Part 4
These I contract at pleasure, Or expand them, when I please. What I like, I eat at leisure,-- And the residue in these I stow, there safely to remain Till I shall hungry be again. Old rags and wretched rubbish You, foolish bird, lay by; Sweet nuts and tender filberts, And racy sweetmeats--I,-- Meat, and whatever else is good, In time of need, to serve as food."
* * * * *
Shall the Monkey's lecture shrewd To the Magpie only go? The advice, I think, is good For those who make a show Of a medley incoherent, Where no meaning is apparent.
FABLE XLVIII.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE SPARROW.
A Nightingale her voice one day was tuning In notes to match an organ's sonorous swell; When by her cage a chattering Sparrow roaming Stopped--his surprise at her attempt to tell.
"I marvel much, that such strange pains you take; That you, who sing so sweetly and so well, Your imitators, thus, your models make; For sure, the notes the organ's pipes that swell, It owes to imitation of your song."
"Nevertheless," replies the Nightingale,-- "Though it had learned of me, I would not fail From it, in turn, instruction to derive. And you will see the good results ere long. To imitate my native bursts it sought; I wish my untutored strains to modify By the deep rules of science it has taught. And thus, good sir, you see, that by and by, My natural talent will by education thrive."
* * * * *
Has the caprice some learned fancy crossed, That hours to study given are labor lost? Who wisest is, will ever study most.
FABLE XLIX.
THE GARDENER AND HIS MASTER.
A copious fountain played In a garden's flowery bed, And served to form a basin Where many fish were fed.
Of the watering of his flowers The Gardener thought alone; And drained it dry, till due supply For carp and tench was gone.
His Master soon the mischief saw, And scolds the careless sinner. "The flowers I love; but also like My mess of fish for dinner."
The Gardener, grown crusty, So reads his Master's whim, That he lets the plants go thirsty, That carp and tench may swim.
In the garden, shortly after, The indignant owner found His flowers, all dry and withered, Upon the parching ground.
"Booby! you need not water waste, And leave me not a fish to taste; Nor yet deny--to save the fish-- A single flower to grace the dish,"
* * * * *
Though the maxim may be trite,-- Unless you have the skill, Taste and profit to unite,-- Lay by the author's quill.
FABLE L.
THE TWO THRUSHES.
A Thrush, with years grown gray, And wise as well as old, His grandson asked one day,-- An unpractised youth and bold,-- With him to go straightway, Their morning flight to hold, Where a well-stocked vineyard lay-- On its luscious fruit to prey.
"Where may this vineyard be?"-- The youngling answered coy,-- "And what fruit is there?"--"We'll see. Learn how to live, my boy," Said the grandsire. "Come with me, And a banquet rich enjoy." As he spoke the words, he shew Where thick the clusters grew.
The pert young pilferer saw;-- "Is this the fruit you puff? Who would think you were so raw? What puny, withered stuff! Pooh! It isn't worth a straw. Now, bigger fruit enough, And better far than any here I know of, in a garden near.
A single grape, I'll swear, Will prove better than it all. But we'll make a trial fair," When they reach the garden wall, The fledgling shouts--"Look there-- How big and nice! I call That fruit, indeed--no trash." Reader, it was a yellow calabash.
* * * * *
It may not much surprise That young birds by chaff are caught; But that, by men reputed wise, Books should, for bulk, be bought, And valued for their size, Is stranger, is it not? If a good work, 'tis great of course; If bad, the more there is the worse.
FABLE LI.
THE LACE-MAKERS.
Near a lace-weaver, lived A man who made silver and gold galloons. "Now, who would have believed, Neighbor," said he, "that, even for more doubloons, Three yards of your light lace are sold Than ten of mine, though wrought in heavy gold!"
"That my articles exceed In value, sir, so very much your own, Is not strange; although, indeed, You work in gold, and I in thread alone. For skill is known to all To be of greater worth than raw material."
* * * * *
Let those, at style who sneer, And, to regard the matter only, condescend, Note that--as here A simple thread doth precious gold transcend-- So elegance and finish give That form to thought, by which great works shall live.
FABLE LII.
THE HUNTER AND HIS FERRET.
Well tired, and exhausted With the heat of the sun, But loaded with rabbits, A Hunter turned home.
Near by--to a neighbor He met in the way-- He recounted the labor And spoils of the day.
"A long tramp,--my old lad, All day did I trudge; But the luck is not bad, If I am the judge.
Since the break of the day I 've been out in the sun; Hot enough, I should say,-- But fair business I've done.
Without too much bragging, I say and repeat it,-- No hunter in bagging The conies can beat it."
The Ferret's quick ear, In his box as he hung, His master did hear-- His own praise while he sung.
His sharp nose he poked Through its lattice of wire; "Now surely you joked,-- I should like to inquire,--
That I did the work, Can you truly deny? These rabbits of yours, Who caught them but I?
So little desert, In my toils do you see, That you never can make Some slight mention of me?"
* * * * *
That this cogent remark The master might sting, A body might think; But it did no such thing.
He was cool as some writers, Who play the mean game-- To borrow from others, Yet breathe not their name.
FABLE LIII.
THE PIG, THE COCK, AND THE LAMB.
In a court-yard a poultry-house did lie, Where a brisk Cock around at pleasure ran; Behind the court, in a convenient sty, Lay a stout Pig--fat as an alderman. In the same yard, a little Lamb there lived; And good companions, too, were all the three; As may be very easily believed, For such in farmers' yards we often see.
"Now, with your leave,"--the thrifty Pig, said he, To the meek Lamb,--"what a delightful lot! And what a peaceful, happy destiny, The livelong day to slumber! Is it not? Upon the honor of a Pig, I say, That, in this wretched world, there's no such pleasure, As to snore merrily the time away, Let the world wag, and stretch yourself at leisure."
But, in his turn, the Cock the Lamb addressed, Soon after Piggy did his dissertation end; "To be with health and active vigor blest, One must sleep sparingly, my little friend. In hot July, or frosty winter day, With the bright stars to watch, is the true way. Sleep numbs our senses with a stupid sloth; In fact unnerves the mind and body both."
The Lamb hears both, and knows not which to trust. He never guesses--simple little elf-- That the fine rule, by each laid down, is just That others ought to do what suits himself.
* * * * *
So among authors,--some there are who never Think any doctrine sound, or maxim clever, Or rules as good for others' guidance own, Excepting such as they have hit upon.
FABLE LIV.
THE FLINT AND THE STEEL.
The Steel the Flint abused Most bitterly one day, For the unfeeling way, In which his sides he bruised, To chip out the brilliant sparks. After some sharp remarks They parted company; And the Steel cries out, "Good-by! Unless with me you 're used, Of little worth you'll be!" "Not much," said Flint,--"and yet, beyond a doubt, Just what yourself are worth, the Flint without."
* * * * *
This little tale of ours, Let each writer bear in mind, Who deep study has not joined To native powers.
In the flint, no fire we find Without the help of steel; Nor does Genius aught avail Without the aid of Art. Long as they work apart, They both are sure to fail.
FABLE LV.
THE JUDGE AND THE ROBBER.
A villain was by hands of justice caught, Just as of cash, and even of his life, At the sharp point of murderous knife, A luckless wayfarer to rob, he sought The Judge upbraids him with his crime-- He answered: "Sir, from earliest time I've been a rogue, practised in petty theft; When buckles, watches, trunks and cloaks, And swords, I stole from other folks. Then, fairly launched upon my wild career, I houses sacked. Now--no compunction left-- On the highways I rob, without a fear. Let not your worship, then, make such a stir, That I should rob and slay a traveller-- Nor of the matter make a charge so sore! I've done such things these forty years, and more."
* * * * *
Do we the bandit's wretched plea allow? Yet writers give no worthier excuse, Who justify, by argument of use, Errors of speech or of expression low-- Urging the long-lived blunders of the past Against the verdict by sound critics cast.
FABLE LVI.
THE HOUSEMAID AND THE BROOM.
A Housemaid once was sweeping out a room With a worn-out and very dirty Broom; "Now, hang you for a Broom!"--said she in wrath-- "For, with the filth and shreds you leave behind Where'er you go, you 're making, to my mind, More dirt than you clean up upon your path."
* * * * *
The botchers who, devoid of skill, pretend The faults of others' writings to amend, But leave them ten times fuller than before; Let not these blockheads fear that I shall score Their paltry backs--I leave their blundering trade To the apt censure of the serving-maid.
FABLE LVII.
THE LIZARDS.
A Naturalist, cruel as a Turk, Two Lizards in his garden catches, And coolly sets himself at work To anatomize the little wretches. The plumpest now he has dissected, And torn the reptile limb from limb; With microscope he then inspected Intestines, paws, and tail, and skin; He pulls apart, for scrutiny, The loin and belly, neck and eye: Then takes his pen--again he looks-- A little writes and recapitulates-- The memoranda enters in his books; To fresh dissection then himself betakes. Some curious friends, by chance, dropped in to see The subject of his shrewd anatomy. One wonders--questions one proposes-- While others yet turn up their noses.
This done, the scientific man Gave o'er, exhausted with his labors. The other Lizard jumped and ran, In his old haunts, to join his neighbors. To them, in friendly chat, he stated The matters we have just related.
"You need not doubt it, friends,"--said he,-- "For everything myself did see. The livelong day this man did spend Over the body of our friend. If, in us, attributes so rare Are worth such pains in writing down, To call us vermin who shall dare? 'Tis gross abuse--as all must own. Now, noble brothers, our high station Let us with dignity maintain, I pray. Sure, we are worthy great consideration-- Whatever spiteful folks may say."
* * * * *
It is not worth the while to natter The pride of writers we despise. 'Tis honoring too much the matter, To condescend to criticize. Their paltry trash in serious way To note--your pains will never pay.
Of Lizards to make great account, Gives them occasion to surmise Their claims to be of some amount, In the impartial public's eyes-- "Whatever spiteful folks may say."
FABLE LVIII.
THE WATCHES.
A knot of friends, invited to a feast, At table sat--a loitering guest, Who came long after all the rest, Sought for his tardiness to make excuse: And, by his comrades for a reason pressed, Drew out his Watch, and, holding it on high, Replied--"'Tis you are out of time, not I. 'Tis two precisely--wherefore this abuse?"
"Absurd!" they answered. "Friend, your Watch is slow. The rest of us came near an hour ago."
"But"--said the loiterer--"what needs argue more? I trust my Watch, as I have said before."
Now let each wiser man this reference take To foolish authors, who gross blunders make; Then quote--in order to make good their stand-- The first authority that comes to hand.
But with our story we will now go on. The guests all round next eagerly began To pull their Watches out to test the fact,-- For all men like to prove their words exact;-- One at the quarter stood; at half, another; One made it six and thirty minutes past; This fourteen more, that ten less than the last. No single Watch agreed with any other. Then, all was doubt and question and vexation. By luck, their entertainer chanced to be A great proficient in astronomy. He, his Chronometer by observation Carefully set, consulted--and the hour Was three o'clock and just two minutes more. Thus he concluded all the disputation: "To quote opinion and authority Against the truth, if any one can see The use--no point needs unsupported be. For all can surely see, and must admit, forsooth, Many opinions there may be--but only one is truth!"
FABLE LIX.
THE MOLE AND OTHER ANIMALS.
Some four-footed creatures Assembled one day, At the game of the blind man Together to play.
A Dog and a Monkey, Brimful of his tricks-- With a Fox, Hare and Eat, And a Squirrel--made six.
The Monkey, he blinded The eyes of the whole; Because of his hands He had better control.
A Mole heard their frolic; And said,--"Surely I For this fun am just fitted-- I think I will try."
He asks to come in; The Monkey agreed. Some mischief, I doubt not, He had in his head.
The Mole, at each step, Would stumble and blunder. With his skin-covered eyes, It was, clearly, no wonder.
At the very first trial,-- As well may be thought,-- Without much ado, His Moleship was caught.
To be blind-man, of course, To him it now fell: And who was there fitted To act it so well?
But, to get up a sham-- With affected surprise, Said he,--"What are we doing? You've not blinded my eyes."
* * * * *
If a creature purblind Thus pretends he can see, Will the blockhead confess himself Stupid--think ye?
FABLE LX.
THE ROPE-DANCER.
As an unpractised urchin lessons took In dancing, of a veteran of the ring, On slack or tight rope,--it is all one thing,-- The youngster said,--"Good master, prithee, look; How this great staff bothers and wearies me, Which you call balance-pole or counterpoise! In rope-dancing, what use one can devise For such a clumsy load, I cannot see. Why should you wish my motions so to fetter? I lack not strength, nor yet activity. For instance, now--this step and posture--see If I, without the pole, can't do it better.
Look, master, there's not one whit of trouble in it." As he says this, he throws the pole away-- "What's coming now? What are you doing, pray?" He's flat upon his back in half a minute!
"At your best friend you grumble--silly wretch,"-- The master said,--"and if you choose to scout The aid of art and method,--you'll find out This is not the last tumble you will catch."
FABLE LXI.
THE OWL AND THE TOAD.
A red Owl was sitting quietly Up in his hole, in a hollow tree, Where he chanced to catch the curious eye Of a great Toad that was hopping by.
"Holloa, up there, Sir Solitary!"-- Spoke out the Toad, with accent merry,-- "Poke out your head, and let us see, Handsome or ugly, whether you be."
"I have never set up for an elegant beau,"-- Answered the Owl to the Toad below. "To attempt by daylight to make a great show, Will hardly do for me--well I know.
"And for you, my good sir,--displaying your grace So jauntily now, in the day's broad face,-- Don't you think it would far better be, If you hid in another hole, like me?"
Alas! how few of us authors live By the good advice the Owl doth give! All the nonsense we write, get printed we must; Although, to the world, it be dry as the dust. The lesson, my comrades, is good--let us learn it It often would be much better to burn it. But conspicuous toads we rather would be, Than modest owls in our own hollow tree.
FABLE LXII.
THE OIL-MERCHANT'S ASS.
Once on a time, an Ass,-- An Oilman's hack,-- Bearing upon his back A huge skin filled with oil, With foot o'er-worn by toil, Into his stable sought to pass; But, stumbling, struck his nose The cruellest of blows Upon the door's projecting clamp. "Now, is it not a shame,"-- Poor Donkey did exclaim,-- "That I, who every day Carry tuns of oil, my way Into my own stable cannot find, More than if I were stone-blind, For want of one poor lamp?"
* * * * *
Much I fear, that those who glory In buying books they never read, Fare as ill,-- And deserve no more;--but, if they will Grow wiser, let them heed this story.
FABLE LXIII.
THE CONNOISSEURS.
A quarrel rose, both long and loud, A well-stocked wine-cellar within, Where wine-bibbers--a goodly crowd-- Tasted and argued, talked and sipped again.
The occasion was, that many tried Veterans their voices did combine, With obstinacy, rude and flagrant, That no such drinks our times supplied, No such delicious, luscious wine, As days gone by--so generous, fine, So ripe, so mellow and so fragrant. In the opinion of the rest, The later wines were deemed the best. Their opponents' theory they abuse; Their notion termed exaggeration,-- Mere trashy, idle declamation Picked up from interested Jews, Who glosing tales for cheatery use.
Of either side the rabid hum The cellar filled to overflowing; When an old toper chanced to come-- A famous connoisseur and knowing. Said he then,--letting slip an oath,-- "By jolly Bacchus, the divine,"-- Among such worthies 'tis a strong one-- "Better than I, for choice of wine, No one is fitted, by my troth, To tell the right one from the wrong one. So cease, good friends, your idle din. You see that I am from Navarre. In cask, or bottle, jug or skin, Hogshead or tub, or earthen jar, I've tasted of the juice of grape, Of every kind, in every shape. To taste, distinguish and to judge, And surely to lay down the law, In any vintage, I'll not grudge, From Xeres' plains to Tudela. From Malaga unto Peralta, From the Canary Isles to Malta, From Valdepeñas to Oporto, Their wines I know--and many more, too. I tell you now, 'tis folly great To think that every cask of wine, Which on its head bears ancient date, By age will mellow and refine. Time cannot make the poor wine good; If mean it was, in its first hour, It will be washy still and crude, In nothing changed, but turning sour. Worth no jot more this hour, you know, Than vinegar a century ago. New wines, from time to time, there are,-- Though some despise for being new,-- Which very safely may compare With any wines that ever grew. Those you despise--although surpassed, Occasionally, in times long past, By certain vintages--yet may Tickle the palates of a future day. Enough--to settle the dispute-- Bad wine I hold in low repute, And ever do eschew. But when 'tis good, I drain the flask; And never vex myself to ask, If it be old or new."
* * * * *
Many a learned bore Keeps up a constant bother; One praising ancient lore-- Modern alone, another. By no such foolish question vexed, I take the jolly toper's text; The good, whate'er it is, I use; The bad, without a word, refuse.
FABLE LXIV.
THE FROG AND THE HEN.
Once on a time, a noisy Frog Heard a Hen cackling near his bog; "Begone!" said he; "your clamor rude Disturbs our quiet neighborhood. What's all this shocking fuss about, I beg?"-- "Nothing, dear sir, but that I've laid an egg."
"A single egg! and therefore such a rout?"--
"Yes, neighbor Frog, a single egg, I say. Are you so troubled, when I'm not put out To hear your croaking all the night and day? I boast that I have done some little good, though small; Hold you your tongue! You do no good at all."
FABLE LXV.
THE BEETLE.
For a fable a subject I have, Which would do very well,--but for rhymes To-day my muse is too grave;
As she always will be at odd times-- And the topic for somebody stands, Whose fancy more cheerily chimes.
For this writing of fables demands That in verse our ideas should flow; Which not always are matched to our hands,
A Beetle contemptible, now, Of said fable the hero I choose;-- For I want one paltry and low.
Of this insect, every one knows That--although from no filth he refrains-- He will ne'er eat the leaf of a rose.
Here the author should lavish his pains, While, as well as his talents allow, This astonishing taste he explains.
To wind up the whole, let him show, By a sentence pithy and terse, Just what he could have us to know.
And so let him trick out his verse, With adornments according to taste; But this moral conclusive rehearse;
That, as the flowers' beautiful queen With no coarse, filthy beetle agrees; So, some tasteless writers no keen Or delicate fancy can please.
FABLE LXVI.
THE RICH MAN'S LIBRARY.
In Madrid, there was a rich man--and, they say, That ten times as stupid, as rich, he was too;-- Whose magnificent mansion made ample display Of furniture gorgeous and costly and new.
"It vexes me much, that a house so complete,"-- To this wealthy dolt, said a neighbor one day,-- "Should a Library lack,--an ornament great,-- So useful and elegant, too, by the way."
"To be sure," said the other, "how strange that the case To me never occurred; I'll supply the want soon. There is time enough yet; and, in the first place, I devote to the purpose the northern saloon.
Send a cabinet-maker to put up some shelves, Capacious, well finished,--no matter for cost, Then, in buying some books, we will busy ourselves;-- To make it all perfect, no time shall be lost."
The cases are done; the owner he comes, Inspects and approves: "And now,"--said the snob,-- "I must go out and look up some twelve thousand tomes. 'Pon my honor, 'twill be a pretty good job.
I am almost discouraged--of money a deal It will take; and 'tis work for a century, too. Will it not be much better the cases to fill, With books made of pasteboard, as good to the view?
Just think now--why not? A painter I know, For such little jobs precisely the man; Can write titles out fair, and make pasteboard to show Like leather or parchment, if any one can."
And now to the work,--books precious and rare, Both modern and ancient, he caused to be painted; And, besides printed volumes, he also takes care To have manuscripts, too, in same guise represented.