree, fair leaves, and you!"'

As an example of his ironical humour we give a prose translation, by Mr. Ralston, of his fableThe Geese:

'A peasant, with a long rod in his hand, was driving some geese to a town where they were tobe sold; and, to tell the truth, he did not treat them over-politely. In hopes of making a good bargain, he was hastening on so as not to lose the market-day (and when gain is concerned, geese and men alike are apt to suffer). I do not blame the peasant; but the geese talked about him in a different spirit, and, whenever they met any passers-by, abused him to them in such terms as these:

'"Is it possible to find any geese more unfortunate than we are? This moujik[65]harasses us so terribly, and chases us about just as if we were common geese. The ignoramus does not know that he ought to pay us reverence, seeing that we are the noble descendants of those geese to whom Rome was once indebted for her salvation, and in whose honour even feast-days were specially appointed there."

'"And do you want to have honour paid you on that account?" a passer-by asked them.

'"Why, our ancestors——"

'"I know that—I have read all about it; but I want to know this: of what use have you been yourselves?"

'"Why, our ancestors saved Rome!"

'"Quite so; but what have you done?"

'"We? Nothing."

'"Then, what merit is there in you? Let yourancestors rest in peace—they justly received honourable reward; but you, my friends, are only fit to be roasted!"'

Krilof concludes: 'It would be easy to make this fable still more intelligible; but I am afraid of irritating the geese.'

A story, rather than a fable, isThe Man with Three Wives, and the moral underlying it is in the author's peculiar vein. This is translated from the original by Mr. J. H. Harrison:

Back to Index Next