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Updated: June 27, 2025
When they came up again, Athalie threw herself on the bier and prayed to be buried too: luckily Herr Johann Fabula was there, and he raised the beautiful lady from the ground, bore her back in his arms to the daylight, and explained to the astonished crowd how much the young lady had loved the dear deceased, who had been a second father to her.
Veientanumque rubellum Exhalet vapida laesum pice sessilis obba? Quid petis? Ut nummi, quos hic quincunce modesto Nutrieras, pergant avidos sudare deunces? Indulge genio: carpamus dulcia; nostrum est Quod vivis; cinis, et manes, et fabula fies. Vive memor lethi: fugit hora. Hoc quod loquor, inde est. En quid agis? Duplici in diversum scinderis hamo. Hunccine, an hunc sequeris!
"Then who has looked after you and provided you so well with traveling comforts?" asked Noémi. "Who but our Herr Johann Fabula?" "Oh, the honest steersman! is he here too?" "He is loading the ship on the other bank." Therese guessed Timar's thought, but she would not be behind him in delicate tact. She wished to show him that she had no scruple about leaving him alone with Noémi.
This aspiration would have been uttered by Johann Fabula, even if he were alone; but as the purifier sat close by, there followed this dialogue: "Why must the gentry pass the Iron Gate in such a storm?" "Why?" answered Johann Fabula, who did not forget his laudable habit of aiding the collection of his thoughts by a gulp out of the wicker brandy-flask. "Why?
Even this, the fabula tabernaria, or comedy of low life, gradually melted away before the continuous competition of the shows which so moved the spleen of Terence the pantomimists, the jugglers, the gladiators. By this time, too, the literary instinct was beginning to explore fresh channels.
And yet the story is instructive. Mutato nomine, de te Fabula narratur. We see our natural faces in the glass of history, and turn away and straightway forget what manner of men we are. The superstition of science scoffs at the superstition of faith. From St. Anselm to Mr. Emerson, from the 'Acta Sanctorum' to the 'Representative Men; so far in seven centuries we have travelled.
When the author of the "Lost Tales" represented Sisyphus as capturing his guest, the King of Terrors, and stuffing the old glutton with meat and drink until he became "a jolly, rubicund, tun-bellied Death," he gave us a tale which needs no hc fabula docet to point out the moral.
In short, it is just another of those colossal, everlasting pieces of folly of our Herr Levetinczy, but it will turn out well, to every one's surprise, as every stupid thing does that our master undertakes. And I don't doubt that our flour-ships will come back laden with gold-dust from Brazil; but for all that it is a great folly." Our Herr Fabula was perfectly right.
Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with the conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire, in which he relieved his mind. When smarting under the faithlessness of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in which he held the whole sex up to scorn. "No. 341. "Tuesday, April 1, 1712. Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.
Even Master Fabula was loud in its praise; for he was present at the loading of the flour. But Timar himself never saw it; he had not once come to Trieste to see it before it started. During those weeks he remained in Levetinczy or Pancsova.
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