“Horrible!” cried the Lion, his eyes flashing with pious zeal, his hair bristling with virtuous indignation. “Monster steeped in crime, is there any penance too great to inflict on you? I—” The reader may guess what became of the helpless beast. This story, which I have related in my own words, instead of giving a literal translation, must have been a cutting satire on the practices of the clergy of that period, and as true as it was cutting; but the pulpit was not the place for it. Another of Raulin’s beast fables is good. It occurs in a sermon on St. Nicolas. He is speaking of the persuasion which parents have that their children are perfect spiritually and corporeally. Once an old toad had a son who was fond of church-going—so fond, indeed, that in the ardour of his devotion he went one day without his socks. This troubled the old toad, as his son was liable to colds in the head if he caught chills in his feet. Seeing the hare dashing by, he called out, “Hey! you, there! going to church, I suppose? Do me a good turn and take my son his socks, or he’ll get his death of cold.” “But how am I to know your son?” “Nothing more easy,” replied the toad; “there’s not such a good-looking fellow in the crowd.” “Ah! I know him,” said the hare; “we call him the swan.” “Swan!” expressed in a tone of contempt, “swan! a fellow with great splay feet and a neck you might tie in a knot!” “Well, let me see! I know him; he is the peacock.” The toad screamed with dismay. “How can you insult me by thinking that cracked-voiced thing my son?” and he puffed himself up to the shape of a ball. “Then how am I to know your son?” “Why, look you,” pumped forth the toad with stateliness, “he is remarkably handsome—ahem! he is the image of me: has goggle eyes, a blotched back, and a great white belly!” Now, could any congregation hear this story from the pulpit without laughing? It is sufficiently _piquant_, and would go home to many parents present. There is a capital story which I believe originated with Raulin, but which has since been versified by Southey, and even dramatized; but it may be questioned whether any modern author has told it with any thing like the _naïveté_ of the original. It occurs in the third sermon on widowhood. I give it in the Latin of the period. “Dicatur de quâdam viduâ, quod venit ad curatum suum (à son curé), quærens ab eo consilium, si deberet iterum maritari, et allegabat quod erat sine adjutorio, et quod habebat servum optimum et peritum in arte mariti sui. “Tunc curatus: ‘Bene, accipite eum.’ “E contrario illa dicebat: ‘Sed periculum est accipere illum, ne de servo meo faciam dominum.’ “Tunc curatus dixit: ‘Bene, nolite eum accipere.’ “Ait illa: ‘Quid faciam? non possum sustinere pondus illud quod sustinebat maritus meus, nisi unum habeam.’ “Tunc curatus dixit: ‘Bene, habeatis eum.’ “At illa: ‘Sed si malus esset, et vellet mea disperdere et usurpare?’ “Tunc curatus: ‘Non accipiatis ergo eum.’