LA FONTΑΙΝΕ.

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LECTURE V.

LA FONTAINE.

HIS CHILDHOOD.—HIS INDIVIDUALITY. — CHARACTER OF HIS FA

BLES.- HIS ORIGINALITY.

HE DIES A CHRISTIAN.

ANOTHER poet is to come before us to-day. If you ask to what school he belongs, I shall first reply, that he is not classic; and, if pressed still further, I shall tell you, that he is not romantic. He shares his genius with no one; and we may say that, like Melchisedek, he is "without father or mother;" and, unhappily, there is no reason to believe, that he will ever have a successor. His system, his practical poetry, is of the most simple kind, and is summed up in these few lines:

"Forever singing is the frog;

But never trims his verse; the merry dog.

So, up Parnassus' heights I jog,

And if my pen with rules you fetter,

'T will make no line a fraction better."

Thus, you need not expect any thing very choice or refined; for, our poet being naturally indolent, and unwilling to submit to the laws of rhyme, all pertaining to him is easy and unconstrained,

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"Those verses in the memory dwell,
Which, from the poet's inmost soul,
Like gushing waters swell;
All else is rigmarole."

As he has never rhymed otherwise, I truly hope that in listening to him, you will not have a moment's weariness. Nevertheless, I must inform you, that he never undertakes great things; he never blows the hero's trumpet, but contents himself with playing the bagpipes. He recounts to us the history of that good old time, when beasts spoke. He has lived with them, and now betrays all their secrets.

"The wolf, in dialect divine,

Speaks to the dog, as you shall hear.

For, brutes (we can't the right to man confine)

In various characters appear;

There, a fool; a wise man, here.

And as you'll find in every case,

The fools are they who win the race.
Villains base, and cheats,

Tyrants cruel, vile ingrates;
Vain and giddy brutes;
Sots, and flattering mutes;
And liars too will here be found,
Since all for lying are renowned.
Had he who said this, but confined
His charge to men of vulgar mind,
Perhaps we might the fact admit.
But, that we all, both small and great,
Are liars base, is not so plain.

Had he not said it, I'd maintain
That none this slander could sustain.

For, even should one falsify

Like Æsop; and, like Homer, lie,
Lying, this never should be called,
When used by poet, bard, or scald,

Though truth in fiction's garb be dressed,
Truth it remains, must be by all confessed.

He lies, I grant, who like the man in Persian story,
His neighbor's iron stored in his depository," etc.
Fable 1st. Book 9th.

Let us stop here. The subject, as you see, promises variety; but before going further, it is important to make the acquaintance of this agreeable fabler.

The name of my poet is simply, John.

John de La Fontaine was born at Chateau-Thierry, July 8, 1621; a day which the animals should commemorate by a jubilee. His nobility cost him nothing; being descended from a noble house. But he made so little account of it, or of the additional dignity which was afterward conferred on him, that he simply styled himself Blundering John; and posterity prefer calling him, the good man.

We have very little to say respecting his younger years, for he was not one of those precocious children, those infant prodigies, in whom we delight to trace the indications of genius from their very birth. La Fontaine was like all ordinary children, rather lazy; and this disposition increased through the whole course of his life; his education was very much neglected, as is too often the case, and a miserable village pedagogue, into whose hands he fell, came very near spoiling him, by teaching him a little Latin. Soon afterward, he escaped a much greater danger, which we tremble to think of. We can hardly believe it; and yet it is too true, that he who wrote the charming fable of the rat retired from the world, had for an instant a fancy to be a monk. And what is more, he became one; and however curious it may seem at first, it is not however at all surprising. We can conceive that the indolent and