The Maccabaean

The Tale of a Lion

An old man tells this story. He insists that it is true in every detail. I believe it to be a fable, for the most part, but there is no accounting for the things old dotards will believe; an old man is, so to speak, a watch whose machinery has run down; one cannot trust such to tell the time of day. * * *

It is the story of a peculiar Lion who once roamed through the Great Forest with considerable exuberance, with his tail erect, his mane bristling, pawing the ground with show of great power. He was the King of Beasts, it was said, but soon he was set upon and had the breath of life almost knocked out of him and when he recovered, there were few who could recognize the King in the poor Wanderer among the Jackals and Oxen of the Forest.

The old man, who tells me the story, would have me believe that though his tail was limp, and his eyes weak, and his mane tangled, he lived on the recollections of his former glory. That is, he resented no insult, curried favor wherever he could, and all the while lived on a sort of internal greatness, and was still a King of Beasts.

I do not understand that. Among Jackals he acted like a Jackal; and among Oxen he was little better than an Ox; yet, he was a Lion, a leader. That is inconceivable!

He never inquired why his enemies mistreated him, though among themselves they found many reasons. Once, in the great long ago, the Lion had maltreated one of his own cubs; that was why. He had been outlawed by the Ruler of the Great Forest for his sins; that was why. He was a great gourmand, absorber of the good things of life; that was why. To all of these charges, offered to justify their wrongs, the Lion offered excuses. To the first count of the indictment, he presented an alibi. To the second he demurred, saying that even if it be true, who of us is without sin? The third he offered evidence in dispute. But it made no difference. He was always harried and beaten, for one or another reason. He was always humble, agreeable, offering no resistance, but occasionally he would raise his eyes upward in prayer (when no one was looking his way).

The old man says, snuffing his tobacco, that this Lion was a great Thinker. That while the Boars made him their prey, and the Bulls pounced upon him, with single-hearted devotion, he had reached an explanation of this great hubbub, called Life.

You may believe that if you like—I cannot; if there be any explanation of life it must be something that will teach one to be more energetic, more hopeful, more assertive, than one might be without it. Any other explanation must be a fiction invented to give cowards an excuse for their cowardice. * * *