y of Burnellus, the ass whose tail was
too short.[258]

Burnellus, type of the ambitious monk, escapes from his stable, and
wishes to rise in the world. He consults Galen, who laughs at him, and
sends him to Salerno.[259] At Salerno he is again made a fool of, and
provided with elixirs, warranted to make his tail grow to a beautiful
length. But in passing through Lyons on his return, he quarrels with the
dogs of a wicked monk called Fromond; while kicking right and left he
kicks off his vials, which break, while Grimbald, the dog, cuts off half
his tail. A sad occurrence! He revenges himself on Fromond, however, by
drowning him in the Rhone, and, lifting up his voice, he makes then the
valley ring with a "canticle" celebrating his triumph.[260]

What can he do next? It is useless for him to think of attaining
perfection of form; he will shine by his science; he will go to the
University of Paris, that centre of all light; he will become
"Magister," and be appointed bishop. The people will bow down to him as
he passes; it is a dream of bliss, La Fontaine's story of the "Pot au
Lait."

He reaches Paris, and naturally matriculates among the English nation.
He falls to studying; at the end of a year he has been taught many
things, but is only able to say "ya" (semper ya repetit). He continues
to work, scourges himself, follows the lectures for many years, but
still knows nothing but "ya," and remains an ass.[261] What then? He
will found an abbey, the rule of which shall combine the delights of all
the others: it will be possible to gossip there as at Grandmont, to
leave fasting alone as at Cluny, to dress warmly as among the
Premonstrant, and to have a female friend like the secular canons; it
will be a Theleme even before Rabelais.

But suddenly an unexpected personage appears on the scene, the donkey's
master, Bernard the peasant, who had long been on the look-out for him,
and by means of a stick the magister, bishop, mitred abbot, is led back
to his stall.

Not satisfied with the writing of Latin poems, the subjects of the
English kings would construct theories and establish the rules of the
art. It was carrying boldness very far; they did not realise that
theories can only be laid down with safety in periods of maturity, and
that in formulating them too early there is risk of propagating nothing
but the rules of bad taste. This was the case with Geoffrey de Vinesauf,
at the beginning of the thirteenth century. Ge