Part 19
Each turns his dream into a truth, And tries to fancy it all sooth. Ice to the facts before his face, But burning falsehood to embrace.
FABLE CLXXX.
THE MOUSE METAMORPHOSED INTO A GIRL.
A Mouse from the beak of an owl fell down, A Brahmin lifted it up, half dead: Tenderly nursed it, and tamed it, and fed. I could not have done such an act, I own; But every land has its own conceit: With a Mouse I'd rather not sit at meat. But Brahmins regard a flea as a friend, For they think that the soul of a king may descend To some beast, or insect, or dog, or mite,-- Pythagoras taught them this law erudite. Thus believing, the Brahmin a sorcerer prayed That the Mouse might resume some more elegant dress. The wise man consented, and, truth to confess, Performed his task well, for the Mouse became Maid,-- Ah! a Maid of fifteen--such an elegant creature, Of a form so genteel, of such exquisite feature, That if Paris had met her, that amorous boy Would have risked, to possess her, full many a Troy. Surprised at the sight of a being so fair, The Brahmin said, "Darling, you've but to declare Whom you'll have for a husband, for none will refuse Such a beautiful bride;--you have only to choose." Then the Maiden replied, "I confess that I long For a husband that's valiant, and noble, and strong." Then the Brahmin knelt down, and addressing the Sun, Cried, "Noblest of living things, you are the one!" But the Lord of the Daylight replied, "'Tis not true That I am so strong; for the Cloud you see yonder, Piled high with the rain, and the hail, and the thunder, Could hide me at once, if he chose, from your view." To the Cloud, then, appealing, the Brahmin declared That with him, Lord of Storms, his child's fate should be shared. "No, No!" said the dark Cloud; "it never can be, For at each breath of wind I am driven to flee. If you'd have for a son-in-law somebody strong, Your Maid to the North Wind should fairly belong." Disgusted with constant refusals like these, The Brahmin appealed to the wild, roving Breeze; And the Breeze was quite willing to wed the fair Maid, But a Mountain Top huge his love's pilgrimage stayed. The ball, at this game of "a lover to find," Now passed to the Hill, but he quickly declined; "For," said he, "with the Rat I'm not friends, and, I know, If I took the fair Maid, he would gnaw at me so." At the mention of Rat, the fair Maiden, with glee, Cried, "'Tis Rat, and Rat only, my husband shall be!" See a Girl for a Rat now Apollo forsaking! It was one of those strokes which Love glories in making. And, 'twixt you and me, such strange instances are, 'Mongst girls that we know of, more frequent than rare.
With men and with beasts it is ever the same: They still show the trace of the place whence they came; And this fable may aid us to prove it; but yet, On a nearer inspection, some sophistry's met In its traits; for, to trust to this fanciful story, Any spouse were more good than the Sun in his glory.
But, what! shall I say that a giant is less Than a flea, because fleas can a giant distress? The Rat, if this rule must be strictly obeyed, Of his wife to the Cat would a present have made: And the Cat to the Dog, and the Dog to the Bear; Till, at length, by a sort of a high-winding stair, The story had brought us where first 'twas begun, And the beautiful Maid would have married the Sun.
But let us return to the Metempsychosis The truth of which, firstly, this fable supposes. It seems to me plain that the fable itself The system decidedly puts on the shelf. According to Brahmin law, animals all That inhabit the earth, be they mighty or small,-- Be they men, mice, or wolves, or e'en creatures more coarse,-- Their souls have derived from one general source; And vary, in physical actions, just so As the form of their organs may force them to do. And if this be the case, then, how came it that one Of so fine-formed a frame did not wed with the Sun? Whereas, as we know, to a Rat she devoted The charms on which many a king would have doated.
All things considered, I'll declare That girl and mouse souls different are. We must our destiny fulfil, As ordered by the sovereign will. Appeal to magic,--it is all in vain; The soul, once born, will still the same remain.
FABLE CLXXXI.
THE MONKEY AND THE CAT.
Bertrand and Raton--a Monkey and Cat-- Were messmates in mischief, with roguery fat; There was nothing they feared, there was nothing they spared, And whatever they plundered they usually shared. If anything close by was stealable, they Would never go foraging out of their way. Bertrand stole everything Raton to please, And Raton cared less for the mice than the cheese. One day at the fire, when all clear was the coast, The pair were both spying some chesnuts at roast: To steal a good meal is its pleasure to double; Besides, it would bring the cook's man into trouble. Says Bertrand to Raton, "My brother, you see, Fate's given a moment of glory to thee; Get those chesnuts, and quickly, my brave one, I pray, The gods have vouchsafed us a dinner to-day." And so to snatch chesnuts poor Raton agreed, And at once set to work on the dangerous deed. With gingerly touch he the cinders withdrew, And snatched the hot prizes, first one, and then two. He has pilfered quite half, but has not eaten one; The eating his comrade, Bertrand, has done. A scullion comes--there's adieu to the theft-- And Raton is empty and querulous left.
Your nobles are much in a similar case, Who as flatterers dangerous service embrace; And to gratify kings, fingers often will burn, Then homeward, though wiser, still poorer return.
FABLE CLXXXII.
THE WOLF AND THE STARVED DOG.
Once on a time, a little Carp to man Preached all in vain; they put him in the pan. And I repeat, 'tis foolish to let slip The glass that's full, and half way to the lip, In hopes of better wine. The fish was wrong; The fisherman was right, his reason strong. One speaks out boldly when a life's to save; It needs some eloquence King Death to waive; But still I hold I'm right, and don't demur, If from my former text I do not stir. A Wolf, less wise than our good fisherman, Meeting a Dog outside the village, ran To bear him off. The poor Dog pleaded hard That he was thin, and not worth his regard. "My lord, I shall not please you, that is pat; Wait till the marriage, I shall then grow fat And quite myself--when master's daughter's wed." The Wolf believed all that the terrier said. The day expired; he came with faith to see If good had come from this festivity. To Wolf without the Dog spoke through the gate: "Friend, I am coming, if you'll only wait; The porter of our lodge is coming, too, We'll soon be ready, sir, to wait on you." The porter was a mastiff, you must know, Ready to crunch up wolves, and at one blow. The caller paused: "Your servant I remain," He said, and ran and sought the wood again; Swift, but not clever: the remark was made, "This Wolf was not a master of his trade."
FABLE CLXXXIII.
THE WAX CANDLE.
From heaven the Bees came down, they say, And on Hymettus' top, one day, Settled, and from sweet Zephyr's flowers Stole all the treasures and strange powers; And when th' ambrosia from each field, Long in their store-rooms close concealed, Was, to speak simple French, all taken, And the mere empty comb forsaken, Many Wax Tapers, from it made, Were sold by those to whom that trade Belongs. One of these Candles, long and thick, Seeing clay hardened into brick By fire, made to endure for aye, Like an Empedocles, to die, Resolved to perish in the flame. A foolish martyr, seeking fame, He leaped in headlong. Reasoning vain: Small wisdom in his empty brain. No human being's like another: One cannot argue from one's brother. Empedocles burnt up like paper; Yet wasn't madder than this Taper.
FABLE CLXXXIV.
"NOT TOO MUCH."
I Find in no one race or nation Of men what I call moderation; Both animals and plants do err In this respect, I must aver. Nature's great Master wished that we Should guard the golden mean, you see; But do we?--No; and once more, No! Whether to good or ill we go. The corn that Ceres from her hand Spreads lavish o'er the fertile land, Too richly grows, and drains the ground, Luxuriant, and without a bound; So that from rank and crowded grain All nourishment the deep roots drain; The trees spread likewise heedlessly To check the corn. God graciously Gives us the sheep to check ill growth; Amid the corn they, nothing loath, Plunge headlong, and so, ruthless, spoil The slow result of peasants' toil. Then Heaven sends the wolf to thin The sheep--they gobble kith and kin-- If they spare one 'tis not their fault, They're but too ready to assault; Then man the speedy punishment Unto the cruel wolves is sent. Next man--far worst of all abuses-- The power Divine he rashly uses. Man, of all animals yet known, Is more disposed to this, I own; Little or great, unto excess We carry all things, I confess; No soul that lives but errs, I see, In this respect continually, The good text, "Not too much," is met Often, but never practised yet.
FABLE CLXXXV.
THE TWO RATS, THE FOX, AND THE EGG.
TO MADAME DE LA SABLIÈRE.
Iris, it were easy, quite, Verses in your praise to write, Were't not that, scornful, you refuse The plaintive homage of my muse, In that unlike your sisters fair, Who any weight of praise can bear: Most women doat on flattery's lies, Nor are they, on this point, unwise; For, if it be a crime, 'tis one That gods and monarchs fail to shun. That nectar which, the poets say, Is quaffed by him who holds the sway O'er thunders, and which kings on earth Get drunk on, from their earliest birth, Is flattery, Iris, flattery--such As you 'll not even deign to touch. No, Iris! you have rich resources In genuine wit, and wise discourses,-- Sometimes half earnest, sometimes gay; The world believes it not, they say: Let the poor world think what it may. In conversation, I maintain That truth and jokes are equal gain. Pure science well may be the stay Of friendly converse; but the ray Of mirth should, ever and anon, Electric, light friends' union. Discourse, when rightly comprehended, Is with a thousand graces blended, And much resembles gardens sweet, Where Flora's various beauties meet; And where the bees search every bloom, And from each bush bring honey home. Allowing this to be so, let Some theories in my tales be met: Theories philosophic, new, Engaging, subtle; have not you Heard speak of them? Their holders say That animals are mere machines, And move but by mechanic means; That, move or gambol as they may, They move but blindly, have no soul, No feeling heart, no self-control; But are like watches, which, set going, Work on, without their object knowing. If we should open one of these, What is't the eye within them sees? A score of tiny wheels we find; The first is moved, then, close behind, A second follows, then a third, And so on, till the hour is heard. To hark to these philosophers, The heart is such; some object stirs A certain nerve, and straight, again, A fellow-nerve endures the strain; And so on, till the sense it reaches, And some deep vital lesson teaches. "But how's it done?" These theorists cry, 'Tis done by pure necessity; That neither will nor even passion Assist in it, in any fashion. That, moved by some inherent force, The beast is sent to run the course Of love and grief, joy, pain, and hate, Or any other varied state. A watch may be a watch, and go, Compelled by springs; but 'tis not so With us;--and here 'twere wise to ask Descartes to aid us in our task,-- Descartes, who, in the times of eld, Had for a deity been held; And who, between mere men and spirits, Holds such a place, by special merits, As 'twixt man and oyster has That patient animal, the ass. He reasons thus, and boldly says, "Of all the animals that dwell On this round world, I know, full well, My brain alone has reason's rays." Now, Iris, you will recollect, 'Twas taught us by that older science, On which we used to have reliance, That when beasts think, they don't reflect. Descartes goes farther, and maintains That beasts are quite devoid of brains. This you believe with ease, and so Can I, until to woods I go, Just when, perchance, some motley crew, With dogs and horns, a stag pursue. In vain it doubles, and confounds. With many a devious turn, the hounds.
At length this ancient stag of ten, Discovering all its efforts vain, And almost wholly worn and spent, Drives by main force, from covert near, Athwart the dogs, some younger deer, To tempt them off, by fresher scent. What reasoning here the beast displays! Its backward tracks on beaten ways, Its numerous schemes its scent to smother, And skill, at length, to thrust another
On danger almost at its feet, For some great party chief were meet; And worthy of some better fate Than death from dogs insatiate.
'Tis thus the red-legged partridge, sprung By pointer, strives to save her young, As yet unfledged. With piteous cries, And lagging wing, she feigns to rise, Runs on, then halts, then hurries on again, And dog and hunter tempts across the plain; But when her nest is far enough behind, She laughs at both, and skims along the wind.
'Tis said that beings have been found, In distant lands, in northern climes, Who still in ignorance profound Are steeped, as in primeval times. But only of the men I speak, For there four-footed creatures break The force of streams by dams and ridges, And join opposing banks by bridges: Beams morticed well with beams, their toil Resists the stream's attempt to spoil; Each labourer with the other vies, And old ones guide young energies; Chief engineers the whole survey, And point out aught that goes astray. Pluto's well-ordered state could never Have vied with these amphibians clever.
In snows they build their houses high, And pass o'er pools on bridges dry: Such is their prudence, art, and skill; Whilst men like us around them, still, If they, perchance, should have the whim A distant shore to reach, must swim. Now, spite of all, this evidence Convinces me of beavers' sense. But still, my point to make more clear, I will a story here relate, Which but lately met my ear From lips of one who rules in state: A king, I mean, and one whose glory Soars high on wings of victory-- The Polish prince, whose name alone Spreads terror round the Turkish throne. That kings can lie not is well known: He says, then, that his frontiers wide Are edged by wilds where beasts reside, Who warfare wage inveterate, And to their sons transmit their hate. "These beasts are fox-like," says the king, And to their wars such arts they bring, That neither this nor any age Has seen men with like skill engage. All pickets, sentinels, and spies, With ambuscades and treacheries, That she who from Styx's entrails came, And unto heroes gives their fame, Invented has, for man's perdition, These beasts employ, with erudition. To sing their battles we should have Homer restored us, from the grave; And, oh! that he who Epicurus Rivals once more could re-assure us That, whatever beasts may do, Is to mechanic means but due; That all their minds corporeal are; That building houses, making war, They are but agents, weak and blind, Of some mere watchspring in the mind. The object which their sense attacks, Returning, fills its former tracks, And straightway, in their bestial pates, The image seen before creates, Without that thought, or sense, or soul Have o'er the thing the least control. But men a different station fill, And, scorning instinct, use their will. I speak, I walk, and feel within Something to God-like power akin. Distinct from all my flesh and bone, It lives a life that's all its own, Yet o'er my flesh it rules alone. But how can soul be understood By what is merely flesh and blood? There lies the point. The tool by hand is guided; Who guides the hand has not yet been decided. Ah! what is that strange power which wings The planets on their heavenly way? Doth each some angel lord obey? And are my spirit's secret springs Moved and controlled the selfsame way? My soul obeys some influence; I know not what it is, nor whence. That secret must for ever lie Hid by God's awful majesty. Descartes knew just as much as I: In other things he may supplant All men; he's here as ignorant. But, Iris, this, at least, I know,-- That no such lofty souls endow The beasts of whom I've made example:-- Of soul, man only is the temple. Yet must we to the beasts accord Some sense the plant-world can't afford; And even plants have humble lives. But let me add one story still; And let me know how much your skill Of moral from its facts derives.
Two Rats, seeking something to eat, found an Egg: For such folks, to have something to eat is sufficient; And seldom or never you'll find that they beg Of the gods turtle soup, or a French cook proficient. Full of appetite, nimbly they sat down to eat, And soon from the shell would have drawn out the meat, When a Fox in the distance appeared, to molest them, And a question arose, which most greatly distress'd them,-- No other, as you may suppose, but the way The Egg from Sir Reynard's keen snout to convey. To drag it behind them, or roll it on floor, To pack it behind them, or shove it before, Were the plans tried in turn, but were all tried in vain. When at length the old mother of arts[1] made it plain That, if one on his back held the Egg in his paw, The other from danger could readily draw. The plan was successful, in spite of some jolting; And we leave the two sages their pleasant meal bolting.
Who shall, after this, declare That beasts devoid of reason are? For my part, I'll to beasts allow The sense that dwells in childhood's brow. Reason, from childhood's earliest years, In all its acts and ways appears; And so it seems to me quite plain That without soul there may be brain. I give to beasts a sort of mind, Compared to ours, a league behind. Some matter I would subtilise, Some matter hard to analyse, Some atoms essence, light's extract; Fire, subtlest of all things; in fact, The flames that out of wood arise Enable us to form some thought Of what the soul is. Silver lies Involved in lead. Beasts' brains are wrought So that they think and judge;--no more. They judge imperfectly. 'Tis sure No ape could ever argue. Then Above all beasts I'll place us men; For to us men a double treasure Belongs--that sense which, in some measure, To all things living here below, The wise and foolish, high and low, Is common; and that holier spirit Which men, with seraphim, inherit. And, oh! this loftier soul can fly Through all the wondrous realms of sky: On smallest point can lie at ease; And though commenced shall never cease. Things strange, but true. In infancy This soul must dim and feeble be; But ripening years its frame develop, And then it bursts the gross envelope Which still in fetters always binds, In men and beasts, the lower minds.
[1] Necessity, the mother of invention.
FABLE CLXXXVI.
THE CORMORANT AND THE FISHES.
Through all the country far and wide, In pools and rivers incessantly diving, A Cormorant greedy his table supplied, On their finny inhabitants so daintily thriving. But at length there came a day When his strength gave way, And the Cormorant, having to fish for himself, Unskilled to use nets which we mortals employ, The fish for our own selfish use to decoy, Began soon to starve; with no crumb on the shelf, What could he do now?--Necessity, mother, Who teaches us more than we learn when at school, Advised the poor bird to go down to a pool, And addressing a Cray-fish, to say to him--"Brother, Go tell your friends a tale of coming sorrow: Your master drains this pool a week to-morrow!" The Cray-fish hurried off without delay, And soon the pool was quivering with dismay: Much trouble, much debate. At length was sent A deputation to the Cormorant. "Most lordly web-foot! are you sure th' event Will be as you have stated? If so, grant Your kind advice in this our present need!" The sly bird answered--"Change your home with speed." "But how do that?" "Oh! that shall be my care; For one by one I'll take you to my home, A most impenetrable, secret lair, Where never foe of finny tribe has come; A deep, wide pool, of nature's best, In which your race may safely rest." The fish believed this friendly speech, And soon were borne, each after each, Down to a little shallow, cribbed, confined, In which the greedy bird could choose them to his mind.
And there they learnt, although too late, To trust no bills insatiate. But, after all, it don't much matter-- A Cormorant's throat or human platter-- Whether a wolf or man digest me, Doesn't seem really to molest me; And whether one's eaten to-day or to-morrow Should scarcely be any occasion for sorrow.
FABLE CLXXXVII.
THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THE ROBBER.
A Husband, loving very tenderly-- Most tenderly--his wife, was treated ill By her;--her coldness caused him misery. No look, no glance, no, not a friendly word,-- Not e'en a smile, such as she gave her bird,-- But cold looks, frowns, and peevish answers, still.
He did not Venus nor yet Hymen curse, Nor blame his destiny and cruel lot, Yet daily grew the evil worse and worse: Although he loved her every hour the more. It is so now, and has been so of yore. In fact, he was a Husband, was he not?
One night, as he lay moaning in his sleep, A Robber entered; and, struck dumb with fear, The fretful Wife, too frightened e'en to weep, Sprang to her Husband's arms, and, sheltered there, Defied all sorrow, trouble, danger near, As her heart softened, and burst forth the tear.