To Monseigneur The Duke De Bourgogne.
Contemporary with a sparrow tame
There lived a cat; from tenderest age,
Of both, the basket and the cage
Had household gods the same.
The bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the cat,
Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat,
His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh,
Not punishing his faults by half.
In short, he scrupled much the harm,
Should he with points his ferule arm.
The sparrow, less discreet than he,
With dagger beak made very free.
Sir Cat, a person wise and staid,
Excused the warmth with which he play'd:
For 'tis full half of friendship's art
To take no joke in serious part.
Familiar since they saw the light,
Mere habit kept their friendship good;
Fair play had never turn'd to fight,
Till, of their neighbourhood,
Another sparrow came to greet
Old Ratto grave and saucy Pete.
Between the birds a quarrel rose,
And Ratto took his side.
'A pretty stranger, with such blows
To beat our friend!' he cried.
'A neighbour's sparrow eating ours!
Not so, by all the feline powers.'
And quick the stranger he devours.
'Now, truly,' saith Sir Cat,
I know how sparrows taste by that.
Exquisite, tender, delicate!'
This thought soon seal'd the other's fate.--
But hence what moral can I bring?
For, lacking that important thing,
A fable lacks its finishing:
I seem to see of one some trace,
But still its shadow mocks my chase.
Yours, prince, it will not thus abuse:
For you such sports, and not my muse.
In wit, she and her sisters eight
Would fail to match you with a mate.
[[4]] The story of this fable seems to come from a fable by Furetière, titled "The Dog and the Cat." Antony Furetière was more famous as a lexicographer, and through his angry contention with the French Academy on the subject of his Dictionary, than as a poet. He lived between 1620 and 1688.
[III].--THE MISER AND THE MONKEY.[[5]]
A man amass'd. The thing, we know,
Doth often to a frenzy grow.
No thought had he but of his minted gold--
Stuff void of worth when unemploy'd, I hold.
Now, that this treasure might the safer be,
Our miser's dwelling had the sea
As guard on every side from every thief.
With pleasure, very small in my belief,
But very great in his, he there
Upon his hoard bestow'd his care.
No respite came of everlasting
Recounting, calculating, casting;
For some mistake would always come
To mar and spoil the total sum.
A monkey there, of goodly size,--
And than his lord, I think, more wise,--
Some doubloons from the window threw,
And render'd thus the count untrue.
The padlock'd room permitted
Its owner, when he quitted,
To leave his money on the table.
One day, bethought this monkey wise
To make the whole a sacrifice
To Neptune on his throne unstable.
I could not well award the prize
Between the monkey's and the miser's pleasure
Derived from that devoted treasure.
With some, Don Bertrand, would the honour gain,
For reasons it were tedious to explain.
One day, then, left alone,
That animal, to mischief prone,
Coin after coin detach'd,
A gold jacobus snatch'd,
Or Portuguese doubloon,
Or silver ducatoon,
Or noble, of the English rose,
And flung with all his might
Those discs, which oft excite
The strongest wishes mortal ever knows.
Had he not heard, at last,
The turning of his master's key,
The money all had pass'd
The same short road to sea;
And not a single coin but had been pitch'd
Into the gulf by many a wreck enrich'd.
Now, God preserve full many a financier
Whose use of wealth may find its likeness here!
[[5]] The story is traced to the episode in Tristan L'Hermite's romance titled "Le Page disgracie," treating of "The Monkey and Master Robert." L'Hermite lived 1601-1655.
[IV].--THE TWO GOATS.[[6]]
Since goats have browsed, by freedom fired,
To follow fortune they've aspired.
To pasturage they're wont to roam
Where men are least disposed to come.
If any pathless place there be,
Or cliff, or pendent precipice,
'Tis there they cut their capers free:
There's nought can stop these dames, I wis.
Two goats, thus self-emancipated,--
The white that on their feet they wore
Look'd back to noble blood of yore,--
Once quit the lowly meadows, sated,
And sought the hills, as it would seem:
In search of luck, by luck they met
Each other at a mountain stream.
As bridge a narrow plank was set,
On which, if truth must be confest,
Two weasels scarce could go abreast.
And then the torrent, foaming white,
As down it tumbled from the height,
Might well those Amazons affright.
But maugre such a fearful rapid,
Both took the bridge, the goats intrepid!
I seem to see our Louis Grand[[7]]
And Philip IV. advance
To the Isle of Conference,[[8]]
That lies 'twixt Spain and France,
Each sturdy for his glorious land.
Thus each of our adventurers goes,
Till foot to foot, and nose to nose,
Somewhere about the midst they meet,
And neither will an inch retreat.
For why? they both enjoy'd the glory
Of ancestors in ancient story.
The one, a goat of peerless rank,
Which, browsing on Sicilian bank,
The Cyclop gave to Galataea;[[9]]
The other famous Amalthaea,[[10]]
The goat that suckled Jupiter,
As some historians aver.
For want of giving back, in troth,
A common fall involved them both.--
A common accident, no doubt,
On Fortune's changeful route.[[11]]
[[6]] This and several others of the fables in the XIIth Book are taken from the "Thèmes" of the Duke de Bourgogne, afterwards published in Robert's "Fables Inédites." These "Thèmes," were the joint composition of Fénélon, his pupil the infant Duke de Bourgogne, and La Fontaine, and were first used in the education of the Duke. Fénélon suggested the story, the pupil put it into prose, and La Fontaine versified it. La Fontaine is eulogistic of the young Duke's "wit" in putting these "Thèmes" into prose in [Fable IX., Book XII].
[[7]] Louis Grand.--Louis XIV. See note to Epilogue of Book XI.
[[8]] The Isle of Conference.--The Pheasants' Isle in the river Bidassoa, which separates France and Spain. It is called the Isle of Conference on account of several of the Conferences, leading to Treaties, &c., between the two countries, having been held there.
[[9]] The Cyclop gave to Galataea.--Polyphemus and Galataea: vide Theocritus, Idyl XI.
[[10]] Amalthaea.--Another story is that Amalthaea was not a goat, but a nymph of Crete, who fed the infant Jupiter with goat's milk.
[[11]] In the original the last lines differ from those in the version of La Fontaine's "Oeuvres Posthumes," published in 1696, the year after the poet's death. Indeed, variations of text are common to most of the fables of the XIIth Book, on making the same comparison, viz., of the first edition, 1694, and the edition in the "Oeuvres Posthumes."