Literary Fables of Yriarte Part 9

Then the Ox answered,--"Sure, my little lady, If every other furrow were not drawn straight, You never would perceive that this was crooked; Stop, then, reproaches so unjust and futile; For well I serve my master, and he heeds not A single failure, in so much accomplished."

Now let the captious critic that presumeth,-- Vain Gra.s.shopper, the useful Ox reproaching,-- To drag to light, from works of sterling merit, Some petty blemish, take to himself our meaning.

FABLE x.x.xVIII.

THE MACAW AND THE MARMOT.

A brilliantly-colored Macaw, A wandering clown, near the spot Where she hung in a balcony, saw-- A Savoyard, more likely than not.

He was showing--a penny to gain-- An animal ugly and squat; Which he lauded in high-sounding strain The creature, it was a Marmot.

The absurd little beast, at his word, Came out of his box into sight; When unto him said our gay bird: "This matter amazes me quite,

That men give their money, to see Such a comical creature as you, When they freely may look upon me, Clad in plumage of exquisite hue.

You may be, for aught that I know, Some creature of value untold; But for me, 'tis enough that you show Yourself to all comers, for gold."

A scribbler, who heard the remark, Hung his head, and went sneaking away Because, for his low, dirty work, He was kept by a printer in pay.

FABLE x.x.xIX.

THE PORTRAIT.

A spreading contagion, defacing our tongue With phrases outlandish, our critics bemoan.

But some fools have their notions of purity hung Upon obsolete terms superseding our own.

Living words they despise as a vulgar intrusion, And forgotten ones rake from oblivion's gloom.

For a word of advice on such stupid conclusion, In phrase like their own, we here must find room; In two dialects, jostling in motley confusion.

Of our own times a Painter--who jealousy felt That some portraits antique, of a day long bygone From the connoisseurs won both lauding and gelt-- Determined to make some antiques of his own.

So essaying, one day, the portrait to limn Of a certain rich man, in high estimate held, He deemed that a dress of antiquity grim Would give to his limning the impress of eld.

For a second Velasquez he counted to stand-- When the traits of the sitter, to perfect content, Having deftly depicted--with grave collar and band, And glittering gauds, he a costume besprent That had figured, whilom, as stately and grand.

To his patron the work he carries with speed.

He, his form thus yclad with wonderment saw; By such odd gear full sorely astounded, I rede,-- Though the face of the portrait showed dainty and braw.

This antick his patron, to quip him, devised-- The Painter a guerdon to grant, to his gree--In a chest, as heir-loom from his ancestry prized, Some old coins had been lying for centuries three; Of the first of the Charles' and fifth Ferdinand, Of Philip the second and Philip the third: A purse full of these he placed in the hand Of the Painter abashed--but ne'er said a word.

"With these coin--or, as certes, I rather might say-- These medals, to market if I chance for to his,"-- Quoth our limner,--"when victuals I needed, I pray, How, with such, could I chaffer my cheer to supply?

"But sith," said the other, "you've pranked me out there In a guise, that was once brave and lordly,--'tis true, But which no living man but a beadle would wear; As you 've painted me, so I have paid you.

Take your picture again, and paint round my throat A cravat, instead of that collar and band--Yon satin slashed doublet exchange for my coat, And my rapier, too, for that basket-hilt brand; Not one, in the city's whole compa.s.s, there is Who, in trappings like these, would guess at my phiz.

Paint me like myself, and the price I'll lay down In good money, current in country or town."

Hold, now. If we laugh at the farcical notion Of this modern Painter, and deem it so droll, Why may we not laugh at the Author's devotion, His ideas who drapes in antiquity's stole;-- Who shocks us with phrases all mouldy with age; Thinks oddity graceful;--and purity's self Considers his style, when he darkens his page With expressions forgotten and laid on the shelf;-- And believes that no term by pure taste is forbid, If it only were good in the time of the Cid?

FABLE XL.

THE TWO INNS.

Coming to a little town, The mountain's skirts within, Two youthful travellers, seeking rest, Looked round them for an Inn.

Of two rival Inns, the host, Each, with a thousand offers, Did the wayfarers accost.

To give offence to neither Was their natural desire; So, in the house of either, Apartments one doth hire.

Of the mansions twain, Each guest chooseth, for himself, In which he will remain.

To a house that stretched Around its ample courts.

Its broad front palatial, One traveller resorts.

A quartered scutcheon shone Over the lofty gate, Sculptured deep in stone.

Less grand the other Inn Appeared unto the sight, But, comfort and good cheer within Its patron's trust requite.

Chambers, its walls did screen, Of pleasant temperature, All light, and bright, and clean.

But its rival, the huge palace, With its architecture bold, Was narrow, dark and dirty, And miserably cold.

A portal tall and sightly,-- Within inclement garrets, With tiled roof covered slightly.

Its inmate comfortless, Did a weary sojourn make; And bewailed unto his comrade, Next day, his sad mistake.

His friend thus answer gives: "In like manner many a book Its reader's hopes deceives."

FABLE XLI.

THE TEA-PLANT AND SAGE.