Chapter 7

"You blockhead!" said an honest farmer, Who grew with indignation warmer, "You are an owl: and are as blind, As parents, to the youthful mind. Had you with judgment judged, the swan Had his career in nautics ran; The cock had played the soldier's part. The spider plied the weaver's art; And for the donkey, dull and crass, You should have let him be an ass."

FABLE LXV.

COOKMAID, TURNSPIT, AND OX.

(_To a Poor Man._)

Consider man in every sphere, Then answer,--Is your lot severe? Is God unjust? You would be fed: I grant you have to toil for bread. Your wants are plainly to you known, So every mortal feels his own; Nor would I dare to say I knew, 'Midst men, one happier man than you.

Adam in Paradise was lone; With Eve was first transgression known; And thus they fell, and thus disgrace Entailed the curse on human race.

When Philip's son, by glory fired, The empire of the world desired, He wept to find the course he ran-- Despite of altars--was of man. So avaricious hopes are checked, And so proud man may lack respect; And so ambition may be foiled Of the reward for which it moiled. The wealthy surfeit of their wealth, Grudging the ploughman's strength and health. The man, who weds the loveliest wife, Weds, with her loveliness, much strife. One wants an heir: another rails Upon his heirs and the entails. Another--but can'st thou discern Envies and jealousies that burn? Bid them avaunt! and say you have Blessings unknown, which others crave.

"Where is the turnspit? Bob is gone, And dinner must be drest by one: Where is that cur--(and I am loth To say that Betty swore an oath)-- The sirloin's spoiled: I'll give it him!"-- And Betty did look fierce and grim. Bob, who saw mischief in her eye, Avoided her--approaching nigh: He feared the broomstick, too, with physics As dread as Betty's metaphysics.

"What star did at my birth preside, That I should be born-slave?" he sighed: "To tread that spit, of horrid sound-- Inglorious task--to which no hound, That ever I knew, was abased. Whence is my line and lineage traced? I would that I had been professed A lap-dog, by some dame caressed: I would I had been born a spaniel, Sagacious nostrilled, and called Daniel: I would I had been born a lion, Although I scorn a feline scion: I would I had been born of woman, And free from servitude--as human; My lot had then been, I discern, fit, And not, as now, a wretched turnspit."

An ox replied, who heard this whine: "Dare you at partial fate repine? Behold me, now beneath the goad. And now beneath the waggon's load; Now ploughing the tenacious plain, And housing now the yellow grain. Yet I without a murmur bear These various labours of the year. Yet come it will, the day decreed By fates, when I am doomed to bleed: And you, by duties of your post, Must turn the spit when I must roast; And to repay your currish moans Will have the pickings of my bones."

The turnspit answered: "Superficial Has been my gaze on poor and rich, all. What, do the mighty ones then bear Their load of carking grief and care? And man perhaps--ah, goodness knows!-- May have his share of pains and woes."

So saying, with contented look. Bob wagged his tail, and followed cook.

FABLE LXVI.

THE RAVEN, SEXTON, AND WORM.

(_To Laura._)

My Laura, your rebukes are prudish; For although flattery is rudish, Yet deference, not more than just, May be received without disgust. Am I a privilege denied Assumed by every tongue beside? And are you, fair and feminine, Prone to reject a verse benign? And is it an offence to tell A fact which all mankind knows well? Or with a poet's hand to trace The beaming lustre of your face? Nor tell in metaphor my tale, How the moon makes the planets pale? I check my song; and only gaze, Admiring what I may not praise.

If you reject my tribute due, I'll moralise--despite of you. To moralise a theme is duty: My muse shall moralise of beauty.

Amidst the galaxy of fair, Who do not moralise, the ear Might be offended to be told That beauty ever can grow old. Though you by age must lose much more Than ever beauty lost before, You will regard it, when 'tis flown, As if it ne'er had been your own. Were you by Antoninus taught? Or is it native strength of thought, To view with such an equal mind The fleeting bloom to doom consigned. Those eyes, in truth, are only clay: As diamonds, e'en so are they. And what is beauty in her power? The tyrant of the passing hour. How baseless is all human pride? Naught have we whereon to confide. Why lose we life in anxious cares, And lay up hoards for future years? Or can they cheer the sick, or buy One hour of breath to those who die? For what is beauty but a flower, Grass of the field, which lives its hour? And what of lordly man the sway, The tyrant of the passing day?

The laws of nature hold their reign O'er man throughout her whole domain. The monarch of long regal line Possesses dust as frail as mine: Nor can he any more than I Fever or restless pains defy. Nor can he, more than I, delay The mortal period of his day.

Then let my muse remember aye Beauty and grandeur still are clay. The king and beggar in the tomb Commingling in the dust and doom.

Upon a venerable yew, Which in the village churchyard grew, Two ravens sat. With solemn croak Thus to his mate a raven spoke:--

"Ah! ah! I scent upon the blast The odour of some flesh at last. Huzza! it is old Dobbin's steed, On which we daintily shall feed. I know the scent of divers courses, And own the present as a horse's."

A sexton, busy at his trade, Paused, to hear more, upon his spade; For death was puzzled in his brain With sexton fees and sexton gain.

He spoke, and said: "You blundering fowls, Nought better in your scent than owls: It is the squire of Hawthorn Hall, Who now is lying under pall. I dig his grave;--a pretty bit Of work it is--though I say it. A horse's! Ah! come out of that; Yet needs must own that squire was fat. What then? Do you birds make pretence To smelling--which is a fifth sense-- And yet your sense of smell so coarse is You can't distinguish man and horse's?"

"I," said the bird, "did not intend To do you disrespect, my friend: Indeed, we no reflection meant By such similitude of scent. The Arabs--epicures--will feed, Preferring it to all, on steed; As Britons, of your proper brood. Think venison to be mighty good."

The sexton roared with indignation, And spoke, methinks, about salvation; At any rate, his rage to carry on, He called the ravens brutes and carrion! The situation of the foes Prevented they should come to blows: But for revilings vile, as friends-- They banded words, to gain their ends.

"Hold!" said the raven, "human pride Cannot by reason be defied. The point is knotty; tastes may err: Refer it to some connoisseur."

And, as he spoke, a worn unrolled His monstrous volumes from the mould; They chose him for the referee, And on the pleadings they agree.

The earthworm, with a solemn face, Reviewed the features of the case: "For I," said he, "have doubtless dined On carcases of every kind; Have fed on man, fowl, beast, and fish, And know the flavour of each dish. A glutton is the worst: for the rest 'Tis difficult to tell the best. If I were man, I would not strive Upon this question,--man alive! With other points to win applause: The King who gives his people laws Unto the people, who obey them; And, though at last Death comes to slay them, Yet were the noble souls and good Never resigned to worms for food. Virtue distinguishes mankind,-- Immortal is the soul and mind; And that, which is not buried here, Mounts somewhere; but I know not where! So good man sexton, since the case Appears with such a dubious face, Excuse me, if I can't determine What different tastes suit different vermin!"

THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

_AEsop, Babrius, Horace, Prior, and Pope._

Our friend Dan Prior had, you know, A tale exactly _a propos_; Name a town life--and, in a trice, He had a story of two mice.

Once on a time (so runs the fable) A country mouse--right hospitable-- Received a town mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a lord. A frugal mouse upon the whole, Yet loved his friend, and had a soul; Know what was handsome, and would do 't. On just occasion _coute qui coute_. He brought him bacon nothing lean, Pudding that might have pleased a Dean; Cheese, such as men of Suffolk make, But wished it Stilton for his sake. Yet to his guest by no means sparing, He munched himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, But showed his breeding and his wit, And did his best to seem to eat-- And said: "I vow you're mighty neat; But, my dear friend, this savage scene!-- I pray you come and live with men. Consider mice, like men, must die; Then crop the rosy hours that fly."

The veriest hermit in the nation May yield, all know, to strong temptation: Away they went, through thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn. The moonbeam fell upon the wall, And tipped with silver roof and all,-- Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs and stucco floors; And, let it in one word be said, The moon was up--the men abed-- The guests withdrawn had left, though late, When down the mice sat _tete a tete_.

Our courtier walks from dish to dish, And tastes of flesh, and fowl, and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "_Que ca est bon! Ah, goutez ca!_ That jelly's rich, this malmsey's healing, Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in!" Was ever such a happy swain-- He stuffs, and sips, and stuffs again!

"I'm quite ashamed--'tis mighty rude To eat so much--all is so good." But as he spoke, bounce from the hall Rushed chaplain, butler, dogs, and all. Oh! for the heart of Homer's mice Or gods, to save them in a trice; It was by miracle they think, For Roman stucco has no chink.

"But, please your honour," said the peasant, "This same dessert is not so pleasant: Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty!"

THE MAGPIE AND HER BROOD.

_From the Tales of Bonaventura des Periers, Servant to Marguerite of Valois, Queen of Navarre. By HORACE LORD ORFORD._

How anxious is the pensive parents' thought, How blest the lot of fondlings, early taught; Joy strings her hours on pleasure's golden twine, And fancy forms it to an endless line. But ah! the charm must cease, or soon or late, When chicks and misses rise to woman's state; The little tyrant grows in turn a slave, And feels the soft anxiety she gave. This truth, my pretty friend, an ancient sage, Who wrote in tale and legend many a page, Couch'd in that age's unaffected guise, When fables were the wisdom of the wise. To careless notes I've tuned his Gothic style, Content, if you approve, and LAURA smile.

Once on a time a magpie led Her little family from home, To teach them how to win their bread, When she afar would roam: She pointed to each worm and fly, Inhabitants of earth and sky, Or where the beetle buzzed, she called; But indications all were vain,-- They would not budge--the urchin train, But cawed, and cried, and squalled; They wanted to return to nest, To nestle to mamma's warm breast, And thought that she should seek the meat Which they were only born to eat-- But Madge knew better things: "My loves," said she, "behold the plains, Where stores of food, where plenty reigns; I was not half so big as you, When me my honoured mother drew Forth to the groves and springs-- She flew away, before aright I knew to read or knew to write, Yet I made shift to live: So must you too--come, hop away-- Get what you can--steal what you may, For industry will thrive." "But, bless us!" cried the peevish chits, "Can babes like us live by our wits? With perils compassed round, can we Preserve our lives and liberty? Ah! how escape the fowler's snare, And gard'ner with his gun in air, Who, if we pilfer plums or pears, Will scatter lead about our ears? And you would drop a mournful head To see your little pies lie dead!" "My dears," she said, and kissed their bills, "The wise by foresight baffle ills, A wise descent you claim; To bang a gun off takes some time,-- A man must load, a man must prime, A man must take an aim-- He lifts the tube, he shuts one eye,-- 'Twill then be time enough to fly; You, out of reach, may laugh and chatter: To cheat a man is no great matter." "Ay, but"--"But what?" "Why, if the clown Should take a stone to knock us down?" "Why, if he do--you flats! Must he not stoop to raise the stone? The stooping warns you to be gone; Birds are not killed like cats." "But, dear mamma, we yet are scared, The rogue, you know, may come prepared A big stone in his fist!" "Indeed, my darlings," Madge replies, "If you already are so wise: Go, cater where you list."

THE THREE WARNINGS:

MRS. THRALE.

The tree of deepest root is bound With most tenacity to earth; 'Twas therefore thought by ancient sages, That with the ills of life's last stages The love of life increased, with dearth Of fibres rooting it to ground. It was young Dobson's wedding-day, Death summoned him, the happy groom, Into a sombre private room, From marriage revelries away; And, looking very grave, said he: "Young Dobson, you must go with me." "Not if I know it," Dobson cried; "What! leave my Susan,--quit my bride? I shan't do any such a thing: Besides I'm not at all prepared,-- My thoughts are all upon the wing. I'm not the fellow to be scared, Old Death, by you and those pale awnings: I have a right to my three warnings." And Death, who saw that of the jobs on His hand, just then, tough was this Dobson, Agreed to go and come again; So, as he re-adjusted awnings About his brows, agreed three warnings Should be allowed; and Dobson, fain To go back to the feast, agreed Next time to do as was decreed: And so they parted, with by-byes, And "humble servants," "sirs," and "I's." And years ran by right cheerily: Susan was good, and children three,-- All comforts of his days--they reared; So Dobson tumbled, unawares, Upon the bourn of fourscore years, And Death then reappeared-- And Dobson said, with look of wonder, "Holloa, old Death--another blunder! You may go back again: you see You promised me three warnings--three; Keep word of honour, Death!" "Ay, ay," said Death, and raised his veil, "I'm joyed to see you stout and hale; I'm glad to see you so well able To stump about from farm to stable, All right in limb and breath." "So, so--so, so!"--old Dobson sighed-- "A little lame though." Death replied: "Ay, lame; but then you have your sight?" But Dobson said--"Not quite, not quite." "Not quite; but still you have your hearing?" But Dobson said, "Past all repairing, Ears gone downright!" Death on his brow then dropped the awnings, And said--"Friend you can't stay behind: If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You have had your three sufficient warnings."

POSTSCRIPT.

The moralist, my dear niece, has said that--

"The man of sense will read a work of note In the like humour as the author wrote."

To which end we must try to identify the reign of King George I. and the manners of that era with these fables; for manners change with every age, and every age has its transitions of political and social manners:

"Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times."

It was in the era of the two first Georges that Gay wrote and applied these fables, filled with diatribes against ministers, courtiers, and misers, and inveighing against court corruption and bribery.

It was a period of transition, such as had before occurred, from feudal to monarchial, and now from monarchial to ministerial rule. We had entered into another phase--one of civil and religious liberty; but, at the same time, the royal court was a scene devoid of any graces: the kings could not speak our language, and their feminine favourites were the reverse of fair or virtuous; whilst domestic hate ruled in the palace. Power then ran into a new groove of corruption and bribery; and the scene, vile in itself, was made viler by exaggeration and the retaliations of one political party on the other, whilst either side was equally lauded by its own party. Therefore we may reasonably conclude that matters were not so bad as they were painted, and moreover that it was but a change and transition of evils, to play a part and disappear. The advent of the third George to the throne, and the rigid integrity of the first and second Pitt, reversed the story as read in these fables; the court became pure, the king true, the ministers honest, and the nation progressed from the miserable peace of Utrecht, in 1714, to the proud position we held on its centenary at Vienna, in 1814. We may grant, then, that Gay had reason on his side when he inveighed so bitterly against courts and kings; and, granting that, we may recognise the amelioration of the court of the present day, wholly free from corruption and presenting a school to be followed rather than contemned.

In the fable of the 'Degenerate Bees,' Gay takes the part of the Tory ministry,--Oxford, Bolingbroke, Dean Swift, and Mat. Prior; and in the 'Ant in Office' he alludes to a Whig minister of that day. We must not be too hard on ministers. Kings and the nation have been open to bribes and assenting to French diplomacy,--

"When policy regained what arms had lost."

Louis XI. purchased the retreat of Edward IV. in 1475, when he seized on the domains of King Rene--Provence, Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Lorraine, and Burgundy from the domains of Charles the Bold; when we abandoned our blood allies for bribes. Again, in 1681, Charles II. was the pensioner of Louis XIV., when Louis seized on Strasbourg. William III. reluctantly let it pass at the peace and treaty of Ryswick, which Louis dictated; and it was very basely abandoned by us at the peace of Utrecht, in 1714, when we abandoned our ally the emperor, and the degenerate Bees of the fable suffered exile and the Tower, barely escaping death from the indignant nation. Again, in the treaty of Vienna, 1814, we sacrificed the interests of Austria to France, in ceding to the latter the pillaged counties of the Messin and of Alsace. Finding, therefore, like results from wholly different causes, we must not be extreme to judge, but, with Gay, admit the ministers of 1714 to grace, for they only then did what we sanctioned in 1814, and which 1870 sees righted, and the German towns restored to Germany.

I am now rounding off half a century in which I have wandered in this wilderness of a world, and in all that time I have never known, or heard of, corruption in a minister of state. I have seen and known many fall untimely to ministerial labours and responsibility. Walking through the streets and squares we may behold the noble brows of Pitt, Canning, Lord George Bentinck, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston--men "on whose brows shame is ashamed to sit"--and, we might add, another Canning, a Follett, Sir George Lewis, and a hecatomb of Colonial rulers, who have died, overtasked by toil and responsibility; but in all that time we have never heard a minister accused of corruption, or building palaces, or making a fortune from public treasure. Corruption, if so it may still be termed, has taken another phase; it has bowed its head and courted democracy, like to the Roman king, Ancus Martius, "nimium gaudens popularibus auris"--cringing to popular suffrage--to ride into place and power, by granting measures momentarily floating uppermost, and suffering the tail to guide the head, as did the snake in AEsop's fable. We attained the height of grandeur of 1814 under the guidance of the head, and we are now upon our trial of democratical government, and whether it be equal to the old. Under such auspices commerce has been the petted minion of the last thirty years. Not the native forest tree of Pitt, Huskisson, and Canning, but the hot-bed plant of the advocates of a predominant trade. No British statesman ever dreamt of restricting commerce,--which ever was the bond of unity of nations; but we have sunk every interest at home to swell the exports and imports, to make Britain what Egypt was in the days of the patriarch--the storehouse of the world. Egypt and England both put their agriculturists to pain, and the rural population to serfdom; but they only exchange the stable basis of well-being for an unstable one, for commerce is proverbially of a fleeting nature.

The age in which Gay wrote was eminently what we now designate as conservative. Excise was hateful then; as customs are denounced now, so home taxation was denounced then. So wonderfully do systems change, that in the monthly table of the revenue of this period (December, 1870), the customs do not raise one-third of the revenue, of which the other two-thirds are raised by home taxation.