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 stri

king. 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

"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

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 a russet gown, 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