the vigour and verve of the following translation: "Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own! He who secure within can sayTo-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day!' Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine; The joys I have possess'd in spite of fate are mine: Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been has been, and I have had my hour." Lib. III. Ode 29. But we are straying from the object of our present inquiry,-La Fontaine. Who is there that has not read La Fontaine? To those who have he need not, and to those who have not, he cannot be described. It is an inviting subject-but there are some things in the world which defy definition or description, and of such are those exquisite peculiarities of style which distinguish the French Fabulist. As, in the case of a beautiful countenance, where the charm resides rather in the expression than in the features themselves, it is in vain that limners endeavour to fix upon canvass the changing " Cynthia of the minute ;" one look in her face makes us forget all their daubs; so with La Fontaine, a single page of his works will reveal to the reader more of his nameless graces than he would collect from us, even though we were to follow the bent of our inclinations, and discourse most eloquently upon the subject, through a dozen pages. The graces of his style are not only undefinable, but incomparable; he is a poet absolutely sui generis, and we are at a loss for an object of comparison. He sometimes reminds us of Goldsmith, but it is rather in himself than in his writings; though Goldsmith certainly possesses more than any writer we know, that mixture of tenderness of feeling, with playfulness of humour, which finds its way so irresistibly to the heart. In their individual characters the resemblance is much more striking. What La Bruezere says of the French poet, might mutato nomine be applied indifferently to either. "La Fontaine appeared coarse, heavy, and stupid; he could not speak or describe what he had just seen, but when he wrote he was the model of poetry. All is lightness, elegance, fine natural sentiments, and delicacy of expression, throughout his works. It is very easy, said a humorous observer, to be a man of wit, or a fool; but to be both, and that too in the extreme, is indeed extraordinary, and only to be found in him." But, though it might perhaps be easier to convey an idea of La Fontaine by transcription than description, yet we must not shrink from the attempt altogether. But how shall we express in English the bonhommie, the naiveté, the badinage, those characteristic qualities of his poetry, which, like the poetry itself, seem almost out of the reach of translation. Let us try. First then his bonhommie is revealed to us in that comprehensive benevolence, which does not confine its sympathy to mankind alone, but embraces all ranks of created beings. He considers the inferior creatures as "Hotes de l'univers sous le noms d'animaux ;" and he seems to entertain some feelings of kindness even for the vegetable inhabitants of our common world, if one may judge from the tone of affectionate regret with which he laments the havoc committed by the stag upon the leaves of the vine which had preserved him, "Que de si doux ombrages, Soient exposés à ces outrages." His morality is of that indulgent kind which probes the heart without wounding it, and leads us to virtue, by carrying us back to nature. His Fables are, indeed, as it were, the law of nature in action. Virtue is represented by him in her most engaging form, as the offspring of sentiment; and the way to her temple, instead of the customary "steep and thorny road," appears like a "primrose path." In his exposure of vice there is no ill-nature, no rancour, no bitterness of satire ;-he is not one of those who "ridet et ODIT." The perusal of his Fables sooths and composes the mind, producing the same sort of refreshment which arises from a quiet stroll in the country,-from which we return with those kindly feelings towards human nature, and that tranquil spirit of resignation to the will of Providence, which are shewn in an indulgent forbearance to the failings of others, and a patient endurance of our own misfortunes ;-and what better lessons than those can we learn from philosophy? And next for his naiveté, that engaging charm which seems to result from the union of two things which we 1 fear are seldom found in conjunction, -innocence of heart, and cleverness of head. It is to this mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, archness and unconsciousness, that we owe those charming contrasts between the thought and the expression, which, like a delicate figure in arussetgown, render both more attractive, and constitute "la grace de la souddainte" of which he himself speaks. And it is the happy compound of these ingredients that forms "la grace encore plus belle que la beauté," which is the distinguishing quality of his muse. How prettily, for example, does he talk of love,-"ce mal qui peutêtre est un bien." There is, indeed, something in his style which may truly be called delicious. He writes as a man might be supposed to write who has just been loosened from the apron strings of nature. Thus, he always awakens the same sort of interest with which one cannot help listening to the artless prattle of childhood. For, we are as much delighted with the ingenuous disclosures of feeling into which he seems to be betrayed in his accidental conversations with the reader, as with the gaiety and spirit with which he animates his narrations. At once simple, tender, and natural, he contrives to leave upon our hearts a permanent impression of all the arguments which he had in the first instance addressed to our understandings. He is, above all others, the Poet of the Graces; and, in his most unstudied and careless effusions, we feel inclined to apply to himself the lines which he addressed to a lady of his own time :— "La negligence, à mon gre, si requise Pour cette fois fut sa dame d'atours." It is, however, a great mistake to suppose that La Fontaine was indebted to nature alone for his poetical excellence. The gifts he owed to her were sensibility and imagination; but no one could be more sedulous than he was in studying the niceties of language, and ransacking the treasures of the older writers, to form picturesque and imitative combinations of expression for his own use. If any one should be so deceived, by the apparent facility of his versification, as to overlook the elaborate pains of the composition, he will in fact be paying the highest compliment to La Fontaine; for "ars est celare artem." Lastly, we must say a few words of his badinage; and we doubt whether we do not enjoy his dry and quaint humour as much as that wanton, playful, sportive strain, in which he so often indulges. With what an appearance of being in earnest does he identify himself with the concerns of the creatures of his fancy! How feelingly he seems to sympathise with the distress of his poor disconsolate bird, who has lost-" ses œufs, ses tendres œufs, sa plus douce esperance!" The characters of the different animals are drawn and preserved with a minute attention to nature, that gives to his Fables much of the interest of a drama; and so gravely and completely does he seem to surrender himself to the illusions of his imagination, that it is difficult not to catch the contagion for a moment, and pull down our map to search for the great city of Ratapolis. But the greatest merit of all in La Fontaine, is the happy art which he possesses of insinuating the most important instruction, while he seems to be only amusing his reader with the details of trifles. For instance, in the dispute between the Rabbit and the Weazle, who had, in the absence of the proprietor of the warren, taken possession of a burrow,-the one defending his title as first occupier, and rididuling the pretended rights of Jean Lapin;-the other claiming by virtue of a regular succession from the aforesaid Jean, through Pierre and Simon, his immediate ancestors-we have the cream of the whole controversy on the right of property. The Fables of La Fontaine are not intended exclusively for childhood. He is the poet of common life and common sense. To understand him completely requires an intimate acquaintance with men and with things, and, as often as we return to him, we shall find that he will afford us entertainment and instruction exactly in proportion to the extent of our experience, and the progress of our knowledge. But it is time to turn from La Fontaine to his Translator, or rather his Imitator; for the writer of the volume before us has taken the French poet as a master rather than as a model; and, as he tells us in his preface, has limited himself to the task of putting some of those Fables which most struck his fancy, into English verse, of various measure, without always copying the thoughts, or attempting the manner of the original, and he has introduced some allusions to the present times where they were suggested by the subject. We can truly say, that the sample he has given us, would make us anxiously wish for more, if we did not think that his talents might be better employed in original composition. It does not seem to us that it is necessary for him "to steer by the rudder and compass of another man's thoughts;" and indeed we like him best when he is least like the original. Still, if he will be content with the humble office of imitation, we think him eminently qualified for the task he has undertaken. In wit and humour, in wanton playful satire, in sportive raillery, he may fairly challenge a comparison with his prototype. We doubt whether La Fontaine himself is more successful in provoking a smile by the happy expression of inexpressible ideas, and by those irresistible combinations of language which convey more to the mind than they reveal to the eye or the ear, and that in a way, too, neither to disgust or displease. He is very skilful, too, in the use of those sort of quaint phrases which give force and spirit to the familiar and ludicrous style of composition. He perhaps reminds us sometimes more of Peter Pindar than La Fontaine, and his style combines much of the beauties of both. What we miss most in the English version, is that gentleness of feeling, and tenderness of sentiment, which pervade the French fables. This is perhaps to be attributed to the slight infusion of the gall of party politics with which the work is seasoned; the effects of which upon the milk of human kindness, are, we fear, invariably the same. Our political sentiments are well known, and we cordially approve of the substance of the doctrines which the writer before us so zealously maintains; but there is a time and a place for all things. We fly to poetry as a relief from the angry contentions of the hour, to sooth our imaginations with more pleasing pictures than the world of reality presents to us. It is hard, indeed, if there is to be no neutral ground, no sanctuary to secure us against the intrusion of party hostilities; and, in this light, we consider it as a species of profanation, to make the Fables of La Fontaine the vehicle of political discussion and polemical controversy. It is pity too, that a volume which might please all the world, should be rendered unpalatable to so many, by the introduction of topics which, as far as the merit of the book is concerned, would have been much better omitted altogether. A polemical pamphlet may be a very good thing in its way, but we do not expect to find a polemical pamphlet under the title of "Fables from La Fontaine, in English Verse." We particularly allude to the tone and temper of the note on "The Woodman and the Forest." If it is expedient, for the good of the whole community, that the Catholics should be excluded from political privileges (the only grounds on which such exclusion can be defended,)—let them be excluded, but let the necessity be clearly made out, and when made out, let it at least be enforced without insulting the feelings of the objects of the exclusion.* To talk of the admission of our Catholic fellow-subjects to an equal participation with ourselves in the blessings of the constitution, as likely to lead to the rekindling of the fires of Smithfield, is to talk in defiance of reason and common sense. To impute to the Catholic Church at present the persecuting spirit which once animated it, is unfair and uncharitable. Persecution belongs exclusively to no particular sect. Henry the Eighth at one time burnt Protestants for denying the real presence; and, at another, cut off the heads of Catholics for denying his own supremacy. Persecution was the spirit of the age, and was practised indiscriminately by either sect that happened to be uppermost. If the Catholics carried it farther than the Protestants, we must at least remember that they had a better excuse for it, believing, as they did, that there was no salvation out of the pale of their own church. If they, however, carried it farther, we have continued it longer. Till very lately, it was a hanging matter for a priest to say mass; and the rest of the code relating to our Catholic brethren, was in the same merciful spirit of enactment. The Catholics, therefore, have as much to forgive and forget as we have. But the * Swift has somewhere said, that we have only just religion enough to make us hate one another. question is not what has been, but what is. Queen Mary and the Pretender are dead. Where is the country in which the persecuting spirit that the author imputes to the Catholic Church, is now acted upon? The fact is, that the Catholics only ask from our own government the same indulgence that Catholic governments abroad extend to their Protestant subjects. For our own parts, we have no fancy for the Catholic religion, and should be very sorry to see its influence extended; but we think it a strange complaint to make against men now-a-days, that they behieve too much; there is surely more danger to be apprehended from those who have no belief at all. We think the doctrine of transubstantiation very absurd, and equally repugnant to the words of Scripture and the evidence of our senses; but we cannot see what harm could accrue from such a belief, even supposing it were more general, if, as is probably the case, it impresses the mind with a deeper sense of the solemnity of the ceremony, and implants a stronger feeling of the religious responsibility. Again, if we all believed that marriage was a sacrament, might it not tend to strengthen the obligations of the marriage vow by an additional sanction,—a sanction, of which we fear the annals of Doctors' Commons will shew that it stands deplorably in need. But we gladly leave the polemical for the poetical part of the volume,upon which last portion we can bestow almost unqualified praise. Let the writer speak for himself. We will begin with one of the shortest fables by way of specimen. "The Lion and his Associates. Once a Lion with three other beasts made alliance, The Lion executes the task allotted to him very adroitly, while the other high contracting parties,-the Wolf, the Fox, and the Bear,-drew round :— "And stood licking their lips while the carving went on." The imitator has, we think, shewn taste in restoring the associates as they are described in the old fable, instead of adopting the new quadruple alliance which La Fontaine had, for no good reason, introduced. "Quoth the Lion, You'll think me a Butcher by trade: The first to my rank, not a beast will refuse; So this as the Lion's just option I choose. The imitations abound with a great variety of metre, and there is, throughout, an uncommon facility and spirit in the versification. For instance, the opening stanza of" The Wasps and the Bees:" "There happened once a suit between The industrious Bees: "And the pert Wasps, that roving pack, Whome'er they please." Or again, in "Love and Folly." "In the good days of yore, before Cupid was blind, How the playful young Deity happen'd to lose 'em; "Master Love and Miss Folly were very great cronies; A terrible quarrel took place at their play." Folly teazes Love to join together a silly young fop and a superannuated widow. Love hesitates, and at last refuses, when Folly, losing her temper, throws her bauble sceptre at his head, which hitting him full in the eyes, makes him blind ever after. Cupid complains to the council of Olympus: "A synod of Gods was conven'd at the place : Jove patiently heard what was urg'd by each pleader; For the good of mankind he determin'd the case, That the culprit should now to the blind boy be leader; Folly still is the guide and the leader of Love." If our limits would permit us, we should be glad to find room for the "Rat in Retirement," which it seems is from the pen of a friend; and for the " Address to the Critics," which is struck off in the author's happiest manner, and which, though the least literal, is perhaps the most Fontainish morsel in the whole volume. One more fable, and we have done. "The Satyr and the Traveller. A SATYR in a rocky den Lived distant from the haunts of men, Though half a goat, he seldom ran But led a quiet sober life With one fair Dryad for his wife; And she, engross'd by household matters, Prepar'd his soup, and brought young Satyrs. It happen'd on a wintry day A Traveller had lost his way; And stiff with cold, and drench'd with rain, He joy'd the Satyr's cave to gain. He peeps:-and midst recesses inner, He sees his horned host at dinner. He halts, and near the entrance lingers, And, blowing hard his aching fingers, To his landlord with the shaggy breeches: A hoarse rough voice exclaims- Come in! Stranger, you're welcome to my broth.'" The Satyr then, to satisfy the curiosity of his wife, inquires of his guest for what purpose he had been blowing his fingers so assiduously. The stranger replies "To please your lady I'll inform her, |