Autor: Editor

THREE HUNDRED
ÆSOP’S FABLES

LITERALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK

By the
Rev. George Fyler Townsend, M.A.

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE
NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET

CONTENTS

PREFACE
LIFE OF AESOP
AESOP’S FABLES
The Lion And The Mouse
The Wolf And The Lamb
The Ass And The Grasshopper
The Wolf and the Crane
The Father And His Sons
The Bat And The Weasels
The Cock and the Jewel
The Swallow and the Crow
The Kingdom of the Lion
The Traveler and His Dog
The Ants and the Grasshopper
The Hare and the Tortoise
The Charcoal-Burner And The Fuller
The Boy Hunting Locusts
The Fisherman Piping
The Dog and the Shadow
Hercules and the Wagoner
The Mole and His Mother
The Herdsman and the Lost Bull
The Fawn and His Mother
The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion
The Flies and the Honey-Pot
The Lioness
The Farmer and the Snake
The Man and the Lion
The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble
The Farmer and the Stork
The Mountain in Labor
The Bear and the Fox
The Tortoise and the Eagle
The Fox and the Goat
The Raven and the Swan
The Thirsty Pigeon
The Dog in the Manger
The Oxen and the Axle-Trees
The Farmer and the Cranes
The Sick Lion
The Bear and the Two Travelers
The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail
The Cat and the Cock
The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
The Goat and the Goatherd
The Boasting Traveler
The Lion in Love
The Miser
The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat
The Boy and the Filberts
The Frogs Asking for a King
The Laborer and the Snake
The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox
The Horse and Groom
The Ass and the Mule
The Ass and the Lapdog
The Oxen and the Butchers
The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf
The Boys and the Frogs
The Salt Merchant and His Ass
The Mischievous Dog
The Goatherd and the Wild Goats
The Man and His Two Sweethearts
The Sick Stag
The Boy and the Nettles
The Astronomer
The Wolves and the Sheep
The Cat and the Birds
The Vain Jackdaw
The Kid and the Wolf
The Old Woman and the Physician
The Ox and the Frog
The Farmer and His Sons
The Heifer and the Ox
The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle
The Charger and the Miller
The Fox and the Monkey
The Horse and His Rider
The Belly and the Members
The Widow and Her Little Maidens
The Vine and the Goat
Jupiter and the Monkey
The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons
The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat
The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice
The Two Pots
The Shepherd and the Wolf
The Crab and Its Mother
The Father and His Two Daughters
The Thief and His Mother
The Old Man and Death
The Fir-Tree and the Bramble
The Æthiop
The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk
The Fisherman and His Nets
The Wolf and the Sheep
The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar
The Man Bitten by a Dog
The Huntsman and the Fisherman
The Fox and the Crow
The Widow and the Sheep
The Playful Ass
The Stag in the Ox-Stall
The Two Dogs
The Wild Ass and the Lion
The Lion and the Dolphin
The Eagle and the Arrow
The Sick Kite
The Lion and the Boar
The Mice in Council
The One-Eyed Doe
The Mice and the Weasels
The Shepherd and the Sea
The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion
The Rivers and the Sea
The Wild Boar and the Fox
The Milk-Woman and Her Pail
The Bee and Jupiter
The Wolf and the Housedog
The Three Tradesmen
The Ass Carrying the Image
The Master and His Dogs
The Old Hound
The Two Travelers and the Axe
The Old Lion
The Wolf and the Shepherds
The Seaside Travelers
The Ass and His Shadow
The Ass and His Masters
Mercury and the Sculptor
The Fox and the Woodcutter
The Oak and the Reeds
The Lion in a Farmyard
The Wolf and the Lion
The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock
The Ant and the Dove
The Hares and the Frogs
The Monkey and the Fishermen
The Swan and the Goose
The Doe and the Lion
The Fisherman and the Little Fish
The Hunter and the Woodman
The Swollen Fox
The Two Frogs
The Lamp
The Camel and the Arab
The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass
The Cat and the Mice
The Mouse and the Bull
The Dog and the Cook
The Thieves and the Cock
The Dancing Monkeys
The Farmer and the Fox
The Traveler and Fortune
The Seagull and the Kite
The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox
The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury
The Peasant and the Eagle
The Fox and the Leopard
The Lion and the Hare
The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter
The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass
The Bull and the Goat
The Bald Knight
The Oaks and Jupiter
The Monkeys and Their Mother
The Hare and the Hound
The Shepherd and the Dog
The Oak and the Woodcutters
The Wasp and the Snake
The Peacock and the Crane
The Hen and the Golden Eggs
The Ass and the Frogs
The Crow and the Raven
The Trees and the Axe
The Wolves and the Sheepdogs
The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter
The Bowman and Lion
The Camel
The Crab and the Fox
The Ass and the Old Shepherd
The Fox and the Hedgehog
The Woman and Her Hen
The Kites and the Swans
The Dog and the Hare
The Hares and the Foxes
The Bull and the Calf
The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep
The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow
The Wolf and the Fox
The Mule
The Prophet
The Two Frogs
The Serpent and the Eagle
The Crow and the Pitcher
The Thief and the Innkeeper
The Hart and the Vine
The Gnat and the Lion
The Fox and the Grapes
The Walnut-Tree
The Kid and the Wolf
The Monkey and the Dolphin
The Horse and the Stag
The Jackdaw and the Doves
The Fox and the Monkey
The Man and His Wife
The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog
The Thief and the Housedog
The Apes and the Two Travelers
The Fox and the Lion
The Weasel and the Mice
The Boy Bathing
The Peacock and Juno
The Wolf and the Shepherd
The Hares and the Lions
The Seller of Images
The Hawk and the Nightingale
The Lark and Her Young Ones
The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox
The Geese and the Cranes
The Ass and the Wolf
The Goat and the Ass
The Lion and the Bull
The Fox and the Mask
The Grasshopper and the Owl
The Fowler and the Viper
The Horse and the Ass
The Lion and the Three Bulls
The Wolf and the Goat
The Fly and the Draught-Mule
The Fishermen
The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse
The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape
The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer
The Brother and the Sister
The Dogs and the Fox
The Blind Man and the Whelp
The Cobbler Turned Doctor
The Wolf and the Horse
The Two Men Who Were Enemies
The Gamecocks and the Partridge
The Fox and the Lion
The Quack Frog
The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
The Dog’s House
The North Wind and the Sun
The Crow and Mercury
The Fox and the Crane
The Wolf and the Lion
The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat
The Spendthrift and the Swallow
The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
The Owl and the Birds
The Goods and the Ills
The Ass in the Lion’s Skin
The Sparrow and the Hare
The Flea and the Ox
The Ass and His Purchaser
The Dove and the Crow
The Man and the Satyr
Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus
The Eagle and the Jackdaw
The Eagle and the Fox
The Two Bags
The Bitch and Her Whelps
The Stag at the Pool
The Lark Burying Her Father
The Gnat and the Bull
The Monkey and the Camel
The Dogs and the Hides
The Jackdaw and the Fox
Mercury and the Workmen
The Peasant and the Apple-Tree
The Two Soldiers and the Robber
The Shepherd and the Sheep
The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods
The Flea and the Wrestler
The Lion and the Fox
Truth and the Traveler
The Manslayer
The Lion and the Eagle
The Ass and His Driver
The Thrush and the Fowler
The Mother and the Wolf
The Hen and the Swallow
The Rose and the Amaranth
The Travelers and the Plane-Tree
The Ass and the Horse
The Crow and the Sheep
The Fox and the Bramble
The Ass and the Charger
The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant
The Dog and the Oyster
The Mules and the Robbers
The Lamb and the Wolf
The Partridge and the Fowler
The Flea and the Man
The Rich Man and the Tanner
The Viper and the File
The Lion and the Shepherd
The Camel and Jupiter
The Panther and the Shepherds
The Eagle and the Kite
The Eagle and His Captor
The King’s Son and the Painted Lion
The Cat and Venus
The Eagle and the Beetle
The She-Goats and Their Beards
The Bald Man and the Fly
The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea
The Buffoon and the Countryman
The Crow and the Serpent
The Hunter and the Horseman
The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree
The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun
The Brazier and His Dog
FOOTNOTES
INDEX

PREFACE

The Tale, the Parable, and the Fable are all common and popular modes
of conveying instruction. Each is distinguished by its own special
characteristics. The Tale consists simply in the narration of a story
either founded on facts, or created solely by the imagination, and not
necessarily associated with the teaching of any moral lesson. The
Parable is the designed use of language purposely intended to convey a
hidden and secret meaning other than that contained in the words
themselves; and which may or may not bear a special reference to the
hearer, or reader. The Fable partly agrees with, and partly differs
from both of these. It will contain, like the Tale, a short but real
narrative; it will seek, like the Parable, to convey a hidden meaning,
and that not so much by the use of language, as by the skilful
introduction of fictitious characters; and yet, unlike to either Tale
or Parable, it will ever keep in view, as its high prerogative, and
inseparable attribute, the great purpose of instruction, and will
necessarily seek to inculcate some moral maxim, social duty, or
political truth. The true Fable, if it rise to its high requirements,
ever aims at one great end and purpose—the representation of human
motive, and the improvement of human conduct, and yet it so conceals
its design under the disguise of fictitious characters, by clothing
with speech the animals of the field, the birds of the air, the trees
of the wood, or the beasts of the forest, that the reader shall receive
advice without perceiving the presence of the adviser. Thus the
superiority of the counsellor, which often renders counsel unpalatable,
is kept out of view, and the lesson comes with the greater acceptance
when the reader is led, unconsciously to himself, to have his
sympathies enlisted in behalf of what is pure, honourable, and
praiseworthy, and to have his indignation excited against what is low,
ignoble, and unworthy. The true fabulist, therefore, discharges a most
important function. He is neither a narrator, nor an allegorist. He is
a great teacher, a corrector of morals, a censor of vice, and a
commender of virtue. In this consists the superiority of the Fable over
the Tale or the Parable. The fabulist is to create a laugh, but yet,
under a merry guise, to convey instruction. Phædrus, the great imitator
of Æsop, plainly indicates this double purpose to be the true office of
the writer of fables.

Duplex libelli dos est: quod risum movet,
Et quod prudenti vitam consilio monet.

The continual observance of this twofold aim creates the charm, and
accounts for the universal favour, of the fables of Æsop. “The fable,”
says Professor K. O. Mueller, “originated in Greece in an intentional
travestie of human affairs. The ‘ainos,’ as its name denotes, is an
admonition, or rather a reproof, veiled, either from fear of an excess
of frankness, or from a love of fun and jest, beneath the fiction of an
occurrence happening among beasts; and wherever we have any ancient and
authentic account of the Æsopian fables, we find it to be the same.”[1]

The construction of a fable involves a minute attention to (1), the
narration itself; (2), the deduction of the moral; and (3), a careful
maintenance of the individual characteristics of the fictitious
personages introduced into it. The narration should relate to one
simple action, consistent with itself, and neither be overladen with a
multiplicity of details, nor distracted by a variety of circumstances.
The moral or lesson should be so plain, and so intimately interwoven
with, and so necessarily dependent on, the narration, that every reader
should be compelled to give to it the same undeniable interpretation.
The introduction of the animals or fictitious characters should be
marked with an unexceptionable care and attention to their natural
attributes, and to the qualities attributed to them by universal
popular consent. The Fox should be always cunning, the Hare timid, the
Lion bold, the Wolf cruel, the Bull strong, the Horse proud, and the
Ass patient. Many of these fables are characterized by the strictest
observance of these rules. They are occupied with one short narrative,
from which the moral naturally flows, and with which it is intimately
associated. “’Tis the simple manner,” says Dodsley,[2] “in which the
morals of Æsop are interwoven with his fables that distinguishes him,
and gives him the preference over all other mythologists. His ‘Mountain
delivered of a Mouse,’ produces the moral of his fable in ridicule of
pompous pretenders; and his Crow, when she drops her cheese, lets fall,
as it were by accident, the strongest admonition against the power of
flattery. There is no need of a separate sentence to explain it; no
possibility of impressing it deeper, by that load we too often see of
accumulated reflections.”[3] An equal amount of praise is due for the
consistency with which the characters of the animals, fictitiously
introduced, are marked. While they are made to depict the motives and
passions of men, they retain, in an eminent degree, their own special
features of craft or counsel, of cowardice or courage, of generosity or
rapacity.

These terms of praise, it must be confessed, cannot be bestowed on all
the fables in this collection. Many of them lack that unity of design,
that close connection of the moral with the narrative, that wise choice
in the introduction of the animals, which constitute the charm and
excellency of true Æsopian fable. This inferiority of some to others is
sufficiently accounted for in the history of the origin and descent of
these fables. The great bulk of them are not the immediate work of
Æsop. Many are obtained from ancient authors prior to the time in which
he lived. Thus, the fable of the “Hawk and the Nightingale” is related
by Hesiod;[4] the “Eagle wounded by an Arrow, winged with its own
feathers,” by Æschylus;[5] the “Fox avenging his wrongs on the Eagle,”
by Archilochus.[6] Many of them again are of later origin, and are to
be traced to the monks of the middle ages: and yet this collection,
though thus made up of fables both earlier and later than the era of
Æsop, rightfully bears his name, because he composed so large a number
(all framed in the same mould, and conformed to the same fashion, and
stamped with the same lineaments, image, and superscription) as to
secure to himself the right to be considered the father of Greek
fables, and the founder of this class of writing, which has ever since
borne his name, and has secured for him, through all succeeding ages,
the position of the first of moralists.[7]

The fables were in the first instance only narrated by Æsop, and for a
long time were handed down by the uncertain channel of oral tradition.
Socrates is mentioned by Plato[8] as having employed his time while in
prison, awaiting the return of the sacred ship from Delphos which was
to be the signal of his death, in turning some of these fables into
verse, but he thus versified only such as he remembered. Demetrius
Phalereus, a philosopher at Athens about 300 B.C., is said to have made
the first collection of these fables. Phædrus, a slave by birth or by
subsequent misfortunes, and admitted by Augustus to the honours of a
freedman, imitated many of these fables in Latin iambics about the
commencement of the Christian era. Aphthonius, a rhetorician of
Antioch, A.D. 315, wrote a treatise on, and converted into Latin prose,
some of these fables. This translation is the more worthy of notice, as
it illustrates a custom of common use, both in these and in later
times. The rhetoricians and philosophers were accustomed to give the
Fables of Æsop as an exercise to their scholars, not only inviting them
to discuss the moral of the tale, but also to practice and to perfect
themselves thereby in style and rules of grammar, by making for
themselves new and various versions of the fables. Ausonius,[9] the
friend of the Emperor Valentinian, and the latest poet of eminence in
the Western Empire, has handed down some of these fables in verse,
which Julianus Titianus, a contemporary writer of no great name,
translated into prose. Avienus, also a contemporary of Ausonius, put
some of these fables into Latin elegiacs, which are given by Nevelet
(in a book we shall refer to hereafter), and are occasionally
incorporated with the editions of Phædrus.

Seven centuries elapsed before the next notice is found of the Fables
of Æsop. During this long period these fables seem to have suffered an
eclipse, to have disappeared and to have been forgotten; and it is at
the commencement of the fourteenth century, when the Byzantine emperors
were the great patrons of learning, and amidst the splendors of an
Asiatic court, that we next find honours paid to the name and memory of
Æsop. Maximus Planudes, a learned monk of Constantinople, made a
collection of about a hundred and fifty of these fables. Little is
known of his history. Planudes, however, was no mere recluse, shut up
in his monastery. He took an active part in public affairs. In 1327
A.D. he was sent on a diplomatic mission to Venice by the Emperor
Andronicus the Elder. This brought him into immediate contact with the
Western Patriarch, whose interests he henceforth advocated with so much
zeal as to bring on him suspicion and persecution from the rulers of
the Eastern Church. Planudes has been exposed to a two-fold accusation.
He is charged on the one hand with having had before him a copy of
Babrias (to whom we shall have occasion to refer at greater length in
the end of this Preface), and to have had the bad taste “to transpose,”
or to turn his poetical version into prose: and he is asserted, on the
other hand, never to have seen the Fables of Æsop at all, but to have
himself invented and made the fables which he palmed off under the name
of the famous Greek fabulist. The truth lies between these two
extremes. Planudes may have invented some few fables, or have inserted
some that were current in his day; but there is an abundance of
unanswerable internal evidence to prove that he had an acquaintance
with the veritable fables of Æsop, although the versions he had access
to were probably corrupt, as contained in the various translations and
disquisitional exercises of the rhetoricians and philosophers. His
collection is interesting and important, not only as the parent source
or foundation of the earlier printed versions of Æsop, but as the
direct channel of attracting to these fables the attention of the
learned.

The eventual re-introduction, however, of these Fables of Æsop to their
high place in the general literature of Christendom, is to be looked
for in the West rather than in the East. The calamities gradually
thickening round the Eastern Empire, and the fall of Constantinople,
1453 A.D. combined with other events to promote the rapid restoration
of learning in Italy; and with that recovery of learning the revival of
an interest in the Fables of Æsop is closely identified. These fables,
indeed, were among the first writings of an earlier antiquity that
attracted attention. They took their place beside the Holy Scriptures
and the ancient classic authors, in the minds of the great students of
that day. Lorenzo Valla, one of the most famous promoters of Italian
learning, not only translated into Latin the Iliad of Homer and the
Histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, but also the Fables of Æsop.

These fables, again, were among the books brought into an extended
circulation by the agency of the printing press. Bonus Accursius, as
early as 1475–1480, printed the collection of these fables, made by
Planudes, which, within five years afterwards, Caxton translated into
English, and printed at his press in Westminster Abbey, 1485.[10] It
must be mentioned also that the learning of this age has left permanent
traces of its influence on these fables,[11] by causing the
interpolation with them (as a κτῆμα εἰς ἰει) of some of those amusing
stories which were so frequently introduced into the public discourses
of the great preachers of those days, and of which specimens are yet to
be found in the extant sermons of Jean Raulin, Meffreth, and Gabriel
Barlette.[12] The publication of this era which most probably has
influenced these fables, is the “Liber Facetiarum,”[13] a book
consisting of a hundred jests and stories, by the celebrated Poggio
Bracciolini, published A.D. 1471, from which the two fables of the
“Miller, his Son, and the Ass,” and the “Fox and the Woodcutter,” are
undoubtedly selected.

The knowledge of these fables rapidly spread from Italy into Germany,
and their popularity was increased by the favour and sanction given to
them by the great fathers of the Reformation, who frequently used them
as vehicles for satire and protest against the tricks and abuses of the
Romish ecclesiastics. The zealous and renowned Camerarius, who took an
active part in the preparation of the Confession of Augsburgh, found
time, amidst his numerous avocations, to prepare a version for the
students in the University of Tübingen, in which he was a professor.
Martin Luther translated twenty of these fables, and was urged by
Melancthon to complete the whole; while Gottfried Arnold, the
celebrated Lutheran theologian, and librarian to Frederick I., king of
Prussia, mentions that the great Reformer valued the Fables of Æsop
next after the Holy Scriptures. In 1546 A.D. the second printed edition
of the collection of the Fables made by Planudes, was issued from the
printing-press of Robert Stephens, in which were inserted some
additional fables from a MS. in the Bibliothêque du Roy at Paris.

The greatest advance, however, towards a re-introduction of the Fables
of Æsop to a place in the literature of the world, was made in the
early part of the seventeenth century. In the year 1610, a learned
Swiss, Isaac Nicholas Nevelet, sent forth the third printed edition of
these fables, in a work entitled “Mythologia Æsopica.” This was a noble
effort to do honour to the great fabulist, and was the most perfect
collection of Æsopian fables ever yet published. It consisted, in
addition to the collection of fables given by Planudes and reprinted in
the various earlier editions, of one hundred and thirty-six new fables
(never before published) from MSS. in the Library of the Vatican, of
forty fables attributed to Aphthonius, and of forty-three from Babrias.
It also contained the Latin versions of the same fables by Phædrus,
Avienus, and other authors. This volume of Nevelet forms a complete
“Corpus Fabularum Æsopicarum;” and to his labours Æsop owes his
restoration to universal favour as one of the wise moralists and great
teachers of mankind. During the interval of three centuries which has
elapsed since the publication of this volume of Nevelet’s, no book,
with the exception of the Holy Scriptures, has had a wider circulation
than Æsop’s Fables. They have been translated into the greater number
of the languages both of Europe and of the East, and have been read,
and will be read, for generations, alike by Jew, Heathen, Mohammedan,
and Christian. They are, at the present time, not only engrafted into
the literature of the civilized world, but are familiar as household
words in the common intercourse and daily conversation of the
inhabitants of all countries.

This collection of Nevelet’s is the great culminating point in the
history of the revival of the fame and reputation of Æsopian Fables. It
is remarkable, also, as containing in its preface the germ of an idea,
which has been since proved to have been correct by a strange chain of
circumstances. Nevelet intimates an opinion, that a writer named
Babrias would be found to be the veritable author of the existing form
of Æsopian Fables. This intimation has since given rise to a series of
inquiries, the knowledge of which is necessary, in the present day, to
a full understanding of the true position of Æsop in connection with
the writings that bear his name.

The history of Babrias is so strange and interesting, that it might not
unfitly be enumerated among the curiosities of literature. He is
generally supposed to have been a Greek of Asia Minor, of one of the
Ionic Colonies, but the exact period in which he lived and wrote is yet
unsettled. He is placed, by one critic,[14] as far back as the
institution of the Achaian League, B.C. 250; by another as late as the
Emperor Severus, who died A.D. 235; while others make him a
contemporary with Phædrus in the time of Augustus. At whatever time he
wrote his version of Æsop, by some strange accident it seems to have
entirely disappeared, and to have been lost sight of. His name is
mentioned by Avienus; by Suidas, a celebrated critic, at the close of
the eleventh century, who gives in his lexicon several isolated verses
of his version of the fables; and by John Tzetzes, a grammarian and
poet of Constantinople, who lived during the latter half of the twelfth
century. Nevelet, in the preface to the volume which we have described,
points out that the Fables of Planudes could not be the work of Æsop,
as they contain a reference in two places to “Holy monks,” and give a
verse from the Epistle of St. James as an “Epimith” to one of the
fables, and suggests Babrias as their author. Francis Vavassor,[15] a
learned French jesuit, entered at greater length on this subject, and
produced further proofs from internal evidence, from the use of the
word Piræus in describing the harbour of Athens, a name which was not
given till two hundred years after Æsop, and from the introduction of
other modern words, that many of these fables must have been at least
committed to writing posterior to the time of Æsop, and more boldly
suggests Babrias as their author or collector.[16] These various
references to Babrias induced Dr. Richard Bentley, at the close of the
seventeenth century, to examine more minutely the existing versions of
Æsop’s Fables, and he maintained that many of them could, with a slight
change of words, be resolved into the Scazonic[17] iambics, in which
Babrias is known to have written: and, with a greater freedom than the
evidence then justified, he put forth, in behalf of Babrias, a claim to
the exclusive authorship of these fables. Such a seemingly extravagant
theory, thus roundly asserted, excited much opposition. Dr. Bentley[18]
met with an able antagonist in a member of the University of Oxford,
the Hon. Mr. Charles Boyle,[19] afterwards Earl of Orrery. Their
letters and disputations on this subject, enlivened on both sides with
much wit and learning, will ever bear a conspicuous place in the
literary history of the seventeenth century. The arguments of Dr.
Bentley were yet further defended a few years later by Mr. Thomas
Tyrwhitt, a well-read scholar, who gave up high civil distinctions that
he might devote himself the more unreservedly to literary pursuits. Mr.
Tyrwhitt published, A.D. 1776, a Dissertation on Babrias, and a
collection of his fables in choliambic metre found in a MS. in the
Bodleian Library at Oxford. Francesco de Furia, a learned Italian,
contributed further testimony to the correctness of the supposition
that Babrias had made a veritable collection of fables by printing from
a MS. contained in the Vatican library several fables never before
published. In the year 1844, however, new and unexpected light was
thrown upon this subject. A veritable copy of Babrias was found in a
manner as singular as were the MSS. of Quinctilian’s Institutes, and of
Cicero’s Orations by Poggio in the monastery of St. Gall A.D. 1416. M.
Menoides, at the suggestion of M. Villemain, Minister of Public
Instruction to King Louis Philippe, had been entrusted with a
commission to search for ancient MSS., and in carrying out his
instructions he found a MS. at the convent of St. Laura, on Mount
Athos, which proved to be a copy of the long suspected and wished-for
choliambic version of Babrias. This MS. was found to be divided into
two books, the one containing a hundred and twenty-five, and the other
ninety-five fables. This discovery attracted very general attention,
not only as confirming, in a singular manner, the conjectures so boldly
made by a long chain of critics, but as bringing to light valuable
literary treasures tending to establish the reputation, and to confirm
the antiquity and authenticity of the great mass of Æsopian Fable. The
Fables thus recovered were soon published. They found a most worthy
editor in the late distinguished Sir George Cornewall Lewis, and a
translator equally qualified for his task, in the Reverend James
Davies, M.A., sometime a scholar of Lincoln College, Oxford, and
himself a relation of their English editor. Thus, after an eclipse of
many centuries, Babrias shines out as the earliest, and most reliable
collector of veritable Æsopian Fables.

Having thus given a complete synopsis of the origin, descent, and
history of these fables, it only remains to explain the reasons which
have induced the Publishers to prepare a new edition of Æsop, and to
state the grounds on which they hope to establish a claim for support
and public approval in their undertaking. They boldly assert that the
new light thrown upon these fables by the discovery of the metrical
version by Babrias, renders a new translation an inevitable necessity.
The two chief existing English versions of Æsop are those by Archdeacon
Croxall, and by the late Rev. Thomas James, canon of Peterborough. The
first of these deviates so very far from the text, that it degenerates
into a parody. The fables are so padded, diluted, and altered, as to
give very little idea to the reader either of the terseness or the
meaning of the original. The second of these is an improvement on its
predecessor, but Mr. James, either out of compliance with the wishes of
the publishers, or in condescension to the taste prevalent some twenty
years ago, has so freely introduced as the point of the fable
conventional English sayings which are not sanctioned by the Greek, and
which in many instances are scarcely equivalent to it, that his version
frequently approaches a paraphrase rather than a translation.

The Publishers therefore ground their first claim for public approval
on the necessity of a new translation. They trust further that their
present work will have met that necessity in a satisfactory manner.
They have sought to give as nearly a literal translation as possible of
the Greek text; and they hope that if the reader should miss the
smoothness and thoroughly English tone which characterized the previous
version of these fables, he will be more than repaid by gaining a
nearer approach to the spirit, thoughts, and (in some cases) to the
epigrammatic terseness of the original. The Publishers trust to
vindicate, on another ground, their claims to a share of public
patronage. They have inserted a hundred new fables, and they have the
satisfaction of knowing that this edition, on which they have spared no
pains nor cost, will afford a larger choice, and greater variety, to
the numerous and increasing circle of the admirers of Æsopian Fables.
Whatever be the result of their labours, they will be content to have
contributed towards promoting a wider acquaintance with fables, the
wisdom, excellency, and wonderful suitableness of which to every
condition of humanity has been attested and confirmed by the experience
of so many generations; and which in all ages, amidst the ever changing
fluctuations of human opinion, are adapted alike to amuse the young,
and to instruct the thoughtful, and are well fitted to teach all who
study them lessons useful for their guidance in every position of
political, social, civil, or domestic life.

The Editor must claim the privilege of adding a few words on a matter
personal to himself. He has already within the last few months been
connected with one edition of Æsop, and it may seem strange that he
should be willing to undertake the superintendence of another. His
answer is, that the two works on which he has been engaged were totally
distinct, and entirely independent of each other. The first was a
request to furnish new morals and applications to a definite number of
fables; Ihe other was a commission to add a large number of additional
fables and to make a wholly new translation. The necessity of a new and
improved translation the Editor then recognized, and would have
willingly undertaken. It was a wish he had much at heart, and when the
proposal was voluntarily made to him by the present Publishers, to
undertake the task of a new translation of an enlarged number of Æsop’s
Fables, he saw no reason for refusing the offer because of his prior
discharge of a totally different design; and he resolved to comply with
the request submitted to him, and to do his best towards the attainment
of so desirable an object as a purer translation and more literal
rendering of fables so justly celebrated.

The following are the sources from which the present translation has
been prepared:—

Babrii Fabulæ Æsopeæ. George Cornewall Lewis. Oxford, 1846.

Babrii Fabulæ Æsopeæ. E codice manuscripto partem secundam edidit.
George Cornewall Lewis. London: Parker, 1857.

Mythologica Æsopica. Opera et studia Isaaci Nicholai Neveleti.
Frankfort, 1610.

Fabulæ Æsopiacæ, quales ante Planudem ferebantur cura et studio
Francisci de Furia. Lipsiæ, 1810.

Αἰσωπεὶων Μυθῶν Συναγωγή. Ex recognitione Caroli Halmii. Lipsiæ, 1851

Phædri Fabulæ Esopiæ. Delphin Classics. 1822.

GEORGE FYLER TOWNSEND

LIFE OF AESOP

The Life and History of Æsop is involved, like that of Homer, the most
famous of Greek poets, in much obscurity. Sardis, the capital of Lydia;
Samos, a Greek island; Mesembria, an ancient colony in Thrace; and
Cotiæum, the chief city of a province of Phrygia, contend for the
distinction of being the birthplace of Æsop. Although the honour thus
claimed cannot be definitely assigned to any one of these places, yet
there are a few incidents now generally accepted by scholars as
established facts, relating to the birth, life, and death of Æsop. He
is, by an almost universal consent, allowed to have been born about the
year 620 B.C., and to have been by birth a slave. He was owned by two
masters in succession, both inhabitants of Samos, Xanthus and Jadmon,
the latter of whom gave him his liberty as a reward for his learning
and wit. One of the privileges of a freedman in the ancient republics
of Greece, was the permission to take an active interest in public
affairs; and Æsop, like the philosophers Phædo, Menippus, and
Epictetus, in later times, raised himself from the indignity of a
servile condition to a position of high renown. In his desire alike to
instruct and to be instructed, he travelled through many countries, and
among others came to Sardis, the capital of the famous king of Lydia,
the great patron, in that day, of learning and of learned men. He met
at the court of Crœsus with Solon, Thales, and other sages, and is
related so to have pleased his royal master by the part he took in the
conversations held with these philosophers, that he applied to him an
expression which has since passed into a proverb, “μᾶλλον ὁ Φρύξ.” “The
Phrygian has spoken better than all.”

On the invitation of Crœsus he fixed his residence at Sardis, and was
employed by that monarch in various difficult and delicate affairs of
State. In his discharge of these commissions he visited the different
petty republics of Greece. At one time he is found in Corinth, and at
another in Athens, endeavouring, by the narration of some of his wise
fables, to reconcile the inhabitants of those cities to the
administration of their respective rulers Periander and Pisistratus.
One of these ambassadorial missions, undertaken at the command of
Crœsus, was the occasion of his death. Having been sent to Delphi with
a large sum of gold for distribution among the citizens, he was so
provoked at their covetousness that he refused to divide the money, and
sent it back to his master. The Delphians, enraged at this treatment,
accused him of impiety, and, in spite of his sacred character as
ambassador, executed him as a public criminal. This cruel death of Æsop
was not unavenged. The citizens of Delphi were visited with a series of
calamities, until they made a public reparation of their crime; and,
“The blood of Æsop” became a well-known adage, bearing witness to the
truth that deeds of wrong would not pass unpunished. Neither did the
great fabulist lack posthumous honours; for a statue was erected to his
memory at Athens, the work of Lysippus, one of the most famous of Greek
sculptors. Phædrus thus immortalizes the event:—

Æsopo ingentem statuam posuere Attici,
Servumque collocarunt æternâ in basi:
Patere honoris scirent ut cuncti viam;
Nec generi tribui sed virtuti gloriam.

These few facts are all that can be relied on with any degree of
certainty, in reference to the birth, life, and death of Æsop. They
were first brought to light, after a patient search and diligent
perusal of ancient authors, by a Frenchman, M. Claude Gaspard Bachet de
Mezeriac, who declined the honour of being tutor to Louis XIII. of
France, from his desire to devote himself exclusively to literature. He
published his Life of Æsop, Anno Domini 1632. The later investigations
of a host of English and German scholars have added very little to the
facts given by M. Mezeriac. The substantial truth of his statements has
been confirmed by later criticism and inquiry. It remains to state,
that prior to this publication of M. Mezeriac, the life of Æsop was
from the pen of Maximus Planudes, a monk of Constantinople, who was
sent on an embassy to Venice by the Byzantine Emperor Andronicus the
elder, and who wrote in the early part of the fourteenth century. His
life was prefixed to all the early editions of these fables, and was
republished as late as 1727 by Archdeacon Croxall as the introduction
to his edition of Æsop. This life by Planudes contains, however, so
small an amount of truth, and is so full of absurd pictures of the
grotesque deformity of Æsop, of wondrous apocryphal stories, of lying
legends, and gross anachronisms, that it is now universally condemned
as false, puerile, and unauthentic.[20] It is given up in the present
day, by general consent, as unworthy of the slightest credit.

AESOP’S FABLES

The Lion And The Mouse

A LION was awakened from sleep by a Mouse running over his face. Rising
up angrily, he caught him and was about to kill him, when the Mouse
piteously entreated, saying: “If you would only spare my life, I would
be sure to repay your kindness.” The Lion laughed and let him go. It
happened shortly after this that the Lion was caught by some hunters,
who bound him by strong ropes to the ground. The Mouse, recognizing his
roar, came and gnawed the rope with his teeth, and set him free,
exclaiming:

“You ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, not
expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favour; now you know
that it is possible for even a Mouse to confer benefits on a Lion.”

The Wolf And The Lamb

WOLF, meeting with a Lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay
violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the Lamb the
Wolf’s right to eat him. He thus addressed him: “Sirrah, last year you
grossly insulted me.” “Indeed,” bleated the Lamb in a mournful tone of
voice, “I was not then born.” Then said the Wolf, “You feed in my
pasture.” “No, good sir,” replied the Lamb, “I have not yet tasted
grass.” Again said the Wolf, “You drink of my well.” “No,” exclaimed
the Lamb, “I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother’s milk is both
food and drink to me.” Upon which the Wolf seized him and ate him up,
saying, “Well! I won’t remain supperless, even though you refute every
one of my imputations.” The tyrant will always find a pretext for his
tyranny.

The Ass And The Grasshopper

AN ASS having heard some Grasshoppers chirping, was highly enchanted;
and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort
of food they lived on to give them such beautiful voices. They replied,
“The dew.” The Ass resolved that he would live only upon dew, and in a
short time died of hunger.

The Wolf and the Crane

A WOLF who had a bone stuck in his throat hired a Crane, for a large
sum, to put her head into his mouth and draw out the bone. When the
Crane had extracted the bone and demanded the promised payment, the
Wolf, grinning and grinding his teeth, exclaimed: “Why, you have surely
already had a sufficient recompense, in having been permitted to draw
out your head in safety from the mouth and jaws of a wolf.”

In serving the wicked, expect no reward, and be thankful if you escape
injury for your pains.

The Father And His Sons

A FATHER had a family of sons who were perpetually quarreling among
themselves. When he failed to heal their disputes by his exhortations,
he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of
disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a
bundle of sticks. When they had done so, he placed the faggot into the
hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in
pieces. They tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it.
He next opened the faggot, took the sticks separately, one by one, and
again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
He then addressed them in these words: “My sons, if you are of one
mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this faggot,
uninjured by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided
among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”

The Bat And The Weasels

A BAT who fell upon the ground and was caught by a Weasel pleaded to be
spared his life. The Weasel refused, saying that he was by nature the
enemy of all birds. The Bat assured him that he was not a bird, but a
mouse, and thus was set free. Shortly afterwards the Bat again fell to
the ground and was caught by another Weasel, whom he likewise entreated
not to eat him. The Weasel said that he had a special hostility to
mice. The Bat assured him that he was not a mouse, but a bat, and thus
a second time escaped.

It is wise to turn circumstances to good account.

The Cock and the Jewel

A COCK, scratching for food for himself and his hens, found a precious
stone and exclaimed: “If your owner had found thee, and not I, he would
have taken thee up, and have set thee in thy first estate; but I have
found thee for no purpose. I would rather have one barleycorn than all
the jewels in the world.”

The Swallow and the Crow

THE SWALLOW and the Crow had a contention about their plumage. The Crow
put an end to the dispute by saying, “Your feathers are all very well
in the spring, but mine protect me against the winter.”

Fair weather friends are not worth much.

The Kingdom of the Lion

THE BEASTS of the field and forest had a Lion as their king. He was
neither wrathful, cruel, nor tyrannical, but just and gentle as a king
could be. During his reign he made a royal proclamation for a general
assembly of all the birds and beasts, and drew up conditions for a
universal league, in which the Wolf and the Lamb, the Panther and the
Kid, the Tiger and the Stag, the Dog and the Hare, should live together
in perfect peace and amity. The Hare said, “Oh, how I have longed to
see this day, in which the weak shall take their place with impunity by
the side of the strong.” And after the Hare said this, he ran for his
life.

The Traveler and His Dog

A TRAVELER about to set out on a journey saw his Dog stand at the door
stretching himself. He asked him sharply: “Why do you stand there
gaping? Everything is ready but you, so come with me instantly.” The
Dog, wagging his tail, replied: “O, master! I am quite ready; it is you
for whom I am waiting.”

The loiterer often blames delay on his more active friend.

The Ants and the Grasshopper

THE ANTS were spending a fine winter’s day drying grain collected in
the summertime. A Grasshopper, perishing with famine, passed by and
earnestly begged for a little food. The Ants inquired of him, “Why did
you not treasure up food during the summer?” He replied, “I had not
leisure enough. I passed the days in singing.” They then said in
derision: “If you were foolish enough to sing all the summer, you must
dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

The Hare and the Tortoise

A HARE one day ridiculed the short feet and slow pace of the Tortoise,
who replied, laughing: “Though you be swift as the wind, I will beat
you in a race.” The Hare, believing her assertion to be simply
impossible, assented to the proposal; and they agreed that the Fox
should choose the course and fix the goal. On the day appointed for the
race the two started together. The Tortoise never for a moment stopped,
but went on with a slow but steady pace straight to the end of the
course. The Hare, lying down by the wayside, fell fast asleep. At last
waking up, and moving as fast as he could, he saw the Tortoise had
reached the goal, and was comfortably dozing after her fatigue.

Slow but steady wins the race.

The Charcoal-Burner And The Fuller

A CHARCOAL-BURNER carried on his trade in his own house. One day he met
a friend, a Fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying
that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping
expenses would be lessened. The Fuller replied, “The arrangement is
impossible as far as I am concerned, for whatever I should whiten, you
would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.”

Like will draw like.

The Boy Hunting Locusts

A BOY was hunting for locusts. He had caught a goodly number, when he
saw a Scorpion, and mistaking him for a locust, reached out his hand to
take him. The Scorpion, showing his sting, said: “If you had but
touched me, my friend, you would have lost me, and all your locusts
too!”

The Fisherman Piping

A FISHERMAN skilled in music took his flute and his nets to the
seashore. Standing on a projecting rock, he played several tunes in the
hope that the fish, attracted by his melody, would of their own accord
dance into his net, which he had placed below. At last, having long
waited in vain, he laid aside his flute, and casting his net into the
sea, made an excellent haul of fish. When he saw them leaping about in
the net upon the rock he said: “O you most perverse creatures, when I
piped you would not dance, but now that I have ceased you do so
merrily.”

The Dog and the Shadow

A DOG, crossing a bridge over a stream with a piece of flesh in his
mouth, saw his own shadow in the water and took it for that of another
Dog, with a piece of meat double his own in size. He immediately let go
of his own, and fiercely attacked the other Dog to get his larger piece
from him. He thus lost both: that which he grasped at in the water,
because it was a shadow; and his own, because the stream swept it away.

Hercules and the Wagoner

A CARTER was driving a wagon along a country lane, when the wheels sank
down deep into a rut. The rustic driver, stupefied and aghast, stood
looking at the wagon, and did nothing but utter loud cries to Hercules
to come and help him. Hercules, it is said, appeared and thus addressed
him: “Put your shoulders to the wheels, my man. Goad on your bullocks,
and never more pray to me for help, until you have done your best to
help yourself, or depend upon it you will henceforth pray in vain.”

Self-help is the best help.

The Mole and His Mother

A MOLE, a creature blind from birth, once said to his Mother: “I am
sure than I can see, Mother!” In the desire to prove to him his
mistake, his Mother placed before him a few grains of frankincense, and
asked, “What is it?” The young Mole said, “It is a pebble.” His Mother
exclaimed: “My son, I am afraid that you are not only blind, but that
you have lost your sense of smell.”

The Herdsman and the Lost Bull

A HERDSMAN tending his flock in a forest lost a Bull-calf from the
fold. After a long and fruitless search, he made a vow that, if he
could only discover the thief who had stolen the Calf, he would offer a
lamb in sacrifice to Hermes, Pan, and the Guardian Deities of the
forest. Not long afterwards, as he ascended a small hillock, he saw at
its foot a Lion feeding on the Calf. Terrified at the sight, he lifted
his eyes and his hands to heaven, and said: “Just now I vowed to offer
a lamb to the Guardian Deities of the forest if I could only find out
who had robbed me; but now that I have discovered the thief, I would
willingly add a full-grown Bull to the Calf I have lost, if I may only
secure my own escape from him in safety.”

The Fawn and His Mother

A YOUNG FAWN once said to his Mother, “You are larger than a dog, and
swifter, and more used to running, and you have your horns as a
defense; why, then, O Mother! do the hounds frighten you so?” She
smiled, and said: “I know full well, my son, that all you say is true.
I have the advantages you mention, but when I hear even the bark of a
single dog I feel ready to faint, and fly away as fast as I can.”

No arguments will give courage to the coward.

The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion

THE ASS and the Fox, having entered into partnership together for their
mutual protection, went out into the forest to hunt. They had not
proceeded far when they met a Lion. The Fox, seeing imminent danger,
approached the Lion and promised to contrive for him the capture of the
Ass if the Lion would pledge his word not to harm the Fox. Then, upon
assuring the Ass that he would not be injured, the Fox led him to a
deep pit and arranged that he should fall into it. The Lion, seeing
that the Ass was secured, immediately clutched the Fox, and attacked
the Ass at his leisure.

The Flies and the Honey-Pot

A NUMBER of Flies were attracted to a jar of honey which had been
overturned in a housekeeper’s room, and placing their feet in it, ate
greedily. Their feet, however, became so smeared with the honey that
they could not use their wings, nor release themselves, and were
suffocated. Just as they were expiring, they exclaimed, “O foolish
creatures that we are, for the sake of a little pleasure we have
destroyed ourselves.”

Pleasure bought with pains, hurts.

The Lioness

A CONTROVERSY prevailed among the beasts of the field as to which of
the animals deserved the most credit for producing the greatest number
of whelps at a birth. They rushed clamorously into the presence of the
Lioness and demanded of her the settlement of the dispute. “And you,”
they said, “how many sons have you at a birth?” The Lioness laughed at
them, and said: “Why! I have only one; but that one is altogether a
thoroughbred Lion.”

The value is in the worth, not in the number.

The Farmer and the Snake

ONE WINTER a Farmer found a Snake stiff and frozen with cold. He had
compassion on it, and taking it up, placed it in his bosom. The Snake
was quickly revived by the warmth, and resuming its natural instincts,
bit its benefactor, inflicting on him a mortal wound. “Oh,” cried the
Farmer with his last breath, “I am rightly served for pitying a
scoundrel.”

The greatest kindness will not bind the ungrateful.

The Man and the Lion

A MAN and a Lion traveled together through the forest. They soon began
to boast of their respective superiority to each other in strength and
prowess. As they were disputing, they passed a statue carved in stone,
which represented “a Lion strangled by a Man.” The traveler pointed to
it and said: “See there! How strong we are, and how we prevail over
even the king of beasts.” The Lion replied: “This statue was made by
one of you men. If we Lions knew how to erect statues, you would see
the Man placed under the paw of the Lion.”

One story is good, till another is told.

The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble

THE POMEGRANATE and Apple-Tree disputed as to which was the most
beautiful. When their strife was at its height, a Bramble from the
neighboring hedge lifted up its voice, and said in a boastful tone:
“Pray, my dear friends, in my presence at least cease from such vain
disputings.”

The Farmer and the Stork

A FARMER placed nets on his newly-sown plowlands and caught a number of
Cranes, which came to pick up his seed. With them he trapped a Stork
that had fractured his leg in the net and was earnestly beseeching the
Farmer to spare his life. “Pray save me, Master,” he said, “and let me
go free this once. My broken limb should excite your pity. Besides, I
am no Crane, I am a Stork, a bird of excellent character; and see how I
love and slave for my father and mother. Look too, at my feathers—they
are not the least like those of a Crane.” The Farmer laughed aloud and
said, “It may be all as you say, I only know this: I have taken you
with these robbers, the Cranes, and you must die in their company.”

Birds of a feather flock together.

The Mountain in Labor

A MOUNTAIN was once greatly agitated. Loud groans and noises were
heard, and crowds of people came from all parts to see what was the
matter. While they were assembled in anxious expectation of some
terrible calamity, out came a Mouse.

Don’t make much ado about nothing.

The Bear and the Fox

A BEAR boasted very much of his philanthropy, saying that of all
animals he was the most tender in his regard for man, for he had such
respect for him that he would not even touch his dead body. A Fox
hearing these words said with a smile to the Bear, “Oh! that you would
eat the dead and not the living.”

The Tortoise and the Eagle

A TORTOISE, lazily basking in the sun, complained to the sea-birds of
her hard fate, that no one would teach her to fly. An Eagle, hovering
near, heard her lamentation and demanded what reward she would give him
if he would take her aloft and float her in the air. “I will give you,”
she said, “all the riches of the Red Sea.” “I will teach you to fly
then,” said the Eagle; and taking her up in his talons he carried her
almost to the clouds suddenly he let her go, and she fell on a lofty
mountain, dashing her shell to pieces. The Tortoise exclaimed in the
moment of death: “I have deserved my present fate; for what had I to do
with wings and clouds, who can with difficulty move about on the
earth?”

If men had all they wished, they would be often ruined.

The Fox and the Goat

A FOX one day fell into a deep well and could find no means of escape.
A Goat, overcome with thirst, came to the same well, and seeing the
Fox, inquired if the water was good. Concealing his sad plight under a
merry guise, the Fox indulged in a lavish praise of the water, saying
it was excellent beyond measure, and encouraging him to descend. The
Goat, mindful only of his thirst, thoughtlessly jumped down, but just
as he drank, the Fox informed him of the difficulty they were both in
and suggested a scheme for their common escape. “If,” said he, “you
will place your forefeet upon the wall and bend your head, I will run
up your back and escape, and will help you out afterwards.” The Goat
readily assented and the Fox leaped upon his back. Steadying himself
with the Goat’s horns, he safely reached the mouth of the well and made
off as fast as he could. When the Goat upbraided him for breaking his
promise, he turned around and cried out, “You foolish old fellow! If
you had as many brains in your head as you have hairs in your beard,
you would never have gone down before you had inspected the way up, nor
have exposed yourself to dangers from which you had no means of
escape.”

Look before you leap.

The Raven and the Swan

A RAVEN saw a Swan and desired to secure for himself the same beautiful
plumage. Supposing that the Swan’s splendid white color arose from his
washing in the water in which he swam, the Raven left the altars in the
neighborhood where he picked up his living, and took up residence in
the lakes and pools. But cleansing his feathers as often as he would,
he could not change their color, while through want of food he
perished.

Change of habit cannot alter Nature.

The Thirsty Pigeon

A PIGEON, oppressed by excessive thirst, saw a goblet of water painted
on a signboard. Not supposing it to be only a picture, she flew towards
it with a loud whir and unwittingly dashed against the signboard,
jarring herself terribly. Having broken her wings by the blow, she fell
to the ground, and was caught by one of the bystanders.

Zeal should not outrun discretion.

The Dog in the Manger

A DOG lay in a manger, and by his growling and snapping prevented the
oxen from eating the hay which had been placed for them. “What a
selfish Dog!” said one of them to his companions; “he cannot eat the
hay himself, and yet refuses to allow those to eat who can.”

The Oxen and the Axle-Trees

A HEAVY WAGON was being dragged along a country lane by a team of Oxen.
The Axle-trees groaned and creaked terribly; whereupon the Oxen,
turning round, thus addressed the wheels: “Hullo there! why do you make
so much noise? We bear all the labor, and we, not you, ought to cry
out.”

Those who suffer most cry out the least.

The Farmer and the Cranes

SOME CRANES made their feeding grounds on some plowlands newly sown
with wheat. For a long time the Farmer, brandishing an empty sling,
chased them away by the terror he inspired; but when the birds found
that the sling was only swung in the air, they ceased to take any
notice of it and would not move. The Farmer, on seeing this, charged
his sling with stones, and killed a great number. The remaining birds
at once forsook his fields, crying to each other, “It is time for us to
be off to Liliput: for this man is no longer content to scare us, but
begins to show us in earnest what he can do.”

If words suffice not, blows must follow.

The Sick Lion

A LION, unable from old age and infirmities to provide himself with
food by force, resolved to do so by artifice. He returned to his den,
and lying down there, pretended to be sick, taking care that his
sickness should be publicly known. The beasts expressed their sorrow,
and came one by one to his den, where the Lion devoured them. After
many of the beasts had thus disappeared, the Fox discovered the trick
and presenting himself to the Lion, stood on the outside of the cave,
at a respectful distance, and asked him how he was. “I am very
middling,” replied the Lion, “but why do you stand without? Pray enter
within to talk with me.” “No, thank you,” said the Fox. “I notice that
there are many prints of feet entering your cave, but I see no trace of
any returning.”

He is wise who is warned by the misfortunes of others.

The Bear and the Two Travelers

TWO MEN were traveling together, when a Bear suddenly met them on their
path. One of them climbed up quickly into a tree and concealed himself
in the branches. The other, seeing that he must be attacked, fell flat
on the ground, and when the Bear came up and felt him with his snout,
and smelt him all over, he held his breath, and feigned the appearance
of death as much as he could. The Bear soon left him, for it is said he
will not touch a dead body. When he was quite gone, the other Traveler
descended from the tree, and jocularly inquired of his friend what it
was the Bear had whispered in his ear. “He gave me this advice,” his
companion replied. “Never travel with a friend who deserts you at the
approach of danger.”

Misfortune tests the sincerity of friends.

The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail

A FOX caught in a trap escaped, but in so doing lost his tail.
Thereafter, feeling his life a burden from the shame and ridicule to
which he was exposed, he schemed to convince all the other Foxes that
being tailless was much more attractive, thus making up for his own
deprivation. He assembled a good many Foxes and publicly advised them
to cut off their tails, saying that they would not only look much
better without them, but that they would get rid of the weight of the
brush, which was a very great inconvenience. One of them interrupting
him said, “If you had not yourself lost your tail, my friend, you would
not thus counsel us.”

The Cat and the Cock

A CAT caught a Cock, and pondered how he might find a reasonable excuse
for eating him. He accused him of being a nuisance to men by crowing in
the nighttime and not permitting them to sleep. The Cock defended
himself by saying that he did this for the benefit of men, that they
might rise in time for their labours. The Cat replied, “Although you
abound in specious apologies, I shall not remain supperless;” and he
made a meal of him.

The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

ONCE UPON A TIME a Wolf resolved to disguise his appearance in order to
secure food more easily. Encased in the skin of a sheep, he pastured
with the flock deceiving the shepherd by his costume. In the evening he
was shut up by the shepherd in the fold; the gate was closed, and the
entrance made thoroughly secure. But the shepherd, returning to the
fold during the night to obtain meat for the next day, mistakenly
caught up the Wolf instead of a sheep, and killed him instantly.

Harm seek, harm find.

The Goat and the Goatherd

A GOATHERD had sought to bring back a stray goat to his flock. He
whistled and sounded his horn in vain; the straggler paid no attention
to the summons. At last the Goatherd threw a stone, and breaking its
horn, begged the Goat not to tell his master. The Goat replied, “Why,
you silly fellow, the horn will speak though I be silent.”

Do not attempt to hide things which cannot be hid.

The Boasting Traveler

A MAN who had traveled in foreign lands boasted very much, on returning
to his own country, of the many wonderful and heroic feats he had
performed in the different places he had visited. Among other things,
he said that when he was at Rhodes he had leaped to such a distance
that no man of his day could leap anywhere near him as to that, there
were in Rhodes many persons who saw him do it and whom he could call as
witnesses. One of the bystanders interrupted him, saying: “Now, my good
man, if this be all true there is no need of witnesses. Suppose this to
be Rhodes, and leap for us.”

The Lion in Love

A LION demanded the daughter of a woodcutter in marriage. The Father,
unwilling to grant, and yet afraid to refuse his request, hit upon this
expedient to rid himself of his importunities. He expressed his
willingness to accept the Lion as the suitor of his daughter on one
condition: that he should allow him to extract his teeth, and cut off
his claws, as his daughter was fearfully afraid of both. The Lion
cheerfully assented to the proposal. But when the toothless, clawless
Lion returned to repeat his request, the Woodman, no longer afraid, set
upon him with his club, and drove him away into the forest.

The Miser

A MISER sold all that he had and bought a lump of gold, which he buried
in a hole in the ground by the side of an old wall and went to look at
daily. One of his workmen observed his frequent visits to the spot and
decided to watch his movements. He soon discovered the secret of the
hidden treasure, and digging down, came to the lump of gold, and stole
it. The Miser, on his next visit, found the hole empty and began to
tear his hair and to make loud lamentations. A neighbor, seeing him
overcome with grief and learning the cause, said, “Pray do not grieve
so; but go and take a stone, and place it in the hole, and fancy that
the gold is still lying there. It will do you quite the same service;
for when the gold was there, you had it not, as you did not make the
slightest use of it.”

The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat

A young Pig was shut up in a fold-yard with a Goat and a Sheep. On one
occasion the shepherd laid hold of him, when he grunted, and squeaked,
and resisted violently. The Sheep and the Goat complained of his
distressing cries, and said, “He often handles us, and we do not cry
out.” To this he replied, “Your handling and mine are very different
things. He catches you only for your wool, or your milk, but he lays
hold on me for my very life.”

The Boy and the Filberts

A BOY put his hand into a pitcher full of filberts. He grasped as many
as he could possibly hold, but when he tried to pull out his hand, he
was prevented from doing so by the neck of the pitcher. Unwilling to
lose his filberts, and yet unable to withdraw his hand, he burst into
tears and bitterly lamented his disappointment. A bystander said to
him, “Be satisfied with half the quantity, and you will readily draw
out your hand.”

Do not attempt too much at once.

The Frogs Asking for a King

THE FROGS, grieved at having no established Ruler, sent ambassadors to
Jupiter entreating for a King. Perceiving their simplicity, he cast
down a huge log into the lake. The Frogs were terrified at the splash
occasioned by its fall and hid themselves in the depths of the pool.
But as soon as they realized that the huge log was motionless, they
swam again to the top of the water, dismissed their fears, climbed up,
and began squatting on it in contempt. After some time they began to
think themselves ill-treated in the appointment of so inert a Ruler,
and sent a second deputation to Jupiter to pray that he would set over
them another sovereign. He then gave them an Eel to govern them. When
the Frogs discovered his easy good nature, they sent yet a third time
to Jupiter to beg him to choose for them still another King. Jupiter,
displeased with all their complaints, sent a Heron, who preyed upon the
Frogs day by day till there were none left to croak upon the lake.

The Laborer and the Snake

A SNAKE, having made his hole close to the porch of a cottage,
inflicted a mortal bite on the Cottager’s infant son. Grieving over his
loss, the Father resolved to kill the Snake. The next day, when it came
out of its hole for food, he took up his axe, but by swinging too
hastily, missed its head and cut off only the end of its tail. After
some time the Cottager, afraid that the Snake would bite him also,
endeavored to make peace, and placed some bread and salt in the hole.
The Snake, slightly hissing, said: “There can henceforth be no peace
between us; for whenever I see you I shall remember the loss of my
tail, and whenever you see me you will be thinking of the death of your
son.”

No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the
injury.

The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox

A LION, fatigued by the heat of a summer’s day, fell fast asleep in his
den. A Mouse ran over his mane and ears and woke him from his slumbers.
He rose up and shook himself in great wrath, and searched every corner
of his den to find the Mouse. A Fox seeing him said: “A fine Lion you
are, to be frightened of a Mouse.” “’Tis not the Mouse I fear,” said
the Lion; “I resent his familiarity and ill-breeding.”

Little liberties are great offenses.

The Horse and Groom

A GROOM used to spend whole days in currycombing and rubbing down his
Horse, but at the same time stole his oats and sold them for his own
profit. “Alas!” said the Horse, “if you really wish me to be in good
condition, you should groom me less, and feed me more.”

The Ass and the Mule

A MULETEER set forth on a journey, driving before him an Ass and a
Mule, both well laden. The Ass, as long as he traveled along the plain,
carried his load with ease, but when he began to ascend the steep path
of the mountain, felt his load to be more than he could bear. He
entreated his companion to relieve him of a small portion, that he
might carry home the rest; but the Mule paid no attention to the
request. The Ass shortly afterwards fell down dead under his burden.
Not knowing what else to do in so wild a region, the Muleteer placed
upon the Mule the load carried by the Ass in addition to his own, and
at the top of all placed the hide of the Ass, after he had skinned him.
The Mule, groaning beneath his heavy burden, said to himself: “I am
treated according to my deserts. If I had only been willing to assist
the Ass a little in his need, I should not now be bearing, together
with his burden, himself as well.”

The Ass and the Lapdog

A MAN had an Ass, and a Maltese Lapdog, a very great beauty. The Ass
was left in a stable and had plenty of oats and hay to eat, just as any
other Ass would. The Lapdog knew many tricks and was a great favourite
with his master, who often fondled him and seldom went out to dine
without bringing him home some tidbit to eat. The Ass, on the contrary,
had much work to do in grinding the corn-mill and in carrying wood from
the forest or burdens from the farm. He often lamented his own hard
fate and contrasted it with the luxury and idleness of the Lapdog, till
at last one day he broke his cords and halter, and galloped into his
master’s house, kicking up his heels without measure, and frisking and
fawning as well as he could. He next tried to jump about his master as
he had seen the Lapdog do, but he broke the table and smashed all the
dishes upon it to atoms. He then attempted to lick his master, and
jumped upon his back. The servants, hearing the strange hubbub and
perceiving the danger of their master, quickly relieved him, and drove
out the Ass to his stable with kicks and clubs and cuffs. The Ass, as
he returned to his stall beaten nearly to death, thus lamented: “I have
brought it all on myself! Why could I not have been contented to labor
with my companions, and not wish to be idle all the day like that
useless little Lapdog!”

The Oxen and the Butchers

THE OXEN once upon a time sought to destroy the Butchers, who practiced
a trade destructive to their race. They assembled on a certain day to
carry out their purpose, and sharpened their horns for the contest. But
one of them who was exceedingly old (for many a field had he plowed)
thus spoke: “These Butchers, it is true, slaughter us, but they do so
with skillful hands, and with no unnecessary pain. If we get rid of
them, we shall fall into the hands of unskillful operators, and thus
suffer a double death: for you may be assured, that though all the
Butchers should perish, yet will men never want beef.”

Do not be in a hurry to change one evil for another.

The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf

A SHEPHERD-BOY, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brought
out the villagers three or four times by crying out, “Wolf! Wolf!” and
when his neighbors came to help him, laughed at them for their pains.
The Wolf, however, did truly come at last. The Shepherd-boy, now really
alarmed, shouted in an agony of terror: “Pray, do come and help me; the
Wolf is killing the sheep;” but no one paid any heed to his cries, nor
rendered any assistance. The Wolf, having no cause of fear, at his
leisure lacerated or destroyed the whole flock.

There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.

The Boys and the Frogs

SOME BOYS, playing near a pond, saw a number of Frogs in the water and
began to pelt them with stones. They killed several of them, when one
of the Frogs, lifting his head out of the water, cried out: “Pray stop,
my boys: what is sport to you, is death to us.”

The Salt Merchant and His Ass

A PEDDLER drove his Ass to the seashore to buy salt. His road home lay
across a stream into which his Ass, making a false step, fell by
accident and rose up again with his load considerably lighter, as the
water melted the sack. The Peddler retraced his steps and refilled his
panniers with a larger quantity of salt than before. When he came again
to the stream, the Ass fell down on purpose in the same spot, and,
regaining his feet with the weight of his load much diminished, brayed
triumphantly as if he had obtained what he desired. The Peddler saw
through his trick and drove him for the third time to the coast, where
he bought a cargo of sponges instead of salt. The Ass, again playing
the fool, fell down on purpose when he reached the stream, but the
sponges became swollen with water, greatly increasing his load. And
thus his trick recoiled on him, for he now carried on his back a double
burden.

The Mischievous Dog

A DOG used to run up quietly to the heels of everyone he met, and to
bite them without notice. His master suspended a bell about his neck so
that the Dog might give notice of his presence wherever he went.
Thinking it a mark of distinction, the Dog grew proud of his bell and
went tinkling it all over the marketplace. One day an old hound said to
him: “Why do you make such an exhibition of yourself? That bell that
you carry is not, believe me, any order of merit, but on the contrary a
mark of disgrace, a public notice to all men to avoid you as an ill
mannered dog.”

Notoriety is often mistaken for fame.

The Goatherd and the Wild Goats

A GOATHERD, driving his flock from their pasture at eventide, found
some Wild Goats mingled among them, and shut them up together with his
own for the night. The next day it snowed very hard, so that he could
not take the herd to their usual feeding places, but was obliged to
keep them in the fold. He gave his own goats just sufficient food to
keep them alive, but fed the strangers more abundantly in the hope of
enticing them to stay with him and of making them his own. When the
thaw set in, he led them all out to feed, and the Wild Goats scampered
away as fast as they could to the mountains. The Goatherd scolded them
for their ingratitude in leaving him, when during the storm he had
taken more care of them than of his own herd. One of them, turning
about, said to him: “That is the very reason why we are so cautious;
for if you yesterday treated us better than the Goats you have had so
long, it is plain also that if others came after us, you would in the
same manner prefer them to ourselves.”

Old friends cannot with impunity be sacrificed for new ones.

The Man and His Two Sweethearts

A MIDDLE-AGED MAN, whose hair had begun to turn gray, courted two women
at the same time. One of them was young, and the other well advanced in
years. The elder woman, ashamed to be courted by a man younger than
herself, made a point, whenever her admirer visited her, to pull out
some portion of his black hairs. The younger, on the contrary, not
wishing to become the wife of an old man, was equally zealous in
removing every gray hair she could find. Thus it came to pass that
between them both he very soon found that he had not a hair left on his
head.

Those who seek to please everybody please nobody.

The Sick Stag

A SICK STAG lay down in a quiet corner of its pasture-ground. His
companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, and each
one helped himself to a share of the food which had been placed for his
use; so that he died, not from his sickness, but from the failure of
the means of living.

Evil companions bring more hurt than profit.

The Boy and the Nettles

A BOY was stung by a Nettle. He ran home and told his Mother, saying,
“Although it hurts me very much, I only touched it gently.” “That was
just why it stung you,” said his Mother. “The next time you touch a
Nettle, grasp it boldly, and it will be soft as silk to your hand, and
not in the least hurt you.”

Whatever you do, do with all your might.

The Astronomer

AN ASTRONOMER used to go out at night to observe the stars. One
evening, as he wandered through the suburbs with his whole attention
fixed on the sky, he fell accidentally into a deep well. While he
lamented and bewailed his sores and bruises, and cried loudly for help,
a neighbor ran to the well, and learning what had happened said: “Hark
ye, old fellow, why, in striving to pry into what is in heaven, do you
not manage to see what is on earth?”

The Wolves and the Sheep

“WHY SHOULD there always be this fear and slaughter between us?” said
the Wolves to the Sheep. “Those evil-disposed Dogs have much to answer
for. They always bark whenever we approach you and attack us before we
have done any harm. If you would only dismiss them from your heels,
there might soon be treaties of peace and reconciliation between us.”
The Sheep, poor silly creatures, were easily beguiled and dismissed the
Dogs, whereupon the Wolves destroyed the unguarded flock at their own
pleasure.

The Cat and the Birds

A CAT, hearing that the Birds in a certain aviary were ailing dressed
himself up as a physician, and, taking his cane and a bag of
instruments becoming his profession, went to call on them. He knocked
at the door and inquired of the inmates how they all did, saying that
if they were ill, he would be happy to prescribe for them and cure
them. They replied, “We are all very well, and shall continue so, if
you will only be good enough to go away, and leave us as we are.”

The Vain Jackdaw

JUPITER DETERMINED, it is said, to create a sovereign over the birds,
and made proclamation that on a certain day they should all present
themselves before him, when he would himself choose the most beautiful
among them to be king. The Jackdaw, knowing his own ugliness, searched
through the woods and fields, and collected the feathers which had
fallen from the wings of his companions, and stuck them in all parts of
his body, hoping thereby to make himself the most beautiful of all.
When the appointed day arrived, and the birds had assembled before
Jupiter, the Jackdaw also made his appearance in his many feathered
finery. But when Jupiter proposed to make him king because of the
beauty of his plumage, the birds indignantly protested, and each
plucked from him his own feathers, leaving the Jackdaw nothing but a
Jackdaw.

The Kid and the Wolf

A KID standing on the roof of a house, out of harm’s way, saw a Wolf
passing by and immediately began to taunt and revile him. The Wolf,
looking up, said, “Sirrah! I hear thee: yet it is not thou who mockest
me, but the roof on which thou art standing.”

Time and place often give the advantage to the weak over the strong.

The Old Woman and the Physician

AN OLD WOMAN having lost the use of her eyes, called in a Physician to
heal them, and made this bargain with him in the presence of witnesses:
that if he should cure her blindness, he should receive from her a sum
of money; but if her infirmity remained, she should give him nothing.
This agreement being made, the Physician, time after time, applied his
salve to her eyes, and on every visit took something away, stealing all
her property little by little. And when he had got all she had, he
healed her and demanded the promised payment. The Old Woman, when she
recovered her sight and saw none of her goods in her house, would give
him nothing. The Physician insisted on his claim, and, as she still
refused, summoned her before the Judge. The Old Woman, standing up in
the Court, argued: “This man here speaks the truth in what he says; for
I did promise to give him a sum of money if I should recover my sight:
but if I continued blind, I was to give him nothing. Now he declares
that I am healed. I on the contrary affirm that I am still blind; for
when I lost the use of my eyes, I saw in my house various chattels and
valuable goods: but now, though he swears I am cured of my blindness, I
am not able to see a single thing in it.”

The Ox and the Frog

AN OX drinking at a pool trod on a brood of young frogs and crushed one
of them to death. The Mother coming up, and missing one of her sons,
inquired of his brothers what had become of him. “He is dead, dear
Mother; for just now a very huge beast with four great feet came to the
pool and crushed him to death with his cloven heel.” The Frog, puffing
herself out, inquired, “if the beast was as big as that in size.”
“Cease, Mother, to puff yourself out,” said her son, “and do not be
angry; for you would, I assure you, sooner burst than successfully
imitate the hugeness of that monster.”

The Farmer and His Sons

A FATHER, being on the point of death, wished to be sure that his sons
would give the same attention to his farm as he himself had given it.
He called them to his bedside and said, “My sons, there is a great
treasure hid in one of my vineyards.” The sons, after his death, took
their spades and mattocks and carefully dug over every portion of their
land. They found no treasure, but the vines repaid their labor by an
extraordinary and superabundant crop.

The Heifer and the Ox

A HEIFER saw an Ox hard at work harnessed to a plow, and tormented him
with reflections on his unhappy fate in being compelled to labor.
Shortly afterwards, at the harvest festival, the owner released the Ox
from his yoke, but bound the Heifer with cords and led him away to the
altar to be slain in honour of the occasion. The Ox saw what was being
done, and said with a smile to the Heifer: “For this you were allowed
to live in idleness, because you were presently to be sacrificed.”

The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle

TWO GAME COCKS were fiercely fighting for the mastery of the farmyard.
One at last put the other to flight. The vanquished Cock skulked away
and hid himself in a quiet corner, while the conqueror, flying up to a
high wall, flapped his wings and crowed exultingly with all his might.
An Eagle sailing through the air pounced upon him and carried him off
in his talons. The vanquished Cock immediately came out of his corner,
and ruled henceforth with undisputed mastery.

Pride goes before destruction.

The Charger and the Miller

A CHARGER, feeling the infirmities of age, was sent to work in a mill
instead of going out to battle. But when he was compelled to grind
instead of serving in the wars, he bewailed his change of fortune and
called to mind his former state, saying, “Ah! Miller, I had indeed to
go campaigning before, but I was barbed from counter to tail, and a man
went along to groom me; and now I cannot understand what ailed me to
prefer the mill before the battle.” “Forbear,” said the Miller to him,
“harping on what was of yore, for it is the common lot of mortals to
sustain the ups and downs of fortune.”

The Fox and the Monkey

A MONKEY once danced in an assembly of the Beasts, and so pleased them
all by his performance that they elected him their King. A Fox, envying
him the honour, discovered a piece of meat lying in a trap, and leading
the Monkey to the place where it was, said that she had found a store,
but had not used it, she had kept it for him as treasure trove of his
kingdom, and counseled him to lay hold of it. The Monkey approached
carelessly and was caught in the trap; and on his accusing the Fox of
purposely leading him into the snare, she replied, “O Monkey, and are
you, with such a mind as yours, going to be King over the Beasts?”

The Horse and His Rider

A HORSE SOLDIER took the utmost pains with his charger. As long as the
war lasted, he looked upon him as his fellow-helper in all emergencies
and fed him carefully with hay and corn. But when the war was over, he
only allowed him chaff to eat and made him carry heavy loads of wood,
subjecting him to much slavish drudgery and ill-treatment. War was
again proclaimed, however, and when the trumpet summoned him to his
standard, the Soldier put on his charger its military trappings, and
mounted, being clad in his heavy coat of mail. The Horse fell down
straightway under the weight, no longer equal to the burden, and said
to his master, “You must now go to the war on foot, for you have
transformed me from a Horse into an Ass; and how can you expect that I
can again turn in a moment from an Ass to a Horse?”

The Belly and the Members

THE MEMBERS of the Body rebelled against the Belly, and said, “Why
should we be perpetually engaged in administering to your wants, while
you do nothing but take your rest, and enjoy yourself in luxury and
self-indulgence?” The Members carried out their resolve and refused
their assistance to the Belly. The whole Body quickly became
debilitated, and the hands, feet, mouth, and eyes, when too late,
repented of their folly.

The Widow and Her Little Maidens

A WIDOW who was fond of cleaning had two little maidens to wait on her.
She was in the habit of waking them early in the morning, at cockcrow.
The maidens, aggravated by such excessive labor, resolved to kill the
cock who roused their mistress so early. When they had done this, they
found that they had only prepared for themselves greater troubles, for
their mistress, no longer hearing the hour from the cock, woke them up
to their work in the middle of the night.

The Vine and the Goat

A VINE was luxuriant in the time of vintage with leaves and grapes. A
Goat, passing by, nibbled its young tendrils and its leaves. The Vine
addressed him and said: “Why do you thus injure me without a cause, and
crop my leaves? Is there no young grass left? But I shall not have to
wait long for my just revenge; for if you now should crop my leaves,
and cut me down to my root, I shall provide the wine to pour over you
when you are led as a victim to the sacrifice.”

Jupiter and the Monkey

JUPITER ISSUED a proclamation to all the beasts of the forest and
promised a royal reward to the one whose offspring should be deemed the
handsomest. The Monkey came with the rest and presented, with all a
mother’s tenderness, a flat-nosed, hairless, ill-featured young Monkey
as a candidate for the promised reward. A general laugh saluted her on
the presentation of her son. She resolutely said, “I know not whether
Jupiter will allot the prize to my son, but this I do know, that he is
at least in the eyes of me his mother, the dearest, handsomest, and
most beautiful of all.”

The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons

THE PIGEONS, terrified by the appearance of a Kite, called upon the
Hawk to defend them. He at once consented. When they had admitted him
into the cote, they found that he made more havoc and slew a larger
number of them in one day than the Kite could pounce upon in a whole
year.

Avoid a remedy that is worse than the disease.

The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat

THE DOLPHINS and Whales waged a fierce war with each other. When the
battle was at its height, a Sprat lifted its head out of the waves and
said that he would reconcile their differences if they would accept him
as an umpire. One of the Dolphins replied, “We would far rather be
destroyed in our battle with each other than admit any interference
from you in our affairs.”

The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice

A SWALLOW, returning from abroad and especially fond of dwelling with
men, built herself a nest in the wall of a Court of Justice and there
hatched seven young birds. A Serpent gliding past the nest from its
hole in the wall ate up the young unfledged nestlings. The Swallow,
finding her nest empty, lamented greatly and exclaimed: “Woe to me a
stranger! that in this place where all others’ rights are protected, I
alone should suffer wrong.”

The Two Pots

A RIVER carried down in its stream two Pots, one made of earthenware
and the other of brass. The Earthen Pot said to the Brass Pot, “Pray
keep at a distance and do not come near me, for if you touch me ever so
slightly, I shall be broken in pieces, and besides, I by no means wish
to come near you.”

Equals make the best friends.

The Shepherd and the Wolf

A SHEPHERD once found the whelp of a Wolf and brought it up, and after
a while taught it to steal lambs from the neighboring flocks. The Wolf,
having shown himself an apt pupil, said to the Shepherd, “Since you
have taught me to steal, you must keep a sharp lookout, or you will
lose some of your own flock.”

The Crab and Its Mother

A CRAB said to her son, “Why do you walk so one-sided, my child? It is
far more becoming to go straight forward.” The young Crab replied:
“Quite true, dear Mother; and if you will show me the straight way, I
will promise to walk in it.” The Mother tried in vain, and submitted
without remonstrance to the reproof of her child.

Example is more powerful than precept.

The Father and His Two Daughters

A MAN had two daughters, the one married to a gardener, and the other
to a tile-maker. After a time he went to the daughter who had married
the gardener, and inquired how she was and how all things went with
her. She said, “All things are prospering with me, and I have only one
wish, that there may be a heavy fall of rain, in order that the plants
may be well watered.” Not long after, he went to the daughter who had
married the tilemaker, and likewise inquired of her how she fared; she
replied, “I want for nothing, and have only one wish, that the dry
weather may continue, and the sun shine hot and bright, so that the
bricks might be dried.” He said to her, “If your sister wishes for
rain, and you for dry weather, with which of the two am I to join my
wishes?”

The Thief and His Mother

A BOY stole a lesson-book from one of his schoolfellows and took it
home to his Mother. She not only abstained from beating him, but
encouraged him. He next time stole a cloak and brought it to her, and
she again commended him. The Youth, advanced to adulthood, proceeded to
steal things of still greater value. At last he was caught in the very
act, and having his hands bound behind him, was led away to the place
of public execution. His Mother followed in the crowd and violently
beat her breast in sorrow, whereupon the young man said, “I wish to say
something to my Mother in her ear.” She came close to him, and he
quickly seized her ear with his teeth and bit it off. The Mother
upbraided him as an unnatural child, whereon he replied, “Ah! if you
had beaten me when I first stole and brought to you that lesson-book, I
should not have come to this, nor have been thus led to a disgraceful
death.”

The Old Man and Death

AN OLD MAN was employed in cutting wood in the forest, and, in carrying
the faggots to the city for sale one day, became very wearied with his
long journey. He sat down by the wayside, and throwing down his load,
besought “Death” to come. “Death” immediately appeared in answer to his
summons and asked for what reason he had called him. The Old Man
hurriedly replied, “That, lifting up the load, you may place it again
upon my shoulders.”

The Fir-Tree and the Bramble

A FIR-TREE said boastingly to the Bramble, “You are useful for nothing
at all; while I am everywhere used for roofs and houses.” The Bramble
answered: “You poor creature, if you would only call to mind the axes
and saws which are about to hew you down, you would have reason to wish
that you had grown up a Bramble, not a Fir-Tree.”

Better poverty without care, than riches with.

The Æthiop

THE PURCHASER of a black servant was persuaded that the color of his
skin arose from dirt contracted through the neglect of his former
masters. On bringing him home he resorted to every means of cleaning,
and subjected the man to incessant scrubbings. The servant caught a
severe cold, but he never changed his color or complexion.

What’s bred in the bone will stick to the flesh.

The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk

A MOUSE who always lived on the land, by an unlucky chance formed an
intimate acquaintance with a Frog, who lived for the most part in the
water. The Frog, one day intent on mischief, bound the foot of the
Mouse tightly to his own. Thus joined together, the Frog first of all
led his friend the Mouse to the meadow where they were accustomed to
find their food. After this, he gradually led him towards the pool in
which he lived, until reaching the very brink, he suddenly jumped in,
dragging the Mouse with him. The Frog enjoyed the water amazingly, and
swam croaking about, as if he had done a good deed. The unhappy Mouse
was soon suffocated by the water, and his dead body floated about on
the surface, tied to the foot of the Frog. A Hawk observed it, and,
pouncing upon it with his talons, carried it aloft. The Frog, being
still fastened to the leg of the Mouse, was also carried off a
prisoner, and was eaten by the Hawk.

Harm hatch, harm catch.

The Fisherman and His Nets

A FISHERMAN, engaged in his calling, made a very successful cast and
captured a great haul of fish. He managed by a skillful handling of his
net to retain all the large fish and to draw them to the shore; but he
could not prevent the smaller fish from falling back through the meshes
of the net into the sea.

The Wolf and the Sheep

A WOLF, sorely wounded and bitten by dogs, lay sick and maimed in his
lair. Being in want of food, he called to a Sheep who was passing, and
asked him to fetch some water from a stream flowing close beside him.
“For,” he said, “if you will bring me drink, I will find means to
provide myself with meat.” “Yes,” said the Sheep, “if I should bring
you the draught, you would doubtless make me provide the meat also.”

Hypocritical speeches are easily seen through.

The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar

AN OLD WOMAN found an empty jar which had lately been full of prime old
wine and which still retained the fragrant smell of its former
contents. She greedily placed it several times to her nose, and drawing
it backwards and forwards said, “O most delicious! How nice must the
Wine itself have been, when it leaves behind in the very vessel which
contained it so sweet a perfume!”

The memory of a good deed lives.

The Man Bitten by a Dog

A MAN who had been bitten by a Dog went about in quest of someone who
might heal him. A friend, meeting him and learning what he wanted,
said, “If you would be cured, take a piece of bread, and dip it in the
blood from your wound, and go and give it to the Dog that bit you.” The
Man who had been bitten laughed at this advice and said, “Why? If I
should do so, it would be as if I should beg every Dog in the town to
bite me.”

Benefits bestowed upon the evil-disposed increase their means of
injuring you.

The Huntsman and the Fisherman

A HUNTSMAN, returning with his dogs from the field, fell in by chance
with a Fisherman who was bringing home a basket well laden with fish.
The Huntsman wished to have the fish, and their owner experienced an
equal longing for the contents of the game-bag. They quickly agreed to
exchange the produce of their day’s sport. Each was so well pleased
with his bargain that they made for some time the same exchange day
after day. Finally a neighbor said to them, “If you go on in this way,
you will soon destroy by frequent use the pleasure of your exchange,
and each will again wish to retain the fruits of his own sport.”

Abstain and enjoy.

The Fox and the Crow

A CROW having stolen a bit of meat, perched in a tree and held it in
her beak. A Fox, seeing this, longed to possess the meat himself, and
by a wily stratagem succeeded. “How handsome is the Crow,” he
exclaimed, “in the beauty of her shape and in the fairness of her
complexion! Oh, if her voice were only equal to her beauty, she would
deservedly be considered the Queen of Birds!” This he said deceitfully;
but the Crow, anxious to refute the reflection cast upon her voice, set
up a loud caw and dropped the flesh. The Fox quickly picked it up, and
thus addressed the Crow: “My good Crow, your voice is right enough, but
your wit is wanting.”

The Widow and the Sheep

A CERTAIN poor widow had one solitary Sheep. At shearing time, wishing
to take his fleece and to avoid expense, she sheared him herself, but
used the shears so unskillfully that with the fleece she sheared the
flesh. The Sheep, writhing with pain, said, “Why do you hurt me so,
Mistress? What weight can my blood add to the wool? If you want my
flesh, there is the butcher, who will kill me in an instant; but if you
want my fleece and wool, there is the shearer, who will shear and not
hurt me.”

The least outlay is not always the greatest gain.

The Playful Ass

AN ASS climbed up to the roof of a building, and frisking about there,
broke in the tiling. The owner went up after him and quickly drove him
down, beating him severely with a thick wooden cudgel. The Ass said,
“Why, I saw the Monkey do this very thing yesterday, and you all
laughed heartily, as if it afforded you very great amusement.”

The Stag in the Ox-Stall

A STAG, roundly chased by the hounds and blinded by fear to the danger
he was running into, took shelter in a farmyard and hid himself in a
shed among the oxen. An Ox gave him this kindly warning: “O unhappy
creature! why should you thus, of your own accord, incur destruction
and trust yourself in the house of your enemy?” The Stag replied: “Only
allow me, friend, to stay where I am, and I will undertake to find some
favourable opportunity of effecting my escape.” At the approach of the
evening the herdsman came to feed his cattle, but did not see the Stag;
and even the farm-bailiff with several laborers passed through the shed
and failed to notice him. The Stag, congratulating himself on his
safety, began to express his sincere thanks to the Oxen who had kindly
helped him in the hour of need. One of them again answered him: “We
indeed wish you well, but the danger is not over. There is one other
yet to pass through the shed, who has as it were a hundred eyes, and
until he has come and gone, your life is still in peril.” At that
moment the master himself entered, and having had to complain that his
oxen had not been properly fed, he went up to their racks and cried
out: “Why is there such a scarcity of fodder? There is not half enough
straw for them to lie on. Those lazy fellows have not even swept the
cobwebs away.” While he thus examined everything in turn, he spied the
tips of the antlers of the Stag peeping out of the straw. Then
summoning his laborers, he ordered that the Stag should be seized and
killed.

The Two Dogs

A MAN had two dogs: a Hound, trained to assist him in his sports, and a
Housedog, taught to watch the house. When he returned home after a good
day’s sport, he always gave the Housedog a large share of his spoil.
The Hound, feeling much aggrieved at this, reproached his companion,
saying, “It is very hard to have all this labor, while you, who do not
assist in the chase, luxuriate on the fruits of my exertions.” The
Housedog replied, “Do not blame me, my friend, but find fault with the
master, who has not taught me to labor, but to depend for subsistence
on the labor of others.”

Children are not to be blamed for the faults of their parents.

The Wild Ass and the Lion

A WILD ASS and a Lion entered into an alliance so that they might
capture the beasts of the forest with greater ease. The Lion agreed to
assist the Wild Ass with his strength, while the Wild Ass gave the Lion
the benefit of his greater speed. When they had taken as many beasts as
their necessities required, the Lion undertook to distribute the prey,
and for this purpose divided it into three shares. “I will take the
first share,” he said, “because I am King: and the second share, as a
partner with you in the chase: and the third share (believe me) will be
a source of great evil to you, unless you willingly resign it to me,
and set off as fast as you can.”

Might makes right.

The Lion and the Dolphin

A LION roaming by the seashore saw a Dolphin lift up its head out of
the waves, and suggested that they contract an alliance, saying that of
all the animals they ought to be the best friends, since the one was
the king of beasts on the earth, and the other was the sovereign ruler
of all the inhabitants of the ocean. The Dolphin gladly consented to
this request. Not long afterwards the Lion had a combat with a wild
bull, and called on the Dolphin to help him. The Dolphin, though quite
willing to give him assistance, was unable to do so, as he could not by
any means reach the land. The Lion abused him as a traitor. The Dolphin
replied, “Nay, my friend, blame not me, but Nature, which, while giving
me the sovereignty of the sea, has quite denied me the power of living
upon the land.”

The Eagle and the Arrow

AN EAGLE sat on a lofty rock, watching the movements of a Hare whom he
sought to make his prey. An archer, who saw the Eagle from a place of
concealment, took an accurate aim and wounded him mortally. The Eagle
gave one look at the arrow that had entered his heart and saw in that
single glance that its feathers had been furnished by himself. “It is a
double grief to me,” he exclaimed, “that I should perish by an arrow
feathered from my own wings.”

The Sick Kite

A KITE, sick unto death, said to his mother: “O Mother! do not mourn,
but at once invoke the gods that my life may be prolonged.” She
replied, “Alas! my son, which of the gods do you think will pity you?
Is there one whom you have not outraged by filching from their very
altars a part of the sacrifice offered up to them?”

We must make friends in prosperity if we would have their help in
adversity.

The Lion and the Boar

ON A SUMMER DAY, when the great heat induced a general thirst among the
beasts, a Lion and a Boar came at the same moment to a small well to
drink. They fiercely disputed which of them should drink first, and
were soon engaged in the agonies of a mortal combat. When they stopped
suddenly to catch their breath for a fiercer renewal of the fight, they
saw some Vultures waiting in the distance to feast on the one that
should fall first. They at once made up their quarrel, saying, “It is
better for us to make friends, than to become the food of Crows or
Vultures.”

The Mice in Council

THE MICE summoned a council to decide how they might best devise means
of warning themselves of the approach of their great enemy the Cat.
Among the many plans suggested, the one that found most favour was the
proposal to tie a bell to the neck of the Cat, so that the Mice, being
warned by the sound of the tinkling, might run away and hide themselves
in their holes at his approach. But when the Mice further debated who
among them should thus “bell the Cat,” there was no one found to do it.

The One-Eyed Doe

A DOE blind in one eye was accustomed to graze as near to the edge of
the cliff as she possibly could, in the hope of securing her greater
safety. She turned her sound eye towards the land that she might get
the earliest tidings of the approach of hunter or hound, and her
injured eye towards the sea, from whence she entertained no
anticipation of danger. Some boatmen sailing by saw her, and taking a
successful aim, mortally wounded her. Yielding up her last breath, she
gasped forth this lament: “O wretched creature that I am! to take such
precaution against the land, and after all to find this seashore, to
which I had come for safety, so much more perilous.”

The Mice and the Weasels

THE WEASELS and the Mice waged a perpetual war with each other, in
which much blood was shed. The Weasels were always the victors. The
Mice thought that the cause of their frequent defeats was that they had
no leaders set apart from the general army to command them, and that
they were exposed to dangers from lack of discipline. They therefore
chose as leaders Mice that were most renowned for their family descent,
strength, and counsel, as well as those most noted for their courage in
the fight, so that they might be better marshaled in battle array and
formed into troops, regiments, and battalions. When all this was done,
and the army disciplined, and the herald Mouse had duly proclaimed war
by challenging the Weasels, the newly chosen generals bound their heads
with straws, that they might be more conspicuous to all their troops.
Scarcely had the battle begun, when a great rout overwhelmed the Mice,
who scampered off as fast as they could to their holes. The generals,
not being able to get in on account of the ornaments on their heads,
were all captured and eaten by the Weasels.

The more honour the more danger.

The Shepherd and the Sea

A SHEPHERD, keeping watch over his sheep near the shore, saw the Sea
very calm and smooth, and longed to make a voyage with a view to
commerce. He sold all his flock, invested it in a cargo of dates, and
set sail. But a very great tempest came on, and the ship being in
danger of sinking, he threw all his merchandise overboard, and barely
escaped with his life in the empty ship. Not long afterwards when
someone passed by and observed the unruffled calm of the Sea, he
interrupted him and said, “It is again in want of dates, and therefore
looks quiet.”

The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion

AN ASS and a Cock were in a straw-yard together when a Lion, desperate
from hunger, approached the spot. He was about to spring upon the Ass,
when the Cock (to the sound of whose voice the Lion, it is said, has a
singular aversion) crowed loudly, and the Lion fled away as fast as he
could. The Ass, observing his trepidation at the mere crowing of a Cock
summoned courage to attack him, and galloped after him for that
purpose. He had run no long distance, when the Lion, turning about,
seized him and tore him to pieces.

False confidence often leads into danger.

The Rivers and the Sea

THE RIVERS joined together to complain to the Sea, saying, “Why is it
that when we flow into your tides so potable and sweet, you work in us
such a change, and make us salty and unfit to drink?” The Sea,
perceiving that they intended to throw the blame on him, said, “Pray
cease to flow into me, and then you will not be made briny.”

The Wild Boar and the Fox

A WILD BOAR stood under a tree and rubbed his tusks against the trunk.
A Fox passing by asked him why he thus sharpened his teeth when there
was no danger threatening from either huntsman or hound. He replied, “I
do it advisedly; for it would never do to have to sharpen my weapons
just at the time I ought to be using them.”

To be well prepared for war is the best guarantee of peace.

The Milk-Woman and Her Pail

A FARMER’S daughter was carrying her Pail of milk from the field to the
farmhouse, when she fell a-musing. “The money for which this milk will
be sold, will buy at least three hundred eggs. The eggs, allowing for
all mishaps, will produce two hundred and fifty chickens. The chickens
will become ready for the market when poultry will fetch the highest
price, so that by the end of the year I shall have money enough from my
share to buy a new gown. In this dress I will go to the Christmas
parties, where all the young fellows will propose to me, but I will
toss my head and refuse them every one.” At this moment she tossed her
head in unison with her thoughts, when down fell the milk pail to the
ground, and all her imaginary schemes perished in a moment.

The Bee and Jupiter

A BEE from Mount Hymettus, the queen of the hive, ascended to Olympus
to present Jupiter some honey fresh from her combs. Jupiter, delighted
with the offering of honey, promised to give whatever she should ask.
She therefore besought him, saying, “Give me, I pray thee, a sting,
that if any mortal shall approach to take my honey, I may kill him.”
Jupiter was much displeased, for he loved the race of man, but could
not refuse the request because of his promise. He thus answered the
Bee: “You shall have your request, but it will be at the peril of your
own life. For if you use your sting, it shall remain in the wound you
make, and then you will die from the loss of it.”

Evil wishes, like chickens, come home to roost.

The Wolf and the Housedog

A WOLF, meeting a big well-fed Mastiff with a wooden collar about his
neck asked him who it was that fed him so well and yet compelled him to
drag that heavy log about wherever he went. “The master,” he replied.
Then said the Wolf: “May no friend of mine ever be in such a plight;
for the weight of this chain is enough to spoil the appetite.”

The Three Tradesmen

A GREAT CITY was besieged, and its inhabitants were called together to
consider the best means of protecting it from the enemy. A Bricklayer
earnestly recommended bricks as affording the best material for an
effective resistance. A Carpenter, with equal enthusiasm, proposed
timber as a preferable method of defense. Upon which a Currier stood up
and said, “Sirs, I differ from you altogether: there is no material for
resistance equal to a covering of hides; and nothing so good as
leather.”

Every man for himself.

The Ass Carrying the Image

AN ASS once carried through the streets of a city a famous wooden
Image, to be placed in one of its Temples. As he passed along, the
crowd made lowly prostration before the Image. The Ass, thinking that
they bowed their heads in token of respect for himself, bristled up
with pride, gave himself airs, and refused to move another step. The
driver, seeing him thus stop, laid his whip lustily about his shoulders
and said, “O you perverse dull-head! it is not yet come to this, that
men pay worship to an Ass.”

They are not wise who give to themselves the credit due to others.

The Master and His Dogs

A CERTAIN MAN, detained by a storm in his country house, first of all
killed his sheep, and then his goats, for the maintenance of his
household. The storm still continuing, he was obliged to slaughter his
yoke oxen for food. On seeing this, his Dogs took counsel together, and
said, “It is time for us to be off, for if the master spare not his
oxen, who work for his gain, how can we expect him to spare us?”

He is not to be trusted as a friend who mistreats his own family.

The Old Hound

A HOUND, who in the days of his youth and strength had never yielded to
any beast of the forest, encountered in his old age a boar in the
chase. He seized him boldly by the ear, but could not retain his hold
because of the decay of his teeth, so that the boar escaped. His
master, quickly coming up, was very much disappointed, and fiercely
abused the dog. The Hound looked up and said, “It was not my fault
master: my spirit was as good as ever, but I could not help my
infirmities. I rather deserve to be praised for what I have been, than
to be blamed for what I am.”

The Two Travelers and the Axe

TWO MEN were journeying together. One of them picked up an axe that lay
upon the path, and said, “I have found an axe.” “Nay, my friend,”
replied the other, “do not say ‘I,’ but ‘We’ have found an axe.” They
had not gone far before they saw the owner of the axe pursuing them,
and he who had picked up the axe said, “We are undone.” “Nay,” replied
the other, “keep to your first mode of speech, my friend; what you
thought right then, think right now. Say ‘I,’ not ‘We’ are undone.”

He who shares the danger ought to share the prize.

The Old Lion

A LION, worn out with years and powerless from disease, lay on the
ground at the point of death. A Boar rushed upon him, and avenged with
a stroke of his tusks a long-remembered injury. Shortly afterwards the
Bull with his horns gored him as if he were an enemy. When the Ass saw
that the huge beast could be assailed with impunity, he let drive at
his forehead with his heels. The expiring Lion said, “I have
reluctantly brooked the insults of the brave, but to be compelled to
endure such treatment from thee, a disgrace to Nature, is indeed to die
a double death.”

The Wolf and the Shepherds

A WOLF, passing by, saw some Shepherds in a hut eating a haunch of
mutton for their dinner. Approaching them, he said, “What a clamor you
would raise if I were to do as you are doing!”

The Seaside Travelers

SOME TRAVELERS, journeying along the seashore, climbed to the summit of
a tall cliff, and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they
thought was a large ship. They waited in the hope of seeing it enter
the harbor, but as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to
shore by the wind, they found that it could at the most be a small
boat, and not a ship. When however it reached the beach, they
discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks, and one of them
said to his companions, “We have waited for no purpose, for after all
there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”

Our mere anticipations of life outrun its realities.

The Ass and His Shadow

A TRAVELER hired an Ass to convey him to a distant place. The day being
intensely hot, and the sun shining in its strength, the Traveler
stopped to rest, and sought shelter from the heat under the Shadow of
the Ass. As this afforded only protection for one, and as the Traveler
and the owner of the Ass both claimed it, a violent dispute arose
between them as to which of them had the right to the Shadow. The owner
maintained that he had let the Ass only, and not his Shadow. The
Traveler asserted that he had, with the hire of the Ass, hired his
Shadow also. The quarrel proceeded from words to blows, and while the
men fought, the Ass galloped off.

In quarreling about the shadow we often lose the substance.

The Ass and His Masters

AN ASS, belonging to an herb-seller who gave him too little food and
too much work made a petition to Jupiter to be released from his
present service and provided with another master. Jupiter, after
warning him that he would repent his request, caused him to be sold to
a tile-maker. Shortly afterwards, finding that he had heavier loads to
carry and harder work in the brick-field, he petitioned for another
change of master. Jupiter, telling him that it would be the last time
that he could grant his request, ordained that he be sold to a tanner.
The Ass found that he had fallen into worse hands, and noting his
master’s occupation, said, groaning: “It would have been better for me
to have been either starved by the one, or to have been overworked by
the other of my former masters, than to have been bought by my present
owner, who will even after I am dead tan my hide, and make me useful to
him.”

Mercury and the Sculptor

MERCURY once determined to learn in what esteem he was held among
mortals. For this purpose he assumed the character of a man and visited
in this disguise a Sculptor’s studio having looked at various statues,
he demanded the price of two figures of Jupiter and Juno. When the sum
at which they were valued was named, he pointed to a figure of himself,
saying to the Sculptor, “You will certainly want much more for this, as
it is the statue of the Messenger of the Gods, and author of all your
gain.” The Sculptor replied, “Well, if you will buy these, I’ll fling
you that into the bargain.”

The Fox and the Woodcutter

A FOX, running before the hounds, came across a Woodcutter felling an
oak and begged him to show him a safe hiding-place. The Woodcutter
advised him to take shelter in his own hut, so the Fox crept in and hid
himself in a corner. The huntsman soon came up with his hounds and
inquired of the Woodcutter if he had seen the Fox. He declared that he
had not seen him, and yet pointed, all the time he was speaking, to the
hut where the Fox lay hidden. The huntsman took no notice of the signs,
but believing his word, hastened forward in the chase. As soon as they
were well away, the Fox departed without taking any notice of the
Woodcutter: whereon he called to him and reproached him, saying, “You
ungrateful fellow, you owe your life to me, and yet you leave me
without a word of thanks.” The Fox replied, “Indeed, I should have
thanked you fervently if your deeds had been as good as your words, and
if your hands had not been traitors to your speech.”

The Oak and the Reeds

A VERY LARGE OAK was uprooted by the wind and thrown across a stream.
It fell among some Reeds, which it thus addressed: “I wonder how you,
who are so light and weak, are not entirely crushed by these strong
winds.” They replied, “You fight and contend with the wind, and
consequently you are destroyed; while we on the contrary bend before
the least breath of air, and therefore remain unbroken, and escape.”

Stoop to conquer.

The Lion in a Farmyard

A LION entered a farmyard. The Farmer, wishing to catch him, shut the
gate. When the Lion found that he could not escape, he flew upon the
sheep and killed them, and then attacked the oxen. The Farmer,
beginning to be alarmed for his own safety, opened the gate and
released the Lion. On his departure the Farmer grievously lamented the
destruction of his sheep and oxen, but his wife, who had been a
spectator to all that took place, said, “On my word, you are rightly
served, for how could you for a moment think of shutting up a Lion
along with you in your farmyard when you know that you shake in your
shoes if you only hear his roar at a distance?”

The Wolf and the Lion

A WOLF, having stolen a lamb from a fold, was carrying him off to his
lair. A Lion met him in the path, and seizing the lamb, took it from
him. Standing at a safe distance, the Wolf exclaimed, “You have
unrighteously taken that which was mine from me!” To which the Lion
jeeringly replied, “It was righteously yours, eh? The gift of a
friend?”

The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock

A BIRDCATCHER was about to sit down to a dinner of herbs when a friend
unexpectedly came in. The bird-trap was quite empty, as he had caught
nothing, and he had to kill a pied Partridge, which he had tamed for a
decoy. The bird entreated earnestly for his life: “What would you do
without me when next you spread your nets? Who would chirp you to
sleep, or call for you the covey of answering birds?” The Birdcatcher
spared his life, and determined to pick out a fine young Cock just
attaining to his comb. But the Cock expostulated in piteous tones from
his perch: “If you kill me, who will announce to you the appearance of
the dawn? Who will wake you to your daily tasks or tell you when it is
time to visit the bird-trap in the morning?” He replied, “What you say
is true. You are a capital bird at telling the time of day. But my
friend and I must have our dinners.”

Necessity knows no law.

The Ant and the Dove

AN ANT went to the bank of a river to quench its thirst, and being
carried away by the rush of the stream, was on the point of drowning. A
Dove sitting on a tree overhanging the water plucked a leaf and let it
fall into the stream close to her. The Ant climbed onto it and floated
in safety to the bank. Shortly afterwards a birdcatcher came and stood
under the tree, and laid his lime-twigs for the Dove, which sat in the
branches. The Ant, perceiving his design, stung him in the foot. In
pain the birdcatcher threw down the twigs, and the noise made the Dove
take wing.

The Hares and the Frogs

THE HARES, oppressed by their own exceeding timidity and weary of the
perpetual alarm to which they were exposed, with one accord determined
to put an end to themselves and their troubles by jumping from a lofty
precipice into a deep lake below. As they scampered off in large
numbers to carry out their resolve, the Frogs lying on the banks of the
lake heard the noise of their feet and rushed helter-skelter to the
deep water for safety. On seeing the rapid disappearance of the Frogs,
one of the Hares cried out to his companions: “Stay, my friends, do not
do as you intended; for you now see that there are creatures who are
still more timid than ourselves.”

The Monkey and the Fishermen

A MONKEY perched upon a lofty tree saw some Fishermen casting their
nets into a river, and narrowly watched their proceedings. The
Fishermen after a while gave up fishing, and on going home to dinner
left their nets upon the bank. The Monkey, who is the most imitative of
animals, descended from the treetop and endeavored to do as they had
done. Having handled the net, he threw it into the river, but became
tangled in the meshes and drowned. With his last breath he said to
himself, “I am rightly served; for what business had I who had never
handled a net to try and catch fish?”

The Swan and the Goose

A CERTAIN rich man bought in the market a Goose and a Swan. He fed the
one for his table and kept the other for the sake of its song. When the
time came for killing the Goose, the cook went to get him at night,
when it was dark, and he was not able to distinguish one bird from the
other. By mistake he caught the Swan instead of the Goose. The Swan,
threatened with death, burst forth into song and thus made himself
known by his voice, and preserved his life by his melody.

The Doe and the Lion

A DOE hard pressed by hunters sought refuge in a cave belonging to a
Lion. The Lion concealed himself on seeing her approach, but when she
was safe within the cave, sprang upon her and tore her to pieces. “Woe
is me,” exclaimed the Doe, “who have escaped from man, only to throw
myself into the mouth of a wild beast?”

In avoiding one evil, care must be taken not to fall into another.

The Fisherman and the Little Fish

A FISHERMAN who lived on the produce of his nets, one day caught a
single small Fish as the result of his day’s labor. The Fish, panting
convulsively, thus entreated for his life: “O Sir, what good can I be
to you, and how little am I worth? I am not yet come to my full size.
Pray spare my life, and put me back into the sea. I shall soon become a
large fish fit for the tables of the rich, and then you can catch me
again, and make a handsome profit of me.” The Fisherman replied, “I
should indeed be a very simple fellow if, for the chance of a greater
uncertain profit, I were to forego my present certain gain.”

The Hunter and the Woodman

A HUNTER, not very bold, was searching for the tracks of a Lion. He
asked a man felling oaks in the forest if he had seen any marks of his
footsteps or knew where his lair was. “I will,” said the man, “at once
show you the Lion himself.” The Hunter, turning very pale and
chattering with his teeth from fear, replied, “No, thank you. I did not
ask that; it is his track only I am in search of, not the Lion
himself.”

The hero is brave in deeds as well as words.

The Swollen Fox

A VERY HUNGRY FOX, seeing some bread and meat left by shepherds in the
hollow of an oak, crept into the hole and made a hearty meal. When he
finished, he was so full that he was not able to get out, and began to
groan and lament his fate. Another Fox passing by heard his cries, and
coming up, inquired the cause of his complaining. On learning what had
happened, he said to him, “Ah, you will have to remain there, my
friend, until you become such as you were when you crept in, and then
you will easily get out.”

The Two Frogs

TWO FROGS dwelt in the same pool. When the pool dried up under the
summer’s heat, they left it and set out together for another home. As
they went along they chanced to pass a deep well, amply supplied with
water, and when they saw it, one of the Frogs said to the other, “Let
us descend and make our abode in this well: it will furnish us with
shelter and food.” The other replied with greater caution, “But suppose
the water should fail us. How can we get out again from so great a
depth?”

Do nothing without a regard to the consequences.

The Lamp

A LAMP, soaked with too much oil and flaring brightly, boasted that it
gave more light than the sun. Then a sudden puff of wind arose, and the
Lamp was immediately extinguished. Its owner lit it again, and said:
“Boast no more, but henceforth be content to give thy light in silence.
Know that not even the stars need to be relit.”

The Camel and the Arab

AN ARAB Camel-driver, after completing the loading of his Camel, asked
him which he would like best, to go up hill or down. The poor beast
replied, not without a touch of reason: “Why do you ask me? Is it that
the level way through the desert is closed?”

The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass

A MILLER and his son were driving their Ass to a neighboring fair to
sell him. They had not gone far when they met with a troop of women
collected round a well, talking and laughing. “Look there,” cried one
of them, “did you ever see such fellows, to be trudging along the road
on foot when they might ride?” The old man hearing this, quickly made
his son mount the Ass, and continued to walk along merrily by his side.
Presently they came up to a group of old men in earnest debate.
“There,” said one of them, “it proves what I was a-saying. What respect
is shown to old age in these days? Do you see that idle lad riding
while his old father has to walk? Get down, you young scapegrace, and
let the old man rest his weary limbs.” Upon this the old man made his
son dismount, and got up himself. In this manner they had not proceeded
far when they met a company of women and children: “Why, you lazy old
fellow,” cried several tongues at once, “how can you ride upon the
beast, while that poor little lad there can hardly keep pace by the
side of you?” The good-natured Miller immediately took up his son
behind him. They had now almost reached the town. “Pray, honest
friend,” said a citizen, “is that Ass your own?” “Yes,” replied the old
man. “O, one would not have thought so,” said the other, “by the way
you load him. Why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor
beast than he you.” “Anything to please you,” said the old man; “we can
but try.” So, alighting with his son, they tied the legs of the Ass
together and with the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their
shoulders over a bridge near the entrance to the town. This
entertaining sight brought the people in crowds to laugh at it, till
the Ass, not liking the noise nor the strange handling that he was
subject to, broke the cords that bound him and, tumbling off the pole,
fell into the river. Upon this, the old man, vexed and ashamed, made
the best of his way home again, convinced that by endeavoring to please
everybody he had pleased nobody, and lost his Ass in the bargain.

The Cat and the Mice

A CERTAIN HOUSE was overrun with Mice. A Cat, discovering this, made
her way into it and began to catch and eat them one by one. Fearing for
their lives, the Mice kept themselves close in their holes. The Cat was
no longer able to get at them and perceived that she must tempt them
forth by some device. For this purpose she jumped upon a peg, and
suspending herself from it, pretended to be dead. One of the Mice,
peeping stealthily out, saw her and said, “Ah, my good madam, even
though you should turn into a meal-bag, we will not come near you.”

The Mouse and the Bull

A BULL was bitten by a Mouse and, angered by the wound, tried to
capture him. But the Mouse reached his hole in safety. Though the Bull
dug into the walls with his horns, he tired before he could rout out
the Mouse, and crouching down, went to sleep outside the hole. The
Mouse peeped out, crept furtively up his flank, and again biting him,
retreated to his hole. The Bull rising up, and not knowing what to do,
was sadly perplexed. At which the Mouse said, “The great do not always
prevail. There are times when the small and lowly are the strongest to
do mischief.”

The Dog and the Cook

A RICH MAN gave a great feast, to which he invited many friends and
acquaintances. His Dog availed himself of the occasion to invite a
stranger Dog, a friend of his, saying, “My master gives a feast, and
there is always much food remaining; come and sup with me tonight.” The
Dog thus invited went at the hour appointed, and seeing the
preparations for so grand an entertainment, said in the joy of his
heart, “How glad I am that I came! I do not often get such a chance as
this. I will take care and eat enough to last me both today and
tomorrow.” While he was congratulating himself and wagging his tail to
convey his pleasure to his friend, the Cook saw him moving about among
his dishes and, seizing him by his fore and hind paws, bundled him
without ceremony out of the window. He fell with force upon the ground
and limped away, howling dreadfully. His yelling soon attracted other
street dogs, who came up to him and inquired how he had enjoyed his
supper. He replied, “Why, to tell you the truth, I drank so much wine
that I remember nothing. I do not know how I got out of the house.”

The Thieves and the Cock

SOME THIEVES broke into a house and found nothing but a Cock, whom they
stole, and got off as fast as they could. Upon arriving at home they
prepared to kill the Cock, who thus pleaded for his life: “Pray spare
me; I am very serviceable to men. I wake them up in the night to their
work.” “That is the very reason why we must the more kill you,” they
replied; “for when you wake your neighbors, you entirely put an end to
our business.”

The safeguards of virtue are hateful to those with evil intentions.

The Dancing Monkeys

A PRINCE had some Monkeys trained to dance. Being naturally great
mimics of men’s actions, they showed themselves most apt pupils, and
when arrayed in their rich clothes and masks, they danced as well as
any of the courtiers. The spectacle was often repeated with great
applause, till on one occasion a courtier, bent on mischief, took from
his pocket a handful of nuts and threw them upon the stage. The Monkeys
at the sight of the nuts forgot their dancing and became (as indeed
they were) Monkeys instead of actors. Pulling off their masks and
tearing their robes, they fought with one another for the nuts. The
dancing spectacle thus came to an end amidst the laughter and ridicule
of the audience.

The Farmer and the Fox

A FARMER, who bore a grudge against a Fox for robbing his poultry yard,
caught him at last, and being determined to take an ample revenge, tied
some rope well soaked in oil to his tail, and set it on fire. The Fox
by a strange fatality rushed to the fields of the Farmer who had
captured him. It was the time of the wheat harvest; but the Farmer
reaped nothing that year and returned home grieving sorely.

The Traveler and Fortune

A TRAVELER wearied from a long journey lay down, overcome with fatigue,
on the very brink of a deep well. Just as he was about to fall into the
water, Dame Fortune, it is said, appeared to him and waking him from
his slumber thus addressed him: “Good Sir, pray wake up: for if you
fall into the well, the blame will be thrown on me, and I shall get an
ill name among mortals; for I find that men are sure to impute their
calamities to me, however much by their own folly they have really
brought them on themselves.”

Everyone is more or less master of his own fate.

The Seagull and the Kite

A SEAGULL having bolted down too large a fish, burst its deep
gullet-bag and lay down on the shore to die. A Kite saw him and
exclaimed: “You richly deserve your fate; for a bird of the air has no
business to seek its food from the sea.”

Every man should be content to mind his own business.

The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox

A LION and a Bear seized a Kid at the same moment, and fought fiercely
for its possession. When they had fearfully lacerated each other and
were faint from the long combat, they lay down exhausted with fatigue.
A Fox, who had gone round them at a distance several times, saw them
both stretched on the ground with the Kid lying untouched in the
middle. He ran in between them, and seizing the Kid scampered off as
fast as he could. The Lion and the Bear saw him, but not being able to
get up, said, “Woe be to us, that we should have fought and belabored
ourselves only to serve the turn of a Fox.”

It sometimes happens that one man has all the toil, and another all the
profit.

The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury

A PHILOSOPHER witnessed from the shore the shipwreck of a vessel, of
which the crew and passengers were all drowned. He inveighed against
the injustice of Providence, which would for the sake of one criminal
perchance sailing in the ship allow so many innocent persons to perish.
As he was indulging in these reflections, he found himself surrounded
by a whole army of Ants, near whose nest he was standing. One of them
climbed up and stung him, and he immediately trampled them all to death
with his foot. Mercury presented himself, and striking the Philosopher
with his wand, said, “And are you indeed to make yourself a judge of
the dealings of Providence, who hast thyself in a similar manner
treated these poor Ants?”

The Peasant and the Eagle

A PEASANT found an Eagle captured in a trap, and much admiring the
bird, set him free. The Eagle did not prove ungrateful to his
deliverer, for seeing the Peasant sitting under a wall which was not
safe, he flew toward him and with his talons snatched a bundle from his
head. When the Peasant rose in pursuit, the Eagle let the bundle fall
again. Taking it up, the man returned to the same place, to find that
the wall under which he had been sitting had fallen to pieces; and he
marveled at the service rendered him by the Eagle.

The Fox and the Leopard

THE FOX and the Leopard disputed which was the more beautiful of the
two. The Leopard exhibited one by one the various spots which decorated
his skin. But the Fox, interrupting him, said, “And how much more
beautiful than you am I, who am decorated, not in body, but in mind.”

The Lion and the Hare

A LION came across a Hare, who was fast asleep. He was just in the act
of seizing her, when a fine young Hart trotted by, and he left the Hare
to follow him. The Hare, scared by the noise, awoke and scudded away.
The Lion was unable after a long chase to catch the Hart, and returned
to feed upon the Hare. On finding that the Hare also had run off, he
said, “I am rightly served, for having let go of the food that I had in
my hand for the chance of obtaining more.”

The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter

A VERY POOR MAN, a Carpenter by trade, had a wooden image of Mercury,
before which he made offerings day by day, and begged the idol to make
him rich, but in spite of his entreaties he became poorer and poorer.
At last, being very angry, he took his image down from its pedestal and
dashed it against the wall. When its head was knocked off, out came a
stream of gold, which the Carpenter quickly picked up and said, “Well,
I think thou art altogether contradictory and unreasonable; for when I
paid you honour, I reaped no benefits: but now that I maltreat you I am
loaded with an abundance of riches.”

The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass

THE LION, the Fox and the Ass entered into an agreement to assist each
other in the chase. Having secured a large booty, the Lion on their
return from the forest asked the Ass to allot his due portion to each
of the three partners in the treaty. The Ass carefully divided the
spoil into three equal shares and modestly requested the two others to
make the first choice. The Lion, bursting out into a great rage,
devoured the Ass. Then he requested the Fox to do him the favour to
make a division. The Fox accumulated all that they had killed into one
large heap and left to himself the smallest possible morsel. The Lion
said, “Who has taught you, my very excellent fellow, the art of
division? You are perfect to a fraction.” He replied, “I learned it
from the Ass, by witnessing his fate.”

Happy is the man who learns from the misfortunes of others.

The Bull and the Goat

A BULL, escaping from a Lion, hid in a cave which some shepherds had
recently occupied. As soon as he entered, a He-Goat left in the cave
sharply attacked him with his horns. The Bull quietly addressed him:
“Butt away as much as you will. I have no fear of you, but of the Lion.
Let that monster go away and I will soon let you know what is the
respective strength of a Goat and a Bull.”

It shows an evil disposition to take advantage of a friend in distress.

The Bald Knight

A BALD KNIGHT, who wore a wig, went out to hunt. A sudden puff of wind
blew off his hat and wig, at which a loud laugh rang forth from his
companions. He pulled up his horse, and with great glee joined in the
joke by saying, “What a marvel it is that hairs which are not mine
should fly from me, when they have forsaken even the man on whose head
they grew.”

The Oaks and Jupiter

THE OAKS presented a complaint to Jupiter, saying, “We bear for no
purpose the burden of life, as of all the trees that grow we are the
most continually in peril of the axe.” Jupiter made answer: “You have
only to thank yourselves for the misfortunes to which you are exposed:
for if you did not make such excellent pillars and posts, and prove
yourselves so serviceable to the carpenters and the farmers, the axe
would not so frequently be laid to your roots.”

The Monkeys and Their Mother

THE MONKEY, it is said, has two young ones at each birth. The Mother
fondles one and nurtures it with the greatest affection and care, but
hates and neglects the other. It happened once that the young one which
was caressed and loved was smothered by the too great affection of the
Mother, while the despised one was nurtured and reared in spite of the
neglect to which it was exposed.

The best intentions will not always ensure success.

The Hare and the Hound

A HOUND started a Hare from his lair, but after a long run, gave up the
chase. A goat-herd seeing him stop, mocked him, saying “The little one
is the best runner of the two.” The Hound replied, “You do not see the
difference between us: I was only running for a dinner, but he for his
life.”

The Shepherd and the Dog

A SHEPHERD penning his sheep in the fold for the night was about to
shut up a wolf with them, when his Dog perceiving the wolf said,
“Master, how can you expect the sheep to be safe if you admit a wolf
into the fold?”

The Oak and the Woodcutters

THE WOODCUTTER cut down a Mountain Oak and split it in pieces, making
wedges of its own branches for dividing the trunk. The Oak said with a
sigh, “I do not care about the blows of the axe aimed at my roots, but
I do grieve at being torn in pieces by these wedges made from my own
branches.”

Misfortunes springing from ourselves are the hardest to bear.

The Wasp and the Snake

A WASP seated himself upon the head of a Snake and, striking him
unceasingly with his stings, wounded him to death. The Snake, being in
great torment and not knowing how to rid himself of his enemy, saw a
wagon heavily laden with wood, and went and purposely placed his head
under the wheels, saying, “At least my enemy and I shall perish
together.”

The Peacock and the Crane

A PEACOCK spreading its gorgeous tail mocked a Crane that passed by,
ridiculing the ashen hue of its plumage and saying, “I am robed, like a
king, in gold and purple and all the colors of the rainbow; while you
have not a bit of color on your wings.” “True,” replied the Crane; “but
I soar to the heights of heaven and lift up my voice to the stars,
while you walk below, like a cock, among the birds of the dunghill.”

Fine feathers don’t make fine birds.

The Hen and the Golden Eggs

A COTTAGER and his wife had a Hen that laid a golden egg every day.
They supposed that the Hen must contain a great lump of gold in its
inside, and in order to get the gold they killed it. Having done so,
they found to their surprise that the Hen differed in no respect from
their other hens. The foolish pair, thus hoping to become rich all at
once, deprived themselves of the gain of which they were assured day by
day.

The Ass and the Frogs

AN ASS, carrying a load of wood, passed through a pond. As he was
crossing through the water he lost his footing, stumbled and fell, and
not being able to rise on account of his load, groaned heavily. Some
Frogs frequenting the pool heard his lamentation, and said, “What would
you do if you had to live here always as we do, when you make such a
fuss about a mere fall into the water?”

Men often bear little grievances with less courage than they do large
misfortunes.

The Crow and the Raven

A CROW was jealous of the Raven, because he was considered a bird of
good omen and always attracted the attention of men, who noted by his
flight the good or evil course of future events. Seeing some travelers
approaching, the Crow flew up into a tree, and perching herself on one
of the branches, cawed as loudly as she could. The travelers turned
towards the sound and wondered what it foreboded, when one of them said
to his companion, “Let us proceed on our journey, my friend, for it is
only the caw of a crow, and her cry, you know, is no omen.”

Those who assume a character which does not belong to them, only make
themselves ridiculous.

The Trees and the Axe

A MAN came into a forest and asked the Trees to provide him a handle
for his axe. The Trees consented to his request and gave him a young
ash-tree. No sooner had the man fitted a new handle to his axe from it,
than he began to use it and quickly felled with his strokes the noblest
giants of the forest. An old oak, lamenting when too late the
destruction of his companions, said to a neighboring cedar, “The first
step has lost us all. If we had not given up the rights of the ash, we
might yet have retained our own privileges and have stood for ages.”

The Wolves and the Sheepdogs

THE WOLVES thus addressed the Sheepdogs: “Why should you, who are like
us in so many things, not be entirely of one mind with us, and live
with us as brothers should? We differ from you in one point only. We
live in freedom, but you bow down to and slave for men, who in return
for your services flog you with whips and put collars on your necks.
They make you also guard their sheep, and while they eat the mutton
throw only the bones to you. If you will be persuaded by us, you will
give us the sheep, and we will enjoy them in common, till we all are
surfeited.” The Dogs listened favourably to these proposals, and,
entering the den of the Wolves, they were set upon and torn to pieces.

The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter

A BULL finding a lion’s cub asleep gored him to death with his horns.
The Lioness came up, and bitterly lamented the death of her whelp. A
wild-boar Hunter, seeing her distress, stood at a distance and said to
her, “Think how many men there are who have reason to lament the loss
of their children, whose deaths have been caused by you.”

The Bowman and Lion

A VERY SKILLFUL BOWMAN went to the mountains in search of game, but all
the beasts of the forest fled at his approach. The Lion alone
challenged him to combat. The Bowman immediately shot out an arrow and
said to the Lion: “I send thee my messenger, that from him thou mayest
learn what I myself shall be when I assail thee.” The wounded Lion
rushed away in great fear, and when a Fox who had seen it all happen
told him to be of good courage and not to back off at the first attack
he replied: “You counsel me in vain; for if he sends so fearful a
messenger, how shall I abide the attack of the man himself?”

Be on guard against men who can strike from a distance.

The Camel

WHEN MAN first saw the Camel, he was so frightened at his vast size
that he ran away. After a time, perceiving the meekness and gentleness
of the beast’s temper, he summoned courage enough to approach him. Soon
afterwards, observing that he was an animal altogether deficient in
spirit, he assumed such boldness as to put a bridle in his mouth, and
to let a child drive him.

Use serves to overcome dread.

The Crab and the Fox

A CRAB, forsaking the seashore, chose a neighboring green meadow as its
feeding ground. A Fox came across him, and being very hungry ate him
up. Just as he was on the point of being eaten, the Crab said, “I well
deserve my fate, for what business had I on the land, when by my nature
and habits I am only adapted for the sea?”

Contentment with our lot is an element of happiness.

The Ass and the Old Shepherd

A SHEPHERD, watching his Ass feeding in a meadow, was alarmed all of a
sudden by the cries of the enemy. He appealed to the Ass to fly with
him, lest they should both be captured, but the animal lazily replied,
“Why should I, pray? Do you think it likely the conqueror will place on
me two sets of panniers?” “No,” rejoined the Shepherd. “Then,” said the
Ass, “as long as I carry the panniers, what matters it to me whom I
serve?”

In a change of government the poor change nothing beyond the name of
their master.

The Fox and the Hedgehog

A FOX swimming across a rapid river was carried by the force of the
current into a very deep ravine, where he lay for a long time very much
bruised, sick, and unable to move. A swarm of hungry blood-sucking
flies settled upon him. A Hedgehog, passing by, saw his anguish and
inquired if he should drive away the flies that were tormenting him.
“By no means,” replied the Fox; “pray do not molest them.” “How is
this?” said the Hedgehog; “do you not want to be rid of them?” “No,”
returned the Fox, “for these flies which you see are full of blood, and
sting me but little, and if you rid me of these which are already
satiated, others more hungry will come in their place, and will drink
up all the blood I have left.”

The Woman and Her Hen

A WOMAN possessed a Hen that gave her an egg every day. She often
pondered how she might obtain two eggs daily instead of one, and at
last, to gain her purpose, determined to give the Hen a double
allowance of barley. From that day the Hen became fat and sleek, and
never once laid another egg.

The Kites and the Swans

TEE KITES of olden times, as well as the Swans, had the privilege of
song. But having heard the neigh of the horse, they were so enchanted
with the sound, that they tried to imitate it; and, in trying to neigh,
they forgot how to sing.

The desire for imaginary benefits often involves the loss of present
blessings.

The Dog and the Hare

A HOUND having started a Hare on the hillside pursued her for some
distance, at one time biting her with his teeth as if he would take her
life, and at another fawning upon her, as if in play with another dog.
The Hare said to him, “I wish you would act sincerely by me, and show
yourself in your true colors. If you are a friend, why do you bite me
so hard? If an enemy, why do you fawn on me?”

No one can be a friend if you know not whether to trust or distrust
him.

The Hares and the Foxes

THE HARES waged war with the Eagles, and called upon the Foxes to help
them. They replied, “We would willingly have helped you, if we had not
known who you were, and with whom you were fighting.”

Count the cost before you commit yourselves.

The Bull and the Calf

A BULL was striving with all his might to squeeze himself through a
narrow passage which led to his stall. A young Calf came up, and
offered to go before and show him the way by which he could manage to
pass. “Save yourself the trouble,” said the Bull; “I knew that way long
before you were born.”

The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep

A STAG asked a Sheep to lend him a measure of wheat, and said that the
Wolf would be his surety. The Sheep, fearing some fraud was intended,
excused herself, saying, “The Wolf is accustomed to seize what he wants
and to run off; and you, too, can quickly outstrip me in your rapid
flight. How then shall I be able to find you, when the day of payment
comes?”

Two blacks do not make one white.

The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow

AN EAGLE made her nest at the top of a lofty oak; a Cat, having found a
convenient hole, moved into the middle of the trunk; and a Wild Sow,
with her young, took shelter in a hollow at its foot. The Cat cunningly
resolved to destroy this chance-made colony. To carry out her design,
she climbed to the nest of the Eagle, and said, “Destruction is
preparing for you, and for me too, unfortunately. The Wild Sow, whom
you see daily digging up the earth, wishes to uproot the oak, so she
may on its fall seize our families as food for her young.” Having thus
frightened the Eagle out of her senses, she crept down to the cave of
the Sow, and said, “Your children are in great danger; for as soon as
you go out with your litter to find food, the Eagle is prepared to
pounce upon one of your little pigs.” Having instilled these fears into
the Sow, she went and pretended to hide herself in the hollow of the
tree. When night came she went forth with silent foot and obtained food
for herself and her kittens, but feigning to be afraid, she kept a
lookout all through the day. Meanwhile, the Eagle, full of fear of the
Sow, sat still on the branches, and the Sow, terrified by the Eagle,
did not dare to go out from her cave. And thus they both, along with
their families, perished from hunger, and afforded ample provision for
the Cat and her kittens.

The Wolf and the Fox

AT ONE TIME a very large and strong Wolf was born among the wolves, who
exceeded all his fellow-wolves in strength, size, and swiftness, so
that they unanimously decided to call him “Lion.” The Wolf, with a lack
of sense proportioned to his enormous size, thought that they gave him
this name in earnest, and, leaving his own race, consorted exclusively
with the lions. An old sly Fox, seeing this, said, “May I never make
myself so ridiculous as you do in your pride and self-conceit; for even
though you have the size of a lion among wolves, in a herd of lions you
are definitely a wolf.”

The Mule

A MULE, frolicsome from lack of work and from too much corn, galloped
about in a very extravagant manner, and said to himself: “My father
surely was a high-mettled racer, and I am his own child in speed and
spirit.” On the next day, being driven a long journey, and feeling very
wearied, he exclaimed in a disconsolate tone: “I must have made a
mistake; my father, after all, could have been only an ass.”

The Prophet

A WIZARD, sitting in the marketplace, was telling the fortunes of the
passers-by when a person ran up in great haste, and announced to him
that the doors of his house had been broken open and that all his goods
were being stolen. He sighed heavily and hastened away as fast as he
could run. A neighbor saw him running and said, “Oh! you fellow there!
you say you can foretell the fortunes of others; how is it you did not
foresee your own?”

The Two Frogs

TWO FROGS were neighbors. One inhabited a deep pond, far removed from
public view; the other lived in a gully containing little water, and
traversed by a country road. The Frog that lived in the pond warned his
friend to change his residence and entreated him to come and live with
him, saying that he would enjoy greater safety from danger and more
abundant food. The other refused, saying that he felt it so very hard
to leave a place to which he had become accustomed. A few days
afterwards a heavy wagon passed through the gully and crushed him to
death under its wheels.

A willful man will have his way to his own hurt.

The Serpent and the Eagle

A SERPENT and an Eagle were struggling with each other in deadly
conflict. The Serpent had the advantage, and was about to strangle the
bird. A countryman saw them, and running up, loosed the coil of the
Serpent and let the Eagle go free. The Serpent, irritated at the escape
of his prey, injected his poison into the drinking horn of the
countryman. The rustic, ignorant of his danger, was about to drink,
when the Eagle struck his hand with his wing, and, seizing the drinking
horn in his talons, carried it aloft.

The Crow and the Pitcher

A CROW perishing with thirst saw a pitcher, and hoping to find water,
flew to it with delight. When he reached it, he discovered to his grief
that it contained so little water that he could not possibly get at it.
He tried everything he could think of to reach the water, but all his
efforts were in vain. At last he collected as many stones as he could
carry and dropped them one by one with his beak into the pitcher, until
he brought the water within his reach and thus saved his life.

Necessity is the mother of invention.

The Thief and the Innkeeper

A THIEF hired a room in a tavern and stayed a while in the hope of
stealing something which should enable him to pay his reckoning. When
he had waited some days in vain, he saw the Innkeeper dressed in a new
and handsome coat and sitting before his door. The Thief sat down
beside him and talked with him. As the conversation began to flag, the
Thief yawned terribly and at the same time howled like a wolf. The
Innkeeper said, “Why do you howl so fearfully?” “I will tell you,” said
the Thief, “but first let me ask you to hold my clothes, or I shall
tear them to pieces. I know not, sir, when I got this habit of yawning,
nor whether these attacks of howling were inflicted on me as a judgment
for my crimes, or for any other cause; but this I do know, that when I
yawn for the third time, I actually turn into a wolf and attack men.”
With this speech he commenced a second fit of yawning and again howled
like a wolf, as he had at first. The Innkeeper, hearing his tale and
believing what he said, became greatly alarmed and, rising from his
seat, attempted to run away. The Thief laid hold of his coat and
entreated him to stop, saying, “Pray wait, sir, and hold my clothes, or
I shall tear them to pieces in my fury, when I turn into a wolf.” At
the same moment he yawned the third time and set up a terrible howl.
The Innkeeper, frightened lest he should be attacked, left his new coat
in the Thief’s hand and ran as fast as he could into the inn for
safety. The Thief made off with the coat and did not return again to
the inn.

Every tale is not to be believed.

The Hart and the Vine

A HART, hard pressed in the chase, hid himself beneath the large leaves
of a Vine. The huntsmen, in their haste, overshot the place of his
concealment. Supposing all danger to have passed, the Hart began to
nibble the tendrils of the Vine. One of the huntsmen, attracted by the
rustling of the leaves, looked back, and seeing the Hart, shot an arrow
from his bow and struck it. The Hart, at the point of death, groaned:
“I am rightly served, for I should not have maltreated the Vine that
saved me.”

The Gnat and the Lion

A GNAT came and said to a Lion, “I do not in the least fear you, nor
are you stronger than I am. For in what does your strength consist? You
can scratch with your claws and bite with your teeth an a woman in her
quarrels. I repeat that I am altogether more powerful than you; and if
you doubt it, let us fight and see who will conquer.” The Gnat, having
sounded his horn, fastened himself upon the Lion and stung him on the
nostrils and the parts of the face devoid of hair. While trying to
crush him, the Lion tore himself with his claws, until he punished
himself severely. The Gnat thus prevailed over the Lion, and, buzzing
about in a song of triumph, flew away. But shortly afterwards he became
entangled in the meshes of a cobweb and was eaten by a spider. He
greatly lamented his fate, saying, “Woe is me! that I, who can wage war
successfully with the hugest beasts, should perish myself from this
spider, the most inconsiderable of insects!”

The Fox and the Grapes

A FAMISHED FOX saw some clusters of ripe black grapes hanging from a
trellised vine. She resorted to all her tricks to get at them, but
wearied herself in vain, for she could not reach them. At last she
turned away, hiding her disappointment and saying: “The Grapes are
sour, and not ripe as I thought.”

The Walnut-Tree

A WALNUT TREE standing by the roadside bore an abundant crop of fruit.
For the sake of the nuts, the passers-by broke its branches with stones
and sticks. The Walnut-Tree piteously exclaimed, “O wretched me! that
those whom I cheer with my fruit should repay me with these painful
requitals!”

The Kid and the Wolf

A KID, returning without protection from the pasture, was pursued by a
Wolf. Seeing he could not escape, he turned round, and said: “I know,
friend Wolf, that I must be your prey, but before I die I would ask of
you one favour you will play me a tune to which I may dance.” The Wolf
complied, and while he was piping and the Kid was dancing, some hounds
hearing the sound ran up and began chasing the Wolf. Turning to the
Kid, he said, “It is just what I deserve; for I, who am only a butcher,
should not have turned piper to please you.”

The Monkey and the Dolphin

A SAILOR, bound on a long voyage, took with him a Monkey to amuse him
while on shipboard. As he sailed off the coast of Greece, a violent
tempest arose in which the ship was wrecked and he, his Monkey, and all
the crew were obliged to swim for their lives. A Dolphin saw the Monkey
contending with the waves, and supposing him to be a man (whom he is
always said to befriend), came and placed himself under him, to convey
him on his back in safety to the shore. When the Dolphin arrived with
his burden in sight of land not far from Athens, he asked the Monkey if
he were an Athenian. The latter replied that he was, and that he was
descended from one of the most noble families in that city. The Dolphin
then inquired if he knew the Piræus (the famous harbor of Athens).
Supposing that a man was meant, the Monkey answered that he knew him
very well and that he was an intimate friend. The Dolphin, indignant at
these falsehoods, dipped the Monkey under the water and drowned him.

The Horse and the Stag

AT ONE TIME the Horse had the plain entirely to himself. Then a Stag
intruded into his domain and shared his pasture. The Horse, desiring to
revenge himself on the stranger, asked a man if he were willing to help
him in punishing the Stag. The man replied that if the Horse would
receive a bit in his mouth and agree to carry him, he would contrive
effective weapons against the Stag. The Horse consented and allowed the
man to mount him. From that hour he found that instead of obtaining
revenge on the Stag, he had enslaved himself to the service of man.

The Jackdaw and the Doves

A JACKDAW, seeing some Doves in a cote abundantly provided with food,
painted himself white and joined them in order to share their plentiful
maintenance. The Doves, as long as he was silent, supposed him to be
one of themselves and admitted him to their cote. But when one day he
forgot himself and began to chatter, they discovered his true character
and drove him forth, pecking him with their beaks. Failing to obtain
food among the Doves, he returned to the Jackdaws. They too, not
recognizing him on account of his color, expelled him from living with
them. So desiring two ends, he obtained neither.

The Fox and the Monkey

A FOX and a Monkey were traveling together on the same road. As they
journeyed, they passed through a cemetery full of monuments. “All these
monuments which you see,” said the Monkey, “are erected in honour of my
ancestors, who were in their day freedmen and citizens of great
renown.” The Fox replied, “You have chosen a most appropriate subject
for your falsehoods, as I am sure none of your ancestors will be able
to contradict you.”

A false tale often betrays itself.

The Man and His Wife

A MAN had a Wife who made herself hated by all the members of his
household. Wishing to find out if she had the same effect on the
persons in her father’s house, he made some excuse to send her home on
a visit to her father. After a short time she returned, and when he
inquired how she had got on and how the servants had treated her, she
replied, “The herdsmen and shepherds cast on me looks of aversion.” He
said, “O Wife, if you were disliked by those who go out early in the
morning with their flocks and return late in the evening, what must
have been felt towards you by those with whom you passed the whole
day!”

Straws show how the wind blows.

The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog

A HORSE, Ox, and Dog, driven to great straits by the cold, sought
shelter and protection from Man. He received them kindly, lighted a
fire, and warmed them. He let the Horse make free with his oats, gave
the Ox an abundance of hay, and fed the Dog with meat from his own
table. Grateful for these favours, the animals determined to repay him
to the best of their ability. For this purpose, they divided the term
of his life between them, and each endowed one portion of it with the
qualities which chiefly characterized himself. The Horse chose his
earliest years and gave them his own attributes: hence every man is in
his youth impetuous, headstrong, and obstinate in maintaining his own
opinion. The Ox took under his patronage the next term of life, and
therefore man in his middle age is fond of work, devoted to labor, and
resolute to amass wealth and to husband his resources. The end of life
was reserved for the Dog, wherefore the old man is often snappish,
irritable, hard to please, and selfish, tolerant only of his own
household, but averse to strangers and to all who do not administer to
his comfort or to his necessities.

The Thief and the Housedog

A THIEF came in the night to break into a house. He brought with him
several slices of meat in order to pacify the Housedog, so that he
would not alarm his master by barking. As the Thief threw him the
pieces of meat, the Dog said, “If you think to stop my mouth, you will
be greatly mistaken. This sudden kindness at your hands will only make
me more watchful, lest under these unexpected favours to myself, you
have some private ends to accomplish for your own benefit, and for my
master’s injury.”

The Apes and the Two Travelers

TWO MEN, one who always spoke the truth and the other who told nothing
but lies, were traveling together and by chance came to the land of
Apes. One of the Apes, who had raised himself to be king, commanded
them to be seized and brought before him, that he might know what was
said of him among men. He ordered at the same time that all the Apes be
arranged in a long row on his right hand and on his left, and that a
throne be placed for him, as was the custom among men. After these
preparations he signified that the two men should be brought before
him, and greeted them with this salutation: “What sort of a king do I
seem to you to be, O strangers?” The Lying Traveler replied, “You seem
to me a most mighty king.” “And what is your estimate of those you see
around me?” “These,” he made answer, “are worthy companions of
yourself, fit at least to be ambassadors and leaders of armies.” The
Ape and all his court, gratified with the lie, commanded that a
handsome present be given to the flatterer. On this the truthful
Traveler thought to himself, “If so great a reward be given for a lie,
with what gift may not I be rewarded, if, according to my custom, I
tell the truth?” The Ape quickly turned to him. “And pray how do I and
these my friends around me seem to you?” “Thou art,” he said, “a most
excellent Ape, and all these thy companions after thy example are
excellent Apes too.” The King of the Apes, enraged at hearing these
truths, gave him over to the teeth and claws of his companions.

The Fox and the Lion

WHEN A FOX who had never yet seen a Lion, fell in with him by chance
for the first time in the forest, he was so frightened that he nearly
died with fear. On meeting him for the second time, he was still much
alarmed, but not to the same extent as at first. On seeing him the
third time, he so increased in boldness that he went up to him and
commenced a familiar conversation with him.

Acquaintance softens prejudices.

The Weasel and the Mice

A WEASEL, inactive from age and infirmities, was not able to catch mice
as he once did. He therefore rolled himself in flour and lay down in a
dark corner. A Mouse, supposing him to be food, leaped upon him, and
was instantly caught and squeezed to death. Another perished in a
similar manner, and then a third, and still others after them. A very
old Mouse, who had escaped many a trap and snare, observed from a safe
distance the trick of his crafty foe and said, “Ah! you that lie there,
may you prosper just in the same proportion as you are what you pretend
to be!”

The Boy Bathing

A BOY bathing in a river was in danger of being drowned. He called out
to a passing traveler for help, but instead of holding out a helping
hand, the man stood by unconcernedly, and scolded the boy for his
imprudence. “Oh, sir!” cried the youth, “pray help me now and scold me
afterwards.”

Counsel without help is useless.

The Peacock and Juno

THE PEACOCK made complaint to Juno that, while the nightingale pleased
every ear with his song, he himself no sooner opened his mouth than he
became a laughingstock to all who heard him. The Goddess, to console
him, said, “But you far excel in beauty and in size. The splendor of
the emerald shines in your neck and you unfold a tail gorgeous with
painted plumage.” “But for what purpose have I,” said the bird, “this
dumb beauty so long as I am surpassed in song?” “The lot of each,”
replied Juno, “has been assigned by the will of the Fates—to thee,
beauty; to the eagle, strength; to the nightingale, song; to the raven,
favourable, and to the crow, unfavourable auguries. These are all
contented with the endowments allotted to them.”

The Wolf and the Shepherd

A WOLF followed a flock of sheep for a long time and did not attempt to
injure one of them. The Shepherd at first stood on his guard against
him, as against an enemy, and kept a strict watch over his movements.
But when the Wolf, day after day, kept in the company of the sheep and
did not make the slightest effort to seize them, the Shepherd began to
look upon him as a guardian of his flock rather than as a plotter of
evil against it; and when occasion called him one day into the city, he
left the sheep entirely in his charge. The Wolf, now that he had the
opportunity, fell upon the sheep, and destroyed the greater part of the
flock. When the Shepherd returned to find his flock destroyed, he
exclaimed: “I have been rightly served; why did I trust my sheep to a
Wolf?”

The Hares and the Lions

THE HARES harangued the assembly, and argued that all should be equal.
The Lions made this reply: “Your words, O Hares! are good; but they
lack both claws and teeth such as we have.”

The Seller of Images

A CERTAIN MAN made a wooden image of Mercury and offered it for sale.
When no one appeared willing to buy it, in order to attract purchasers,
he cried out that he had the statue to sell of a benefactor who
bestowed wealth and helped to heap up riches. One of the bystanders
said to him, “My good fellow, why do you sell him, being such a one as
you describe, when you may yourself enjoy the good things he has to
give?” “Why,” he replied, “I am in need of immediate help, and he is
wont to give his good gifts very slowly.”

The Hawk and the Nightingale

A NIGHTINGALE, sitting aloft upon an oak and singing according to his
wont, was seen by a Hawk who, being in need of food, swooped down and
seized him. The Nightingale, about to lose his life, earnestly begged
the Hawk to let him go, saying that he was not big enough to satisfy
the hunger of a Hawk who, if he wanted food, ought to pursue the larger
birds. The Hawk, interrupting him, said: “I should indeed have lost my
senses if I should let go food ready in my hand, for the sake of
pursuing birds which are not yet even within sight.”

The Lark and Her Young Ones

A LARK had made her nest in the early spring on the young green wheat.
The brood had almost grown to their full strength and attained the use
of their wings and the full plumage of their feathers, when the owner
of the field, looking over his ripe crop, said, “The time has come when
I must ask all my neighbors to help me with my harvest.” One of the
young Larks heard his speech and related it to his mother, inquiring of
her to what place they should move for safety. “There is no occasion to
move yet, my son,” she replied; “the man who only sends to his friends
to help him with his harvest is not really in earnest.” The owner of
the field came again a few days later and saw the wheat shedding the
grain from excess of ripeness. He said, “I will come myself tomorrow
with my laborers, and with as many reapers as I can hire, and will get
in the harvest.” The Lark on hearing these words said to her brood, “It
is time now to be off, my little ones, for the man is in earnest this
time; he no longer trusts his friends, but will reap the field
himself.”

Self-help is the best help.

The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox

A DOG and a Cock being great friends, agreed to travel together. At
nightfall they took shelter in a thick wood. The Cock flying up,
perched himself on the branches of a tree, while the Dog found a bed
beneath in the hollow trunk. When the morning dawned, the Cock, as
usual, crowed very loudly several times. A Fox heard the sound, and
wishing to make a breakfast on him, came and stood under the branches,
saying how earnestly he desired to make the acquaintance of the owner
of so magnificent a voice. The Cock, suspecting his civilities, said:
“Sir, I wish you would do me the favour of going around to the hollow
trunk below me, and waking my porter, so that he may open the door and
let you in.” When the Fox approached the tree, the Dog sprang out and
caught him, and tore him to pieces.

The Geese and the Cranes

THE GEESE and the Cranes were feeding in the same meadow, when a
birdcatcher came to ensnare them in his nets. The Cranes, being light
of wing, fled away at his approach; while the Geese, being slower of
flight and heavier in their bodies, were captured.

The Ass and the Wolf

AN ASS feeding in a meadow saw a Wolf approaching to seize him, and
immediately pretended to be lame. The Wolf, coming up, inquired the
cause of his lameness. The Ass replied that passing through a hedge he
had trod with his foot upon a sharp thorn. He requested that the Wolf
pull it out, lest when he ate him it should injure his throat. The Wolf
consented and lifted up the foot, and was giving his whole mind to the
discovery of the thorn, when the Ass, with his heels, kicked his teeth
into his mouth and galloped away. The Wolf, being thus fearfully
mauled, said, “I am rightly served, for why did I attempt the art of
healing, when my father only taught me the trade of a butcher?”

The Goat and the Ass

A MAN once kept a Goat and an Ass. The Goat, envying the Ass on account
of his greater abundance of food, said, “How shamefully you are
treated: at one time grinding in the mill, and at another carrying
heavy burdens;” and he further advised him to pretend to be epileptic
and fall into a ditch and so obtain rest. The Ass listened to his
words, and falling into a ditch, was very much bruised. His master,
sending for a leech, asked his advice. He bade him pour upon the wounds
the lungs of a Goat. They at once killed the Goat, and so healed the
Ass.

The Lion and the Bull

A LION, greatly desiring to capture a Bull, and yet afraid to attack
him on account of his great size, resorted to a trick to ensure his
destruction. He approached the Bull and said, “I have slain a fine
sheep, my friend; and if you will come home and partake of him with me,
I shall be delighted to have your company.” The Lion said this in the
hope that, as the Bull was in the act of reclining to eat, he might
attack him to advantage, and make his meal on him. The Bull, on
approaching the Lion’s den, saw the huge spits and giant caldrons, and
no sign whatever of the sheep, and, without saying a word, quietly took
his departure. The Lion inquired why he went off so abruptly without a
word of salutation to his host, who had not given him any cause for
offense. “I have reasons enough,” said the Bull. “I see no indication
whatever of your having slaughtered a sheep, while I do see very
plainly every preparation for your dining on a bull.”

The Fox and the Mask

A FOX entered the house of an actor and, rummaging through all his
properties, came upon a Mask, an admirable imitation of a human head.
He placed his paws on it and said, “What a beautiful head! Yet it is of
no value, as it entirely lacks brains.”

The Grasshopper and the Owl

AN OWL, accustomed to feed at night and to sleep during the day, was
greatly disturbed by the noise of a Grasshopper and earnestly besought
her to stop chirping. The Grasshopper refused to desist, and chirped
louder and louder the more the Owl entreated. When she saw that she
could get no redress and that her words were despised, the Owl attacked
the chatterer by a stratagem. “Since I cannot sleep,” she said, “on
account of your song which, believe me, is sweet as the lyre of Apollo,
I shall indulge myself in drinking some nectar which Pallas lately gave
me. If you do not dislike it, come to me and we will drink it
together.” The Grasshopper, who was thirsty, and pleased with the
praise of her voice, eagerly flew up. The Owl came forth from her
hollow, seized her, and put her to death.

The Fowler and the Viper

A FOWLER, taking his bird-lime and his twigs, went out to catch birds.
Seeing a thrush sitting upon a tree, he wished to take it, and fitting
his twigs to a proper length, watched intently, having his whole
thoughts directed towards the sky. While thus looking upwards, he
unknowingly trod upon a Viper asleep just before his feet. The Viper,
turning about, stung him, and falling into a swoon, the man said to
himself, “Woe is me! that while I purposed to hunt another, I am myself
fallen unawares into the snares of death.”

The Horse and the Ass

A HORSE, proud of his fine trappings, met an Ass on the highway. The
Ass, being heavily laden, moved slowly out of the way. “Hardly,” said
the Horse, “can I resist kicking you with my heels.” The Ass held his
peace, and made only a silent appeal to the justice of the gods. Not
long afterwards the Horse, having become broken-winded, was sent by his
owner to the farm. The Ass, seeing him drawing a dungcart, thus derided
him: “Where, O boaster, are now all thy gay trappings, thou who are
thyself reduced to the condition you so lately treated with contempt?”

The Lion and the Three Bulls

THREE BULLS for a long time pastured together. A Lion lay in ambush in
the hope of making them his prey, but was afraid to attack them while
they kept together. Having at last by guileful speeches succeeded in
separating them, he attacked them without fear as they fed alone, and
feasted on them one by one at his own leisure.

Union is strength.

The Wolf and the Goat

A WOLF saw a Goat feeding at the summit of a steep precipice, where he
had no chance of reaching her. He called to her and earnestly begged
her to come lower down, lest she fall by some mishap; and he added that
the meadows lay where he was standing, and that the herbage was most
tender. She replied, “No, my friend, it is not for the pasture that you
invite me, but for yourself, who are in want of food.”

The Fly and the Draught-Mule

A FLY sat on the axle-tree of a chariot, and addressing the
Draught-Mule said, “How slow you are! Why do you not go faster? See if
I do not prick your neck with my sting.” The Draught-Mule replied, “I
do not heed your threats; I only care for him who sits above you, and
who quickens my pace with his whip, or holds me back with the reins.
Away, therefore, with your insolence, for I know well when to go fast,
and when to go slow.”

The Fishermen

SOME FISHERMEN were out trawling their nets. Perceiving them to be very
heavy, they danced about for joy and supposed that they had taken a
large catch. When they had dragged the nets to the shore they found but
few fish: the nets were full of sand and stones, and the men were
beyond measure cast down so much at the disappointment which had
befallen them, but because they had formed such very different
expectations. One of their company, an old man, said, “Let us cease
lamenting, my mates, for, as it seems to me, sorrow is always the twin
sister of joy; and it was only to be looked for that we, who just now
were over-rejoiced, should next have something to make us sad.”

The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse

A COUNTRY MOUSE invited a Town Mouse, an intimate friend, to pay him a
visit and partake of his country fare. As they were on the bare
plowlands, eating there wheat-stocks and roots pulled up from the
hedgerow, the Town Mouse said to his friend, “You live here the life of
the ants, while in my house is the horn of plenty. I am surrounded by
every luxury, and if you will come with me, as I wish you would, you
shall have an ample share of my dainties.” The Country Mouse was easily
persuaded, and returned to town with his friend. On his arrival, the
Town Mouse placed before him bread, barley, beans, dried figs, honey,
raisins, and, last of all, brought a dainty piece of cheese from a
basket. The Country Mouse, being much delighted at the sight of such
good cheer, expressed his satisfaction in warm terms and lamented his
own hard fate. Just as they were beginning to eat, someone opened the
door, and they both ran off squeaking, as fast as they could, to a hole
so narrow that two could only find room in it by squeezing. They had
scarcely begun their repast again when someone else entered to take
something out of a cupboard, whereupon the two Mice, more frightened
than before, ran away and hid themselves. At last the Country Mouse,
almost famished, said to his friend: “Although you have prepared for me
so dainty a feast, I must leave you to enjoy it by yourself. It is
surrounded by too many dangers to please me. I prefer my bare plowlands
and roots from the hedgerow, where I can live in safety, and without
fear.”

The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape

A WOLF accused a Fox of theft, but the Fox entirely denied the charge.
An Ape undertook to adjudge the matter between them. When each had
fully stated his case the Ape announced this sentence: “I do not think
you, Wolf, ever lost what you claim; and I do believe you, Fox, to have
stolen what you so stoutly deny.”

The dishonest, if they act honestly, get no credit.

The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer

THE WASPS and the Partridges, overcome with thirst, came to a Farmer
and besought him to give them some water to drink. They promised amply
to repay him the favour which they asked. The Partridges declared that
they would dig around his vines and make them produce finer grapes. The
Wasps said that they would keep guard and drive off thieves with their
stings. But the Farmer interrupted them, saying: “I have already two
oxen, who, without making any promises, do all these things. It is
surely better for me to give the water to them than to you.”

The Brother and the Sister

A FATHER had one son and one daughter, the former remarkable for his
good looks, the latter for her extraordinary ugliness. While they were
playing one day as children, they happened by chance to look together
into a mirror that was placed on their mother’s chair. The boy
congratulated himself on his good looks; the girl grew angry, and could
not bear the self-praises of her Brother, interpreting all he said (and
how could she do otherwise?) into reflection on herself. She ran off to
her father, to be avenged on her Brother, and spitefully accused him of
having, as a boy, made use of that which belonged only to girls. The
father embraced them both, and bestowing his kisses and affection
impartially on each, said, “I wish you both would look into the mirror
every day: you, my son, that you may not spoil your beauty by evil
conduct; and you, my daughter, that you may make up for your lack of
beauty by your virtues.”

The Dogs and the Fox

SOME DOGS, finding the skin of a lion, began to tear it in pieces with
their teeth. A Fox, seeing them, said, “If this lion were alive, you
would soon find out that his claws were stronger than your teeth.”

It is easy to kick a man that is down.

The Blind Man and the Whelp

A BLIND MAN was accustomed to distinguishing different animals by
touching them with his hands. The whelp of a Wolf was brought him, with
a request that he would feel it, and say what it was. He felt it, and
being in doubt, said: “I do not quite know whether it is the cub of a
Fox, or the whelp of a Wolf, but this I know full well. It would not be
safe to admit him to the sheepfold.”

Evil tendencies are shown in early life.

The Cobbler Turned Doctor

A COBBLER unable to make a living by his trade and made desperate by
poverty, began to practice medicine in a town in which he was not
known. He sold a drug, pretending that it was an antidote to all
poisons, and obtained a great name for himself by long-winded puffs and
advertisements. When the Cobbler happened to fall sick himself of a
serious illness, the Governor of the town determined to test his skill.
For this purpose he called for a cup, and while filling it with water,
pretended to mix poison with the Cobbler’s antidote, commanding him to
drink it on the promise of a reward. The Cobbler, under the fear of
death, confessed that he had no knowledge of medicine, and was only
made famous by the stupid clamors of the crowd. The Governor then
called a public assembly and addressed the citizens: “Of what folly
have you been guilty? You have not hesitated to entrust your heads to a
man, whom no one could employ to make even the shoes for their feet.”

The Wolf and the Horse

A WOLF coming out of a field of oats met a Horse and thus addressed
him: “I would advise you to go into that field. It is full of fine
oats, which I have left untouched for you, as you are a friend whom I
would love to hear enjoying good eating.” The Horse replied, “If oats
had been the food of wolves, you would never have indulged your ears at
the cost of your belly.”

Men of evil reputation, when they perform a good deed, fail to get
credit for it.

The Two Men Who Were Enemies

TWO MEN, deadly enemies to each other, were sailing in the same vessel.
Determined to keep as far apart as possible, the one seated himself in
the stem, and the other in the prow of the ship. A violent storm arose,
and with the vessel in great danger of sinking, the one in the stern
inquired of the pilot which of the two ends of the ship would go down
first. On his replying that he supposed it would be the prow, the Man
said, “Death would not be grievous to me, if I could only see my Enemy
die before me.”

The Gamecocks and the Partridge

A MAN had two Gamecocks in his poultry-yard. One day by chance he found
a tame Partridge for sale. He purchased it and brought it home to be
reared with his Gamecocks. When the Partridge was put into the
poultry-yard, they struck at it and followed it about, so that the
Partridge became grievously troubled and supposed that he was thus
evilly treated because he was a stranger. Not long afterwards he saw
the Cocks fighting together and not separating before one had well
beaten the other. He then said to himself, “I shall no longer distress
myself at being struck at by these Gamecocks, when I see that they
cannot even refrain from quarreling with each other.”

The Fox and the Lion

A FOX saw a Lion confined in a cage, and standing near him, bitterly
reviled him. The Lion said to the Fox, “It is not thou who revilest me;
but this mischance which has befallen me.”

The Quack Frog

A FROG once upon a time came forth from his home in the marsh and
proclaimed to all the beasts that he was a learned physician, skilled
in the use of drugs and able to heal all diseases. A Fox asked him,
“How can you pretend to prescribe for others, when you are unable to
heal your own lame gait and wrinkled skin?”

The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox

A LION, growing old, lay sick in his cave. All the beasts came to visit
their king, except the Fox. The Wolf therefore, thinking that he had a
capital opportunity, accused the Fox to the Lion of not paying any
respect to him who had the rule over them all and of not coming to
visit him. At that very moment the Fox came in and heard these last
words of the Wolf. The Lion roaring out in a rage against him, the Fox
sought an opportunity to defend himself and said, “And who of all those
who have come to you have benefited you so much as I, who have traveled
from place to place in every direction, and have sought and learnt from
the physicians the means of healing you?” The Lion commanded him
immediately to tell him the cure, when he replied, “You must flay a
wolf alive and wrap his skin yet warm around you.” The Wolf was at once
taken and flayed; whereon the Fox, turning to him, said with a smile,
“You should have moved your master not to ill, but to good, will.”

The Dog’s House

IN THE WINTERTIME, a Dog curled up in as small a space as possible on
account of the cold, determined to make himself a house. However when
the summer returned again, he lay asleep stretched at his full length
and appeared to himself to be of a great size. Now he considered that
it would be neither an easy nor a necessary work to make himself such a
house as would accommodate him.

The North Wind and the Sun

THE NORTH WIND and the Sun disputed as to which was the most powerful,
and agreed that he should be declared the victor who could first strip
a wayfaring man of his clothes. The North Wind first tried his power
and blew with all his might, but the keener his blasts, the closer the
Traveler wrapped his cloak around him, until at last, resigning all
hope of victory, the Wind called upon the Sun to see what he could do.
The Sun suddenly shone out with all his warmth. The Traveler no sooner
felt his genial rays than he took off one garment after another, and at
last, fairly overcome with heat, undressed and bathed in a stream that
lay in his path.

Persuasion is better than Force.

The Crow and Mercury

A CROW caught in a snare prayed to Apollo to release him, making a vow
to offer some frankincense at his shrine. But when rescued from his
danger, he forgot his promise. Shortly afterwards, again caught in a
snare, he passed by Apollo and made the same promise to offer
frankincense to Mercury. Mercury soon appeared and said to him, “O thou
most base fellow? how can I believe thee, who hast disowned and wronged
thy former patron?”

The Fox and the Crane

A FOX invited a Crane to supper and provided nothing for his
entertainment but some soup made of pulse, which was poured out into a
broad flat stone dish. The soup fell out of the long bill of the Crane
at every mouthful, and his vexation at not being able to eat afforded
the Fox much amusement. The Crane, in his turn, asked the Fox to sup
with him, and set before her a flagon with a long narrow mouth, so that
he could easily insert his neck and enjoy its contents at his leisure.
The Fox, unable even to taste it, met with a fitting requital, after
the fashion of her own hospitality.

The Wolf and the Lion

ROAMING BY the mountainside at sundown, a Wolf saw his own shadow
become greatly extended and magnified, and he said to himself, “Why
should I, being of such an immense size and extending nearly an acre in
length, be afraid of the Lion? Ought I not to be acknowledged as King
of all the collected beasts?” While he was indulging in these proud
thoughts, a Lion fell upon him and killed him. He exclaimed with a too
late repentance, “Wretched me! this overestimation of myself is the
cause of my destruction.”

The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat

THE BIRDS waged war with the Beasts, and each were by turns the
conquerors. A Bat, fearing the uncertain issues of the fight, always
fought on the side which he felt was the strongest. When peace was
proclaimed, his deceitful conduct was apparent to both combatants.
Therefore being condemned by each for his treachery, he was driven
forth from the light of day, and henceforth concealed himself in dark
hiding-places, flying always alone and at night.

The Spendthrift and the Swallow

A YOUNG MAN, a great spendthrift, had run through all his patrimony and
had but one good cloak left. One day he happened to see a Swallow,
which had appeared before its season, skimming along a pool and
twittering gaily. He supposed that summer had come, and went and sold
his cloak. Not many days later, winter set in again with renewed frost
and cold. When he found the unfortunate Swallow lifeless on the ground,
he said, “Unhappy bird! what have you done? By thus appearing before
the springtime you have not only killed yourself, but you have wrought
my destruction also.”

The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner

A TRUMPETER, bravely leading on the soldiers, was captured by the
enemy. He cried out to his captors, “Pray spare me, and do not take my
life without cause or without inquiry. I have not slain a single man of
your troop. I have no arms, and carry nothing but this one brass
trumpet.” “That is the very reason for which you should be put to
death,” they said; “for, while you do not fight yourself, your trumpet
stirs all the others to battle.”

The Owl and the Birds

AN OWL, in her wisdom, counseled the Birds that when the acorn first
began to sprout, to pull it all up out of the ground and not allow it
to grow. She said acorns would produce mistletoe, from which an
irremediable poison, the bird-lime, would be extracted and by which
they would be captured. The Owl next advised them to pluck up the seed
of the flax, which men had sown, as it was a plant which boded no good
to them. And, lastly, the Owl, seeing an archer approach, predicted
that this man, being on foot, would contrive darts armed with feathers
which would fly faster than the wings of the Birds themselves. The
Birds gave no credence to these warning words, but considered the Owl
to be beside herself and said that she was mad. But afterwards, finding
her words were true, they wondered at her knowledge and deemed her to
be the wisest of birds. Hence it is that when she appears they look to
her as knowing all things, while she no longer gives them advice, but
in solitude laments their past folly.

The Goods and the Ills

ALL the Goods were once driven out by the Ills from that common share
which they each had in the affairs of mankind; for the Ills by reason
of their numbers had prevailed to possess the earth. The Goods wafted
themselves to heaven and asked for a righteous vengeance on their
persecutors. They entreated Jupiter that they might no longer be
associated with the Ills, as they had nothing in common and could not
live together, but were engaged in unceasing warfare; and that an
indissoluble law might be laid down for their future protection.
Jupiter granted their request and decreed that henceforth the Ills
should visit the earth in company with each other, but that the Goods
should one by one enter the habitations of men. Hence it arises that
Ills abound, for they come not one by one, but in troops, and by no
means singly: while the Goods proceed from Jupiter, and are given, not
alike to all, but singly, and separately; and one by one to those who
are able to discern them.

The Ass in the Lion’s Skin

AN ASS, having put on the Lion’s skin, roamed about in the forest and
amused himself by frightening all the foolish animals he met in his
wanderings. At last coming upon a Fox, he tried to frighten him also,
but the Fox no sooner heard the sound of his voice than he exclaimed,
“I might possibly have been frightened myself, if I had not heard your
bray.”

The Sparrow and the Hare

A HARE pounced upon by an eagle sobbed very much and uttered cries like
a child. A Sparrow upbraided her and said, “Where now is thy remarkable
swiftness of foot? Why were your feet so slow?” While the Sparrow was
thus speaking, a hawk suddenly seized him and killed him. The Hare was
comforted in her death, and expiring said, “Ah! you who so lately, when
you supposed yourself safe, exulted over my calamity, have now reason
to deplore a similar misfortune.”

The Flea and the Ox

A FLEA thus questioned an Ox: “What ails you, that being so huge and
strong, you submit to the wrongs you receive from men and slave for
them day by day, while I, being so small a creature, mercilessly feed
on their flesh and drink their blood without stint?” The Ox replied: “I
do not wish to be ungrateful, for I am loved and well cared for by men,
and they often pat my head and shoulders.” “Woe’s me!” said the flea;
“this very patting which you like, whenever it happens to me, brings
with it my inevitable destruction.”

The Ass and His Purchaser

A MAN wished to purchase an Ass, and agreed with its owner that he
should try out the animal before he bought him. He took the Ass home
and put him in the straw-yard with his other Asses, upon which the new
animal left all the others and at once joined the one that was most
idle and the greatest eater of them all. Seeing this, the man put a
halter on him and led him back to his owner. On being asked how, in so
short a time, he could have made a trial of him, he answered, “I do not
need a trial; I know that he will be just the same as the one he chose
for his companion.”

A man is known by the company he keeps.

The Dove and the Crow

A DOVE shut up in a cage was boasting of the large number of young ones
which she had hatched. A Crow hearing her, said: “My good friend, cease
from this unseasonable boasting. The larger the number of your family,
the greater your cause of sorrow, in seeing them shut up in this
prison-house.”

The Man and the Satyr

A MAN and a Satyr once drank together in token of a bond of alliance
being formed between them. One very cold wintry day, as they talked,
the Man put his fingers to his mouth and blew on them. When the Satyr
asked the reason for this, he told him that he did it to warm his hands
because they were so cold. Later on in the day they sat down to eat,
and the food prepared was quite scalding. The Man raised one of the
dishes a little towards his mouth and blew in it. When the Satyr again
inquired the reason, he said that he did it to cool the meat, which was
too hot. “I can no longer consider you as a friend,” said the Satyr, “a
fellow who with the same breath blows hot and cold.”

Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus

ACCORDING to an ancient legend, the first man was made by Jupiter, the
first bull by Neptune, and the first house by Minerva. On the
completion of their labours, a dispute arose as to which had made the
most perfect work. They agreed to appoint Momus as judge, and to abide
by his decision. Momus, however, being very envious of the handicraft
of each, found fault with all. He first blamed the work of Neptune
because he had not made the horns of the bull below his eyes, so he
might better see where to strike. He then condemned the work of
Jupiter, because he had not placed the heart of man on the outside,
that everyone might read the thoughts of the evil disposed and take
precautions against the intended mischief. And, lastly, he inveighed
against Minerva because she had not contrived iron wheels in the
foundation of her house, so its inhabitants might more easily remove if
a neighbor proved unpleasant. Jupiter, indignant at such inveterate
faultfinding, drove him from his office of judge, and expelled him from
the mansions of Olympus.

The Eagle and the Jackdaw

AN EAGLE, flying down from his perch on a lofty rock, seized upon a
lamb and carried him aloft in his talons. A Jackdaw, who witnessed the
capture of the lamb, was stirred with envy and determined to emulate
the strength and flight of the Eagle. He flew around with a great whir
of his wings and settled upon a large ram, with the intention of
carrying him off, but his claws became entangled in the ram’s fleece
and he was not able to release himself, although he fluttered with his
feathers as much as he could. The shepherd, seeing what had happened,
ran up and caught him. He at once clipped the Jackdaw’s wings, and
taking him home at night, gave him to his children. On their saying,
“Father, what kind of bird is it?” he replied, “To my certain knowledge
he is a Daw; but he would like you to think an Eagle.”

The Eagle and the Fox

AN EAGLE and a Fox formed an intimate friendship and decided to live
near each other. The Eagle built her nest in the branches of a tall
tree, while the Fox crept into the underwood and there produced her
young. Not long after they had agreed upon this plan, the Eagle, being
in want of provision for her young ones, swooped down while the Fox was
out, seized upon one of the little cubs, and feasted herself and her
brood. The Fox on her return, discovered what had happened, but was
less grieved for the death of her young than for her inability to
avenge them. A just retribution, however, quickly fell upon the Eagle.
While hovering near an altar, on which some villagers were sacrificing
a goat, she suddenly seized a piece of the flesh, and carried it, along
with a burning cinder, to her nest. A strong breeze soon fanned the
spark into a flame, and the eaglets, as yet unfledged and helpless,
were roasted in their nest and dropped down dead at the bottom of the
tree. There, in the sight of the Eagle, the Fox gobbled them up.

The Two Bags

EVERY MAN, according to an ancient legend, is born into the world with
two bags suspended from his neck all bag in front full of his
neighbors’ faults, and a large bag behind filled with his own faults.
Hence it is that men are quick to see the faults of others, and yet are
often blind to their own failings.

The Bitch and Her Whelps

A BITCH, ready to whelp, earnestly begged a shepherd for a place where
she might litter. When her request was granted, she besought permission
to rear her puppies in the same spot. The shepherd again consented. But
at last the Bitch, protected by the bodyguard of her Whelps, who had
now grown up and were able to defend themselves, asserted her exclusive
right to the place and would not permit the shepherd to approach.

The Stag at the Pool

A STAG overpowered by heat came to a spring to drink. Seeing his own
shadow reflected in the water, he greatly admired the size and variety
of his horns, but felt angry with himself for having such slender and
weak feet. While he was thus contemplating himself, a Lion appeared at
the pool and crouched to spring upon him. The Stag immediately took to
flight, and exerting his utmost speed, as long as the plain was smooth
and open kept himself easily at a safe distance from the Lion. But
entering a wood he became entangled by his horns, and the Lion quickly
came up to him and caught him. When too late, he thus reproached
himself: “Woe is me! How I have deceived myself! These feet which would
have saved me I despised, and I gloried in these antlers which have
proved my destruction.”

What is most truly valuable is often underrated.

The Lark Burying Her Father

THE LARK (according to an ancient legend) was created before the earth
itself, and when her father died, as there was no earth, she could find
no place of burial for him. She let him lie uninterred for five days,
and on the sixth day, not knowing what else to do, she buried him in
her own head. Hence she obtained her crest, which is popularly said to
be her father’s grave-hillock.

Youth’s first duty is reverence to parents.

The Gnat and the Bull

A GNAT settled on the horn of a Bull, and sat there a long time. Just
as he was about to fly off, he made a buzzing noise, and inquired of
the Bull if he would like him to go. The Bull replied, “I did not know
you had come, and I shall not miss you when you go away.”

Some men are of more consequence in their own eyes than in the eyes of
their neighbors.

The Monkey and the Camel

THE BEASTS of the forest gave a splendid entertainment at which the
Monkey stood up and danced. Having vastly delighted the assembly, he
sat down amidst universal applause. The Camel, envious of the praises
bestowed on the Monkey and desiring to divert to himself the favour of
the guests, proposed to stand up in his turn and dance for their
amusement. He moved about in so utterly ridiculous a manner that the
Beasts, in a fit of indignation, set upon him with clubs and drove him
out of the assembly.

It is absurd to ape our betters.

The Dogs and the Hides

SOME DOGS famished with hunger saw a number of cowhides steeping in a
river. Not being able to reach them, they agreed to drink up the river,
but it happened that they burst themselves with drinking long before
they reached the hides.

Attempt not impossibilities.

The Jackdaw and the Fox

A HALF-FAMISHED JACKDAW seated himself on a fig-tree, which had
produced some fruit entirely out of season, and waited in the hope that
the figs would ripen. A Fox seeing him sitting so long and learning the
reason of his doing so, said to him, “You are indeed, sir, sadly
deceiving yourself; you are indulging a hope strong enough to cheat
you, but which will never reward you with enjoyment.”

Mercury and the Workmen

A WORKMAN, felling wood by the side of a river, let his axe drop by
accident into a deep pool. Being thus deprived of the means of his
livelihood, he sat down on the bank and lamented his hard fate. Mercury
appeared and demanded the cause of his tears. After he told him his
misfortune, Mercury plunged into the stream, and, bringing up a golden
axe, inquired if that were the one he had lost. On his saying that it
was not his, Mercury disappeared beneath the water a second time,
returned with a silver axe in his hand, and again asked the Workman if
it were his. When the Workman said it was not, he dived into the pool
for the third time and brought up the axe that had been lost. The
Workman claimed it and expressed his joy at its recovery. Mercury,
pleased with his honesty, gave him the golden and silver axes in
addition to his own. The Workman, on his return to his house, related
to his companions all that had happened. One of them at once resolved
to try and secure the same good fortune for himself. He ran to the
river and threw his axe on purpose into the pool at the same place, and
sat down on the bank to weep. Mercury appeared to him just as he hoped
he would; and having learned the cause of his grief, plunged into the
stream and brought up a golden axe, inquiring if he had lost it. The
Workman seized it greedily, and declared that truly it was the very
same axe that he had lost. Mercury, displeased at his knavery, not only
took away the golden axe, but refused to recover for him the axe he had
thrown into the pool.

The Peasant and the Apple-Tree

A PEASANT had in his garden an Apple-Tree which bore no fruit but only
served as a harbor for the sparrows and grasshoppers. He resolved to
cut it down, and taking his axe in his hand, made a bold stroke at its
roots. The grasshoppers and sparrows entreated him not to cut down the
tree that sheltered them, but to spare it, and they would sing to him
and lighten his labours. He paid no attention to their request, but
gave the tree a second and a third blow with his axe. When he reached
the hollow of the tree, he found a hive full of honey. Having tasted
the honeycomb, he threw down his axe, and looking on the tree as
sacred, took great care of it.

Self-interest alone moves some men.

The Two Soldiers and the Robber

TWO SOLDIERS traveling together were set upon by a Robber. The one fled
away; the other stood his ground and defended himself with his stout
right hand. The Robber being slain, the timid companion ran up and drew
his sword, and then, throwing back his traveling cloak said, “I’ll at
him, and I’ll take care he shall learn whom he has attacked.” On this,
he who had fought with the Robber made answer, “I only wish that you
had helped me just now, even if it had been only with those words, for
I should have been the more encouraged, believing them to be true; but
now put up your sword in its sheath and hold your equally useless
tongue, till you can deceive others who do not know you. I, indeed, who
have experienced with what speed you run away, know right well that no
dependence can be placed on your valor.”

The Shepherd and the Sheep

A SHEPHERD driving his Sheep to a wood, saw an oak of unusual size full
of acorns, and spreading his cloak under the branches, he climbed up
into the tree and shook them down. The Sheep eating the acorns
inadvertently frayed and tore the cloak. When the Shepherd came down
and saw what was done, he said, “O you most ungrateful creatures! You
provide wool to make garments for all other men, but you destroy the
clothes of him who feeds you.”

The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods

THE GODS, according to an ancient legend, made choice of certain trees
to be under their special protection. Jupiter chose the oak, Venus the
myrtle, Apollo the laurel, Cybele the pine, and Hercules the poplar.
Minerva, wondering why they had preferred trees not yielding fruit,
inquired the reason for their choice. Jupiter replied, “It is lest we
should seem to covet the honour for the fruit.” But said Minerva, “Let
anyone say what he will the olive is more dear to me on account of its
fruit.” Then said Jupiter, “My daughter, you are rightly called wise;
for unless what we do is useful, the glory of it is vain.”

The Flea and the Wrestler

A FLEA settled upon the bare foot of a Wrestler and bit him, causing
the man to call loudly upon Hercules for help. When the Flea a second
time hopped upon his foot, he groaned and said, “O Hercules! if you
will not help me against a Flea, how can I hope for your assistance
against greater antagonists?”

The Lion and the Fox

A FOX entered into partnership with a Lion on the pretense of becoming
his servant. Each undertook his proper duty in accordance with his own
nature and powers. The Fox discovered and pointed out the prey; the
Lion sprang on it and seized it. The Fox soon became jealous of the
Lion carrying off the Lion’s share, and said that he would no longer
find out the prey, but would capture it on his own account. The next
day he attempted to snatch a lamb from the fold, but he himself fell
prey to the huntsmen and hounds.

Truth and the Traveler

A WAYFARING MAN, traveling in the desert, met a woman standing alone
and terribly dejected. He inquired of her, “Who art thou?” “My name is
Truth,” she replied. “And for what cause,” he asked, “have you left the
city to dwell alone here in the wilderness?” She made answer, “Because
in former times, falsehood was with few, but is now with all men.”

The Manslayer

A MAN committed a murder, and was pursued by the relations of the man
whom he murdered. On his reaching the river Nile he saw a Lion on its
bank and being fearfully afraid, climbed up a tree. He found a serpent
in the upper branches of the tree, and again being greatly alarmed, he
threw himself into the river, where a crocodile caught him and ate him.
Thus the earth, the air, and the water alike refused shelter to a
murderer.

The Lion and the Eagle

AN EAGLE stayed his flight and entreated a Lion to make an alliance
with him to their mutual advantage. The Lion replied, “I have no
objection, but you must excuse me for requiring you to find surety for
your good faith, for how can I trust anyone as a friend who is able to
fly away from his bargain whenever he pleases?”

Try before you trust.

The Ass and His Driver

AN ASS, being driven along a high road, suddenly started off and bolted
to the brink of a deep precipice. While he was in the act of throwing
himself over, his owner seized him by the tail, endeavoring to pull him
back. When the Ass persisted in his effort, the man let him go and
said, “Conquer, but conquer to your cost.”

The Thrush and the Fowler

A THRUSH was feeding on a myrtle-tree and did not move from it because
its berries were so delicious. A Fowler observed her staying so long in
one spot, and having well bird-limed his reeds, caught her. The Thrush,
being at the point of death, exclaimed, “O foolish creature that I am!
For the sake of a little pleasant food I have deprived myself of my
life.”

The Mother and the Wolf

A FAMISHED WOLF was prowling about in the morning in search of food. As
he passed the door of a cottage built in the forest, he heard a Mother
say to her child, “Be quiet, or I will throw you out of the window, and
the Wolf shall eat you.” The Wolf sat all day waiting at the door. In
the evening he heard the same woman fondling her child and saying: “You
are quiet now, and if the Wolf should come, we will kill him.” The
Wolf, hearing these words, went home, gasping with cold and hunger.
When he reached his den, Mistress Wolf inquired of him why he returned
wearied and supperless, so contrary to his wont. He replied: “Why,
forsooth! use I gave credence to the words of a woman!”

The Hen and the Swallow

A HEN finding the eggs of a viper and carefully keeping them warm,
nourished them into life. A Swallow, observing what she had done, said,
“You silly creature! why have you hatched these vipers which, when they
shall have grown, will inflict injury on all, beginning with yourself?”

The Rose and the Amaranth

AN AMARANTH planted in a garden near a Rose-Tree, thus addressed it:
“What a lovely flower is the Rose, a favourite alike with Gods and with
men. I envy you your beauty and your perfume.” The Rose replied, “I
indeed, dear Amaranth, flourish but for a brief season! If no cruel
hand pluck me from my stem, yet I must perish by an early doom. But
thou art immortal and dost never fade, but bloomest for ever in renewed
youth.”

The Travelers and the Plane-Tree

TWO TRAVELERS, worn out by the heat of the summer’s sun, laid
themselves down at noon under the widespreading branches of a
Plane-Tree. As they rested under its shade, one of the Travelers said
to the other, “What a singularly useless tree is the Plane! It bears no
fruit, and is not of the least service to man.” The Plane-Tree,
interrupting him, said, “You ungrateful fellows! Do you, while
receiving benefits from me and resting under my shade, dare to describe
me as useless, and unprofitable?”

Some men underrate their best blessings.

The Ass and the Horse

AN ASS besought a Horse to spare him a small portion of his feed.
“Yes,” said the Horse; “if any remains out of what I am now eating I
will give it you for the sake of my own superior dignity, and if you
will come when I reach my own stall in the evening, I will give you a
little sack full of barley.” The Ass replied, “Thank you. But I can’t
think that you, who refuse me a little matter now, will by and by
confer on me a greater benefit.”

The Crow and the Sheep

A TROUBLESOME CROW seated herself on the back of a Sheep. The Sheep,
much against his will, carried her backward and forward for a long
time, and at last said, “If you had treated a dog in this way, you
would have had your deserts from his sharp teeth.” To this the Crow
replied, “I despise the weak and yield to the strong. I know whom I may
bully and whom I must flatter; and I thus prolong my life to a good old
age.”

The Fox and the Bramble

A FOX was mounting a hedge when he lost his footing and caught hold of
a Bramble to save himself. Having pricked and grievously torn the soles
of his feet, he accused the Bramble because, when he had fled to her
for assistance, she had used him worse than the hedge itself. The
Bramble, interrupting him, said, “But you really must have been out of
your senses to fasten yourself on me, who am myself always accustomed
to fasten upon others.”

The Ass and the Charger

AN ASS congratulated a Horse on being so ungrudgingly and carefully
provided for, while he himself had scarcely enough to eat and not even
that without hard work. But when war broke out, a heavily armed soldier
mounted the Horse, and riding him to the charge, rushed into the very
midst of the enemy. The Horse was wounded and fell dead on the
battlefield. Then the Ass, seeing all these things, changed his mind,
and commiserated the Horse.

The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant

THE LION wearied Jupiter with his frequent complaints. “It is true, O
Jupiter!” he said, “that I am gigantic in strength, handsome in shape,
and powerful in attack. I have jaws well provided with teeth, and feet
furnished with claws, and I lord it over all the beasts of the forest,
and what a disgrace it is, that being such as I am, I should be
frightened by the crowing of a cock.” Jupiter replied, “Why do you
blame me without a cause? I have given you all the attributes which I
possess myself, and your courage never fails you except in this one
instance.” On hearing this the Lion groaned and lamented very much and,
reproaching himself with his cowardice, wished that he might die. As
these thoughts passed through his mind, he met an Elephant and came
close to hold a conversation with him. After a time he observed that
the Elephant shook his ears very often, and he inquired what was the
matter and why his ears moved with such a tremor every now and then.
Just at that moment a Gnat settled on the head of the Elephant, and he
replied, “Do you see that little buzzing insect? If it enters my ear,
my fate is sealed. I should die presently.” The Lion said, “Well, since
so huge a beast is afraid of a tiny gnat, I will no more complain, nor
wish myself dead. I find myself, even as I am, better off than the
Elephant.”

The Dog and the Oyster

A DOG, used to eating eggs, saw an Oyster and, opening his mouth to its
widest extent, swallowed it down with the utmost relish, supposing it
to be an egg. Soon afterwards suffering great pain in his stomach, he
said, “I deserve all this torment, for my folly in thinking that
everything round must be an egg.”

They who act without sufficient thought, will often fall into
unsuspected danger.

The Mules and the Robbers

TWO MULES well-laden with packs were trudging along. One carried
panniers filled with money, the other sacks weighted with grain. The
Mule carrying the treasure walked with head erect, as if conscious of
the value of his burden, and tossed up and down the clear-toned bells
fastened to his neck. His companion followed with quiet and easy step.
All of a sudden Robbers rushed upon them from their hiding-places, and
in the scuffle with their owners, wounded with a sword the Mule
carrying the treasure, which they greedily seized while taking no
notice of the grain. The Mule which had been robbed and wounded
bewailed his misfortunes. The other replied, “I am indeed glad that I
was thought so little of, for I have lost nothing, nor am I hurt with
any wound.”

The Lamb and the Wolf

A WOLF pursued a Lamb, which fled for refuge to a certain Temple. The
Wolf called out to him and said, “The Priest will slay you in
sacrifice, if he should catch you.” On which the Lamb replied, “It
would be better for me to be sacrificed in the Temple than to be eaten
by you.”

The Partridge and the Fowler

A FOWLER caught a Partridge and was about to kill it. The Partridge
earnestly begged him to spare his life, saying, “Pray, master, permit
me to live and I will entice many Partridges to you in recompense for
your mercy to me.” The Fowler replied, “I shall now with less scruple
take your life, because you are willing to save it at the cost of
betraying your friends and relations.”

The Flea and the Man

A MAN, very much annoyed with a Flea, caught him at last, and said,
“Who are you who dare to feed on my limbs, and to cost me so much
trouble in catching you?” The Flea replied, “O my dear sir, pray spare
my life, and destroy me not, for I cannot possibly do you much harm.”
The Man, laughing, replied, “Now you shall certainly die by mine own
hands, for no evil, whether it be small or large, ought to be
tolerated.”

The Rich Man and the Tanner

A RICH MAN lived near a Tanner, and not being able to bear the
unpleasant smell of the tan-yard, he pressed his neighbor to go away.
The Tanner put off his departure from time to time, saying that he
would leave soon. But as he still continued to stay, as time went on,
the rich man became accustomed to the smell, and feeling no manner of
inconvenience, made no further complaints.

The Viper and the File

A VIPER, entering the workshop of a smith, sought from the tools the
means of satisfying his hunger. He more particularly addressed himself
to a File, and asked of him the favour of a meal. The File replied,
“You must indeed be a simple-minded fellow if you expect to get
anything from me, who am accustomed to take from everyone, and never to
give anything in return.”

The covetous are poor givers.

The Lion and the Shepherd

A LION, roaming through a forest, trod upon a thorn. Soon afterward he
came up to a Shepherd and fawned upon him, wagging his tail as if to
say, “I am a suppliant, and seek your aid.” The Shepherd boldly
examined the beast, discovered the thorn, and placing his paw upon his
lap, pulled it out; thus relieved of his pain, the Lion returned into
the forest. Some time after, the Shepherd, being imprisoned on a false
accusation, was condemned “to be cast to the Lions” as the punishment
for his imputed crime. But when the Lion was released from his cage, he
recognized the Shepherd as the man who healed him, and instead of
attacking him, approached and placed his foot upon his lap. The King,
as soon as he heard the tale, ordered the Lion to be set free again in
the forest, and the Shepherd to be pardoned and restored to his
friends.

The Camel and Jupiter

THE CAMEL, when he saw the Bull adorned with horns, envied him and
wished that he himself could obtain the same honours. He went to
Jupiter, and besought him to give him horns. Jupiter, vexed at his
request because he was not satisfied with his size and strength of
body, and desired yet more, not only refused to give him horns, but
even deprived him of a portion of his ears.

The Panther and the Shepherds

A PANTHER, by some mischance, fell into a pit. The Shepherds discovered
him, and some threw sticks at him and pelted him with stones, while
others, moved with compassion towards one about to die even though no
one should hurt him, threw in some food to prolong his life. At night
they returned home, not dreaming of any danger, but supposing that on
the morrow they would find him dead. The Panther, however, when he had
recruited his feeble strength, freed himself with a sudden bound from
the pit, and hastened to his den with rapid steps. After a few days he
came forth and slaughtered the cattle, and, killing the Shepherds who
had attacked him, raged with angry fury. Then they who had spared his
life, fearing for their safety, surrendered to him their flocks and
begged only for their lives. To them the Panther made this reply: “I
remember alike those who sought my life with stones, and those who gave
me food aside, therefore, your fears. I return as an enemy only to
those who injured me.”

The Eagle and the Kite

AN EAGLE, overwhelmed with sorrow, sat upon the branches of a tree in
company with a Kite. “Why,” said the Kite, “do I see you with such a
rueful look?” “I seek,” she replied, “a mate suitable for me, and am
not able to find one.” “Take me,” returned the Kite, “I am much
stronger than you are.” “Why, are you able to secure the means of
living by your plunder?” “Well, I have often caught and carried away an
ostrich in my talons.” The Eagle, persuaded by these words, accepted
him as her mate. Shortly after the nuptials, the Eagle said, “Fly off
and bring me back the ostrich you promised me.” The Kite, soaring aloft
into the air, brought back the shabbiest possible mouse, stinking from
the length of time it had lain about the fields. “Is this,” said the
Eagle, “the faithful fulfillment of your promise to me?” The Kite
replied, “That I might attain your royal hand, there is nothing that I
would not have promised, however much I knew that I must fail in the
performance.”

The Eagle and His Captor

AN EAGLE was once captured by a man, who immediately clipped his wings
and put him into his poultry-yard with the other birds, at which
treatment the Eagle was weighed down with grief. Later, another
neighbor purchased him and allowed his feathers to grow again. The
Eagle took flight, and pouncing upon a hare, brought it at once as an
offering to his benefactor. A Fox, seeing this, exclaimed, “Do not
cultivate the favour of this man, but of your former owner, lest he
should again hunt for you and deprive you a second time of your wings.”

The King’s Son and the Painted Lion

A KING, whose only son was fond of martial exercises, had a dream in
which he was warned that his son would be killed by a lion. Afraid the
dream should prove true, he built for his son a pleasant palace and
adorned its walls for his amusement with all kinds of life-sized
animals, among which was the picture of a lion. When the young Prince
saw this, his grief at being thus confined burst out afresh, and,
standing near the lion, he said: “O you most detestable of animals!
through a lying dream of my father’s, which he saw in his sleep, I am
shut up on your account in this palace as if I had been a girl: what
shall I now do to you?” With these words he stretched out his hands
toward a thorn-tree, meaning to cut a stick from its branches so that
he might beat the lion. But one of the tree’s prickles pierced his
finger and caused great pain and inflammation, so that the young Prince
fell down in a fainting fit. A violent fever suddenly set in, from
which he died not many days later.

We had better bear our troubles bravely than try to escape them.

The Cat and Venus

A CAT fell in love with a handsome young man, and entreated Venus to
change her into the form of a woman. Venus consented to her request and
transformed her into a beautiful damsel, so that the youth saw her and
loved her, and took her home as his bride. While the two were reclining
in their chamber, Venus wishing to discover if the Cat in her change of
shape had also altered her habits of life, let down a mouse in the
middle of the room. The Cat, quite forgetting her present condition,
started up from the couch and pursued the mouse, wishing to eat it.
Venus was much disappointed and again caused her to return to her
former shape.

Nature exceeds nurture.

The Eagle and the Beetle

THE EAGLE and the Beetle were at enmity together, and they destroyed
one another’s nests. The Eagle gave the first provocation in seizing
upon and in eating the young ones of the Beetle. The Beetle got by
stealth at the Eagle’s eggs, and rolled them out of the nest, and
followed the Eagle even into the presence of Jupiter. On the Eagle
making his complaint, Jupiter ordered him to make his nest in his lap;
and while Jupiter had the eggs in his lap, the Beetle came flying about
him, and Jupiter rising up unawares, to drive him away from his head,
threw down the eggs, and broke them.

The weak often revenge themselves on those who use them ill, even
though they be more powerful.

The She-Goats and Their Beards

THE SHE-GOATS having obtained a beard by request to Jupiter, the
He-Goats were sorely displeased and made complaint that the females
equaled them in dignity. “Allow them,” said Jupiter, “to enjoy an empty
honour and to assume the badge of your nobler sex, so long as they are
not your equals in strength or courage.”

It matters little if those who are inferior to us in merit should be
like us in outside appearances.

The Bald Man and the Fly

A FLY bit the bare head of a Bald Man who, endeavoring to destroy it,
gave himself a heavy slap. Escaping, the Fly said mockingly, “You who
have wished to revenge, even with death, the Prick of a tiny insect,
see what you have done to yourself to add insult to injury?” The Bald
Man replied, “I can easily make peace with myself, because I know there
was no intention to hurt. But you, an ill-favoured and contemptible
insect who delights in sucking human blood, I wish that I could have
killed you even if I had incurred a heavier penalty.”

The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea

A SHIPWRECKED MAN, having been cast upon a certain shore, slept after
his buffetings with the deep. After a while he awoke, and looking upon
the Sea, loaded it with reproaches. He argued that it enticed men with
the calmness of its looks, but when it had induced them to plow its
waters, it grew rough and destroyed them. The Sea, assuming the form of
a woman, replied to him: “Blame not me, my good sir, but the winds, for
I am by my own nature as calm and firm even as this earth; but the
winds suddenly falling on me create these waves, and lash me into
fury.”

The Buffoon and the Countryman

A RICH NOBLEMAN once opened the theaters without charge to the people,
and gave a public notice that he would handsomely reward any person who
invented a new amusement for the occasion. Various public performers
contended for the prize. Among them came a Buffoon well known among the
populace for his jokes, and said that he had a kind of entertainment
which had never been brought out on any stage before. This report being
spread about made a great stir, and the theater was crowded in every
part. The Buffoon appeared alone upon the platform, without any
apparatus or confederates, and the very sense of expectation caused an
intense silence. He suddenly bent his head towards his bosom and
imitated the squeaking of a little pig so admirably with his voice that
the audience declared he had a porker under his cloak, and demanded
that it should be shaken out. When that was done and nothing was found,
they cheered the actor, and loaded him with the loudest applause. A
Countryman in the crowd, observing all that has passed, said, “So help
me, Hercules, he shall not beat me at that trick!” and at once
proclaimed that he would do the same thing on the next day, though in a
much more natural way. On the morrow a still larger crowd assembled in
the theater, but now partiality for their favourite actor very
generally prevailed, and the audience came rather to ridicule the
Countryman than to see the spectacle. Both of the performers appeared
on the stage. The Buffoon grunted and squeaked away first, and
obtained, as on the preceding day, the applause and cheers of the
spectators. Next the Countryman commenced, and pretending that he
concealed a little pig beneath his clothes (which in truth he did, but
not suspected by the audience ) contrived to take hold of and to pull
his ear causing the pig to squeak. The Crowd, however, cried out with
one consent that the Buffoon had given a far more exact imitation, and
clamored for the Countryman to be kicked out of the theater. On this
the rustic produced the little pig from his cloak and showed by the
most positive proof the greatness of their mistake. “Look here,” he
said, “this shows what sort of judges you are.”

The Crow and the Serpent

A CROW in great want of food saw a Serpent asleep in a sunny nook, and
flying down, greedily seized him. The Serpent, turning about, bit the
Crow with a mortal wound. In the agony of death, the bird exclaimed: “O
unhappy me! who have found in that which I deemed a happy windfall the
source of my destruction.”

The Hunter and the Horseman

A CERTAIN HUNTER, having snared a hare, placed it upon his shoulders
and set out homewards. On his way he met a man on horseback who begged
the hare of him, under the pretense of purchasing it. However, when the
Horseman got the hare, he rode off as fast as he could. The Hunter ran
after him, as if he was sure of overtaking him, but the Horseman
increased more and more the distance between them. The Hunter, sorely
against his will, called out to him and said, “Get along with you! for
I will now make you a present of the hare.”

The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree

THE OLIVE-TREE ridiculed the Fig-Tree because, while she was green all
the year round, the Fig-Tree changed its leaves with the seasons. A
shower of snow fell upon them, and, finding the Olive full of foliage,
it settled upon its branches and broke them down with its weight, at
once despoiling it of its beauty and killing the tree. But finding the
Fig-Tree denuded of leaves, the snow fell through to the ground, and
did not injure it at all.

The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun

ONCE UPON A TIME, when the Sun announced his intention to take a wife,
the Frogs lifted up their voices in clamor to the sky. Jupiter,
disturbed by the noise of their croaking, inquired the cause of their
complaint. One of them said, “The Sun, now while he is single, parches
up the marsh, and compels us to die miserably in our arid homes. What
will be our future condition if he should beget other suns?”

The Brazier and His Dog

A BRAZIER had a little Dog, which was a great favourite with his
master, and his constant companion. While he hammered away at his
metals the Dog slept; but when, on the other hand, he went to dinner
and began to eat, the Dog woke up and wagged his tail, as if he would
ask for a share of his meal. His master one day, pretending to be angry
and shaking his stick at him, said, “You wretched little sluggard! what
shall I do to you? While I am hammering on the anvil, you sleep on the
mat; and when I begin to eat after my toil, you wake up and wag your
tail for food. Do you not know that labor is the source of every
blessing, and that none but those who work are entitled to eat?”

FOOTNOTES

1 (return)
[ A History of the Literature of Ancient Greece, by K. O. Mueller. Vol.
i, p. 191. _London_, Parker, 1858.]

2 (return)
[ Select Fables of Æsop, and other Fabulists. In three books,
translated by Robert Dodsley, accompanied with a selection of notes,
and an Essay on Fable. _Birmingham_, 1864. P. 60.]

3 (return)
[ Some of these fables had, no doubt, in the first instance, a primary
and private interpretation. On the first occasion of their being
composed they were intended to refer to some passing event, or to some
individual acts of wrong-doing. Thus, the fables of the “Eagle and the
Fox” and of the “Fox and Monkey” are supposed to have been written by
Archilochus, to avenge the injuries done him by Lycambes. So also the
fables of the “Swollen Fox” and of the “Frogs asking a King” were
spoken by Æsop for the immediate purpose of reconciling the inhabitants
of Samos and Athens to their respective rulers, Periander and
Pisistratus; while the fable of the “Horse and Stag” was composed to
caution the inhabitants of Himera against granting a bodyguard to
Phalaris. In a similar manner, the fable from Phædrus, the “Marriage of
the Sun,” is supposed to have reference to the contemplated union of
Livia, the daughter of Drusus, with Sejanus the favourite, and minister
of Trajan. These fables, however, though thus originating in special
events, and designed at first to meet special circumstances, are so
admirably constructed as to be fraught with lessons of general utility,
and of universal application.]

4 (return)
[ Hesiod. Opera et Dies, verse 202.]

5 (return)
[ Æschylus. Fragment of the Myrmidons. Æschylus speaks of this fable as
existing before his day. ὡς δ’ ἐστὶ μύθων τῶν Διβυστικῶν λογος. See
Scholiast on the Aves of Aristophanes, line 808.]

6 (return)
[ Fragment. 38, ed. Gaisford. See also Mueller’s History of the
Literature of Ancient Greece, vol. i. pp. 190–193.]

7 (return)
[ M. Bayle has well put this in his account of Æsop. “Il n’y a point
d’apparence que les fables qui portent aujourd’hui son nom soient les
mêmes qu’il avait faites; elles viennent bien de lui pour la plupart,
quant à la matière et la pensée; mais les paroles sont d’un autre.” And
again, “C’est donc à Hésiode, que j’aimerais mieux attribuer la gloire
de l’invention; mais sans doute il laissa la chose très imparfaite.
Esope la perfectionne si heureusement, qu’on l’a regarde comme le vrai
père de cette sorte de production.”—_Bayle. Dictionnaire Historique_.]

8 (return)
[ Plato in Phædone.]

9 (return)
[ Apologos en! misit tibi
Ab usque Rheni limite
Ausonius nomen Italum
Præceptor Augusti tui
Æsopiam trimetriam;
Quam vertit exili stylo
Pedestre concinnans opus
Fandi Titianus artifex.

_Ausonii Epistola_, xvi. 75–80.]

10 (return)
[ Both these publications are in the British Museum, and are placed in
the library in cases under glass, for the inspection of the curious.]

11 (return)
[ Fables may possibly have been not entirely unknown to the mediæval
scholars. There are two celebrated works which might by some be classed
amongst works of this description. The one is the “Speculum Sapientiæ,”
attributed to St. Cyril, Archbishop of Jerusalem, but of a considerably
later origin, and existing only in Latin. It is divided into four
books, and consists of long conversations conducted by fictitious
characters under the figures the beasts of the field and forest, and
aimed at the rebuke of particular classes of men, the boastful, the
proud, the luxurious, the wrathful, &c. None of the stories are
precisely those of Æsop, and none have the concinnity, terseness, and
unmistakable deduction of the lesson intended to be taught by the
fable, so conspicuous in the great Greek fabulist. The exact title of
the book is this: “Speculum Sapientiæ, B. Cyrilli Episcopi: alias
quadripartitus apologeticus vocatus, in cujus quidem proverbiis omnis
et totius sapientiæ speculum claret et feliciter incipit.” The other is
a larger work in two volumes, published in the fourteenth century by
Cæsar Heisterbach, a Cistercian monk, under the title of “Dialogus
Miraculorum,” reprinted in 1851. This work consists of conversations in
which many stories are interwoven on all kinds of subjects. It has no
correspondence with the pure Æsopian fable.]

12 (return)
[ Post-mediæval Preachers, by S. Baring-Gould. Rivingtons, 1865.]

13 (return)
[ For an account of this work see the Life of Poggio Bracciolini, by
the Rev. William Shepherd. Liverpool, 1801.]

14 (return)
[ Professor Theodore Bergh. See Classical Museum, No. viii. July,
1849.]

15 (return)
[ Vavassor’s treatise, entitled “De Ludicrâ Dictione” was written A.D.
1658, at the request of the celebrated M. Balzac (though published
after his death), for the purpose of showing that the burlesque style
of writing adopted by Scarron and D’Assouci, and at that time so
popular in France, had no sanction from the ancient classic writers.
_Francisci Vavassoris opera omnia_. Amsterdam. 1709.]

16 (return)
[ The claims of Babrias also found a warm advocate in the learned
Frenchman, M. Bayle, who, in his admirable Dictionary, (_Dictionnaire
Historique et Critique de Pierre Bayle_. Paris, 1820,) gives additional
arguments in confirmation of the opinions of his learned predecessors,
Nevelet and Vavassor.]

17 (return)
[ Scazonic, or halting, iambics; a choliambic (a lame, halting iambic)
differs from the iambic Senarius in always having a spondee or trochee
for its last foot; the fifth foot, to avoid shortness of metre, being
generally an iambic. See Fables of Babrias, translated by Rev. James
Davies. Lockwood, 1860. Preface, p. 27.]

18 (return)
[ See Dr. Bentley’s Dissertations upon the Epistles of Phalaris.]

19 (return)
[ Dr. Bentley’s Dissertations on the Epistles of Phalaris, and Fables
of Æsop examined. By the Honourable Charles Boyle.]

20 (return)
[ M. Bayle thus characterises this Life of Æsop by Planudes, “Tous les
habiles gens conviennent que c’est un roman, et que les absurdités
grossières qui l’on y trouve le rendent indigne de toute créance.”
_Dictionnaire Historique_. Art. _Esope_.]

INDEX

Æthiop
The Ant and the Dove
The Ants and the Grasshopper
The Apes and the Two Travelers
The Ass and the Charger
The Ass and His Driver
The Ass and the Frogs
The Ass and the Grasshopper
The Ass and his Masters
The Ass and his Purchaser
The Ass and his Shadow
The Ass and the Horse
The Ass and the Lapdog
The Ass and the Mule
The Ass and the Old Shepherd
The Ass and the Wolf
The Ass Carrying the Image
The Ass, the Cock, and the Lion
The Ass in the Lion’s Skin
The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion
The Astronomer

The Bald Man and the Fly
The Bald Knight
The Bat And The Weasels
The Bear and the Fox
The Bear and the Two Travelers
The Bee and Jupiter
The Belly and the Members
The Birdcatcher, the Partridge, and the Cock
The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat
The Bitch and her Whelps
The Blind Man and the Whelp
The Boasting Traveler
The Bowman and Lion
The Boy and the Filberts
The Boy and the Nettles
The Boy Bathing
The Boy hunting Locusts
The Boys and the Frogs
The Brazier and His Dog
The Brother and the Sister
The Buffoon and the Countryman
The Bull and the Calf
The Bull and the Goat
The Bull, the Lioness, and the Wild-Boar Hunter

The Camel
The Camel and the Arab
The Camel and Jupiter
The Cat and the Birds
The Cat and the Cock
The Cat and the Mice
The Cat and Venus
The Cobbler Turned Doctor
The Cock and the Jewel
The Charcoal-Burner and the Fuller
The Charger and the Miller
The Crab and the Fox
The Crab and its Mother
The Crow and Mercury
The Crow and the Pitcher
The Crow and the Raven
The Crow and the Serpent
The Crow and the Sheep

The Dancing Monkeys
The Doe and the Lion
The Dog and the Cook
The Dog and the Hare
The Dog and the Oyster
The Dog and the Shadow
The Dog, the Cock, and the Fox
The Dog in the Manger
The Dogs and the Fox
The Dogs and the Hides
The Dog’s House
The Dolphins, the Whales, and the Sprat
The Dove and the Crow

The Eagle and the Arrow
The Eagle and the Beetle
The Eagle and His Captor
The Eagle and the Fox
The Eagle and the Jackdaw
The Eagle and the Kite
The Eagle, the Cat, and the Wild Sow

The Farmer and the Cranes
The Farmer and the Fox
The Farmer and the Snake
The Farmer and His Sons
The Farmer and the Stork
The Father And His Sons
The Father and His Two Daughters
The Fawn and His Mother
The Fighting Cocks and the Eagle
The Fir-Tree and the Bramble
The Fisherman and His Nets
The Fisherman and the Little Fish
The Fisherman Piping
The Fishermen
The Flea and the Man
The Flea and the Ox
The Flea and the Wrestler
The Flies and the Honey-Pot
The Fly and the Draught-Mule
The Fowler and the Viper
The Fox and the Bramble
The Fox and the Crane
The Fox and the Crow
The Fox and the Goat
The Fox and the Grapes
The Fox and the Hedgehog
The Fox and the Leopard
The Fox and the Lion
The Fox and the Lion
The Fox and the Mask
The Fox and the Monkey
The Fox and the Monkey
The Fox and the Woodcutter
The Fox Who Had Lost His Tail
The Frogs Asking for a King
The Frogs’ Complaint Against the Sun

The Gamecocks and the Partridge
The Geese and the Cranes
The Gnat and the Bull
The Gnat and the Lion
The Goat and the Ass
The Goat and the Goatherd
The Goatherd and the Wild Goats
The Goods and the Ills
The Grasshopper and the Owl

The Hare and the Hound
The Hare and the Tortoise
The Hares and the Foxes
The Hares and the Frogs
The Hares and the Lions
The Hart and the Vine
The Hawk and the Nightingale
The Hawk, the Kite, and the Pigeons
The Heifer and the Ox
The Hen and the Golden Eggs
The Hen and the Swallow
Hercules and the Wagoner
The Herdsman and the Lost Bull
The Horse and the Ass
The Horse and Groom
The Horse and his Rider
The Horse and the Stag
The Hunter and the Horseman
The Hunter and the Woodman
The Huntsman and the Fisherman

The Image of Mercury and the Carpenter

The Jackdaw and the Doves
The Jackdaw and the Fox
Jupiter and the Monkey
Jupiter, Neptune, Minerva, and Momus

The Kid and the Wolf
The Kid and the Wolf
The Kingdom of the Lion
The King’s Son and the Painted Lion
The Kites and the Swans

The Laborer and the Snake
The Lamb and the Wolf
The Lamp
The Lark and Her Young Ones
The Lark Burying Her Father
The Lion and the Boar
The Lion and the Bull
The Lion and the Dolphin
The Lion and the Eagle
The Lion and the Fox
The Lion and the Hare
The Lion and the Mouse
The Lion and the Shepherd
The Lion and the Three Bulls
The Lion, the Bear, and the Fox
The Lion, the Fox, and the Ass
The Lion in a Farmyard
The Lion in Love
The Lion, Jupiter, and the Elephant
The Lion, the Mouse, and the Fox
The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
The Lioness

The Man and His Two Sweethearts
The Man and His Wife
The Man and the Lion
The Man and the Satyr
The Man bitten by a Dog
The Man, the Horse, the Ox, and the Dog
The Manslayer
The Master and His Dogs
Mercury and the Sculptor
Mercury and the Workmen
The Mice and the Weasels
The Mice in Council
The Milk-Woman and her Pail
The Miller, His Son, and their Ass
The Mischievous Dog
The Miser
The Mole and His Mother
The Monkey and the Camel
The Monkey and the Dolphin
The Monkey and the Fishermen
The Monkeys and their Mother
The Mother and the Wolf
The Mountain in Labor
The Mouse and the Bull
The Mouse, the Frog, and the Hawk
The Mule
The Mules and the Robbers

The North Wind and the Sun

The Oak and the Reeds
The Oak and the Woodcutters
The Oaks and Jupiter
The Old Hound
The Old Lion
The Old Man and Death
The Old Woman and the Physician
The Old Woman and the Wine-Jar
The Olive-Tree and the Fig-Tree
The One-Eyed Doe
The Owl and the Birds
The Ox and the Frog
The Oxen and the Axle-Trees
The Oxen and the Butchers

The Panther and the Shepherds
The Partridge and the Fowler
The Peacock and the Crane
The Peacock and Juno
The Peasant and the Apple-Tree
The Peasant and the Eagle
The Philosopher, the Ants, and Mercury
The Playful Ass
The Pomegranate, Apple-Tree, and Bramble
The Porker, the Sheep, and the Goat
The Prophet

The Quack Frog

The Raven and the Swan
The Rich Man and the Tanner
The Rivers and the Sea
The Rose and the Amaranth

The Salt Merchant and his Ass
The Seagull and the Kite
The Seaside Travelers
The Seller of Images
The Serpent and the Eagle
The She-Goats and their Beards
The Shepherd and the Dog
The Shepherd and the Sea
The Shepherd and the Sheep
The Shepherd and the Wolf
The Shepherd’s Boy and the Wolf
The Shipwrecked Man and the Sea
The Sick Kite
The Sick Lion
The Sick Stag
The Sparrow and the Hare
The Spendthrift and the Swallow
The Stag at the Pool
The Stag in the Ox-Stall
The Stag, the Wolf, and the Sheep
The Swallow and the Crow
The Swallow, the Serpent, and the Court of Justice
The Swan and the Goose
The Swollen Fox

The Thief and his Mother
The Thief and the Housedog
The Thief and the Innkeeper
The Thieves and the Cock
The Thirsty Pigeon
The Three Tradesmen
The Thrush and the Fowler
The Tortoise and the Eagle
The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse
The Traveler and Fortune
The Traveler and his Dog
The Travelers and the Plane-Tree
The Trees and the Axe
The Trees Under the Protection of the Gods
The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
Truth and the Traveler
The Two Bags
The Two Dogs
The Two Frogs
The Two Frogs
The Two Men Who Were Enemies
The Two Pots
The Two Soldiers and the Robber
The Two Travelers and the Axe

The Vain Jackdaw
The Vine and the Goat
The Viper and the File

The Walnut-Tree
The Wasp and the Snake
The Wasps, the Partridges, and the Farmer
The Weasel and the Mice
The Widow and Her Little Maidens
The Widow and the Sheep
The Wild Ass and the Lion
The Wild Boar and the Fox
The Wolf and the Crane
The Wolf and the Fox
The Wolf and the Goat
The Wolf and the Horse
The Wolf and the Housedog
The Wolf and the Lamb
The Wolf and the Lion
The Wolf and the Lion
The Wolf and the Sheep
The Wolf and the Shepherd
The Wolf and the Shepherds
The Wolf, the Fox, and the Ape
The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
The Wolves and the Sheep
The Wolves and the Sheepdogs
The Woman and her Hen

/

The War of the Worlds

by H. G. Wells

‘But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited?
. . . Are we or they Lords of the World? . . . And
how are all things made for man?’
KEPLER (quoted in _The Anatomy of Melancholy_)

Contents

BOOK ONE.—THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

I. THE EVE OF THE WAR.
II. THE FALLING STAR.
III. ON HORSELL COMMON.
IV. THE CYLINDER OPENS.
V. THE HEAT-RAY.
VI. THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.
VII. HOW I REACHED HOME.
VIII. FRIDAY NIGHT.
IX. THE FIGHTING BEGINS.
X. IN THE STORM.
XI. AT THE WINDOW.
XII. WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.
XIII. HOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.
XIV. IN LONDON.
XV. WHAT HAD HAPPENED IN SURREY.
XVI. THE EXODUS FROM LONDON.
XVII. THE “THUNDER CHILD”.

BOOK TWO.—THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS

I. UNDER FOOT.
II. WHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.
III. THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.
IV. THE DEATH OF THE CURATE.
V. THE STILLNESS.
VI. THE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.
VII. THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.
VIII. DEAD LONDON.
IX. WRECKAGE.
X. THE EPILOGUE.

BOOK ONE
THE COMING OF THE MARTIANS

I.
THE EVE OF THE WAR.

No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century
that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences
greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied
themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and
studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might
scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of
water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe
about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire
over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do
the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources
of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life
upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of
the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men
fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to
themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the
gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the
beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic,
regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their
plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great
disillusionment.

The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the
sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it
receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It
must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world;
and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface
must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of
the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the
temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all
that is necessary for the support of animated existence.

Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to
the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that
intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all,
beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since
Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the
superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that
it is not only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer its end.

The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already
gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still
largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region
the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter.
Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until
they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change
huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically
inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to
us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the
inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened
their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And
looking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we
have scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only
35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own
warmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy
atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting
cloud wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow,
navy-crowded seas.

And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at
least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The
intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant
struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief
of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this
world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they
regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their
only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation,
creeps upon them.

And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless
and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon
animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior
races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely
swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European
immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy
as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?

The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing
subtlety—their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of
ours—and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh
perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen
the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like
Schiaparelli watched the red planet—it is odd, by-the-bye, that for
countless centuries Mars has been the star of war—but failed to
interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so
well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.

During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated
part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of
Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in
the issue of _Nature_ dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this
blaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk
into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar
markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak
during the next two oppositions.

The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached
opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange
palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of
incandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of
the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted,
indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an
enormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become
invisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal
puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet, “as
flaming gases rushed out of a gun.”

A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was
nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the _Daily
Telegraph_, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest
dangers that ever threatened the human race. I might not have heard of
the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at
Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of
his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a
scrutiny of the red planet.

In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil
very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern
throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking
of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof—an
oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved
about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a
circle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field.
It seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly
marked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect
round. But so little it was, so silvery warm—a pin’s head of light! It
was as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with
the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view.

As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to
advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty
millions of miles it was from us—more than forty millions of miles of
void. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of
the material universe swims.

Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light,
three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the
unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks
on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder.
And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly
and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer
every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were
sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity
and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one
on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.

That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant
planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection
of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I
told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty,
and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the
darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy
exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.

That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth
from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first
one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with
patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a
light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I
had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till
one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his
house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all
their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.

He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and
scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were
signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy
shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in
progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic
evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.

“The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,” he
said.

Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night after
about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten nights, a
flame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on earth
has attempted to explain. It may be the gases of the firing caused the
Martians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through
a powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating patches,
spread through the clearness of the planet’s atmosphere and obscured
its more familiar features.

Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular
notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes
upon Mars. The seriocomic periodical _Punch_, I remember, made a happy
use of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those
missiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a
pace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by
hour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost
incredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men
could go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how
jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the
illustrated paper he edited in those days. People in these latter times
scarcely realise the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century
papers. For my own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the
bicycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the probable
developments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.

One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been 10,000,000
miles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I
explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and pointed out Mars, a
bright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards which so many
telescopes were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party of
excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us singing and playing
music. There were lights in the upper windows of the houses as the
people went to bed. From the railway station in the distance came the
sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into
melody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of the
red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the
sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.

II.
THE FALLING STAR.

Then came the night of the first falling star. It was seen early in the
morning, rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high in the
atmosphere. Hundreds must have seen it, and taken it for an ordinary
falling star. Albin described it as leaving a greenish streak behind it
that glowed for some seconds. Denning, our greatest authority on
meteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about
ninety or one hundred miles. It seemed to him that it fell to earth
about one hundred miles east of him.

I was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and although my
French windows face towards Ottershaw and the blind was up (for I loved
in those days to look up at the night sky), I saw nothing of it. Yet
this strangest of all things that ever came to earth from outer space
must have fallen while I was sitting there, visible to me had I only
looked up as it passed. Some of those who saw its flight say it
travelled with a hissing sound. I myself heard nothing of that. Many
people in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must have seen the fall of
it, and, at most, have thought that another meteorite had descended. No
one seems to have troubled to look for the fallen mass that night.

But very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had seen the shooting
star and who was persuaded that a meteorite lay somewhere on the common
between Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with the idea of
finding it. Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far from the
sand-pits. An enormous hole had been made by the impact of the
projectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung violently in every
direction over the heath, forming heaps visible a mile and a half away.
The heather was on fire eastward, and a thin blue smoke rose against
the dawn.

The Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand, amidst the
scattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to fragments in its
descent. The uncovered part had the appearance of a huge cylinder,
caked over and its outline softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured
incrustation. It had a diameter of about thirty yards. He approached
the mass, surprised at the size and more so at the shape, since most
meteorites are rounded more or less completely. It was, however, still
so hot from its flight through the air as to forbid his near approach.
A stirring noise within its cylinder he ascribed to the unequal cooling
of its surface; for at that time it had not occurred to him that it
might be hollow.

He remained standing at the edge of the pit that the Thing had made for
itself, staring at its strange appearance, astonished chiefly at its
unusual shape and colour, and dimly perceiving even then some evidence
of design in its arrival. The early morning was wonderfully still, and
the sun, just clearing the pine trees towards Weybridge, was already
warm. He did not remember hearing any birds that morning, there was
certainly no breeze stirring, and the only sounds were the faint
movements from within the cindery cylinder. He was all alone on the
common.

Then suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the grey clinker,
the ashy incrustation that covered the meteorite, was falling off the
circular edge of the end. It was dropping off in flakes and raining
down upon the sand. A large piece suddenly came off and fell with a
sharp noise that brought his heart into his mouth.

For a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and, although the
heat was excessive, he clambered down into the pit close to the bulk to
see the Thing more clearly. He fancied even then that the cooling of
the body might account for this, but what disturbed that idea was the
fact that the ash was falling only from the end of the cylinder.

And then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular top of the
cylinder was rotating on its body. It was such a gradual movement that
he discovered it only through noticing that a black mark that had been
near him five minutes ago was now at the other side of the
circumference. Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated,
until he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark jerk
forward an inch or so. Then the thing came upon him in a flash. The
cylinder was artificial—hollow—with an end that screwed out! Something
within the cylinder was unscrewing the top!

“Good heavens!” said Ogilvy. “There’s a man in it—men in it! Half
roasted to death! Trying to escape!”

At once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing with the flash
upon Mars.

The thought of the confined creature was so dreadful to him that he
forgot the heat and went forward to the cylinder to help turn. But
luckily the dull radiation arrested him before he could burn his hands
on the still-glowing metal. At that he stood irresolute for a moment,
then turned, scrambled out of the pit, and set off running wildly into
Woking. The time then must have been somewhere about six o’clock. He
met a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the tale he told
and his appearance were so wild—his hat had fallen off in the pit—that
the man simply drove on. He was equally unsuccessful with the potman
who was just unlocking the doors of the public-house by Horsell Bridge.
The fellow thought he was a lunatic at large and made an unsuccessful
attempt to shut him into the taproom. That sobered him a little; and
when he saw Henderson, the London journalist, in his garden, he called
over the palings and made himself understood.

“Henderson,” he called, “you saw that shooting star last night?”

“Well?” said Henderson.

“It’s out on Horsell Common now.”

“Good Lord!” said Henderson. “Fallen meteorite! That’s good.”

“But it’s something more than a meteorite. It’s a cylinder—an
artificial cylinder, man! And there’s something inside.”

Henderson stood up with his spade in his hand.

“What’s that?” he said. He was deaf in one ear.

Ogilvy told him all that he had seen. Henderson was a minute or so
taking it in. Then he dropped his spade, snatched up his jacket, and
came out into the road. The two men hurried back at once to the common,
and found the cylinder still lying in the same position. But now the
sounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal showed
between the top and the body of the cylinder. Air was either entering
or escaping at the rim with a thin, sizzling sound.

They listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a stick, and,
meeting with no response, they both concluded the man or men inside
must be insensible or dead.

Of course the two were quite unable to do anything. They shouted
consolation and promises, and went off back to the town again to get
help. One can imagine them, covered with sand, excited and disordered,
running up the little street in the bright sunlight just as the shop
folks were taking down their shutters and people were opening their
bedroom windows. Henderson went into the railway station at once, in
order to telegraph the news to London. The newspaper articles had
prepared men’s minds for the reception of the idea.

By eight o’clock a number of boys and unemployed men had already
started for the common to see the “dead men from Mars.” That was the
form the story took. I heard of it first from my newspaper boy about a
quarter to nine when I went out to get my _Daily Chronicle_. I was
naturally startled, and lost no time in going out and across the
Ottershaw bridge to the sand-pits.

III.
ON HORSELL COMMON.

I found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the huge
hole in which the cylinder lay. I have already described the appearance
of that colossal bulk, embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel
about it seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion. No doubt its
impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy were not there.
I think they perceived that nothing was to be done for the present, and
had gone away to breakfast at Henderson’s house.

There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the Pit, with their
feet dangling, and amusing themselves—until I stopped them—by throwing
stones at the giant mass. After I had spoken to them about it, they
began playing at “touch” in and out of the group of bystanders.

Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I employed
sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his little
boy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were accustomed to
hang about the railway station. There was very little talking. Few of
the common people in England had anything but the vaguest astronomical
ideas in those days. Most of them were staring quietly at the big table
like end of the cylinder, which was still as Ogilvy and Henderson had
left it. I fancy the popular expectation of a heap of charred corpses
was disappointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I was
there, and other people came. I clambered into the pit and fancied I
heard a faint movement under my feet. The top had certainly ceased to
rotate.

It was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of this
object was at all evident to me. At the first glance it was really no
more exciting than an overturned carriage or a tree blown across the
road. Not so much so, indeed. It looked like a rusty gas float. It
required a certain amount of scientific education to perceive that the
grey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the yellowish-white
metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid and the cylinder had an
unfamiliar hue. “Extra-terrestrial” had no meaning for most of the
onlookers.

At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing had come
from the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it contained any
living creature. I thought the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite
of Ogilvy, I still believed that there were men in Mars. My mind ran
fancifully on the possibilities of its containing manuscript, on the
difficulties in translation that might arise, whether we should find
coins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it was a little too large for
assurance on this idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. About
eleven, as nothing seemed happening, I walked back, full of such
thought, to my home in Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work
upon my abstract investigations.

In the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very much.
The early editions of the evening papers had startled London with
enormous headlines:

“A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”

“REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,”

and so forth. In addition, Ogilvy’s wire to the Astronomical Exchange
had roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.

There were half a dozen flys or more from the Woking station standing
in the road by the sand-pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a
rather lordly carriage. Besides that, there was quite a heap of
bicycles. In addition, a large number of people must have walked, in
spite of the heat of the day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that there
was altogether quite a considerable crowd—one or two gaily dressed
ladies among the others.

It was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and
the only shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning
heather had been extinguished, but the level ground towards Ottershaw
was blackened as far as one could see, and still giving off vertical
streamers of smoke. An enterprising sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham
Road had sent up his son with a barrow-load of green apples and ginger
beer.

Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about
half a dozen men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man that I
afterwards learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with several
workmen wielding spades and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a
clear, high-pitched voice. He was standing on the cylinder, which was
now evidently much cooler; his face was crimson and streaming with
perspiration, and something seemed to have irritated him.

A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower
end was still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the staring
crowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down, and asked me
if I would mind going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.

The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to their
excavations, especially the boys. They wanted a light railing put up,
and help to keep the people back. He told me that a faint stirring was
occasionally still audible within the case, but that the workmen had
failed to unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to them. The case
appeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible that the faint
sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the interior.

I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the privileged
spectators within the contemplated enclosure. I failed to find Lord
Hilton at his house, but I was told he was expected from London by the
six o’clock train from Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter
past five, I went home, had some tea, and walked up to the station to
waylay him.

IV.
THE CYLINDER OPENS.

When I returned to the common the sun was setting. Scattered groups
were hurrying from the direction of Woking, and one or two persons were
returning. The crowd about the pit had increased, and stood out black
against the lemon yellow of the sky—a couple of hundred people,
perhaps. There were raised voices, and some sort of struggle appeared
to be going on about the pit. Strange imaginings passed through my
mind. As I drew nearer I heard Stent’s voice:

“Keep back! Keep back!”

A boy came running towards me.

“It’s a-movin’,” he said to me as he passed; “a-screwin’ and a-screwin’
out. I don’t like it. I’m a-goin’ ’ome, I am.”

I went on to the crowd. There were really, I should think, two or three
hundred people elbowing and jostling one another, the one or two ladies
there being by no means the least active.

“He’s fallen in the pit!” cried some one.

“Keep back!” said several.

The crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way through. Every one
seemed greatly excited. I heard a peculiar humming sound from the pit.

“I say!” said Ogilvy; “help keep these idiots back. We don’t know
what’s in the confounded thing, you know!”

I saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I believe he was,
standing on the cylinder and trying to scramble out of the hole again.
The crowd had pushed him in.

The end of the cylinder was being screwed out from within. Nearly two
feet of shining screw projected. Somebody blundered against me, and I
narrowly missed being pitched onto the top of the screw. I turned, and
as I did so the screw must have come out, for the lid of the cylinder
fell upon the gravel with a ringing concussion. I stuck my elbow into
the person behind me, and turned my head towards the Thing again. For a
moment that circular cavity seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in
my eyes.

I think everyone expected to see a man emerge—possibly something a
little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a man. I know I
did. But, looking, I presently saw something stirring within the
shadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and then two
luminous disks—like eyes. Then something resembling a little grey
snake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up out of the
writhing middle, and wriggled in the air towards me—and then another.

A sudden chill came over me. There was a loud shriek from a woman
behind. I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed upon the cylinder still,
from which other tentacles were now projecting, and began pushing my
way back from the edge of the pit. I saw astonishment giving place to
horror on the faces of the people about me. I heard inarticulate
exclamations on all sides. There was a general movement backwards. I
saw the shopman struggling still on the edge of the pit. I found myself
alone, and saw the people on the other side of the pit running off,
Stent among them. I looked again at the cylinder, and ungovernable
terror gripped me. I stood petrified and staring.

A big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear, was rising
slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. As it bulged up and caught
the light, it glistened like wet leather.

Two large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me steadfastly. The mass
that framed them, the head of the thing, was rounded, and had, one
might say, a face. There was a mouth under the eyes, the lipless brim
of which quivered and panted, and dropped saliva. The whole creature
heaved and pulsated convulsively. A lank tentacular appendage gripped
the edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the air.

Those who have never seen a living Martian can scarcely imagine the
strange horror of its appearance. The peculiar V-shaped mouth with its
pointed upper lip, the absence of brow ridges, the absence of a chin
beneath the wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of this mouth,
the Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing of the lungs
in a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness and painfulness of
movement due to the greater gravitational energy of the earth—above
all, the extraordinary intensity of the immense eyes—were at once
vital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous. There was something
fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of
the tedious movements unspeakably nasty. Even at this first encounter,
this first glimpse, I was overcome with disgust and dread.

Suddenly the monster vanished. It had toppled over the brim of the
cylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud like the fall of a great
mass of leather. I heard it give a peculiar thick cry, and forthwith
another of these creatures appeared darkly in the deep shadow of the
aperture.

I turned and, running madly, made for the first group of trees, perhaps
a hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly and stumbling, for I could
not avert my face from these things.

There, among some young pine trees and furze bushes, I stopped,
panting, and waited further developments. The common round the
sand-pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a
half-fascinated terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the
heaped gravel at the edge of the pit in which they lay. And then, with
a renewed horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on
the edge of the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had fallen in,
but showing as a little black object against the hot western sun. Now
he got his shoulder and knee up, and again he seemed to slip back until
only his head was visible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have
fancied a faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to go
back and help him that my fears overruled.

Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and the
heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made. Anyone coming
along the road from Chobham or Woking would have been amazed at the
sight—a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more
standing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes, behind
gates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in short,
excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of sand. The
barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black against the
burning sky, and in the sand-pits was a row of deserted vehicles with
their horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the ground.

V.
THE HEAT-RAY.

After the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerging from the cylinder
in which they had come to the earth from their planet, a kind of
fascination paralysed my actions. I remained standing knee-deep in the
heather, staring at the mound that hid them. I was a battleground of
fear and curiosity.

I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a passionate
longing to peer into it. I began walking, therefore, in a big curve,
seeking some point of vantage and continually looking at the sand-heaps
that hid these new-comers to our earth. Once a leash of thin black
whips, like the arms of an octopus, flashed across the sunset and was
immediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose up, joint by
joint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun with a wobbling
motion. What could be going on there?

Most of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups—one a little
crowd towards Woking, the other a knot of people in the direction of
Chobham. Evidently they shared my mental conflict. There were few near
me. One man I approached—he was, I perceived, a neighbour of mine,
though I did not know his name—and accosted. But it was scarcely a time
for articulate conversation.

“What ugly _brutes_!” he said. “Good God! What ugly brutes!” He
repeated this over and over again.

“Did you see a man in the pit?” I said; but he made no answer to that.
We became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side, deriving,
I fancy, a certain comfort in one another’s company. Then I shifted my
position to a little knoll that gave me the advantage of a yard or more
of elevation and when I looked for him presently he was walking towards
Woking.

The sunset faded to twilight before anything further happened. The
crowd far away on the left, towards Woking, seemed to grow, and I heard
now a faint murmur from it. The little knot of people towards Chobham
dispersed. There was scarcely an intimation of movement from the pit.

It was this, as much as anything, that gave people courage, and I
suppose the new arrivals from Woking also helped to restore confidence.
At any rate, as the dusk came on a slow, intermittent movement upon the
sand-pits began, a movement that seemed to gather force as the
stillness of the evening about the cylinder remained unbroken. Vertical
black figures in twos and threes would advance, stop, watch, and
advance again, spreading out as they did so in a thin irregular
crescent that promised to enclose the pit in its attenuated horns. I,
too, on my side began to move towards the pit.

Then I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly into the sand-pits,
and heard the clatter of hoofs and the gride of wheels. I saw a lad
trundling off the barrow of apples. And then, within thirty yards of
the pit, advancing from the direction of Horsell, I noted a little
black knot of men, the foremost of whom was waving a white flag.

This was the Deputation. There had been a hasty consultation, and since
the Martians were evidently, in spite of their repulsive forms,
intelligent creatures, it had been resolved to show them, by
approaching them with signals, that we too were intelligent.

Flutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to the left.
It was too far for me to recognise anyone there, but afterwards I
learned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson were with others in this
attempt at communication. This little group had in its advance dragged
inward, so to speak, the circumference of the now almost complete
circle of people, and a number of dim black figures followed it at
discreet distances.

Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous
greenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which drove
up, one after the other, straight into the still air.

This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it) was so
bright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches of brown
common towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed to darken
abruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their
dispersal. At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible.

Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white flag at
its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small vertical
black shapes upon the black ground. As the green smoke arose, their
faces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then
slowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, droning
noise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and the ghost of a
beam of light seemed to flicker out from it.

Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from one to
another, sprang from the scattered group of men. It was as if some
invisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame. It was
as if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.

Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them staggering and
falling, and their supporters turning to run.

I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death leaping from
man to man in that little distant crowd. All I felt was that it was
something very strange. An almost noiseless and blinding flash of
light, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the unseen shaft
of heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry
furze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away
towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and wooden
buildings suddenly set alight.

It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this
invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me
by the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied
to stir. I heard the crackle of fire in the sand-pits and the sudden
squeal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an
invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather
between me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the
sand-pits the dark ground smoked and crackled. Something fell with a
crash far away to the left where the road from Woking station opens out
on the common. Forth-with the hissing and humming ceased, and the
black, dome-like object sank slowly out of sight into the pit.

All this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood motionless,
dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light. Had that death swept
through a full circle, it must inevitably have slain me in my surprise.
But it passed and spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark
and unfamiliar.

The undulating common seemed now dark almost to blackness, except where
its roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky of the early
night. It was dark, and suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were
mustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost
greenish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell came
out sharp and black against the western afterglow. The Martians and
their appliances were altogether invisible, save for that thin mast
upon which their restless mirror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated
trees here and there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards
Woking station were sending up spires of flame into the stillness of
the evening air.

Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment. The
little group of black specks with the flag of white had been swept out
of existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it seemed to me, had
scarcely been broken.

It came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless, unprotected,
and alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from without,
came—fear.

With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the heather.

The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of
the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me. Such an
extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently
as a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare to look back.

I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played
with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this
mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me
from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down.

VI.
THE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.

It is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay men so
swiftly and so silently. Many think that in some way they are able to
generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute
non-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam
against any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror
of unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a lighthouse
projects a beam of light. But no one has absolutely proved these
details. However it is done, it is certain that a beam of heat is the
essence of the matter. Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light.
Whatever is combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like
water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it falls upon
water, incontinently that explodes into steam.

That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the pit,
charred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the common
from Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze.

The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and
Ottershaw about the same time. In Woking the shops had closed when the
tragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people and so forth,
attracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell
Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at last upon
the common. You may imagine the young people brushed up after the
labours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would make any
novelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a trivial
flirtation. You may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road
in the gloaming. . . .

As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the cylinder had
opened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a bicycle to the
post office with a special wire to an evening paper.

As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they found
little knots of people talking excitedly and peering at the spinning
mirror over the sand-pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt, soon
infected by the excitement of the occasion.

By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may have
been a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place, besides
those who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer. There were
three policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under
instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter them from
approaching the cylinder. There was some booing from those more
thoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always an occasion
for noise and horse-play.

Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a collision, had
telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as the Martians
emerged, for the help of a company of soldiers to protect these strange
creatures from violence. After that they returned to lead that
ill-fated advance. The description of their death, as it was seen by
the crowd, tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three
puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the flashes of flame.

But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine. Only the
fact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower part of the
Heat-Ray saved them. Had the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a
few yards higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the
flashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were, lit the
bushes as it hurried towards them through the twilight. Then, with a
whistling note that rose above the droning of the pit, the beam swung
close over their heads, lighting the tops of the beech trees that line
the road, and splitting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the
window frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of the
gable of the house nearest the corner.

In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the
panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some
moments. Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and
single leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire. Then
came a crying from the common. There were shrieks and shouts, and
suddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion with
his hands clasped over his head, screaming.

“They’re coming!” a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone was
turning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way to
Woking again. They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep.
Where the road grows narrow and black between the high banks the crowd
jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd did not
escape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy, were
crushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and the
darkness.

VII.
HOW I REACHED HOME.

For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of
blundering against trees and stumbling through the heather. All about
me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword
of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it
descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the
crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads.

At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my
emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That
was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and
lay still.

I must have remained there some time.

I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not
clearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like
a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its
fastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things
before me—the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own
feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as
if something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There
was no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was
immediately the self of every day again—a decent, ordinary citizen. The
silent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as
if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things
indeed happened? I could not credit it.

I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My
mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their
strength. I dare say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch,
and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran
a little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to
speak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless
mumble and went on over the bridge.

Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit
smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying
south—clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of
people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row
of gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so
familiar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I
told myself, could not be.

Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my
experience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of
detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all
from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out
of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was
very strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream.

But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the
swift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of
business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I
stopped at the group of people.

“What news from the common?” said I.

There were two men and a woman at the gate.

“Eh?” said one of the men, turning.

“What news from the common?” I said.

“Ain’t yer just _been_ there?” asked the men.

“People seem fair silly about the common,” said the woman over the
gate. “What’s it all abart?”

“Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” said I; “the creatures from
Mars?”

“Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate. “Thenks;” and all three
of them laughed.

I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what
I had seen. They laughed again at my broken sentences.

“You’ll hear more yet,” I said, and went on to my home.

I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the
dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect
myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which
was a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the
table while I told my story.

“There is one thing,” I said, to allay the fears I had aroused; “they
are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit
and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . .
. But the horror of them!”

“Don’t, dear!” said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on
mine.

“Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “To think he may be lying dead there!”

My wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how
deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.

“They may come here,” she said again and again.

I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.

“They can scarcely move,” I said.

I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told
me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the
earth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On
the surface of the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is
on the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times
more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His
own body would be a cope of lead to him, therefore. That, indeed, was
the general opinion. Both _The Times_ and the _Daily Telegraph_, for
instance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as
I did, two obvious modifying influences.

The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or
far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars’. The
invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians
indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their
bodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such
mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to
dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.

But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning
was dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the
confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I
grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.

“They have done a foolish thing,” said I, fingering my wineglass. “They
are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they
expected to find no living things—certainly no intelligent living
things.”

“A shell in the pit,” said I, “if the worst comes to the worst, will
kill them all.”

The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive
powers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with
extraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife’s sweet anxious face
peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its
silver and glass table furniture—for in those days even philosophical
writers had many little luxuries—the crimson-purple wine in my glass,
are photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts
with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s rashness, and denouncing the
short-sighted timidity of the Martians.

So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his
nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in
want of animal food. “We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat
for very many strange and terrible days.

VIII.
FRIDAY NIGHT.

The most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and
wonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing of
the commonplace habits of our social order with the first beginnings of
the series of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If
on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle
with a radius of five miles round the Woking sand-pits, I doubt if you
would have had one human being outside it, unless it were some relation
of Stent or of the three or four cyclists or London people lying dead
on the common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by the
new-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder, of course, and
talked about it in their leisure, but it certainly did not make the
sensation that an ultimatum to Germany would have done.

In London that night poor Henderson’s telegram describing the gradual
unscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his evening
paper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving no
reply—the man was killed—decided not to print a special edition.

Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of people were
inert. I have already described the behaviour of the men and women to
whom I spoke. All over the district people were dining and supping;
working men were gardening after the labours of the day, children were
being put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes
love-making, students sat over their books.

Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and dominant
topic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger, or even an
eye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of excitement, a
shouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most part the daily
routine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had done
for countless years—as though no planet Mars existed in the sky. Even
at Woking station and Horsell and Chobham that was the case.

In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and going
on, others were shunting on the sidings, passengers were alighting and
waiting, and everything was proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy
from the town, trenching on Smith’s monopoly, was selling papers with
the afternoon’s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp whistle
of the engines from the junction, mingled with their shouts of “Men
from Mars!” Excited men came into the station about nine o’clock with
incredible tidings, and caused no more disturbance than drunkards might
have done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the darkness outside
the carriage windows, and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark
dance up from the direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of
smoke driving across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious
than a heath fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the
common that any disturbance was perceptible. There were half a dozen
villas burning on the Woking border. There were lights in all the
houses on the common side of the three villages, and the people there
kept awake till dawn.

A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but the
crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges. One or two
adventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the darkness and
crawled quite near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and
again a light-ray, like the beam of a warship’s searchlight swept the
common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow. Save for such, that big
area of common was silent and desolate, and the charred bodies lay
about on it all night under the stars, and all the next day. A noise of
hammering from the pit was heard by many people.

So you have the state of things on Friday night. In the centre,
sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart,
was this cylinder. But the poison was scarcely working yet. Around it
was a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a few
dark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there.
Here and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a fringe of
excitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation had not crept
as yet. In the rest of the world the stream of life still flowed as it
had flowed for immemorial years. The fever of war that would presently
clog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain, had still to
develop.

All night long the Martians were hammering and stirring, sleepless,
indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making ready, and
ever and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up to the starlit
sky.

About eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and deployed
along the edge of the common to form a cordon. Later a second company
marched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common.
Several officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the common
earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to be missing.
The colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge and was busy
questioning the crowd at midnight. The military authorities were
certainly alive to the seriousness of the business. About eleven, the
next morning’s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars, two
Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan regiment started
from Aldershot.

A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road, Woking,
saw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the northwest. It
had a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness like summer
lightning. This was the second cylinder.

IX.
THE FIGHTING BEGINS.

Saturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of
lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating
barometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in
sleeping, and I rose early. I went into my garden before breakfast and
stood listening, but towards the common there was nothing stirring but
a lark.

The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went
round to the side gate to ask the latest news. He told me that during
the night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and that guns
were expected. Then—a familiar, reassuring note—I heard a train running
towards Woking.

“They aren’t to be killed,” said the milkman, “if that can possibly be
avoided.”

I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then
strolled in to breakfast. It was a most unexceptional morning. My
neighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture or to
destroy the Martians during the day.

“It’s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,” he said. “It
would be curious to know how they live on another planet; we might
learn a thing or two.”

He came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries, for his
gardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic. At the same time he
told me of the burning of the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links.

“They say,” said he, “that there’s another of those blessed things
fallen there—number two. But one’s enough, surely. This lot’ll cost the
insurance people a pretty penny before everything’s settled.” He
laughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he said this. The
woods, he said, were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to
me. “They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the thick soil
of pine needles and turf,” he said, and then grew serious over “poor
Ogilvy.”

After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down towards the
common. Under the railway bridge I found a group of soldiers—sappers, I
think, men in small round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and
showing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf.
They told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, looking along the
road towards the bridge, I saw one of the Cardigan men standing
sentinel there. I talked with these soldiers for a time; I told them of
my sight of the Martians on the previous evening. None of them had seen
the Martians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they
plied me with questions. They said that they did not know who had
authorised the movements of the troops; their idea was that a dispute
had arisen at the Horse Guards. The ordinary sapper is a great deal
better educated than the common soldier, and they discussed the
peculiar conditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I
described the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue among
themselves.

“Crawl up under cover and rush ’em, say I,” said one.

“Get aht!” said another. “What’s cover against this ’ere ’eat? Sticks
to cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near as the ground’ll let
us, and then drive a trench.”

“Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you ought to ha’ been
born a rabbit, Snippy.”

“Ain’t they got any necks, then?” said a third, abruptly—a little,
contemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe.

I repeated my description.

“Octopuses,” said he, “that’s what I calls ’em. Talk about fishers of
men—fighters of fish it is this time!”

“It ain’t no murder killing beasts like that,” said the first speaker.

“Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish ’em?” said the
little dark man. “You carn tell what they might do.”

“Where’s your shells?” said the first speaker. “There ain’t no time. Do
it in a rush, that’s my tip, and do it at once.”

So they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went on to the
railway station to get as many morning papers as I could.

But I will not weary the reader with a description of that long morning
and of the longer afternoon. I did not succeed in getting a glimpse of
the common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the
hands of the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn’t know
anything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy. I found people
in the town quite secure again in the presence of the military, and I
heard for the first time from Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son
was among the dead on the common. The soldiers had made the people on
the outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses.

I got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have said, the day
was extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I took a
cold bath in the afternoon. About half past four I went up to the
railway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers had
contained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent,
Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I didn’t know.
The Martians did not show an inch of themselves. They seemed busy in
their pit, and there was a sound of hammering and an almost continuous
streamer of smoke. Apparently they were busy getting ready for a
struggle. “Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without
success,” was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper told me
it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a long pole. The
Martians took as much notice of such advances as we should of the
lowing of a cow.

I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this preparation,
greatly excited me. My imagination became belligerent, and defeated the
invaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of
battle and heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at
that time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs.

About three o’clock there began the thud of a gun at measured intervals
from Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned that the smouldering pine wood
into which the second cylinder had fallen was being shelled, in the
hope of destroying that object before it opened. It was only about
five, however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against the
first body of Martians.

About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the
summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering upon
us, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and immediately after
a gust of firing. Close on the heels of that came a violent rattling
crash, quite close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon
the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst
into smoky red flame, and the tower of the little church beside it
slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished, and the
roof line of the college itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been
at work upon it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it,
flew, and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a heap
of broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my study window.

I and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the crest of Maybury
Hill must be within range of the Martians’ Heat-Ray now that the
college was cleared out of the way.

At that I gripped my wife’s arm, and without ceremony ran her out into
the road. Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I would go
upstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for.

“We can’t possibly stay here,” I said; and as I spoke the firing
reopened for a moment upon the common.

“But where are we to go?” said my wife in terror.

I thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at Leatherhead.

“Leatherhead!” I shouted above the sudden noise.

She looked away from me downhill. The people were coming out of their
houses, astonished.

“How are we to get to Leatherhead?” she said.

Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway bridge;
three galloped through the open gates of the Oriental College; two
others dismounted, and began running from house to house. The sun,
shining through the smoke that drove up from the tops of the trees,
seemed blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid light upon everything.

“Stop here,” said I; “you are safe here;” and I started off at once for
the Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord had a horse and dog cart. I
ran, for I perceived that in a moment everyone upon this side of the
hill would be moving. I found him in his bar, quite unaware of what was
going on behind his house. A man stood with his back to me, talking to
him.

“I must have a pound,” said the landlord, “and I’ve no one to drive
it.”

“I’ll give you two,” said I, over the stranger’s shoulder.

“What for?”

“And I’ll bring it back by midnight,” I said.

“Lord!” said the landlord; “what’s the hurry? I’m selling my bit of a
pig. Two pounds, and you bring it back? What’s going on now?”

I explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so secured the dog
cart. At the time it did not seem to me nearly so urgent that the
landlord should leave his. I took care to have the cart there and then,
drove it off down the road, and, leaving it in charge of my wife and
servant, rushed into my house and packed a few valuables, such plate as
we had, and so forth. The beech trees below the house were burning
while I did this, and the palings up the road glowed red. While I was
occupied in this way, one of the dismounted hussars came running up. He
was going from house to house, warning people to leave. He was going on
as I came out of my front door, lugging my treasures, done up in a
tablecloth. I shouted after him:

“What news?”

He turned, stared, bawled something about “crawling out in a thing like
a dish cover,” and ran on to the gate of the house at the crest. A
sudden whirl of black smoke driving across the road hid him for a
moment. I ran to my neighbour’s door and rapped to satisfy myself of
what I already knew, that his wife had gone to London with him and had
locked up their house. I went in again, according to my promise, to get
my servant’s box, lugged it out, clapped it beside her on the tail of
the dog cart, and then caught the reins and jumped up into the driver’s
seat beside my wife. In another moment we were clear of the smoke and
noise, and spanking down the opposite slope of Maybury Hill towards Old
Woking.

In front was a quiet sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead on either
side of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its swinging sign. I saw the
doctor’s cart ahead of me. At the bottom of the hill I turned my head
to look at the hillside I was leaving. Thick streamers of black smoke
shot with threads of red fire were driving up into the still air, and
throwing dark shadows upon the green treetops eastward. The smoke
already extended far away to the east and west—to the Byfleet pine
woods eastward, and to Woking on the west. The road was dotted with
people running towards us. And very faint now, but very distinct
through the hot, quiet air, one heard the whirr of a machine-gun that
was presently stilled, and an intermittent cracking of rifles.
Apparently the Martians were setting fire to everything within range of
their Heat-Ray.

I am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to turn my attention
to the horse. When I looked back again the second hill had hidden the
black smoke. I slashed the horse with the whip, and gave him a loose
rein until Woking and Send lay between us and that quivering tumult. I
overtook and passed the doctor between Woking and Send.

X.
IN THE STORM.

Leatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury Hill. The scent of hay
was in the air through the lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and the hedges
on either side were sweet and gay with multitudes of dog-roses. The
heavy firing that had broken out while we were driving down Maybury
Hill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving the evening very peaceful
and still. We got to Leatherhead without misadventure about nine
o’clock, and the horse had an hour’s rest while I took supper with my
cousins and commended my wife to their care.

My wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and seemed oppressed
with forebodings of evil. I talked to her reassuringly, pointing out
that the Martians were tied to the pit by sheer heaviness, and at the
utmost could but crawl a little out of it; but she answered only in
monosyllables. Had it not been for my promise to the innkeeper, she
would, I think, have urged me to stay in Leatherhead that night. Would
that I had! Her face, I remember, was very white as we parted.

For my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day. Something very
like the war fever that occasionally runs through a civilised community
had got into my blood, and in my heart I was not so very sorry that I
had to return to Maybury that night. I was even afraid that that last
fusillade I had heard might mean the extermination of our invaders from
Mars. I can best express my state of mind by saying that I wanted to be
in at the death.

It was nearly eleven when I started to return. The night was
unexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted passage of my
cousins’ house, it seemed indeed black, and it was as hot and close as
the day. Overhead the clouds were driving fast, albeit not a breath
stirred the shrubs about us. My cousins’ man lit both lamps. Happily, I
knew the road intimately. My wife stood in the light of the doorway,
and watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart. Then abruptly she
turned and went in, leaving my cousins side by side wishing me good
hap.

I was a little depressed at first with the contagion of my wife’s
fears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the Martians. At that time
I was absolutely in the dark as to the course of the evening’s
fighting. I did not know even the circumstances that had precipitated
the conflict. As I came through Ockham (for that was the way I
returned, and not through Send and Old Woking) I saw along the western
horizon a blood-red glow, which as I drew nearer, crept slowly up the
sky. The driving clouds of the gathering thunderstorm mingled there
with masses of black and red smoke.

Ripley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted window or so the
village showed not a sign of life; but I narrowly escaped an accident
at the corner of the road to Pyrford, where a knot of people stood with
their backs to me. They said nothing to me as I passed. I do not know
what they knew of the things happening beyond the hill, nor do I know
if the silent houses I passed on my way were sleeping securely, or
deserted and empty, or harassed and watching against the terror of the
night.

From Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the valley of the
Wey, and the red glare was hidden from me. As I ascended the little
hill beyond Pyrford Church the glare came into view again, and the
trees about me shivered with the first intimation of the storm that was
upon me. Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford Church behind
me, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill, with its tree-tops
and roofs black and sharp against the red.

Even as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road about me and
showed the distant woods towards Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins.
I saw that the driving clouds had been pierced as it were by a thread
of green fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling into the
field to my left. It was the third falling star!

Close on its apparition, and blindingly violet by contrast, danced out
the first lightning of the gathering storm, and the thunder burst like
a rocket overhead. The horse took the bit between his teeth and bolted.

A moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury Hill, and down this
we clattered. Once the lightning had begun, it went on in as rapid a
succession of flashes as I have ever seen. The thunderclaps, treading
one on the heels of another and with a strange crackling accompaniment,
sounded more like the working of a gigantic electric machine than the
usual detonating reverberations. The flickering light was blinding and
confusing, and a thin hail smote gustily at my face as I drove down the
slope.

At first I regarded little but the road before me, and then abruptly my
attention was arrested by something that was moving rapidly down the
opposite slope of Maybury Hill. At first I took it for the wet roof of
a house, but one flash following another showed it to be in swift
rolling movement. It was an elusive vision—a moment of bewildering
darkness, and then, in a flash like daylight, the red masses of the
Orphanage near the crest of the hill, the green tops of the pine trees,
and this problematical object came out clear and sharp and bright.

And this Thing I saw! How can I describe it? A monstrous tripod, higher
than many houses, striding over the young pine trees, and smashing them
aside in its career; a walking engine of glittering metal, striding now
across the heather; articulate ropes of steel dangling from it, and the
clattering tumult of its passage mingling with the riot of the thunder.
A flash, and it came out vividly, heeling over one way with two feet in
the air, to vanish and reappear almost instantly as it seemed, with the
next flash, a hundred yards nearer. Can you imagine a milking stool
tilted and bowled violently along the ground? That was the impression
those instant flashes gave. But instead of a milking stool imagine it a
great body of machinery on a tripod stand.

Then suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were parted, as
brittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting through them; they were
snapped off and driven headlong, and a second huge tripod appeared,
rushing, as it seemed, headlong towards me. And I was galloping hard to
meet it! At the sight of the second monster my nerve went altogether.
Not stopping to look again, I wrenched the horse’s head hard round to
the right and in another moment the dog cart had heeled over upon the
horse; the shafts smashed noisily, and I was flung sideways and fell
heavily into a shallow pool of water.

I crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my feet still in the
water, under a clump of furze. The horse lay motionless (his neck was
broken, poor brute!) and by the lightning flashes I saw the black bulk
of the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel still
spinning slowly. In another moment the colossal mechanism went striding
by me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.

Seen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it was no mere
insensate machine driving on its way. Machine it was, with a ringing
metallic pace, and long, flexible, glittering tentacles (one of which
gripped a young pine tree) swinging and rattling about its strange
body. It picked its road as it went striding along, and the brazen hood
that surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevitable suggestion of a
head looking about. Behind the main body was a huge mass of white metal
like a gigantic fisherman’s basket, and puffs of green smoke squirted
out from the joints of the limbs as the monster swept by me. And in an
instant it was gone.

So much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of the lightning, in
blinding highlights and dense black shadows.

As it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that drowned the
thunder—“Aloo! Aloo!”—and in another minute it was with its companion,
half a mile away, stooping over something in the field. I have no doubt
this Thing in the field was the third of the ten cylinders they had
fired at us from Mars.

For some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness watching, by the
intermittent light, these monstrous beings of metal moving about in the
distance over the hedge tops. A thin hail was now beginning, and as it
came and went their figures grew misty and then flashed into clearness
again. Now and then came a gap in the lightning, and the night
swallowed them up.

I was soaked with hail above and puddle water below. It was some time
before my blank astonishment would let me struggle up the bank to a
drier position, or think at all of my imminent peril.

Not far from me was a little one-roomed squatter’s hut of wood,
surrounded by a patch of potato garden. I struggled to my feet at last,
and, crouching and making use of every chance of cover, I made a run
for this. I hammered at the door, but I could not make the people hear
(if there were any people inside), and after a time I desisted, and,
availing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the way, succeeded
in crawling, unobserved by these monstrous machines, into the pine
woods towards Maybury.

Under cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now, towards my own
house. I walked among the trees trying to find the footpath. It was
very dark indeed in the wood, for the lightning was now becoming
infrequent, and the hail, which was pouring down in a torrent, fell in
columns through the gaps in the heavy foliage.

If I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I had seen I
should have immediately worked my way round through Byfleet to Street
Cobham, and so gone back to rejoin my wife at Leatherhead. But that
night the strangeness of things about me, and my physical wretchedness,
prevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the skin, deafened and
blinded by the storm.

I had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and that was as much
motive as I had. I staggered through the trees, fell into a ditch and
bruised my knees against a plank, and finally splashed out into the
lane that ran down from the College Arms. I say splashed, for the storm
water was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. There in
the darkness a man blundered into me and sent me reeling back.

He gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed on before I could
gather my wits sufficiently to speak to him. So heavy was the stress of
the storm just at this place that I had the hardest task to win my way
up the hill. I went close up to the fence on the left and worked my way
along its palings.

Near the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a flash of
lightning, saw between my feet a heap of black broadcloth and a pair of
boots. Before I could distinguish clearly how the man lay, the flicker
of light had passed. I stood over him waiting for the next flash. When
it came, I saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not shabbily
dressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay crumpled up close
to the fence, as though he had been flung violently against it.

Overcoming the repugnance natural to one who had never before touched a
dead body, I stooped and turned him over to feel for his heart. He was
quite dead. Apparently his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed
for a third time, and his face leaped upon me. I sprang to my feet. It
was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose conveyance I had taken.

I stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill. I made my way by
the police station and the College Arms towards my own house. Nothing
was burning on the hillside, though from the common there still came a
red glare and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke beating up against the
drenching hail. So far as I could see by the flashes, the houses about
me were mostly uninjured. By the College Arms a dark heap lay in the
road.

Down the road towards Maybury Bridge there were voices and the sound of
feet, but I had not the courage to shout or to go to them. I let myself
in with my latchkey, closed, locked and bolted the door, staggered to
the foot of the staircase, and sat down. My imagination was full of
those striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body smashed against
the fence.

I crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to the wall,
shivering violently.

XI.
AT THE WINDOW.

I have already said that my storms of emotion have a trick of
exhausting themselves. After a time I discovered that I was cold and
wet, and with little pools of water about me on the stair carpet. I got
up almost mechanically, went into the dining room and drank some
whisky, and then I was moved to change my clothes.

After I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but why I did so I
do not know. The window of my study looks over the trees and the
railway towards Horsell Common. In the hurry of our departure this
window had been left open. The passage was dark, and, by contrast with
the picture the window frame enclosed, the side of the room seemed
impenetrably dark. I stopped short in the doorway.

The thunderstorm had passed. The towers of the Oriental College and the
pine trees about it had gone, and very far away, lit by a vivid red
glare, the common about the sand-pits was visible. Across the light
huge black shapes, grotesque and strange, moved busily to and fro.

It seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direction was on
fire—a broad hillside set with minute tongues of flame, swaying and
writhing with the gusts of the dying storm, and throwing a red
reflection upon the cloud scud above. Every now and then a haze of
smoke from some nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid
the Martian shapes. I could not see what they were doing, nor the clear
form of them, nor recognise the black objects they were busied upon.
Neither could I see the nearer fire, though the reflections of it
danced on the wall and ceiling of the study. A sharp, resinous tang of
burning was in the air.

I closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the window. As I did
so, the view opened out until, on the one hand, it reached to the
houses about Woking station, and on the other to the charred and
blackened pine woods of Byfleet. There was a light down below the hill,
on the railway, near the arch, and several of the houses along the
Maybury road and the streets near the station were glowing ruins. The
light upon the railway puzzled me at first; there were a black heap and
a vivid glare, and to the right of that a row of yellow oblongs. Then I
perceived this was a wrecked train, the fore part smashed and on fire,
the hinder carriages still upon the rails.

Between these three main centres of light—the houses, the train, and
the burning county towards Chobham—stretched irregular patches of dark
country, broken here and there by intervals of dimly glowing and
smoking ground. It was the strangest spectacle, that black expanse set
with fire. It reminded me, more than anything else, of the Potteries at
night. At first I could distinguish no people at all, though I peered
intently for them. Later I saw against the light of Woking station a
number of black figures hurrying one after the other across the line.

And this was the little world in which I had been living securely for
years, this fiery chaos! What had happened in the last seven hours I
still did not know; nor did I know, though I was beginning to guess,
the relation between these mechanical colossi and the sluggish lumps I
had seen disgorged from the cylinder. With a queer feeling of
impersonal interest I turned my desk chair to the window, sat down, and
stared at the blackened country, and particularly at the three gigantic
black things that were going to and fro in the glare about the
sand-pits.

They seemed amazingly busy. I began to ask myself what they could be.
Were they intelligent mechanisms? Such a thing I felt was impossible.
Or did a Martian sit within each, ruling, directing, using, much as a
man’s brain sits and rules in his body? I began to compare the things
to human machines, to ask myself for the first time in my life how an
ironclad or a steam engine would seem to an intelligent lower animal.

The storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of the burning
land the little fading pinpoint of Mars was dropping into the west,
when a soldier came into my garden. I heard a slight scraping at the
fence, and rousing myself from the lethargy that had fallen upon me, I
looked down and saw him dimly, clambering over the palings. At the
sight of another human being my torpor passed, and I leaned out of the
window eagerly.

“Hist!” said I, in a whisper.

He stopped astride of the fence in doubt. Then he came over and across
the lawn to the corner of the house. He bent down and stepped softly.

“Who’s there?” he said, also whispering, standing under the window and
peering up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“God knows.”

“Are you trying to hide?”

“That’s it.”

“Come into the house,” I said.

I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the door
again. I could not see his face. He was hatless, and his coat was
unbuttoned.

“My God!” he said, as I drew him in.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“What hasn’t?” In the obscurity I could see he made a gesture of
despair. “They wiped us out—simply wiped us out,” he repeated again and
again.

He followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining room.

“Take some whisky,” I said, pouring out a stiff dose.

He drank it. Then abruptly he sat down before the table, put his head
on his arms, and began to sob and weep like a little boy, in a perfect
passion of emotion, while I, with a curious forgetfulness of my own
recent despair, stood beside him, wondering.

It was a long time before he could steady his nerves to answer my
questions, and then he answered perplexingly and brokenly. He was a
driver in the artillery, and had only come into action about seven. At
that time firing was going on across the common, and it was said the
first party of Martians were crawling slowly towards their second
cylinder under cover of a metal shield.

Later this shield staggered up on tripod legs and became the first of
the fighting-machines I had seen. The gun he drove had been unlimbered
near Horsell, in order to command the sand-pits, and its arrival it was
that had precipitated the action. As the limber gunners went to the
rear, his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing him into
a depression of the ground. At the same moment the gun exploded behind
him, the ammunition blew up, there was fire all about him, and he found
himself lying under a heap of charred dead men and dead horses.

“I lay still,” he said, “scared out of my wits, with the fore quarter
of a horse atop of me. We’d been wiped out. And the smell—good God!
Like burnt meat! I was hurt across the back by the fall of the horse,
and there I had to lie until I felt better. Just like parade it had
been a minute before—then stumble, bang, swish!

“Wiped out!” he said.

He had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peeping out furtively
across the common. The Cardigan men had tried a rush, in skirmishing
order, at the pit, simply to be swept out of existence. Then the
monster had risen to its feet and had begun to walk leisurely to and
fro across the common among the few fugitives, with its headlike hood
turning about exactly like the head of a cowled human being. A kind of
arm carried a complicated metallic case, about which green flashes
scintillated, and out of the funnel of this there smoked the Heat-Ray.

In a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could see, not a
living thing left upon the common, and every bush and tree upon it that
was not already a blackened skeleton was burning. The hussars had been
on the road beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw nothing of
them. He heard the Maxims rattle for a time and then become still. The
giant saved Woking station and its cluster of houses until the last;
then in a moment the Heat-Ray was brought to bear, and the town became
a heap of fiery ruins. Then the Thing shut off the Heat-Ray, and
turning its back upon the artilleryman, began to waddle away towards
the smouldering pine woods that sheltered the second cylinder. As it
did so a second glittering Titan built itself up out of the pit.

The second monster followed the first, and at that the artilleryman
began to crawl very cautiously across the hot heather ash towards
Horsell. He managed to get alive into the ditch by the side of the
road, and so escaped to Woking. There his story became ejaculatory. The
place was impassable. It seems there were a few people alive there,
frantic for the most part and many burned and scalded. He was turned
aside by the fire, and hid among some almost scorching heaps of broken
wall as one of the Martian giants returned. He saw this one pursue a
man, catch him up in one of its steely tentacles, and knock his head
against the trunk of a pine tree. At last, after nightfall, the
artilleryman made a rush for it and got over the railway embankment.

Since then he had been skulking along towards Maybury, in the hope of
getting out of danger Londonward. People were hiding in trenches and
cellars, and many of the survivors had made off towards Woking village
and Send. He had been consumed with thirst until he found one of the
water mains near the railway arch smashed, and the water bubbling out
like a spring upon the road.

That was the story I got from him, bit by bit. He grew calmer telling
me and trying to make me see the things he had seen. He had eaten no
food since midday, he told me early in his narrative, and I found some
mutton and bread in the pantry and brought it into the room. We lit no
lamp for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever and again our hands
would touch upon bread or meat. As he talked, things about us came
darkly out of the darkness, and the trampled bushes and broken rose
trees outside the window grew distinct. It would seem that a number of
men or animals had rushed across the lawn. I began to see his face,
blackened and haggard, as no doubt mine was also.

When we had finished eating we went softly upstairs to my study, and I
looked again out of the open window. In one night the valley had become
a valley of ashes. The fires had dwindled now. Where flames had been
there were now streamers of smoke; but the countless ruins of shattered
and gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees that the night had
hidden stood out now gaunt and terrible in the pitiless light of dawn.
Yet here and there some object had had the luck to escape—a white
railway signal here, the end of a greenhouse there, white and fresh
amid the wreckage. Never before in the history of warfare had
destruction been so indiscriminate and so universal. And shining with
the growing light of the east, three of the metallic giants stood about
the pit, their cowls rotating as though they were surveying the
desolation they had made.

It seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and ever and again
puffs of vivid green vapour streamed up and out of it towards the
brightening dawn—streamed up, whirled, broke, and vanished.

Beyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham. They became pillars of
bloodshot smoke at the first touch of day.

XII.
WHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.

As the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the window from which we had
watched the Martians, and went very quietly downstairs.

The artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no place to stay in.
He proposed, he said, to make his way Londonward, and thence rejoin his
battery—No. 12, of the Horse Artillery. My plan was to return at once
to Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength of the Martians
impressed me that I had determined to take my wife to Newhaven, and go
with her out of the country forthwith. For I already perceived clearly
that the country about London must inevitably be the scene of a
disastrous struggle before such creatures as these could be destroyed.

Between us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third cylinder, with its
guarding giants. Had I been alone, I think I should have taken my
chance and struck across country. But the artilleryman dissuaded me:
“It’s no kindness to the right sort of wife,” he said, “to make her a
widow;” and in the end I agreed to go with him, under cover of the
woods, northward as far as Street Cobham before I parted with him.
Thence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach Leatherhead.

I should have started at once, but my companion had been in active
service and he knew better than that. He made me ransack the house for
a flask, which he filled with whisky; and we lined every available
pocket with packets of biscuits and slices of meat. Then we crept out
of the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the ill-made road by
which I had come overnight. The houses seemed deserted. In the road lay
a group of three charred bodies close together, struck dead by the
Heat-Ray; and here and there were things that people had dropped—a
clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the like poor valuables. At the
corner turning up towards the post office a little cart, filled with
boxes and furniture, and horseless, heeled over on a broken wheel. A
cash box had been hastily smashed open and thrown under the debris.

Except the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on fire, none of the
houses had suffered very greatly here. The Heat-Ray had shaved the
chimney tops and passed. Yet, save ourselves, there did not seem to be
a living soul on Maybury Hill. The majority of the inhabitants had
escaped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking road—the road I had taken
when I drove to Leatherhead—or they had hidden.

We went down the lane, by the body of the man in black, sodden now from
the overnight hail, and broke into the woods at the foot of the hill.
We pushed through these towards the railway without meeting a soul. The
woods across the line were but the scarred and blackened ruins of
woods; for the most part the trees had fallen, but a certain proportion
still stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown foliage instead of
green.

On our side the fire had done no more than scorch the nearer trees; it
had failed to secure its footing. In one place the woodmen had been at
work on Saturday; trees, felled and freshly trimmed, lay in a clearing,
with heaps of sawdust by the sawing-machine and its engine. Hard by was
a temporary hut, deserted. There was not a breath of wind this morning,
and everything was strangely still. Even the birds were hushed, and as
we hurried along I and the artilleryman talked in whispers and looked
now and again over our shoulders. Once or twice we stopped to listen.

After a time we drew near the road, and as we did so we heard the
clatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems three cavalry soldiers
riding slowly towards Woking. We hailed them, and they halted while we
hurried towards them. It was a lieutenant and a couple of privates of
the 8th Hussars, with a stand like a theodolite, which the artilleryman
told me was a heliograph.

“You are the first men I’ve seen coming this way this morning,” said
the lieutenant. “What’s brewing?”

His voice and face were eager. The men behind him stared curiously. The
artilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and saluted.

“Gun destroyed last night, sir. Have been hiding. Trying to rejoin
battery, sir. You’ll come in sight of the Martians, I expect, about
half a mile along this road.”

“What the dickens are they like?” asked the lieutenant.

“Giants in armour, sir. Hundred feet high. Three legs and a body like
’luminium, with a mighty great head in a hood, sir.”

“Get out!” said the lieutenant. “What confounded nonsense!”

“You’ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots fire and
strikes you dead.”

“What d’ye mean—a gun?”

“No, sir,” and the artilleryman began a vivid account of the Heat-Ray.
Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted him and looked up at me. I
was still standing on the bank by the side of the road.

“It’s perfectly true,” I said.

“Well,” said the lieutenant, “I suppose it’s my business to see it too.
Look here”—to the artilleryman—“we’re detailed here clearing people out
of their houses. You’d better go along and report yourself to
Brigadier-General Marvin, and tell him all you know. He’s at Weybridge.
Know the way?”

“I do,” I said; and he turned his horse southward again.

“Half a mile, you say?” said he.

“At most,” I answered, and pointed over the treetops southward. He
thanked me and rode on, and we saw them no more.

Farther along we came upon a group of three women and two children in
the road, busy clearing out a labourer’s cottage. They had got hold of
a little hand truck, and were piling it up with unclean-looking bundles
and shabby furniture. They were all too assiduously engaged to talk to
us as we passed.

By Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and found the
country calm and peaceful under the morning sunlight. We were far
beyond the range of the Heat-Ray there, and had it not been for the
silent desertion of some of the houses, the stirring movement of
packing in others, and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge over
the railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day would
have seemed very like any other Sunday.

Several farm waggons and carts were moving creakily along the road to
Addlestone, and suddenly through the gate of a field we saw, across a
stretch of flat meadow, six twelve-pounders standing neatly at equal
distances pointing towards Woking. The gunners stood by the guns
waiting, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like distance.
The men stood almost as if under inspection.

“That’s good!” said I. “They will get one fair shot, at any rate.”

The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.

“I shall go on,” he said.

Farther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge, there were a number
of men in white fatigue jackets throwing up a long rampart, and more
guns behind.

“It’s bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow,” said the
artilleryman. “They ’aven’t seen that fire-beam yet.”

The officers who were not actively engaged stood and stared over the
treetops southwestward, and the men digging would stop every now and
again to stare in the same direction.

Byfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of hussars, some
of them dismounted, some on horseback, were hunting them about. Three
or four black government waggons, with crosses in white circles, and an
old omnibus, among other vehicles, were being loaded in the village
street. There were scores of people, most of them sufficiently
sabbatical to have assumed their best clothes. The soldiers were having
the greatest difficulty in making them realise the gravity of their
position. We saw one shrivelled old fellow with a huge box and a score
or more of flower pots containing orchids, angrily expostulating with
the corporal who would leave them behind. I stopped and gripped his
arm.

“Do you know what’s over there?” I said, pointing at the pine tops that
hid the Martians.

“Eh?” said he, turning. “I was explainin’ these is vallyble.”

“Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!” and leaving him to digest
that if he could, I hurried on after the artillery-man. At the corner I
looked back. The soldier had left him, and he was still standing by his
box, with the pots of orchids on the lid of it, and staring vaguely
over the trees.

No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were
established; the whole place was in such confusion as I had never seen
in any town before. Carts, carriages everywhere, the most astonishing
miscellany of conveyances and horseflesh. The respectable inhabitants
of the place, men in golf and boating costumes, wives prettily dressed,
were packing, river-side loafers energetically helping, children
excited, and, for the most part, highly delighted at this astonishing
variation of their Sunday experiences. In the midst of it all the
worthy vicar was very pluckily holding an early celebration, and his
bell was jangling out above the excitement.

I and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drinking fountain,
made a very passable meal upon what we had brought with us. Patrols of
soldiers—here no longer hussars, but grenadiers in white—were warning
people to move now or to take refuge in their cellars as soon as the
firing began. We saw as we crossed the railway bridge that a growing
crowd of people had assembled in and about the railway station, and the
swarming platform was piled with boxes and packages. The ordinary
traffic had been stopped, I believe, in order to allow of the passage
of troops and guns to Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage
struggle occurred for places in the special trains that were put on at
a later hour.

We remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that hour we found
ourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames
join. Part of the time we spent helping two old women to pack a little
cart. The Wey has a treble mouth, and at this point boats are to be
hired, and there was a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side
was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of Shepperton
Church—it has been replaced by a spire—rose above the trees.

Here we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugitives. As yet the
flight had not grown to a panic, but there were already far more people
than all the boats going to and fro could enable to cross. People came
panting along under heavy burdens; one husband and wife were even
carrying a small outhouse door between them, with some of their
household goods piled thereon. One man told us he meant to try to get
away from Shepperton station.

There was a lot of shouting, and one man was even jesting. The idea
people seemed to have here was that the Martians were simply formidable
human beings, who might attack and sack the town, to be certainly
destroyed in the end. Every now and then people would glance nervously
across the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but everything over
there was still.

Across the Thames, except just where the boats landed, everything was
quiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side. The people who landed
there from the boats went tramping off down the lane. The big ferryboat
had just made a journey. Three or four soldiers stood on the lawn of
the inn, staring and jesting at the fugitives, without offering to
help. The inn was closed, as it was now within prohibited hours.

“What’s that?” cried a boatman, and “Shut up, you fool!” said a man
near me to a yelping dog. Then the sound came again, this time from the
direction of Chertsey, a muffled thud—the sound of a gun.

The fighting was beginning. Almost immediately unseen batteries across
the river to our right, unseen because of the trees, took up the
chorus, firing heavily one after the other. A woman screamed. Everyone
stood arrested by the sudden stir of battle, near us and yet invisible
to us. Nothing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows feeding
unconcernedly for the most part, and silvery pollard willows motionless
in the warm sunlight.

“The sojers’ll stop ’em,” said a woman beside me, doubtfully. A
haziness rose over the treetops.

Then suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the river, a puff of
smoke that jerked up into the air and hung; and forthwith the ground
heaved under foot and a heavy explosion shook the air, smashing two or
three windows in the houses near, and leaving us astonished.

“Here they are!” shouted a man in a blue jersey. “Yonder! D’yer see
them? Yonder!”

Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured
Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat
meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards
the river. Little cowled figures they seemed at first, going with a
rolling motion and as fast as flying birds.

Then, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth. Their armoured
bodies glittered in the sun as they swept swiftly forward upon the
guns, growing rapidly larger as they drew nearer. One on the extreme
left, the remotest that is, flourished a huge case high in the air, and
the ghostly, terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on Friday night smote
towards Chertsey, and struck the town.

At sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures the crowd near
the water’s edge seemed to me to be for a moment horror-struck. There
was no screaming or shouting, but a silence. Then a hoarse murmur and a
movement of feet—a splashing from the water. A man, too frightened to
drop the portmanteau he carried on his shoulder, swung round and sent
me staggering with a blow from the corner of his burden. A woman thrust
at me with her hand and rushed past me. I turned with the rush of the
people, but I was not too terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray
was in my mind. To get under water! That was it!

“Get under water!” I shouted, unheeded.

I faced about again, and rushed towards the approaching Martian, rushed
right down the gravelly beach and headlong into the water. Others did
the same. A boatload of people putting back came leaping out as I
rushed past. The stones under my feet were muddy and slippery, and the
river was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet scarcely waist-deep.
Then, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely a couple of hundred
yards away, I flung myself forward under the surface. The splashes of
the people in the boats leaping into the river sounded like
thunderclaps in my ears. People were landing hastily on both sides of
the river. But the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment
of the people running this way and that than a man would of the
confusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has kicked. When,
half suffocated, I raised my head above water, the Martian’s hood
pointed at the batteries that were still firing across the river, and
as it advanced it swung loose what must have been the generator of the
Heat-Ray.

In another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride wading halfway
across. The knees of its foremost legs bent at the farther bank, and in
another moment it had raised itself to its full height again, close to
the village of Shepperton. Forthwith the six guns which, unknown to
anyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind the outskirts of that
village, fired simultaneously. The sudden near concussion, the last
close upon the first, made my heart jump. The monster was already
raising the case generating the Heat-Ray as the first shell burst six
yards above the hood.

It will appear that the plan outlined above limits immigration policy to
purely national and economic considerations. But it is, as matters now
stand, a national question. And it must remain so for some time to come,
even if we are reproached with a narrow Mercantilist economics. The
admission of aliens is not yet a fundamental international _right_, or
_duty_; it is only an example of _comity_ within the family of nations.
And the matter must rest in this state of limbo until we develop some
institution or method of registering our sentiments of internationalism,
and especially of determining _international surplus_. As it is idle to
talk or dream of abolishing poverty until at least the concept of social
or national surplus is pretty clearly fixed and its realization either
actually at hand or fairly imminent, just so is it vain to expect an
international adjustment of the immigration problem on economic grounds
until the existence of an international surplus is demonstrated, and the
methods of apportioning it worked out.

How soon we may expect these things it is not our province to predict. It
is too early to pass final judgment on Professor Patten's dictum that
inter-racial coöperation is impossible without integration, and that races
must therefore stand in hostile relations or finally unite. But it is
perfectly apparent that we have a long way to travel before the path to
integration is cleared. Such assemblages as the First Universal Races
Congress which met in London in 1911 can do much to prepare the way. But
it must not be forgotten that the German representative at that Congress
pleaded for the maintenance of strict racial and national boundaries, and
summed up his plea in the rather ominous sentence: "The brotherhood of man
is a good thing, but the struggle for life is a far better one." Meanwhile
we need not anticipate serious international difficulties in the way of
the sliding-scale plan; for foreign governments are watching the tide of
immigration with mixed feelings. They welcome the two or three hundred
million dollars sent home annually by alien residents in the United
States. But they also resent the dislocations of industry, the fallow
fields, the dodging of military service, and the disturbance of the level
of prices which such wholesale emigrations inflict upon the mother
country.

Since the protagonists of unrestricted immigration have taken largely an
economic line of argument, it seemed desirable to accept their terms, and
meet them on their own ground. But I should not wish to be misunderstood
as limiting the immigration question to its economic phases. When we have
said that the _latifondisti_ of Southern Italy are in despair at the
scarcity of laborers to work their lands at starvation wages, and that the
railway builders and mine operators of America are equally anxious to have
those selfsame South Italian laborers for their own exploitive
enterprises, we have told a bare half of the tale. There remain all those
cultural, educational, political, religious and domestic variations and
adjustments which make up the general problem of assimilability of the
alien and of the strength of our own national digestion. America had a
giant's undiscriminating appetite in the great days of expansion from 1850
to 1890. But there are many signs, economic and other, that we can no
longer play Gargantua and continue a healthy nation. An unwise engineer
sometimes over-stokes his boilers, and courts disaster. Is it not equally
possible that national welfare may suffer from an over-dose of human fuel
in our industry?

THE WAY TO FLATLAND

"The next great task of preventive medicine is the inauguration of
universal periodic medical examinations as an indispensable means for the
control of all diseases, whether arising from injurious personal habits,
from congenital or constitutional weakness, or from social and vocational
conditions." That this declaration by the Commissioner of Health of the
city of New York is not the mere expression of an individual opinion,
there is abundant evidence. And no one who has watched the growth of other
movements towards such regulation of life as only a few years ago would
have seemed wholly outside the domain of practical probability can doubt
that the "Life Extension" movement, as thus outlined, will rapidly grow
into prominence. Nor is there much room for doubt that, whether explicitly
contemplated at present or not, compulsion as well as universality is
tacitly implied in the movement.

I say that the movement is sure to grow into prominence, that it is a
thing which must be seriously reckoned with; I do not say that it will
march straight on to victory, or even that it is sure to prevail in the
end. It is instructive, in this regard, to hark back to a recent
experience in a more special, but yet an extremely important, domain.
Several years ago a report on university efficiency was issued under the
auspices–though, it should be added, without the official endorsement–of
the Carnegie Foundation. The central feature of this report lay in its
advocacy of the application to universities of those principles of system
and of standardization which have been successfully applied on a large
scale to the promotion of industrial efficiency, and are generally
referred to by the catch-word, "scientific management." In spite of the
merits of the report in certain matters of detail, and of the high
standing of the expert who wrote it in his own department of industrial
engineering, the report evoked an almost universal chorus of contemptuous
rejection not only in university circles, but also from those organs of
public opinion which have any claim to be regarded as enlightened judges
in questions of education and culture. The thing seemed to have been
laughed out of court. And yet it turned out that a year or two afterwards
a full-fledged scheme for carrying out some of the crudest and most
objectionable features of this "efficiency" program was presented to the
professors of Harvard University, apparently with the expectation that
they would fall in with its requirements without hesitation or protest.
For some days there seemed to be real danger that this would actually
happen. It turned out to be a false alarm; the faculty of the foremost of
American universities were guilty of no such supineness. The project was
ignominiously shelved, with some sort of explanation that the springing of
it on the professors was due to an error or misunderstanding. But that the
attempt should have been made, and in a manner that argued so total a lack
of any sense of its grossness and crudity, is a significant warning of the
extent to which the notions underlying it have fastened upon the general
mind.

The story of the eugenics movement in this country affords a striking
illustration at once of the almost startling rapidity with which
innovating ideas as to the regulation of life gain acceptance, and of the
fact that this rapidity is by no means conclusive proof that their
progress will be continuous. The one thing clear is that there is a large,
active, and influential element in the population that is extremely
hospitable to such ideas, and manifests a naïve, an almost childish,
readiness to put them into immediate execution. Since, in the nature of
things, this element is lively and active–since, too, what is novel and
in motion is more interesting than what is old and at rest–at first there
is almost sure to be produced a deceptive appearance that the new thing is
sweeping everything before it. Just now there is evidently a lull in the
onward march of legislative eugenics. This is sufficient proof of the
conservatism of the people as a whole; we may be quite sure that anything
beyond a very restricted application of eugenical notions will take a long
time to get itself established in our laws or even in our customs.
Nevertheless, it would be a great mistake to suppose that even the more
extreme forms of eugenical doctrine are not forces to be reckoned with as
affecting practical possibilities of a not distant future. Though no
results may appear on the surface, the leaven is working. It is consonant
with tendencies which in so many directions are becoming more and more
dominant. So long as those tendencies continue in anything like their
present strength, there can be little doubt that the idea of control in
the direction of eugenics, like that of the regulation of human life in
other fundamental respects, will continue to make headway, and may at any
time become one of the central issues of the day.

To adduce prohibition as an illustration of this same character in the
thought and the tendencies of our immediate time may seem like forcing the
point. It is true, it may be said, that there has been within the past few
years a rapid spread of prohibition in almost every part of the country;
but the thing itself is sixty years old, has had its periods of advance
and recession, and is now, in the fullness of time, reaping the fruits of
two generations of agitation, investigation, and education. But to say
this is to overlook the distinctive feature of the present situation
regarding prohibition in the United States. A Constitutional amendment
providing for the complete prohibition of the sale of liquor throughout
the Union is pending in Congress. A year ago–probably six months
ago–there was hardly a human being in the United States, other than those
in the councils of the Anti-saloon League, who had so much as thought of
national prohibition as a question of present-day practical politics.
Suddenly it is announced that there is a distinct possibility of a
prohibition amendment being passed by Congress in the near future; and one
of the foremost representatives of the Anti-saloon League states, and with
good show of reason, that if the amendment be passed by Congress, its
ratification by the Legislatures of three fourths of the States can be
only a matter of time. What the probabilities actually are, I do not
undertake to say; neither am I concerned at this moment with the merits of
the issue itself. What I _am_ concerned with is the simple fact that in
this situation, brought upon the country with dramatic suddenness, nobody
seems to have been in the least startled, or so much as disturbed in his
equanimity. There will of course be a great struggle over the question,
sooner or later. But neither in Congress nor in the press has there as yet
been any sign of such an assertion of the claims of personal liberty as,
at any time previous to the past ten years, would have been sure to be
made in such a situation. This collective silence, on an issue affecting
so intimately the lives, the habits, the traditions of millions of people,
is, in my judgment, by far the most impressive proof of the degree in
which the public mind has grown accustomed to the inroads of regulation
upon the domain of individuality.

* * * * *

A number of years ago, when the mathematical concept of space of more than
three dimensions was attracting great popular interest, an ingenious
writer undertook to make the idea intelligible to "the general" by
picturing the state of mind in regard to three dimensions of a race of
beings whose life and whose sensual experience was limited to space of two
dimensions. He gave his little book the title "Flatland," and it gained
wide attention. In his Commencement address at Columbia last year,
President Butler had the happy thought of applying the term in the
characterization of certain aspects of the intellectual and political life
of our time. He was speaking particularly of that absorption in the
immediate problems of the day which makes almost impossible a true study
and contemplation of the lasting concerns of mankind as embodied in
history and literature. "Every ruling tendency," he said, "is to make life
a Flatland, an affair of two dimensions, with no depth, no background, no
permanent root." That this is a literal truth probably neither Dr. Butler
nor anyone else would contend; but it hits off with great force and with
substantial accuracy the prevailing character of thought in the circles
most active and most influential in almost every department of human
activity at the present time. And the tendency which President Butler
describes as arising out of our absorption in current problems is still
more manifest in the spirit of our actual dealings with those problems
themselves. On every hand we find a surprising readiness to accept views
which explicitly tend to take out of life that which gives it depth and
significance and richness. Each one of the four movements we have
mentioned affords an illustration of this: in following any one of them we
travel straight toward Flatland. They differ very much, one from another;
they have very different degrees and kinds of justification; it may be
difficult in the case of some of them to strike a balance between the gain
and the loss. The remarkable thing–the ominous thing, if we are to
suppose that the present tone of thought will long persist–is that the
loss involved in the flattening of life, as such, apparently almost wholly
fails to get consideration. I say apparently, because there is, no doubt,
a deep and strong undercurrent of opposition which, sooner or later, will
manifest itself; in speaking of "ruling tendencies" we are apt to mean
merely the tendencies that are most in evidence. But after all, it is to
these that criticism of contemporary life and thought must, of necessity,
be chiefly directed.

As I have already indicated, the attack on individuality and personal
dignity in the universities was met in a spirit that is highly gratifying,
and which is quite out of keeping with the tendency that I am discussing
and deploring. Yet it is doubtful whether, outside the circle of the
universities themselves, and of those individuals who are thoroughly
imbued with the university spirit, there is any true realization of what
it is that constituted the head and front of that offending. If some
bureau of research were to present a formidable array of figures showing
that the "output" of professorial work could be increased by so and so
many per cent. through the adoption of some definitely formulated system
of "scientific management," it is by no means certain that the scheme
would not receive powerful support in the highest quarters of efficiency
propaganda. We should be told just how many millions of dollars a year we
are spending on university education, and just how many of these millions
go needlessly to waste. Even the opponents of the "reform" would probably
find themselves compelled to use as their most powerful argument this and
that example of great practical results which have flowed from letting men
of genius go their own way. It would be pointed out that many an
investigation which, to the authorities of the time, appeared wholly
unpromising, turned out to be of cardinal value. We should be warned that
what we gain in a thousand cases through time-clock and card-catalogue
methods, might be lost ten times over through the shackling of the
initiative of a single man of unrecognized genius. And all this would be
very much to the purpose; but it is not upon any such special pleading
that the case ought to be made to rest. The loss that would be suffered
transcends all these concrete and definable instances of it. It would be
pervasive, fundamental, immeasurable. Grievous as might be the injury
caused by the prevention of specific achievements of exceptional
importance, this would be as nothing in comparison with the intellectual
and spiritual loss entailed by the lowering of the human level, the
devitalizing of the intellectual atmosphere, which must inevitably follow
upon the application of factory methods to university life.

* * * * *

The case of the eugenics propaganda is far more complex. In its origin,
and doubtless in some of its present manifestations, it may lay claim to
being directed toward aims which are particularly concerned with the
higher interests of life. The author of "Hereditary Genius" certainly
could not be accused of indifference to the part played in the past, or to
be played in the future, by exceptional minds and characters; nor is it
necessary to charge any of the present promoters of the propaganda with
explicit failure to appreciate the importance of such minds and
characters. The criticism is often made, from this standpoint, that the
hard-and-fast rules which the eugenists propose would, in point of fact,
have put under the ban some of the most illustrious names in the annals of
mankind–men whose genius was accompanied with some of the very traits
which they hold should most positively be prevented from appearing. But,
however weighty this objection to the methods of eugenics may be, it is to
be looked upon rather as an item on the debit side of the reckoning than
as marking an ingrained defect, a fault at the very heart of the matter.
The eugenists may well challenge those who urge merely this kind of
objection to show that the losses thus pointed out are great enough to
offset the gains, in the very same direction, which they regard their
program as promising. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, they can at
least set up the contention that, as a mere affair of quantity, genius
will do better under their system than without it.

What brings the eugenics movement into the Flatland category is not its
attitude toward the question of genius, or perhaps even of singularity,
but its attitude toward the life of mankind as a whole–if indeed it can
be said to have any attitude toward the life of mankind as a whole. The
profound elements of that life seem not to come at all within the range of
its contemplation. Of course this does not apply to everything that comes
from the eugenics camp, nor to every person that calls himself a eugenist.
But on the other hand it is by no means only of the crude projects of
half-educated reformers, or the outgivings of the prophets of our popular
magazines, that it _is_ true. The agitation has derived much of its
impetus, directly or indirectly, from the teachings of men of high
scientific eminence who have attacked the question without any apparent
realization of its deeper bearings on the whole character of human life.
This influence often comes in the shape of exhortations, or suggestions,
addressed to the public at a time when attention is centered upon some
conspicuous crime or some particular phase of evil in the community;
sweeping and radical regulation of the right of parenthood being urged as
necessary for the prevention of all such distressing phenomena. Thus,
after the attempted assassination of Mayor Gaynor, there was much talk of
a "national campaign for mental hygiene," which should have the effect of
"preventing Czolgoszes and Schranks." Its program was thus indicated by
one of the foremost professors of medicine in the United States:

Provision must be made for the birth of children whose brains
shall, so far as possible, be innately of good quality; this means
the denial of the privilege of parenthood to those likely to
transmit bad nervous systems to their offsprings.

What the carrying out of such a programme would mean to mankind at large,
how profoundly it would modify those ideas about life, those standards of
human dignity and human rights, which are so fundamental and so pervasive
that they are taken for granted without express thought in every act and
every feeling of all normal men and women–this does not seem ever to
trouble the mind of the devotee of universal regulation. He sees the
possibility of effecting a certain definite and measurable improvement;
that the means by which this is accomplished must fatally impair those
elemental conceptions of human life whose value transcends all
measurement, he has not the insight or the imagination to recognize. The
distinctions of social class, of wealth, of public honor, leave untouched
the equality of men in the fundamentals of human dignity. They do not go
to the vitals of self-respect; they do not interfere with a man's sense of
what is due to him, and what is due from him, in the primary relations of
life. If nature has been unkind to him in his physical or mental
endowments, he does not therefore feel in the least disqualified, as
regards his family, his friends, his neighbors, the stranger with whom he
chances to come into contact, from receiving the same kind of
consideration, in the essentials of human intercourse, that is accorded to
those who are more fortunate; nor does he feel in any respect absolved
from the duty of playing the full part of a man. Under the régime of
medical classification–and the "mental hygiene" programme can mean
nothing less than that–all this would disappear. Some men would be men,
others would be something less. It is true that, so far as regards the
imbecile, the insane, and the criminal, such a state of things obtains as
it is; but this stands wholly apart from the general life of the race, and
has no influence whatever on the habitual feelings and experiences of
human beings. The normal life of mankind is shot through and through with
the idea that a man's a man; all that is highest in feeling and conduct is
closely bound up with it. Lessen its sway over our feelings and thoughts
and instincts, and how much benefit in the shape of "preventing Czolgoszes
and Schranks" would be required to compensate for the loss in nobleness,
in depth, which human life would suffer?

* * * * *

The prohibition movement belongs, in the main, to a wholly different order
of things. The fight against the evils of drink, as it has been carried on
for a century or more, has been animated by a moral fervor which classes
it rather with the fight against slavery, or with the great revivals of
religion, than with those movements which owe their origin to a
calculating and cold-blooded perfectionism. Its leaders have been fired
with the ardor of a war directed against a devastating monster, to whose
ravages was to be ascribed a large part of the misery and wickedness that
afflict mankind. It is true that the economic and physiological aspects of
the drink question were not ignored; the total-abstinence men were glad
enough to have this second string to their bow. But the real fight was not
against alcohol as one of many things concerning which the habits of men
are more or less unwise; it was a fight against the Demon Rum, the ally of
all the powers of darkness. The plea of the moderate drinker was rejected
with scorn, not because there was any objection to moderate drinking in
itself, but because total abstinence was the only true preventive of
drunkenness, and drunkenness must be stamped out if mankind was to be
saved. The moderate drinker was censured not because he was wasting his
money, or failing to "conserve his efficiency," but because for the sake
of a trivial self-indulgence he was giving countenance to a practice which
was consigning millions of his fellow men to wretchedness in this world
and to everlasting damnation in the next.

Now this remarkable thing about the present extraordinary manifestation of
growth and strength in the prohibition movement is that it is not in the
least due to a strengthening of this sentiment. On the contrary, it is
safe to say that feeling about drunkenness, about the drink evil in the
sense in which it was understood a generation ago, is far less intense
than it was then. The prohibition movement in its present stage is not the
old prohibition movement advancing to triumph through the onward march of
its proselyting zeal; of true prohibitionist zealots the number is
probably less, in proportion to the population, than it was forty years
ago. Its great accession of strength has come from the growth of that
order of ideas which is common to all the "efficiency" movements of the
time. And that growth helps it in two ways. On the one hand, to the little
army of crusaders against the Demon Rum there has come the accession of a
host of men who are not thinking about demons at all, but who calmly hold
that the world would be better off without drinking, and that this is an
all-sufficient reason for prohibiting it. And on the other hand, millions
of persons who, in former days would have cried out against this way of
improving the world–against the impairment of personal liberty and the
sacrifice of social enjoyment and social variety–have no longer the
courage of their convictions. The temper of the time is unfavorable to the
assertion of the value of things so incapable of numerical measurement.
Against the heavy battalions led by the statisticians, and the
experimental psychologists, and the efficiency experts, what chance is
there for successful resistance? On the opposing side can be rallied only
such mere irregulars as are willing to fight for airy nothings–for the
zest and colorfulness of life, for sociability and good fellowship, for
preserving to each man access to those resources of relaxation and
refreshment which, without injury to others, he finds conducive to his own
happiness.

* * * * *

It is hardly necessary to say that, in taking up these various movements,
no attempt has been made at anything like comprehensive discussion of
their merits. Whatever may be the balance between good and ill in any of
them, they all have in common one tendency that bodes danger to the
highest and most permanent interests of mankind; and it is with this alone
that I am concerned. What that tendency is has, I trust, been made
sufficiently clear; but it will perhaps be brought out more distinctly by
a consideration of the "Life Extension" propaganda more detailed and
specific than that given to the other three.

Conspicuous in the literature of this propaganda is the appeal to standard
modern practice in regard to machinery. "Those to whom the care of
delicate mechanical apparatus is entrusted," says the New York
Commissioner of Health, "do not wait until a breakdown occurs, but inspect
and examine the apparatus minutely, at regular intervals, and thus detect
the first signs of damage." "This principle of periodic inspection," says
the prospectus of the Life Extension Institute, "has for many years been
applied to almost every kind of machinery, except the most marvelous and
complex of all,–the human body." To find fault with the drawing of this
comparison, with the utilization of this analogy, would be foolish. That
many persons would be greatly benefited by submitting to these inspections
is certain; it is not impossible that they are desirable for most persons.
And the analogy of the inspection of machinery serves excellently the
purpose of suggesting such desirability. What is objectionable about its
use by the Life Extension propagandists is their evident complacent
satisfaction with the analogy as complete and conclusive. Yet nothing is
more certain than that, even from the strictly medical standpoint, it
ignores an essential distinction between the case of the man and the case
of the machine. The machine is affected only by the measures that may be
taken in consequence of the knowledge arising from the inspection; the man
is affected by that knowledge itself. Whether the possible physical harm
that may come to a man from having his mind disturbed by solicitude about
his health is important or unimportant in comparison with the good that is
likely to be done him by the following of the precautions or remedies
prescribed, is a question of fact to which the answer varies in every
individual case. It may be that in the great majority of cases the harm is
insignificant in comparison with the good. However that may be, the
question is there, and it is of itself fatal to the conclusiveness of the
_argumentum ex machina_. That this is not a captious criticism, that it is
based on substantial facts of life, ordinary experience sufficiently
attests; but it may not be amiss to point to a conspicuous contemporary
phenomenon which throws an interesting light on the matter. The Christian
Scientists regard the _ignoring_ of disease as the primary requisite for
health and longevity. That the Christian Science doctrine is a sheer
absurdity, no one can hold more emphatically than the present writer; but
it cannot be denied that in thousands of cases its acceptance has been of
physical benefit through its subjective effect upon the believer.
Personally, I would not purchase any benefit to my physical life at such
sacrifice of my intellectual integrity; I mention the point only by way of
accentuating the undisputed fact that the presence or absence of concern
about health may have a potent influence on one's bodily welfare.

Although it is a still further digression from the main purpose of this
paper, I must permit myself a few words on another point relating to the
strictly medical claims of the plan of "universal periodic medical
examination." It is natural that its advocates say nothing about the
danger of errors in diagnosis; everybody knows that this danger exists,
but sensible men do not allow it to deter them from consulting a
physician; in this, as in other affairs of life, they do not cry for the
moon, but do the best they can. But it seems to be wholly overlooked by
the advocates of the propaganda of "universal periodic examination" that
the extent of this danger under present conditions affords no indication
at all of what it would be under the system they contemplate. Its cardinal
virtue, they constantly proclaim, would be the detection of the very
slightest indication of impairment: "The task before us is to discover the
first sign of departure from the normal physiological path, and promptly
and effectually to apply the brake." The consequence must necessarily be
that for one case of false alarm that occurs today there will be a score,
or a hundred, under the new régime. For, in the first place, the
individuals seeking advice will not be, as they now are in the main,
selected cases in which there is some antecedent presumption that there is
something wrong; and secondly, the examiner, bent upon the one great
object of overlooking nothing, however slight, will give warnings which,
whether technically justifiable or not, will in great numbers of cases
have a wholly unjustifiable significance to the mind of the subject. Who
shall say how many persons will thus be made to carry through life a
burden of solicitude about their health from which, if left to their own
devices, they would have been wholly free?

But it is not my design to find fault with this scheme as a matter of
medical benefit; if I have ventured to point out some drawbacks, it is
only by way of showing that, even from the strictly medical standpoint the
cult of uniformity, of standardization, of mechanical perfection, is not
free from fault. But the great objection against that attitude of mind
which is typified in the appeal to the analogy of machinery is far more
vital. Our only interest in a machine is that we shall get out of it as
much, and as exact, work as possible. Our interest in our bodies is not so
limited. We may deliberately choose to forego the maximum of mechanical
perfection for the sake of living our lives in a way more satisfactory to
us than a constant care for that perfection would permit. Even the most
ardent of health enthusiasts–unless he be an insane fanatic–draws the
line somewhere. What he forgets is that other people prefer to draw the
line somewhere else. They choose to run a certain amount of risk rather
than have their health on their minds. To compel–whether by legal means
or by social pressure–every man to take precautions concerning his own
body which he deliberately prefers not to take; to make impossible, in
this most intimate and personal of all human concerns, the various ways of
acting which the infinite varieties of temperament and desire may
dictate–this would be such an invasion of personal liberty, such a
suppression of individuality, as would strike us all as appalling, had we
not grown so habituated to the mechanical, the statistical, measurement of
human values–to the Flatland view of life.

* * * * *

What gives to these movements that I have been discussing the character
which I have been ascribing to them is not so much the specific things
which they severally aim to accomplish, but the spirit in which they are
carried on, and perhaps still more the spirit, or want of spirit, with
which they are met. It is not that a balance is falsely struck between the
benefit of the concrete, circumscribed, measurable improvement aimed at
and the injury done to some deeper, more pervading, and quite immeasurable
element or principle of life; it is that the balance is not struck at all.
The subtler, the less tangible, element is simply ignored. It was not
always so. It was not so in the last generation, or the generation before
that. The phenomenon is one that is closely bound up with the ruling
tendency of thought and action in all directions; it is not an accident of
this or that particular agitation. Perhaps in no direction is it more
convincingly manifested than in the prevailing tone of opinion, or at
least of publicly expressed opinion, in regard to the objects and ideals
of universities. That in the present state of the world's economic and
social development on the one hand, and of the various sciences on the
other, "service"–that is, service directly conducive to the general
good–should be regarded as one of the great objects of universities, is
altogether right; that it should be spoken of as their _only_ object,
which is the ruling fashion, is most deplorable. The object of a
university, said Mill, is to keep philosophy alive; yet it would go hard
with the present generation to point to any one more truly and profoundly
devoted to the service, the uplifting, of the masses of mankind than was
John Stuart Mill. Were he living he would recognize, as thoroughly as the
best efficiency man of them all, that the universities of today have
opportunities and duties which were undreamed of half a century ago. But
he would know, too, that in those activities which are directed to the
promotion of practical efficiency, the university is but one of many
agencies, and that if it were not doing the work some other means would be
found for supplying the demand. Its paramount value he would find now, as
he did then, in the service it renders not to the ordinary needs of the
community but to the higher intellectual interests and strivings of
mankind. That so few of us have the courage clearly to assert a position
even distantly approaching this–such a position as was mere matter of
course among university men in the last generation–is perhaps the most
significant of all the indications of our drift toward Flatland.

THE DISFRANCHISEMENT OF PROPERTY

I

It is Hawthorne, I think, who tells us that when he was a boy he used once
in a while to go down to the wharves in Salem, and lay his hand on the
rail of some great East India merchantman, redolent of spices, and thus
bring himself in actual touch with the mysterious orient. But there is
nothing strange in this: almost anything that we can feel or see may start
the flight of fancy, and open to us prophetic visions. This is even true
of such dry symbols as figures, for our journalists would never publish
statistics as they do, unless they knew that their readers liked to see
them. Travellers from other parts of the world have often laughed at our
fondness for revelling in the marvellous accounts of our material
dimensions, but they should remember that people who do not have a taste
for poetry may yet have a taste for romance, and that big figures do
appeal to the imagination.

It is true that there may be something portentous in bigness. "Tom" Reed,
as he was affectionately called, said many wise things in a jesting way.
At a certain crisis in our history he exclaimed: "I don't want Cuba and
Hawaii; I've got more country now than I can love." A foreigner might
suppose that our politicians had similarly become terror-stricken at the
extent of our wealth and the rate at which it was growing. They may well
give the impression that there has been created in the "money power," a
Frankenstein monster, the control of whose murderous propensities has put
them at their wit's end.

Figures are notorious liars; they may arouse emotion if looked at in any
light, but they must be looked at in many lights if we would get an
emotional effect that is truly worth while. Some very large figures
relating to Savings Banks have lately been published. The deposits in
these banks amount to over four and two-thirds billions of dollars, and
the number of separate accounts is about ten and two-thirds millions.
Savings deposits in all banks are about $7,000,000,000, the number of
accounts being 17,600,000. Probably the interest paid on the savings banks
deposits is 160 millions of dollars a year. I confess that these figures
give me much pleasure. I like to think that so many men have taken pains
to guard their wives and children against miserable want; that so many
women have to some extent made sure of their independence. It would not be
surprising to find that twelve millions of families, possibly half the
people of the country, were in this way protected against extreme penury.
Viewed in this light, the growth of wealth does not seem so terrible. One
might paraphrase Burke and say that such wealth as this loses half its
evil through losing all its grossness. Indeed one might go further and say
that if there were twice as much of this wealth, and every person in the
country had an interest in it, it would lose all of its evil.

To young people, this is all dry enough. They like to think of spending
money, not of saving it. But it is not at all dry to their elders. It is
what St. Beuve said of literary enjoyment, a "pure délice du goût et du
coeur dans la maturité." It is a "Pleasure of the Imagination" that can be
appreciated only by those like the old Scottish lawyer, who justified his
penurious prudence by saying that he had shaken hands with poverty up to
the elbow when he was young, and had no intention to renew the
acquaintance. We have not, at least in the Northern part of our country,
had the terrible experiences of the people of Europe, who are even now
hiding their money in a vague apprehension of danger, inherited from
centuries of rapine; but there are few of those who have given hostages to
fortune who have not had many hours, and even years, of distressing
anxiety concerning the future of their families. The greater the provision
made against this heart-corroding care by a people, the happier should
that people be.

It seems so unselfish a luxury to revel in these comfortable statistics,
that one is tempted to broaden his vision, and take in the four or five
billions of assets heaped up by the six or seven millions of people who
have insured their lives, and the one hundred and fifty or two hundred
millions of dollars paid out yearly to lighten the distress attending the
death of husbands and fathers of families,–to say nothing of a much
greater sum repaid policy-holders. In many cases, happily, death causes no
actual want; but against these cases we may offset the stupendous number
of policies insuring against industrial accidents, possibly twenty-five
millions of them, representing one quarter of the people of the
country–for we may be sure that there are few payments made under these
policies that do not actually alleviate suffering. We have here a colossal
aggregate of altruism on the part of the policy-holders, an intangible
national asset grander than all the material wealth which it represents;
for the sordid element in all these savings is necessarily small. There is
a point in the old story of the gambler on the Mississippi steamboat who
listened attentively to the persuasive arguments of a life-insurance
agent; he "allowed" that he was willing to bet on almost any kind of game,
but declined to take a hand in one where he had to die to win. It is
painful to think of the infinity of petty economies, of all the grievous
deprivations, the positive hardships, undergone in so many millions of
families, day by day, and year by year, to secure these policies of
insurance; but, as Plato said, "the good is difficult." There is no
heroism where there is no self-sacrifice. Whoever is disquieted by the
growth of "materialism" may be relieved by reflecting that when so many
millions of people are denying themselves present enjoyments in order that
others may be spared pain in the future, there is such a leaven of high
motive among us as may leaven the whole lump.

* * * * *

It would be easy to keep on in this exalted strain, but perhaps it is a
little too much in the style of a life-insurance advertisement. We may
correct any such impression, by changing our point of view. When we
consider the difficulties and the hindrances in the way of laying up these
savings, while the moral effect of the self-sacrifice hitherto involved is
enhanced, the question comes up whether this altruistic exertion can be
maintained in the future. How many of the ten millions of depositors in
the savings banks have considered that their rulers at Washington give
away every year in military pensions a sum equal to all, and more than
all, the income earned by the four billions of dollars in the banks? When
after many years, it seemed that this burden might at last begin to be
lightened, it was suddenly increased by the last Congress perhaps thirty
millions a year. Why should so many people scrimp, year in and year out,
when the equivalent of all the toil and all the self-denial is thus swept
away?

Senator Aldrich has told the country that its affairs could be carried on
for three hundred millions of dollars a year less than it now pays. He is
a very competent witness, and no one has contradicted him. If the attempt
had been made, he could perhaps have shown–he could certainly show
now–that three hundred millions was an understatement. But this sum is
nearly equal to the income earned by the investments of all the savings
banks and all the life-insurance companies of the country. If our rulers
had borrowed ten billions of dollars at three per cent. and had wasted it
all, the country would be financially about where it is now. They have not
borrowed this ten billions of dollars, but if Mr. Aldrich is right, they
are spending the interest on it. They have in effect mortgaged the wealth
of the people to the extent of all their deposits in the savings banks,
and all their investments in life-insurance companies, and are wasting the
income of these funds faster than it is earned. If anyone thinks this is
stating the case too strongly, he may add the waste of our state and
municipal rulers to that of those at Washington, and Mr. Aldrich's figure
will seem moderate enough.

* * * * *

People who are comfortably off will reply to all this that we are getting
on pretty well, and seem to be on the whole doing better from year to
year. There is a well known passage in Macaulay's History which may be
thought to give support to optimism of this kind. "No ordinary
misfortune," he said, "no ordinary misgovernment, will do so much to make
a nation wretched as the constant progress of physical knowledge, and the
constant effort of every man to better his condition will do to make a
nation prosperous."

No one will deny that the history of England justifies this statement; but
let us remember the reason that Macaulay gave for this insuperable
prosperity. "Every man has felt entire confidence that the State would
protect him in the possession of what had been earned by his diligence and
hoarded by his self-denial."

It is impossible to maintain that every man now feels this entire
confidence. The income "earned by his diligence" is henceforth to be taxed
at a progressive rate, and the demagogues are already complaining that the
rate is not high enough. The inheritance of his family, "hoarded by his
self-denial," protected by the State until within a few years, now pays
taxes which amount to the interest on a billion of dollars. We are assured
by a railroad officer that three measures of legislation have increased
the expenses of his corporation alone by a sum equal to the interest on
$32,000,000, with no appreciable benefit to the public. The number of such
laws is incalculable, and the cost of complying with them has become an
almost intolerable burden. The income of the railroads declines, while
their taxes increase, in some cases two or three fold. Lawyers and office
holders thrive and are cheerful; investors suffer and tremble.

The people of New York seem just now to be in a way to find out how the
enormous taxes which their rulers have levied on them are expended; but
New York has no monopoly of corrupt rulers, and the cost of investigating
extravagance is itself extravagant. And yet people wonder at the increased
cost of living! Unfortunately the oppressions of government do worse than
discourage business enterprise; they tend to demoralize society. There are
too many men who hesitate to marry because they do not have confidence in
the future, too many married people who do not dare to have more than one
or two children, if they dare to have any, to make it possible to maintain
that there is now no dread of more than ordinary misgovernment.

* * * * *

It is difficult to ascertain the total wealth of the country. The census
bureau is notoriously dilatory. Its latest estimate was for 1904, when
this aggregate was computed to be $107,000,000,000, or about $1,300 _per
caput_. Assuming this ratio, the wealth of our people should now be over
$120,000,000,000; but the figures are largely conjectural. It happens,
however, that we possess some figures that are altogether trustworthy. In
the year 1909 the Federal Government imposed a tax of one per cent. on the
net income of every corporation, joint stock company, or association,
including insurance companies, organized for profit, whenever this net
income is over $5,000. There are some other exemptions, but they are not
sufficient to demand consideration, and may be disregarded. Now we may be
absolutely certain of one thing, and that is that the net income of those
concerns will not be overestimated. Their net income may be more than what
they report for the purposes of taxation, but it surely cannot be less.
For the past year it seems probable that this tax will produce nearly
thirty-five millions of dollars net income, after deducting all expenses,
losses, depreciation, interest on debts and on deposits paid by banks, and
dividends from other companies subject to the tax.

It may be more, but it cannot be less. Here our certainty ends. Guesses
will vary, but in view of what we know in a general way of the conditions
of business during the past year, we may perhaps venture to assume that
the net income of these concerns is six per cent. of their real wealth. If
this assumption is correct, their total wealth is 60 billions of dollars,
or one half of the total wealth of the nation.

This estimate may be confirmed to some extent by other statistics. Calling
the physical value of the railroads fourteen billions, their net earnings
at five per cent. would be 700 millions, which corresponds well enough
with the figures of the government, although some railroad men would make
their net earnings much less. We do not know the net income of the untaxed
corporations. Their returns would show its amount, but the government does
not supply the information. As there must be now nearly 250,000 such
corporations, if their average income is only $2,000 a year, the total
could be $500,000,000. If it is $4,000, their income would be almost a
billion dollars. On a 5 per cent. basis, the wealth of these corporations
would be nearly 20 billion dollars. It seems, on the whole, that the
wealth held by corporations is probably more than half our total wealth
rather than less.

* * * * *

The bearing of these figures on our subject is now apparent. All of this
property is disfranchised. It is, economically, to a very great extent
disfranchised; politically, it is altogether disfranchised. What I mean by
this is that the owners of this wealth, as owners, have very little to
say, and nothing to do, about its care and management. Probably more than
half of our people are directly or indirectly interested in it as owners.
They have been attracted by a desire to share, however humbly, in big and
famous enterprises, by the freedom from liability of the portion of their
estates outside the particular investments, and by the freedom at death or
withdrawal of associates from appraisals and accountings and probable
closing of the business, as is the inevitable practice in mere
partnerships. Two centuries ago people who saved money could hardly find
ways to invest it. The practice of incorporation has enormously increased
our wealth by putting a stop to hoarding without interest, stimulating
saving, and broadening industry. The number of individual owners of the
bonds and stocks of corporations is incalculable, and their holdings added
to those of savings banks, insurance companies, trust companies and other
fiduciary institutions, churches, hospitals, and colleges, make up a total
of almost fabulous extent. It is true that large sums are loaned to
persons, and on mortgages of real estate; but for most people such
investments are not desirable or convenient, and they are altogether
inadequate to absorb the vast sums that are available. In fact probably
most investments of this character are now made by corporations who gather
the savings of little depositors and premium payers; and it would cost
much more to make them in any other way.

* * * * *

Corporations, therefore, are necessary, but they necessarily separate the
ownership of wealth from its management. To invest is generally to entrust
your money to another, and those who invest in corporations, unless they
control them, are economically disfranchised, because the stockholders in
all large corporations almost never influence the management of their
property, and as a rule do not know anything about it. They don't because
they can't. A few years ago a very large number of people were much
worried by the exposure of some scandalous doings by the managers of
certain great life-insurance companies. They would have been very glad to
combine and choose better managers if they could; but they couldn't. Laws
were passed for the purpose of enabling the policy-holders to select their
trustees, but the only result has been a ridiculous and rather expensive
fiasco. As in politics, the rank and file select the managers selected for
them by a few men who understand the situation. When many thousands of
people own stock in a concern, they live all over this continent and in
foreign parts, and it is a physical impossibility to bring them together.
They do not know one another, and very few of them know much about the
affairs of the concern, and if they know anything of the candidates that
may be suggested, it is generally only by hearsay.

How many of the eighty-eight thousand stockholders in the Pennsylvania
Railroad, for instance, have ever attended a meeting? For that matter, how
many of them have ever studied the report of the railroad? Not one in ten
could spare the time to read it, perhaps not one in a hundred could master
it. The report may be read in a few hours; it would take as many months,
if not years to verify it. Very nearly half these stockholders are women;
the average holding is 120 shares, (par $50), and one-sixth of the
stockholders own less than 10 shares each. Ten thousand of them are
abroad. Much stock is held by trustees, whose beneficiaries are probably
very numerous, and totally incompetent to understand railroad management.
There are also more than twenty thousand holders of stock in subsidiary
corporations controlled by the Pennsylvania Railroad. No one can tell the
number of bondholders; perhaps there are as many as there are employees,
making an aggregate of almost half a million.

* * * * *

Sometimes trustees abuse their office; but on the whole they have done
pretty well, and whether they have or not, there is no other way in which
large capitals can be managed. All civilization rests on confidence. Such
a vast fabric could not be built on confidence unless confidence was
deserved. As a matter of fact, a man invests his money just as he invests
in a surgeon. He does not think of directing the surgeon how to operate.
If the operation does not succeed, he tries another surgeon next time–if
there is a next time.

Of course all this applies chiefly to the large corporations. There are
many thousands of small ones, having few stockholders, who reside where
the business is established. These stockholders know more or less of the
details of the business; they can judge to some extent how it is carried
on, they are often acquainted with the managers, or are the managers
themselves, and if not, they are able sometimes to combine and change the
management. And I will anticipate a little and say here that the property
of such a corporation located in a small town is often to some extent not
politically disfranchised, because the people of the town understand that
they are directly interested in the prosperity of the business. But it
seems almost impossible for the stockholders to change the management of a
large corporation. It has been done a few times. Mr. Harriman notoriously
did it by using the money of one concern to buy the stock of another, and
that is almost the only way in which it has been done. No doubt there has
been an immense deal of combination which has resulted in change of
management, but this has not been because the stockholders combined to
oust their trustees, but because they thought they saw a good chance to
sell their stock to those who would pay high for the control, or to
participate in these combinations. There have been a good many cases where
an enterprising speculator has managed to get hold of a majority of the
stock and change the control, and powerful bankers can sometimes get
proxies enough to put a stop to bad management; but spontaneous movements
of this kind on the part of the mass of the stockholders are extremely
rare.

Beyond dispute then, the great mass of wealth held by corporations is
almost wholly under the control of their managers, and not the mass of the
owners. Mr. Hill has recently testified that he never knew a stockholder
to attend a meeting except to make trouble; by which he perhaps meant that
when a single stockholder appeared, it was to get paid for not making
trouble.

* * * * *

It need hardly be said that no such thing as legitimate representation of
corporate wealth is known in our politics, and the representation of
individual wealth is very limited. The theory of government by manhood
suffrage, so far as there is any theory, is now entirely personal. In
early times the freemen of the town, or little commune, met and legislated
according to their needs. To be a freeman one had to own property; to
"have a stake in the country." Nowadays nearly all the men who have no
property can vote, and some that have property cannot. In England, they
are doing away with "plural voters." Heretofore it was thought just, when
a man owned land in more than one place, that he should have his say in
the government of all; but this is now forbidden. The right was never
recognized in this country, partly because formerly men seldom owned
property in two places, but as transportation improved the conditions
changed. The "commuters" are legion. Their business and their capital are
under one jurisdiction and their dwellings and families under another; but
they can vote in only one. Many thousands of men own houses in both city
and country. They could help in the government of both, but are
disfranchised in one or the other. Under our complicated systems of
registration, they are often disfranchised at both.

Of course when population increases, the town meeting becomes a physical
impossibility. There is no more direct legislation; it has to be
delegated. The power is transferred to the city councils, and to the state
and national legislatures. In other words, the interests of the owners of
wealth are put in charge of trustees. According to Hamilton, the theory of
our government is that the people will "naturally" choose the wisest of
their number to represent them. There is not much basis for this
assumption. Rousseau scouted it. According to him, the _volonté générale_
could be ascertained only in the town meeting, and he seriously maintained
that the ideal government for the Roman empire was by the gangs of rioters
that the politicians marshalled in the Forum at Rome under the name of
_comitia_. All that the theory of our government requires, is that our
rulers shall be such men as are designated by the majority of the voters.
That they should be wise and good men may accord with the theory of
aristocracy; it is no part of the theory of democracy, and is certainly a
very small part of the practice.

When I say that half of the property of this country is disfranchised, I
mean that the nature of this property is such that it is peculiarly
subject to the power of rulers, and that the owners of it have hardly any
legitimate way of defending it against the arbitrary exercise of this
power. The corporation is created by the legislature; men cannot combine
their capitals and avoid unlimited liability for the debts of the
combination, unless the law specifically authorizes the proceeding. Of
course, if the legislature has power to make such grants, it must have
power to alter them. In short, property held by a corporation is held at
the will of the legislature, and in a way and to an extent that property
held by an individual is not. It is not very easy for the legislature to
plunder or blackmail individuals, even when they are disfranchised,
because it has to be done by general laws, and direct methods arouse
direct opposition. But, as we have seen, stockholders as a class cannot
defend their rights, and as things are now, their trustees cannot have
much to say concerning the laws that affect their property. Managers of
large corporations are now commonly denounced as unfit to be legislators,
and are practically excluded from the halls of legislation. In some states
they are even specifically disfranchised, so far as holding office is
concerned, and, under the new despotism, ironically dubbed the new
freedom, every man whose wealth and ability make his aid important to many
enterprises, is to be forbidden to participate in more than one. Yet
property is almost entirely subject to the disposition of the legislature!
not entirely, for the courts afford some protection; but even this is now
threatened: we may "progress" so far as to make it unconstitutional for a
judge to declare any law unconstitutional.

It goes without saying that half the property of the country will not
submit to spoliation without a struggle. If it cannot have representation
legitimately, it will try to get it illegitimately or extra legitimately.
The managers of corporations have in the past found many ways to influence
legislation. Despite the prejudices against them, some of them have had
themselves chosen as legislators; even as judges. Some have brought about
the election of legislators who would act in their favor, and have even
bribed legislators. Until recently it was not even unlawful for these
managers to use the money of their stockholders in political
contributions; some managers acted on the "Good Lord! Good Devil!"
principle. Probably most of the politicians paid no railroad fares. Many
of them got passes for their families and their friends; and it was
certainly to be expected that they should listen to the requests of those
who granted these favors. The situation became grotesque when a great
ruler, seeking a nomination to office with the proclaimed purpose of
enforcing the laws against rebates and passes, required the railroad
managers to furnish him free transportation on his righteous mission.

There were obvious objections to these practices, and public opinion
finally compelled our rulers to pass laws prohibiting them. Theoretically
the managers of corporations are now effectually disfranchised. They dare
not offer themselves as candidates for office. They scarcely dare to
favor, even secretly, the choice of rulers who will listen to them.
Fortunately, however, they hardly longer dare to offer bribes. Anyone on
friendly terms with them is politically a suspicious character. Any lawyer
who has been employed by them becomes unavailable as a candidate for
office. Our legislators, as was to be expected, at once showed the effect
of release from restraint. It has been uncharitably said that in revenge
for the loss of their passes and other favors, they attacked the
railroads; but there has been considerable voting of more mileage, and our
congressmen at least voted themselves ample indemnity in larger salaries,
and they opened fire on corporations in general and railroads in
particular, with a broadside of statutes. Against this fire the property
of millions of small holders in the corporations has been almost
defenceless. Some of these statutes are so drawn that the plain business
man does not know whether he is a criminal or not; if he could afford to
consult the best of lawyers it would not help him much. The only safe
course to pursue is to agree with the adversary quickly; to plead guilty
to whatever charge is made, and beg for mercy. That one is innocent is
immaterial. The expense of litigation is nothing to the rulers of the
United States; but it may be ruinous to their subjects. The cost of the
commissions and investigations and prosecutions of the last few years has
been enormous. Only lawyers can contemplate it without consternation.

True, the managers of large corporations can make their protests heard.
They can publish their pleas in the newspapers, and issue pamphlets, and
they can appear before committees and commissions, and submit arguments.
The managers of small corporations cannot afford such measures. You might
as well refer a servant-girl who couldn't collect her wages, to the Hague
Tribunal, as to send a plain business man to Washington to plead his
cause.

The animus of these statutes is hostility to great corporations. But it is
impossible to legislate against great corporations without hitting the
small ones. Take the case of the recent corporation income tax; the
244,000 corporations exempt from the tax had to make out their inventories
and keep their books and report their proceedings precisely as if they
were liable to the tax. A fine of from $1,000 to $10,000 and a 50 per
cent. increased assessment were the penalties for failure. But the cost of
complying with all the requirements of the law, for a corporation having
an income of two or three thousand dollars, cannot be figured at much less
than the tax. Many corporations have no net income. The managers of these
concerns are not expert book-keepers, and their returns must be in many
cases so inaccurate as to expose them to prosecution if the game were
worth the candle. If we assume that the average cost of making out the
return is only ten dollars, we have a bill of $2,400,000, which the
stockholders, or the employees, or the customers, must pay for the
privilege of demonstrating that the small corporations are not liable to
pay anything at all.

The corporation income tax law was really an act of popular dislike of
corporations exercising great monopolies. Grouping all the little
corporations with them was an absurdity and a cruelty.

Corporations have no feelings. They are not wounded by the hostility of
legislatures. The managers of corporations of large capital have feelings,
and some of them are wounded in their pride by this hostility. But they
need not suffer in their pockets. They are abundantly able to protect
their own property; they know how to make money on the short side of the
market as well as the long side. But the managers of the concerns of small
capital are seldom able to do this. Oppressive laws cause suffering to
them, to the mere holders of stock in all corporations, to the creditors
of all, to the employees, and to the customers. Many of these laws profess
to be meant to favor small people as against big people–to restrain the
rich corporations so that the poor ones may have more liberty. There is no
evidence to show that this result is attained, or that the country would
be better off if it were attained. But there is plenty of evidence to show
that half the people of the country are suffering from these legislative
attacks on their property. The men who manage the great corporations,
whatever their faults, are men of enterprise and courage. They are the
true progressives; the prosperity that they diffuse among the whole people
is ordinarily more than can be destroyed by our progressive politicians.
They are now beginning to feel that their rulers are discriminating
against them as a class, and are uneasy and disheartened, and reluctant to
embark in new enterprises; and the progress of the country is halted by
their apprehension. It is not the rich who suffer most: it is "the
unemployed," and the millions of dumb, helpless, struggling thrifty men
and women whose hard earned savings constitute a large part of the capital
of the corporations; and who are already alarmed at the shrinking value of
these savings. It is, perhaps most of all, the mass of ignorant unthrifty
poor, whose chief wealth is the wages paid them by the corporations which
they are taught to look on as their oppressors.

RAILWAY JUNCTIONS

In his illuminating essay on _The Lantern-Bearers_, Stevenson complains of
the vacuity of that view of life which he finds expressed in the pages of
most realistic writers. "This harping on life's dulness and man's meanness
is a loud profession of incompetence; it is one of two things: the cry of
the blind eye, _I cannot see_, or the complaint of the dumb tongue, _I
cannot utter_." And then, with a fine flourish, he declares:–"If I had no
better hope than to continue to revolve among the dreary and petty
businesses, and to be moved by the paltry hopes and fears with which they
surround and animate their heroes, I declare I would die now. But there
has never an hour of mine gone quite so dully yet; if it were spent
waiting at a railway junction, I would have some scattering thoughts, I
could count some grains of memory, compared to which the whole of one of
these romances seems but dross."

"If it were spent waiting at a railway junction" … Here, with his
instinct for the perfect phrase, Stevenson has pointed a finger at the one
experience which is commonly accepted as the acme of imaginable dulness.
This man, who could be happy at a railway junction, could not have found a
prouder way of boasting to posterity that he had never "faltered more or
less in his great task of happiness."

It is because railway junctions are the most unpopular places in the world
that they have been singled out for praise in THE UNPOPULAR REVIEW. Poor
places, lonely and forlorn, cursed by so many, celebrated by so
few,–surely they have waited over-long for an apologist…. But first of
all, in order to be fair, we must consider the customary view of these
points of punctuation in the text of travel.

Far up in Vermont, at a point vaguely to the east of Burlington, there is
a place called Essex Junction. It consists of a dismal shed of a station,
a bewildering wilderness of tracks, and an adjacent cemetery, thickly
populated (according to a local legend) with the bodies of people who have
died of old age while waiting for their trains. This elegiac locality was
visited, many years ago, by the Honorable E.J. Phelps, once ambassador of
the United States to the court of St. James's. He was allotted several
hours for the contemplation of the cemetery; and his consequent
meditations moved him to the composition of a poem, in four stanzas, which
is a little classic of its kind. Space is lacking for a quotation of more
than the initial stanza; but the taste of a poem, as of a pie, may
conveniently be judged from a quadrant of the whole.–

With saddened face and battered hat
And eye that told of blank despair,
On wooden bench the traveller sat,
Cursing the fate that brought him there.
"Nine hours," he cried, "we've lingered here
With thoughts intent on distant homes,
Waiting for that delusive train
That, always coming, never comes:
Till weary, worn,
Distressed, forlorn,
And paralyzed in every function!
I hope in hell
His soul may dwell
Who first invented Essex Junction!"

It was apparently the purpose of the writer to convey the impression that
his period of waiting had been passed without pleasure; but yet we may
easily confute him with another quotation from _The Lantern-Bearers_. "One
pleasure at least," says Stevenson, "he tasted to the full–his work is
there to prove it–the keen pleasure of successful literary composition."
Was this honorable author ever moved to such eloquence by an audience with
Queen Victoria? Never; so far as we know. Was not Essex Junction,
therefore, a more inspiring spot than Buckingham Palace? Undeniably. Then,
why complain of Essex Junction?

For, indeed, the pleasure that we take from places is nothing more nor
less than the pleasure we put into them. A person predisposed to boredom
can be bored in the very nave of Amiens; and a person predisposed to
happiness can be happy even in Camden, New Jersey. I know: for I have
watched American tourists in Amiens; and once, when I had gone to Camden,
to visit Walt Whitman in his granite tomb, I was wakened to a strange
exhilaration, and wandered all about that little dust-heap of a city
amazing the inhabitants with a happiness that required them to smile. "All
architecture," said Whitman, "is what you do to it when you look upon
it;… all music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the
instruments": and I must have had this passage singing in my blood when I
enjoyed that monstrous courthouse dome which stands up like a mushroom in
the midst of Camden.

I have never been to Essex Junction; but I should like to go there–just
to see (in Whitman's words) what I could do to it. Imagine it upon a windy
night of winter, when a hundred discommoded passengers are turned out,
grumbling, underneath the stars,–coughing invalids, and kicking infants,
and indignant citizens, scrambling haphazard among tottering trunks, and
picking their way from train to train. Imagine their faces, their voices,
their gesticulations: here, indeed, you will see more than a theatre-full
of characters. Or, if human beings do not interest you, imagine the
mysterious gleam of yellow windows veiled behind a drift of intermingled
smoke and steam. Listen, also, to the clang of bells, the throb and puff
of the engines, and the shrill shriek of their whistles. Or peer into the
station-shed, made stuffy by the breath of many loiterers; and contrast
their death in life with the life in death of those others who loiter
through eternity beneath the gravestones of the cemetery. I can imagine
being happy with all this (and even writing a paragraph about it
afterwards): but, above all, I should like to gather those hundred
discommoded passengers upon the station-platform, and to rehearse and lead
them in a solemn chant of the refrain of Phelps's poem. Imagine a hundred
voices singing lustily in unison,

"I hope in hell
His soul may dwell
Who first invented Essex Junction,"

under the vast cathedral vaulting of the night, until the adjacent dead
should seem to stand up in their graves and join the anthem of
anathema…. Who is there so bold to tell me that enjoyment is impossible
in such a place as this?

There is very little difference between places, after all: the true
difference is between the people who regard them. I should rather read a
description of Hoboken by Rudyard Kipling than a description of Florence
by some New England schoolmarm. To the poet, all places are poetical; to
the adventurous, all places are teeming with adventure: and to experience
a lack of joy in any place is merely a sign of sluggish blood in the
beholder.

So, at least, it seems to me; for not otherwise can I explain the fact
that, like my beloved R.L.S., I have always enjoyed waiting at railway
junctions. I love not merely the marching phrases, but also the commas and
the semi-colons of a journey,–those mystic moments when "we look before
and after" and need not "pine for what is not." I have never done much
waiting in America, which is in the main a country of express trains, that
hurl their lighted windows through the night like what Mr. Kipling calls
"a damned hotel;" but there is scarcely a country of Europe except Russia
whose railway junctions are unknown to me. In many of these little
nameless places I have experienced memorable hours: and because the less
enthusiastic Baedeker has neglected to star and double-star them, I have
always wanted to praise them, in print somewhat larger than his own. Space
is lacking in the present article for a complete guide to all the railway
junctions of Europe; but I should like to commemorate a few, in gratitude
for what befell me there.

There is a junction in Bavaria whose name I have forgotten; but it is very
near Rothenburg, the most picturesquely medieval of all German cities. It
consists merely of a station and two intersecting tracks. When you enter
the station, you observe what seems to be a lunch-counter; but if you step
up to it and innocently order food, a buxom girl informs you that no food
is ever served there–and then everybody laughs. This pleasant
cachinnation attracts your attention to the assembled company. It consists
of many peasants, in their native costumes (which any painter would be
willing to journey many miles to see), who are enjoying the delicious
experience of travel. They are great travelers, these peasants. Once a
month they take the train to Rothenburg, and once a month they journey
home again, to talk of the experience for thirty days. All of them have
heard of Nuremberg [which is actually less than a hundred miles
away],–that vast and wonderful metropolis, so far, so very far, beyond
the ultimate horizon of their lives. They would like to see it some
day–as I should like to see the Taj Mahal–but meanwhile they content
themselves with the great adventure of going to Rothenburg,–a city that
is really much more interesting, if they could only know. In the very
midst of these congregated travelers, I casually set down a suit-case
which was plastered over with many labels from many lands; and this
suit-case affected them as I might be affected by a messenger from Mars.
They spelled out many unfamiliar languages, and a murmur of amazement
swept through the entire company when one of them discovered that that
suit-case had been to Morocco. Morocco, they assured me, was a place where
black men rode on camels; and I had no heart to tell them that it was a
country where white men rode on mules. Then another of these travelers–an
old man, with a face like one of Albrecht Dürer's drawings–discovered a
label that read "Venezia." "Is that," he said, "Venedig?" with a little
gasp. "Yes; Venedig," I responded, "where the streets are water." Slowly
he removed his hat. "Ach, Venedig!" he sighed; and then he stooped down,
and, with the uttermost solemnity, he kissed the label…. And then I
understood the vast impulsion of that _wanderlust_ which has pushed so
many, many Germans southward, to overrun that golden city that is wedded
to the sea. I have forgotten the name of that junction, as I said before;
but I have never been so happy in Munich as in this lonely station where
there is no food.

Speaking of food reminds me of Bobadilla, in southern Spain. Bobadilla
sounds as if it ought to be the name of a medieval town, with ghosts of
gaunt imaginative knights riding forth to tilt with windmills; but there
is no town at all at Bobadilla,–merely two railway restaurants set on
either side of several intersecting tracks. For some mysterious reason,
passengers from the four quarters of the compass–that is to say, from
Cordoba, Granada, Algeciras, or Sevilla–are required to alight here, and
eat, and change their trains. I remember Bobadilla as the place where you
spend your counterfeit money. Many of the current coins of southern Spain
are made of silver; and the rest are made of lead. For leaden five-peseta
pieces there is a local name, "Sevillan dollars," which ascribes their
coinage to the crafty artisans of the capital of Andalucia. These pieces,
which are plentiful, are just as good as silver dollars–when you can
persuade anyone to take them. The currency of any coinage, except gold,
depends entirely upon the faith of those who pass and take it and has no
reference to its intrinsic value; and, in southern Spain, the leaden
dollars serve as counters for just as many commercial transactions as the
dollars made of silver. The only difference is that they are commonly
accepted only after protest. In every Spanish shop, a slab of marble is
built into the counter, and on this slab all proffered coins are slapped
before they are accepted by the merchant. The traveler soon learns to
fling his change upon the pavement; and many merry arguments ensue
regarding the _timbre_ of their ring. I remember how once, in the wondrous
town of Ronda, when a beggar had imposed himself upon me as a guide and
led me into a church where High Mass was being chanted, I gave him a
peseta to get rid of him, and at once he flung it upon the pavement of the
church, and chased it, listening, across the nave. Thereafter, he
protested loudly that the piece was lead, and disrupted the intoning of
the priests. "Very well," said I, "it is, in any case, a gift; if you
don't want it, I will take it back": and he accepted it with bows and
smiles, and allowed the weary priests to continue their intonings. But
Bobadilla is the one place in southern Spain where money is never jingled
upon marble. There is no time between trains to quibble over minor
matters; and a "Sevillan dollar" accepted from one passenger is blithely
handed to another who is traveling in the opposite direction. I discovered
this fact on the occasion of my first visit to this interesting junction;
and on subsequent occasions I have eaten my fill at one or another of the
railway restaurants and settled the account with all the leaden money
garnered up from weeks of traveling. There is surely no dishonesty in
observing the custom of a country; and Bobadilla may be treasured by all
travelers as a clearing-house for counterfeit coins.

Again, in northern France, it was merely by some accident of changing
trains that I discovered the lovely little town of Dol. I found myself in
Saint Malo, for obvious reasons; and I desired to go to Mont Saint-Michel,
for reasons still more obvious–Mother Poulard's omelettes, and
architecture, and the incoming of the tide. Between them–the map told
me–was situated Dol. I made inquiries of the porter in the Saint Malo
hotel. He responded in English,–the English of _Ici on parle anglais_.
"Dol," said he, "is a dull place." He pronounced "Dol" and "dull" in
precisely the same manner, and smiled at his sickly pun. I did not like
that smile; and I alighted at the town that he despised. It was a little
picture-book of a place, with many toy-like medieval houses clustered side
by side around a market-place where peasants twisted the tails of cows. I
strolled to the cathedral–and found myself mysteriously in England. It
was a manly Norman edifice, sane and reticent and strong, set in a
veritable English green, with little houses round about, reminding one of
Salisbury. I entered the Cathedral; and found the nave to be composed in
what is called in England the "decorated" style, and the choir to give
hints of "perpendicular." And then I remembered, with a start, that the
ancestors of all that is most beautiful in England had migrated from
Normandy, and that here I was visiting them in their antecedent home.
"Saxon and Norman and Dane are we;" and all that was Norman in me reached
forth with groping hands to grasp the palms of those old builders who
reared this little sacrosanct cathedral in the far-off times when one
dominion extended to either side of the English Channel.

It was by a similar accident–desiring to transfer myself from Bourges to
Auxerre–that I discovered the wonderful junction-town of Nevers, which,
despite the guide-books, is more interesting than either of the others. It
possesses a Gothic cathedral with an apse at either end, that looks as if
two churches had collided and telescoped each other. There is also a
Romanesque church at Nevers which is just as simple and as manly as either
of the famous abbeys in Caen; and a chateau with rounded towers, which
once belonged to Mazarin. But the most amusing feature of this town is
that, though Bourges packs itself to bed at ten o'clock, Nevers sits
blithely up till twelve, listening to music in cafés, and watching
moving-pictures; and this amiable incongruity in a medieval town makes you
bless that complication of the time-table which has forced you, against
forethought, to stay there over night.

It is difficult for me to remember a railway junction in which there was
nothing to do; but perhaps Pyrgos, in Greece, comes nearest to this
description. At this point, you change cars on your way from Patras to
Olympia. The town is made of mud: that is to say, the single-storied
houses are built of unbaked clay. There is nothing to see in Pyrgos. But I
amused myself by addressing the inhabitants, in the English language, with
an eloquent oration that soon gathered them under my control; and
thereafter I set a hundred of them at the pleasant task of trying to push
the train for Olympia on its way to take me to the Hermes of Praxiteles. I
knew no word of their language, nor did they of mine; but they understood
that that train should be started, if human force were sufficient to help
the cars upon their way: and finally, when the engine puffed and snorted
with a tardily awakened sense of duty, the train was cheered by the entire
population as I waved my hand from the rear platform and quoted one of
Daniel Webster's perorations.

* * * * *

Is it–I have often wondered–so difficult as people think, to be happy in
an hour "spent waiting at a railway junction"?… The kingdom of happiness
is within us; or else there is no truth in our assumption that the will of
man is free: and I am inclined to pity a man who, being happy in
Amalfi–the loveliest of all the places I have ever seen–cannot also
manage to be happy in Pyrgos–or in Essex Junction–and to communicate his
happiness to his responsive fellow-travelers.

The true enjoyment of traveling is to enjoy traveling; not to relish
merely the places you are going to, but to relish also the adventure of
the going. The most difficult train-journey I remember is the twenty-hour
trip from Lisbon to Sevilla, with a change of cars in the ghastly early
morning at the border-town of Badajoz and another change at noon at the
sun-baked, parched, and God-forsaken town of Merida; and yet I relish as
red letters on my personal map of Spain a pleasant quarrel over the price
of sandwiches at Badajoz and the way a muleteer of Merida flung a colored
cloak over his shoulder and posed for an unconscious moment like a
painting by Zuloaga.

And this philosophy has a deeper application to life at large: for all
life may be figured as a journey, and few there are who are natively
equipped for the enjoyment of all the waste and waiting places on the way.
The minds of most people are so fixed upon the storied capitals that are
featured in those works of fiction known as guidebooks that they are
impeded from enjoying the minor stations on their journey. "Hurry me to
Sevilla," cries the traveler–and misses the sight of my muleteer of
Merida. In America, our society is crammed with people who fail to enjoy
life on five thousand a year because their minds are fixed upon that
distant time when they hope to enjoy life on twenty thousand a year. And
if ever they attain that twenty thousand they will not enjoy it either;
but will merely peer forward to a hypothetical enjoyment at fifty thousand
a year. And this is the essence of their tragedy:–they have not learned
to wait with happiness.

Is there any reason for this inordinate ambition to "get on"? Louis
Stevenson was happier, as a small boy with a bull's-eye lantern at his
belt, than any king upon his throne. The secret of enjoyment is to learn
to look about us, to value what our destiny has given us, to transform it
into magic by some contributory gift of poetry or humor, to consider with
contentment the lilies of the field. The zest of life is in the living of
it; and "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."

How often, in the roaring and tumultuary tide of life, we meet a man who
sighs, "If only I could have a single day in which there was nothing that
I had to do, nothing even that I had to think of, how happy I should be!"
and yet this self-same man, if set down at a railway junction, will at
once bestir himself to seek something to think of, something to do, and
will spurn the gift of leisure. The incessant hurry of our current life
has tragically lured us to forget the art of loitering. We are no longer
able–like Wordsworth, on his "old gray stone"–to sit upon a trunk at
some railway junction of our lives and listen reverently to the "mighty
sum of things forever speaking."

One of the loveliest women I have ever known–the late Alison
Cunningham–told me a little anecdote of the author of _The
Lantern-Bearers_ which, so far as I know, has never yet been published.
When little Louis was about five years old, he did something naughty, and
Cummy stood him up in a corner and told him he would have to stay there
for ten minutes. Then she left the room. At the end of the allotted
period, she returned and said, "Time's up, Master Lou: you may come out
now." But the little boy stood motionless in his penitential corner.
"That's enough: time's up," repeated Cummy. And then the child mystically
raised his hand, and with a strange light in his eyes, "Hush…," he said,
"I'm telling myself a story…."

And, in the _Christian Morals_ of Sir Thomas Browne, we may read the
following passage:–"He who must needs have company, must needs have
sometimes bad company. Be able to be alone. Lose not the advantage of
solitude, and the society of thyself; nor be only content, but delight to
be alone and single with Omnipresency. He who is thus prepared, the day is
not uneasy nor the night black unto him. Darkness may bound his eyes, not
his imagination. In his bed he may lie, like Pompey and his sons, in all
quarters of the earth; may speculate the universe, and enjoy the whole
world in the hermitage of himself."

Wordsworth sitting quiescent and receptive in a lakeside landscape, little
Louis standing in a corner, Sir Thomas Browne enjoying the whole world in
the hermitage of himself:–what a rebuke is offered by these images to
those who fret and fume away the leisure that is granted them at all the
waiting places of their lives!… These disgruntled travelers _nel mezzo
del cammin di nostra vita_ miss their privilege and duty of enjoying life
merely because they miss the point that life is, in itself, enjoyable.
They are so busy reading guide-books to the vague beyond that they shut
their minds to all that may be going on about them, or within them, at
way-stations. They close their eyes and ears to the immediate. They veto
all perception of the here and now. But life itself is always here and
now; and, truly to enjoy it, we must learn to look forever with
unfaltering eyes into the bright face of immediacy.

* * * * *

And there is another point about railway junctions that reveals an
important application to the larger journey of our life. A friend of mine,
who is a great lover of painting, had occasion once (and only once) to
change trains at Basle, in the course of a journey from Lucerne to
Heidelberg. He had to wait two hours at this railway junction; and this
time he pleasantly expended in eating many dishes at a restaurant, and
amusing the lax porters by teaching them a method of economizing energy in
shifting trunks. It should be noted that this friend of mine was not
trying to "kill time;" for, like all genuine humanitarians, he of course
regards that tragic process as the least excusable of murders. He was
entirely happy for two hours in that railway station. But–having packed
his guide-book in a trunk–it was not until he reached Darmstadt, some
days later, that he discovered that several of the very greatest works of
Holbein are now resident in Basle. The two hours that he had spent playing
and eating might have been devoted to an examination of many masterpieces
of that art which, more than any other, he had crossed the seas to seek.
He has never yet been able to return to Basle; but for a sight of those
lost portraits of the most honest and straightforward of all German
painters, he would gladly sell his memories of both Lucerne and
Heidelberg.

Here we have a record of a great disappointment that was occasioned merely
by the common habit of despising railway junctions, and presuming them to
be inevitably dull. But this same unfortunate presumption, applied to life
at large, leads many people to overlook the nearness of some great
adventure. Interrogate a thousand men, and you will find that none of them
has first set eyes upon his greatest friend in the Mosque of Cordoba or in
Trafalgar Square. Every adventure of lasting consequence has confronted
all of them, without exception, in some hidden nook or cranny of the
world,–some place unknown to fame. Anybody is as likely to meet the woman
who is destined to become his wife, at Essex Junction on a wintry night,
as in the Parthenon by moonlight in the month of May. The most romantic
places in the world are often those that promised, in advance, to be the
least romantic.

Since this is so, how can anybody ever dare to shut his eyes to that
incalculable imminency of adventure which environs him even when he is
merely changing trains on some island-platform of the New York Subway? In
our daily living we are never safe from destiny; and who can ever know in
what vacuous and sedentary period of his experience he may suddenly be
called upon to entertain an angel unawares? It is best to be prepared for
anything, at any hour of our lives,–even at those moments that must,
perforce, be "spent waiting at a railway junction."

MINOR USES OF THE MIDDLING RICH

To assert today that the rich are for the most part entirely harmless is
to dare much, for the contrary opinion is greatly in favor. Such wholesale
condemnation of the rich assumes a more general and a more specific form.
They are said to be harmful to the body politic simply because they have
more money than the average: their property has been wrongly taken from
persons who have a better right to it, or is withheld from people who need
it more. But aside from being constructively a moral detriment from the
mere possession of wealth, the rich man may do specific harm through
indulging his vices, maintaining an inordinate display, charging too much
for his own services, crushing his weaker competitor, corrupting the
legislature and the judiciary, finally by asserting flagrantly his right
to what he erroneously deems to be his own. Such are the general and
specific charges of modern anti-capitalism against wealth. Like many deep
rooted convictions, these rest less on analysis of particular instances
than upon axioms received without criticism. The word spoliation does
yeoman service in covering with one broad blanket of prejudice the most
diverse cases of wealth. But spoliation is assumed, not proved. My own
conviction that most wealth is quite blameless, whether under the general
or specific accusation, is based on no comprehensive axiom, but simply on
the knowledge of a number of particular fortunes and of their owners. Such
a road towards truth is highly unromantic. The student of particular
phenomena is unable to pose as the champion of the race. But the method
has the modest advantage of resting not on a priori definitions, but on
inductions from actual experience; hence of being relatively scientific.

Before sketching the line of such an investigation, let me say that in
logic and common sense there is no presumption against the wealthy person.
Ever since civilization began and until yesterday it has been assumed that
wealth was simply ability legitimately funded and transmitted. Even modern
humanitarians, while dallying with the equation wealth = spoliation, have
been unwilling wholly to relinquish the historic view of the case. I have
always admired the courage with which Mr. Howells faced the situation in
one of those charming essays for the Easy Chair of _Harper's_. Driving one
night in a comfortable cab he was suddenly confronted by the long drawn
out misery of the midnight bread line. For a moment the vision of these
hungry fellow men overcame him. He felt guilty on his cushions, and
possibly entertained some St. Martin-like project of dividing his
swallowtail with the nearest unfortunate. Then common sense in the form of
his companion came to his rescue. She remarked "Perhaps we are right and
they are wrong." Why not? At any rate Mr. Howells was not permitted to
condemn in a moment of compassion the career of thrift, industry and
genius, that had led him from a printer's case to a premier position in
American letters, or, more concretely, he received a domestic dispensation
to cab it home in good conscience, though many were waiting in chilly
discomfort for their gift of yesterday's bread. The why so and why not of
this incident are my real subject. For Mr. Howells is merely a
particularly conspicuous instance of the kind of prosperity I have in
mind. We are all too much dazzled by the rare great fortunes. The newly
rich have spectacular ways with them. By dint of frequently passing us in
notorious circumstances, they give the impression of a throng. They are
much in the papers, their steam yachts loom large on the waters, they
divorce quickly and often, they buy the most egregious, old masters. By
such more or less innocent ostentations, a handful stretches into a
procession, much as a dozen sprightly supernumeraries will keep up an
endless defile of Macduff's army on the tragic stage. Let us admit that
some of the great wealth is more or less foolishly and harmfully spent; my
subject is not bank accounts, but people; and very wealthy people
constitute an almost negligible minority of the race. Their influence too
is much less potent than is supposed. A slightly vulgarizing tendency
proceeds from them, but in waves of decreasing intensity. Their vogue is
chiefly a _succès de scandale_. Sensible people will gape at the spectacle
without admiration, and even the reader of the society column in the
sensational newspapers keeps more critical detachment than he is usually
credited with. In any case neither the boisterous nor the shrinking
multimillionaire has any representative standing. He is not what a poor
person means by a rich person. Ask your laundress who is rich in your
neighborhood, and she will name all who live gently and do not have to
worry about next month's bills. True pragmatist, she sees that to be
exempt from any threat of poverty is to all intents and purposes to be
rich. Her classification ignores certain niceties, but corresponds roughly
to the fact, and has the merit of corresponding to government decree. Rich
people, since the income tax, are officially those who pay the tax but not
the surtax. Families with an income not less than four thousand dollars
nor more than twenty thousand comprise the harmless, middling rich. Let us
once for all admit that in the surtaxed classes there are many cases of
quite harmless wealth, while in the lower level of the rich, harmful
wealth will sometimes be found. Such exceptions do not invalidate the
general rule that all but a negligible fraction of the rich are included
in the first class of income taxpayers–on from four to twenty thousand,
that most of the property here held is blamelessly held in good
hands–wealth that in no fair estimate can be regarded as harmful. In
terms of British currency, our category of the middling rich would include
the poorer individuals of the upper classes, the richer persons of the
lower middle class, and the upper middle class as a whole. This comparison
is made not to apply an alien class system which holds very inadequately
here in America, but simply to avow the difficulty of my task of apology.
The bourgeoisie is equally suspect among radicals, reactionaries, and
artists. My middling rich are nothing other than what an European essayist
would quite brazenly call the _haute bourgeoisie_. It is quite a
comprehensive class, made up chiefly of professional men, moderately
successful merchants, manufacturers, and bankers with their more highly
paid employees, but including also many artists, and teachers of all
sorts. Incidentally it is an employing and borrowing class in various
degrees, hence especially subject to the exactions of the labor union at
one end, and of the great capitalist and the Trust at the other.

The general harmlessness of the wealth of this class rests upon the fact
that it is in small part inherited, but mostly earned by individual
effort, while such effort has usually been honestly and efficiently
rendered and paid for at a moderate rate. In fact the amount of capacity
that can be hired for the slightest rewards is simply amazing. It is the
distinction of this class as compared both with the wage earning and the
capitalist class–both of which agree in overvaluing their services and
extorting payment on their own terms–that it respects its work more than
it regards rewards. Consider the amount of general education and special
training that go to make a capable school superintendent, or college
professor; a good country doctor or clergyman–and it will be felt that no
money is more honestly earned. This is equally true of many lawyers and
magistrates, who are wise counsellors for an entire country side. It is no
less true of hosts of small manufacturers who make a superior product with
conscience. For the wealth, small enough it usually is, that is thus
gained in positions of especial skill and confidence, absolutely no
apology need be made. I sometimes wish that the Socialists for whom any
degree of wealth means spoliation, would go a day's round with a country
doctor, would take the pains to learn of the cases he treats for half his
fee, for a nominal sum, or for nothing; would candidly reckon his normal
fee against the long years of college, medical school and hospital, and
against the service itself; would then deduct the actual expenses of the
day, as represented by apparatus, motor, or horse service–I can only say
that if such an investigator could in any way conceive that physician as a
spoliator, because he earned twice as much as a master brick-layer or five
times as much as a ditch digger–if, I say, before the actual fact, our
Socialist investigator in any way grudges that day's earnings, his mental
and emotional confusion is beyond ordinary remedy. And such a physician's
earnings are merely typical of those of an entire class of devoted
professional men.

We do well to remind ourselves that the great body of wealth in the
country has been built up slowly and honestly by the most laborious means,
and accumulated and transmitted by self-sacrificing thrift. A rich person
in nine cases out of ten is merely a capable, careful, saving person,
often, too, a person who conducts a difficult calling with a fine sense of
personal honor and a high standard of social obligation. We are too much
dazzled by the occasional apparition of the lawyer who has got rich by
steering guilty clients past the legal reefs, of the surgeon who plays
equally on the fears and the purses of his patients, of the sensational
clergyman who has made full coinage of his charlatanism. All these types
exist, and all are highly exceptional. Most rich persons are
self-respecting, have given ample value received for their wealth, and
have less reason to apologize for it than most poor folks have to
apologize for their poverty.

Furthermore: for the maintenance of certain humdrum but necessary human
virtues, we are dependent upon these middling rich. It has been frequently
remarked that a lord and a working man are likely to agree, as against a
bourgeois, in generosity, spontaneous fellowship, and all that goes to
make sporting spirit. The right measure of these qualities makes for charm
and genuine fraternity; the excess of these qualities produces an enormous
amount of human waste among the wage earners and the aristocrats
impartially. The great body of self-controlled, that is of reasonably
socialized people, must be sought between these two extremes. In short the
building up of ideals of discipline and of habits of efficiency and of
good manners and of human respect is very largely the task of the middle
classes. Whereas the breaking down of such ideals is, in the present
posture of society, the avowed or unavowed intention of a considerable
portion of laboring men and aristocrats. The scornful retort of the
Socialist is at hand: "Of course the middle classes are shrewd enough to
practice the virtues that pay." Into this familiar moral bog that there
are as many kinds of morality as there are economic conditions of mankind,
I do not consent to plunge. I need only say that the so-called middle
class virtues would pay a workman or a lord quite as well as they do a
bourgeois. Moreover, while workmen and lords are prone to scorn the
calculating virtues of the middle classes, there is no indication that the
_bourgeoisie_ has selfishly tried to keep its virtues to itself. On the
contrary there is positive rejoicing in the middle classes over a workman
who deigns to keep a contract, and an aristocrat who perceives the duty of
paying a debt. In fine we of the middle classes need no more be ashamed of
our highly unpicturesque virtues than we are of our inconspicuous wealth.

So far from being in danger of suppression, we middling rich people are
likely to last longer than the capitalists who exploit us in practice, and
the workmen who exploit us on principle. Theoretically, and perhaps
practically, the very rich are in danger of expropriation. Theoretically
the course of invention may limit or almost abolish all but the higher
grades of labor. The need of the more skilful sort of service in the
professions, in manufacture, in agency of all sorts, is sure to persist.
The socialists expect to get such service for much less than it at present
brings, that is to make us poor and yet keep us working. Such a scheme
must break down, not through the refusal of the middling rich to keep at
work;–for I think there is loyalty enough to the work itself to keep most
necessary activities going after a fashion, even under the most untoward
conditions;–but because to make us poor is to destroy the conditions
under which we can efficiently render a somewhat exceptional service. Our
wealth is not an extraneous thing that can be readily added or taken away.
It is our possibility of self-education and of professional improvement,
it is the medium in which we can work, it is our hope of children. To take
away our wealth is to maim us. There is nothing humiliating in such an
avowal. It is merely an assertion of the integrity of one's life and work.
As a matter of fact no class is so well fitted to face the threat of a
proletarian revolution as we harmless rich. It is the class that produces
generals, explorers, inventors, statesmen. A social revolution with its
stern attendant regimentation would bear most heavily on the relatively
undisciplined class of working people. The disciplined class of the
middling rich is better prepared to meet such an eventuality. Accordingly
it is no mere selfishness or complacency that leads the middling rich to
oppose the pretensions of proletarianism on one side and of capitalism on
the other. It is rather the assertion of sound middle class morality
against two opposite yet somewhat allied forms of social immorality–the
strength that exaggerates its claims, and the weakness that claims all the
privileges of strength.

We are useful too as conserving certain valuable ideas. When I mention the
idea of the right of private property, I expect to be laughed at by a
large class of enthusiasts. Yet all of civilization has been built up on
the distinction between _meum_ and _tuum_. Without this idea there is not
the slightest inducement to persistent individual effort nor possibility
of progress for the individual or for the race. The fruitful diversities,
the germinative inequalities between men all depend on this right. And
today the right to one's own is doubly under attack from the violence of
laboring men, and the guile of those in positions of financial trust. The
strikers who offer as an argument the burning of a mine or wrecking of a
mill, and the directors who manipulate corporation accounts to pay
unearned dividends, are both undermining the right of property. Against
such counsels of force and fraud, the representatives of the common sense
and funded wisdom of mankind are the middling rich. It is an unromantic
service–doubtless breaking other people's windows or scaling their bank
accounts is much more thrilling–it is a public service obviously tinged
with self-interest, but none the less a public service of high and timely
importance. The business of keeping the sanity of the world intact as
against the wilder expressions of social discontent, and the uglier
expressions of personal envy and greed, may seem to lack zest and
originality today. History may well take a different view of the matter.
It would not be surprising to find a posthumous aureole of idealism
conferred upon those who amid the trumpeting of money market messiahs, and
the braying of self-appointed remodellers of the race, simply stood
quietly on their own inherited rights and principles.

Such are some not wholly minor uses for the middling rich. Should they be
abolished, many of the pleasanter facts and appearances of the world would
disappear with them. The other day I whisked in one of their motor cars
through miles of green Philadelphia suburbs dappled with pink magnolia
trees and white fruit blossoms–everywhere charming houses, velvety lawns,
tidy gardens. The establishing of a little paradise like that is of course
a selfish enterprise–a mere meeting of the push and foresight of real
estate operators with the thrift and sentiment of householders, yet it is
an advantage inevitably shared, a benefit to the entire community, an
example in reasonable working, living, and playing.

On the side of play we should especially miss these harmless rich. The
sleek horses on a thousand bridle paths and meadows are theirs, the
smaller winged craft that still protest against the pollution of the sea
by the reek of coal and the stench of gasoline; of their furnishing are
the graceful and widely shared spectacles not only of the minor yacht
racing but of the field sports generally. They constitute our militia. The
survival in the world of such gentler accomplishments as fencing,
canoeing, and exploration rests with the middling rich. They write our
books and plays, compose our music, paint our pictures, carve our statues.
The pleasanter unconscious pageantry of our life is conducted by their
sons and daughters. To be nice, to indulge in nice occupations, to express
happiness–this is not even today a reproach to any one. Indeed if any
approach to the dreamed socialized state ever be made, it will come less
through regimentation than through imitation of those persons of middle
condition who have managed to be reasonably faithful in their duties, and
moderate in their pleasures. To keep a clean mind in a clean body is the
prerogative of no class, but the lapses from this standard are
unquestionably more frequent among the poor and the very rich.

It is instructive in this regard to compare with the newspapers that serve
the middling rich, those that address the poor, and those that are owned
in the interest of well understood capitalistic interests. The extremes of
yellow journalism and of avowedly capitalistic journalism, meet in a
preference for salacious or merely shocking news, and in a predilection
for blatant, sophistical, or merely nugatory and time-serving editorial
expressions. Between the two really allied types of newspapers are a few
which exercise a decent censorship over questionable news, and habitually
indulge in the luxury of sincere editorial opinion. There are some
exceptions to the rule. In our own day we have seen a proletarian paper
become a magnificent editorial organ, while somewhat illogically
maintaining a random and sensational policy in its news columns. But
generally the distinction is unmistakable. Imagine the plight of New York
journalism if four papers, which I need not mention, ceased publication.
It would mean a distinct and immediate cheapening of the mentality of the
city. Then observe on any train who are reading these papers. It is plain
enough what class among us makes decent journalism possible.