ends
the tragedy by running over an only child; and there is some little
pathetic detail here introduced in the telling, that makes the reader's
indignation very white-hot against some one. It remains to be seen who
that some one is to be: the fly? Nay, but on closer inspection, it
appears that the fly, actuated by maternal instinct, was only seeking a
place for her eggs: is maternal instinct, then, "sole author of these
mischiefs all"? "Who's in the Right?" one of the best fables in the
book, is somewhat in the same vein. After a battle has been won, a group
of officers assemble inside a battery, and debate together who should
have the honour of the success; the Prince, the general staff, the
cavalry, the engineer who posted the battery in which they then stand
talking, are successively named: the sergeant, who pointed the guns,
sneers to himself at the mention of the engineer; and, close by, the
gunner, who had applied the match, passes away with a smile of triumph,
since it was through his hand that the victorious blow had been dealt.
Meanwhile, the cannon claims the honour over the gunner; the
cannon-ball, who actually goes forth on the dread mission, claims it
over the cannon, who remains idly behind; the powder reminds the
cannon-ball that, but for him, it would still be lying on the arsenal
floor; and the match caps the discussion; powder, cannon-ball, and
cannon would be all equally vain and ineffectual without fire. Just then
there comes on a shower of rain, which wets the powder and puts out the
match, and completes this lesson of dependence, by indicating the
negative conditions which are as necessary for any effect, in their
absence, as is the presence of this great fraternity of positive
conditions, not any one of which can claim priority over any other. But
the fable does not end here, as perhaps, in all logical strictness, it
should. It wanders off into a discussion as to which is the truer
greatness, that of the vanquished fire or that of the victorious rain.
And the speech of the rain is charming:

"Lo, with my little drops I bless again
And beautify the fields which thou didst blast!
Rend, wither, waste, and ruin, what thou wilt,
But call not Greatness what the Gods call Guilt.
Blossoms and grass from blood in battle spilt,
And poppied corn, I bring.
'Mid mouldering Babels, to oblivion built,
My violets spring.
Little by little my small drops have strength
To deck with