Some accident then calls me back, And I'm no more than simple Jack.[14]

[14] This and the following fable should be read together. See note to next fable.

XI.--THE CURATE AND THE CORPSE.[15]

A dead man going slowly, sadly, To occupy his last abode, A curate by him, rather gladly, Did holy service on the road.

Within a coach the dead was borne, A robe around him duly worn, Of which I wot he was not proud-- That ghostly garment call'd a shroud.

In summer's blaze and winter's blast, That robe is changeless--'tis the last.

The curate, with his priestly dress on, Recited all the church's prayers, The psalm, the verse, response, and lesson, In fullest style of such affairs.

Sir Corpse, we beg you, do not fear A lack of such things on your bier; They'll give abundance every way, Provided only that you pay.

The Reverend John Cabbagepate Watch'd o'er the corpse as if it were A treasure needing guardian care; And all the while, his looks elate, This language seem'd to hold: 'The dead will pay so much in gold, So much in lights of molten wax, So much in other sorts of tax:'

With all he hoped to buy a cask of wine, The best which thereabouts produced the vine.

A pretty niece, on whom he doted, And eke his chambermaid, should be promoted, By being newly petticoated.

The coach upset, and dash'd to pieces, Cut short these thoughts of wine and nieces!

There lay poor John with broken head, Beneath the coffin of the dead!

His rich, parishioner in lead Drew on the priest the doom Of riding with him to the tomb!

The Pot of Milk,[16] and fate Of Curate Cabbagepate, As emblems, do but give The history of most that live.

[15] This fable is founded upon a fact, which is related by Madame de Sevigne in her _Letters_ under date Feb. 26, 1672, as follows:--"M. Boufflers has killed a man since his death: the circ.u.mstance was this: they were carrying him about a league from Boufflers to inter him; the corpse was on a bier in a coach; his own curate attended it; the coach overset, and the bier falling upon the curate's neck choaked him." M. de Boufflers had fallen down dead a few days before. He was the eldest brother of the Duke de Boufflers.

In another _Letter_, March 3, 1672, Madame de Sevigne says:--"Here is Fontaine's fable too, on the adventure of M. de Boufflers' curate, who was killed in the coach by his dead patron.

There was something very extraordinary in the affair itself: the fable is pretty; but not to be compared to the one that follows it: I do not understand the Milk-pot."

[16] This allusion to the preceding fable must be the "milk-pot" which Madame de Sevigne did "not understand" (_vide_ last note); Madame can hardly have meant the "milk-pot" fable, which is easily understood. She often saw La Fontaine's work before it was published, and the date of her letter quoted at p. 161 shows that she must so have seen the "Curate and the Corpse," and that, perhaps, without so seeing the "Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk."

XII.--THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE, AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED.

Who joins not with his restless race To give Dame Fortune eager chase?

O, had I but some lofty perch, From which to view the panting crowd Of care-worn dreamers, poor and proud, As on they hurry in the search, From realm to realm, o'er land and water, Of Fate's fantastic, fickle daughter!

Ah! slaves sincere of flying phantom!

Just as their G.o.ddess they would clasp, The jilt divine eludes their grasp, And flits away to Bantam!

Poor fellows! I bewail their lot.

And here's the comfort of my ditty; For fools the mark of wrath are not So much, I'm sure, as pity.

'That man,' say they, and feed their hope, 'Raised cabbages--and now he's pope.

Don't we deserve as rich a prize?'

Ay, richer? But, hath Fortune eyes?

And then the popedom, is it worth The price that must be given?-- Repose?--the sweetest bliss of earth, And, ages since, of G.o.ds in heaven?

'Tis rarely Fortune's favourites Enjoy this cream of all delights.

Seek not the dame, and she will you-- A truth which of her s.e.x is true.

Snug in a country town A pair of friends were settled down.

One sigh'd unceasingly to find A fortune better to his mind, And, as he chanced his friend to meet, Proposed to quit their dull retreat.

'No prophet can to honour come,'

Said he, 'unless he quits his home; Let's seek our fortune far and wide.'

'Seek, if you please,' his friend replied: 'For one, I do not wish to see A better clime or destiny.

I leave the search and prize to you; Your restless humour please pursue!

You'll soon come back again.

I vow to nap it here till then.'

The enterprising, or ambitious, Or, if you please, the avaricious, Betook him to the road.

The morrow brought him to a place The flaunting G.o.ddess ought to grace As her particular abode-- I mean the court--whereat he staid, And plans for seizing Fortune laid.

He rose, and dress'd, and dined, and went to bed, Exactly as the fashion led: In short, he did whate'er he could, But never found the promised good.

Said he, 'Now somewhere else I'll try-- And yet I fail'd I know not why; For Fortune here is much at home To this and that I see her come, Astonishingly kind to some.

And, truly, it is hard to see The reason why she slips from me.

'Tis true, perhaps, as I've been told, That spirits here may be too bold.

To courts and courtiers all I bid adieu; Deceitful shadows they pursue.

The dame has temples in Surat; I'll go and see them--that is flat.'

To say so was t' embark at once.

O, human hearts are made of bronze!

His must have been of adamant, Beyond the power of Death to daunt, Who ventured first this route to try, And all its frightful risks defy.

'Twas more than once our venturous wight Did homeward turn his aching sight, When pirate's, rocks, and calms and storms, Presented death in frightful forms-- Death sought with pains on distant sh.o.r.es, Which soon as wish'd for would have come, Had he not left the peaceful doors Of his despised but blessed home.

Arrived, at length, in Hindostan, The people told our wayward man That Fortune, ever void of plan, Dispensed her favours in j.a.pan.

And on he went, the weary sea His vessel bearing lazily.

This lesson, taught by savage men, Was after all his only gain:-- Contented in thy country stay, And seek thy wealth in nature's way.

j.a.pan refused to him, no less Than Hindostan, success; And hence his judgment came to make His quitting home a great mistake.

Renouncing his ungrateful course, He hasten'd back with all his force; And when his village came in sight, His tears were proof of his delight.

'Ah, happy he,' exclaimed the wight, 'Who, dwelling there with mind sedate, Employs himself to regulate His ever-hatching, wild desires; Who checks his heart when it aspires To know of courts, and seas, and glory, More than he can by simple story; Who seeks not o'er the treacherous wave-- More treacherous Fortune's willing slave-- The bait of wealth and honours fleeting, Held by that G.o.ddess, aye retreating.

Henceforth from home I budge no more!'

Pop on his sleeping friends he came, Thus purposing against the dame, And found her sitting at his door.[17]

[17] See note to preceding fable, for Madame de Sevigne's opinion.

XIII.--THE TWO c.o.c.kS.[18]

Two c.o.c.ks in peace were living, when A war was kindled by a hen.

O love, thou bane of Troy! 'twas thine The blood of men and G.o.ds to shed Enough to turn the Xanthus red As old Port wine!

And long the battle doubtful stood: (I mean the battle of the c.o.c.ks;) They gave each other fearful shocks: The fame spread o'er the neighbourhood, And gather'd all the crested brood.

And Helens more than one, of plumage bright, Led off the victor of that b.l.o.o.d.y fight.

The vanquish'd, drooping, fled, Conceal'd his batter'd head, And in a dark retreat Bewail'd his sad defeat.

His loss of glory and the prize His rival now enjoy'd before his eyes.

While this he every day beheld, His hatred kindled, courage swell'd: He whet his beak, and flapp'd his wings, And meditated dreadful things.

Waste rage! His rival flew upon a roof And crow'd to give his victory proof.-- A hawk this boasting heard: Now perish'd all his pride, As suddenly he died Beneath that savage bird.

In consequence of this reverse, The vanquish'd sallied from his hole, And took the harem, master sole, For moderate penance not the worse.

Imagine the congratulation, The proud and stately leading, Gallanting, coaxing, feeding, Of wives almost a nation!

'Tis thus that Fortune loves to flee The insolent by victory.

We should mistrust her when we beat, Lest triumph lead us to defeat.

[18] Aesop.