No More Learning

The scythe of Time, with deadlier tricks,
To line the borders of the Styx
Too soon will bring them low. )
In simplicity of heart, and profiting by his unbounded leisure, this
wayward but still unspoiled man had followed a native instinct of
observation, which had led him after many years into rare sympathy
with the non-human denizens of the earth. His peculiar appreciation
— half poetic feeling, half naturalist's instinct -- of this underlying
world, being put to the service of his very considerable philosophic
bent, gave him that air which people remarked, of having come from
another planet. As old age approached, there grew upon him the
habit of judging men according to the large standard of comparison
which his fellowship with animals and plants provided. And it came
to be recognized as his unique distinction that he would be at all
times collecting and applying these novel ideas. He was known to sit
for half a day, missing his dinner and breaking all appointments, to
watch a family of ants bury a dead Ay. The ways of the wolf, the
fears of the mouse, the ruminations of the ox, the ambitions of the
bear, were more open to his understanding than men's politics. He
loved the bright, smiling land of his birth; its limpid waters, its sunny
vineyards, its frugal farms, where every egg was counted— sometimes,
as he tells us, before it was laid. Waiting by green-mantled pools,
peering to the brook's gray bottom, and wandering with bowed head
on forest paths, where for a moment the fallow-deer stood in the
flickering light and were gone, — he mused for months and years in
happy indolence; and if by chance he undertook, of a winter's night,
to turn into French verse a fable of Æsop or Phædrus, and uncon-
sciously excelled his models, it was still all love-in-idleness to him,
and in no wise work.
But there had to be labor enough in the end, for the task was
complicated, — being the turning of old Greek and Latin fables, not


## p. 8784 (#404) ###########################################

8784
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
only into the French language, but into the French spirit. Moreover,
he exercised in this the most painstaking and thoughtful originality,
by setting forth in them the results of his own observation and
inaking a witty commentary on his own times. By his forty-eighth
year there were enough of these little poems for a volume of one
hundred and twenty-four fables, arranged in six books. Ten years
later he published another collection, of five books. The fables ex-
cited such interest, and went so far to make amends for past license,
that their author was elected a member of the Academy; but the
King for a time opposed his admission, finally permitting it in 1684,
with the remark, “You may receive La Fontaine at once: he has
promised to behave. ” There were more tales, however, and much
loose conduct to atone for, when, during a serious illness in 1693, the
old poet made a public and no doubt sincere confession of his sins.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the peculiarly expansive and
social character of the period, and perhaps also the racial conception
of religion as a public exercise rather than an inward state, that a
committee of literary men were deputed by the French Academy to
witness this tardy profession of faith. The twelfth and last book of
fables appeared shortly afterwards; and two years later he died, still
young in heart.
For nearly a generation he had been living on the
hospitality of his friends at Paris — not basely, but with noble frank-
ness, acknowledging his inability to provide for himself.
La Fontaine, it must be admitted, lacked some very essential qual-
ities, while possessing other and unusual ones in notable abundance.
Marriage was not sacred to him, though friendship was. He disliked
children, though he loved dumb beasts. Throughout the latter half of
his life he was dependent on others for a home; but in his soul he
was free, and seldom praised his patrons except where self-interest
fell in with affection. His tales are an unclean spot upon the century
when French literature as a whole was most pure and dignified;
but his fables, which far surpass them in artistic finish, in interest, in
variety, are sound and clear and sweet. The truth is, this great man
was always a child, with a child's fair purposes and untrained will.
Instinct ruled him. Until almost the end of his life he was an irre-
sponsible pagan.
But his failings were of the most amiable order; and they saved
him from too great conformity to the artificial society of his time,
which would have been the most deplorable failing of all. He never
grew old nor worldly-wise; he never lost his sweet simplicity, nor
succeeded, no matter how much he tried, in making those surrenders
of the ideal by which we purchase what is termed success. To blame
La Fontaine for being different from other men, even the best, would
be to overlook the quality wherewith his very true and enduring


## p. 8785 (#405) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8785
success was achieved. The ordered life of civilized cominunities had
come to be taken for granted as necessarily the best possible condi-
tion, and of vastly more scope and meaning than the life of nature.
Both in the conduct of his own affairs,— his childlike following of
pleasure, his unsophisticated relish for what was natural, -and also
by precept and illustration in his fables, La Fontaine suggested the
broader basis and more complicated frame of things. If we are care-
ful to exclude any idea of his entertaining a conscious intention to
influence politics, it may safely be said that La Fontaine, by criti-
cizing the monarch, the churchman, the noble, under the guise of
lion, wolf, fox, bear, or cat, opened a little crack, which La Bruyère
was to widen and Montesquieu to whistle through, until at last it
gaped broad and let in the howling blasts of revolutionary eloquence.
To the same fondness for being his genuine self is due the high
lyric quality of the fables,- an excellence which they alone, of all
French poetry from Ronsard to André Chénier, possess in anything
like abundance. We shall see the value of this distinction if we
reflect that in the same interval England was graced with the songs
and sonnets of Spenser, Raleigh, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Campion,
Milton, Collins, Gray, and Burns,— to mention no more, and to draw
somewhere a line that must perforce be arbitrary. The main effort
of the seventeenth century in France being to enforce conformity to
certain standards,- in other words, to produce typical rather than
individual excellence, — there could be in her literature of that
period no such outburst of lyric poetry; for it is of the essence of
lyric poetry to express personal charm. When we have read the
fables of La Fontaine we have learned his heart and mind, and are no
better than prigs or pedants if we do not love him. Considering his
awkwardness of speech and his frequent fits of silence, men found
him in actual life singularly attractive. The secret may have nestled
in his smile or hid in the wrinkles about his eyes; we cannot tell.
But in the fables, objective though they are, we do not have to wait
long to catch the elf at play. It is his childlike self-surrender, which
comes at once with engaging frankness or after much coy hesitation
and a playful chase. All that he is and thinks, he sweetly confides to
us, at least more fully than was common among French poets in his
day. He does not skulk behind convention or pose upon a pedestal
of approved usage. Here — though he knew it not, and his friends
Boileau and Racine would have denied it — here is what makes him
a great lyric poet. No school could claim him, yet he was liberal of
himself to every reader. Like the attractive heroine of his first fable,
he might say:
«Day and night to every comer
I was singing, I'm afraid. »
XV-550


## p. 8786 (#406) ###########################################

8785
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
And strange to say, while being so truly himself that he became
the greatest lyric poet his country produced in a stretch of two hun-
dred years, La Fontaine is also the epitome and type of whatever is
mnost French. He is the national poet par excellence. He represents
not so much his age as his race. Indeed, he is not so fairly repre-
sentative of his age as are the dramatists, and particularly Racine.
But we recognize in La Fontaine the French intelligence, as it is
common to all centuries and specialized in every individual. It is not
enough to say that he abounds in wit: the striking thing is that
French wit and the wit of La Fontaine are one — aerified, dry, dif-
fused, of the manner rather than the substance, not intrusive, not
insistent, but circumambient and touch-and-go. There is no forced
emphasis, no zeal to convert; but only a genial willingness to sug-
gest amendment, provided always it can be done with a laughing
avoidance of proffering one's own example. . Moreover, La Fontaine,
like all his countrymen, clings to the concrete. The mystery of an
unrealized abstraction has for him and for them the horror of the
blackness of darkness to a child. A writer of fables is tempted to
be abstract and to moralize. Some of La Fontaine's fables have no
moral, either expressed or discoverable. In others the lesson is added
perfunctorily, as if in obedience to the tradition of the art, and for
the sake of good form. But whether or not they are all deserving
strictly of the name, they give perennial delight; for as Thoreau says,
“All fables indeed have their morals, but the innocent enjoy the
story. ”
Any man who has personal charm, and who will but express him-
self naturally in words, may hope to interest us; but unless he have
also style we shall not esteem him a great writer. Whether we call
it a miracle or only an acquisition, style is something divine; per-
haps never more divine than when acquired by patient toil. La Fon-
taine possessed the most exquisite literary gift; and what it behooves
us to perceive is that this too came as a reward for his supreme vir-
tue of naturalness. He wrote with easy indifference to the rigorous
precepts of rhetoricians, who were trying to unify and modernize
French literature. He deftly eluded the rules of seventeenth-century
diction, and would not belong exclusively to the grand age. ” He was
not above using the marrowy, forcible, homely language of an earlier
time, or its strong short forms of verse. The modest man did not
know it, but he had struck root in a richer soil than his contempo-
raries, and his branches will flourish in immortal green when most of
theirs have withered.
Llotilien
Harper


## p. 8787 (#407) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8787
[The three following fables are translated for (A Library of the World's Best
Literature,' by George McLean Harper. ]
DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER
A
POOR woodcutter, covered with green boughs,
Under the fagot's weight and his own age
Groaning and bent, ending his weary stage,
Was struggling homeward to his smoky hut.
At last, worn out with labor and with pain,
Letting his fagot down, he thinks again
What little pleasure he has had in life.
Is there so cursed a wretch in all the strife ?
No bread sometimes, and never any rest;
With taxes, soldiers, children, and a wife,
Creditors, forced toil oppressed,
He is the picture of a man unblessed.
He cries for Death. Death comes straightway,
And asks why he was called upon.
«Help me,” the poor man says, “I pray,
To lift this wood, then I'll begone. "
Death comes to end our woes.
But who called him ? Not I!
The motto of mankind still goes:
We'll suffer all, sooner than die.
THE OAK AND THE REED
THE
THE Oak one day said to the Reed :-
“You have good cause to rail at partial fate.
You groan beneath a hedge-wren's trifling weight;
A puff of air, a breath indeed,
Which softly wrinkles the water's face,
Makes you sink down in piteous case;
Whereas my brow, like Alp or Apennine,
Reflects the sunset's radiance divine,
And braves the tempest's hate.
What I call zephyrs seem north winds to you.
Moreover, in my shelter if you grew,
Under the leaves I generously scatter,
My patronage you would not rue,
When storms do blow and rains do batter.
But you spring up on the frontier


## p. 8788 (#408) ###########################################

8788
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
Bordering the showery kingdoms of the wind.
Against you unjust nature sure has sinned. ”
« Your pity,” quoth the bulrush in reply,
« Comes from a noble heart. But have no fear:
To dread the winds you have more cause than I,
Who bend, but break not. Many a year and age
To their terrific rage
You've turned a stalwart back;
But not yet is the end. ” Scarce had he spoke
When from the north, with flying rack,
Hurried the wildest storm that ever broke
From winter's icy fields.
The tree stands firm, the bulrush yields.
The wind with fury takes fresh head,
And casts the monarch roots on high,
Whose lofty brow was neighbor to the sky
And whose feet touched the empire of the dead.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT
M"
ISS GRASSHOPPER having sung
All through summer,
Found herself in sorry plight
When the wind began to bite:
Not a bit of grub or fly
Met the little wanton's eye;
So she wept for hunger sore
At the Ant her neighbor's door,
Begging her just once to bend
And a little grain to lend
Till warm weather came again.
"I will pay you, cried she then,
"Ere next harvest, on my soul,
Interest and principal. ”
Now the Ant is not a lender
From that charge who needs defend her ?
“Tell me what you did last summer ? ”
Said she to the beggar-maid.
«Day and night, to every comer
I was singing, I'm afraid. ”
Singing! Do tell! How entrancing!
Well then, vagrant, off! be dancing! ”
(


## p. 8789 (#409) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8789
THE WOLF AND THE DOG
A.
PROWLING wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,
Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray
No human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf, in famished plight,
Would fain have made a ration
Upon his fat relation:
But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seemed able
To save from wolfish table
His carcass snug and tight.
So then in civil conversation
The wolf expressed his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray politely,
« Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me:
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.
With such a pack, of course it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come then with me, and share
On equal terms our princely fare. ”
« But what with you
Has one to do? »
Inquires the wolf. «Light work indeed,”
Replies the dog : “you only need
To bark a little now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar-men,
To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
Your master please, and so forth;
For which you have to eat
All sorts of well-cooked meat
Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes -
Besides unnumbered fond caresses. ”
The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes;
But faring on, he spies
A galled spot on the mastiff's neck.


## p. 8790 (#410) ###########################################

8790
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
-
" What's that ? » he cries. «Oh, nothing but a speck. ”
“A speck ? ” — “Ay, ay; 'tis not enough to pain me;
Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me. ”
«Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then,
Just where you please and when ? »
“Not always, sir; but what of that?
« Enough for me, to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
Which could to servile chains entice;
For me, I'll shun them while I've wit. ”
So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.
Translation of Elizur Wright.
THE TWO DOVES
T"
wo doves once cherished for each other
The love that brother hath for brother.
But one, of scenes domestic tiring,
To see the foreign world aspiring,
Was fool enough to undertake
A journey long, o'er land and lake.
“What plan is this? ” the other cried;
“Wouldst quit so soon thy brother's side ?
This absence is the worst of ills;
Thy heart may bear, but me it kills.
Pray let the dangers, toil, and care,
Of which all travelers tell,
Your courage somewhat quell.
Still, if the season later were —
Oh, wait the zephyrs ! — hasten not — »
Just now the raven, on his oak,
In hoarser tones than usual spoke.
"My heart forebodes the saddest lot, -
The falcons' nets — Alas, it rains!
My brother, are thy wants supplied —
Provisions, shelter, pocket-guide,
And all that unto health pertains ? ”
These words occasioned some demur
In our imprudent traveler.
But restless curiosity
Prevailed at last; and so said he:
.


## p. 8791 (#411) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8791
« The matter is not worth a sigh:
Three days at most will satisfy;
And then returning, I shall tell
You all the wonders that befell,
With scenes enchanting and sublime
Shall sweeten all our coming time.
Who seeth naught, hath naught to say.
My travel's course, from day to day,
Will be the source of great delight.
A store of tales I shall relate:
Say, There I lodged at such a date,
And saw there such and such a sight.
You'll think it all occurred to you. ”
On this, both, weeping, bade adieu.
1
Away the lonely wanderer flew. -
A thunder-cloud began to lower;
He sought, as shelter from the shower,
The only tree that graced the plain,
Whose leaves ill turned the pelting rain.
The sky once more serene above,
On flew our drenched and dripping dove,
And dried his plumage. as he could.
Next, on the borders of a wood,
He spied some scattered grains of wheat,
Which one, he thought, might safely eat;
For there another dove he saw. -
He felt the snare around him draw!
This wheat was but a treacherous bait
To lure poor pigeons to their fate.
The snare had been so long in use,
With beak and wings he struggled loose:
Some feathers perished while it stuck;
But what was worst in point of luck,
A hawk, the cruelest of foes,
Perceived him clearly as he rose,
Off dragging, like a runaway,
A piece of string. The bird of prey
Had bound him, in a moment more,
Much faster than he was before;
But from the clouds an eagle came,
And made the hawk himself his game.
By war of robbers profiting,
The dove for safety plied the wing,


## p. 8792 (#412) ###########################################

8792
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
And lighting on a ruined wall,
Believed his dangers ended all.
A roguish boy had there a sling,
(Age pitiless,
We must confess,)
And by a most unlucky Aling,
Half killed our hapless dove;
Who now, no more in love
With foreign traveling,
And lame in leg and wing,
Straight homeward urged his crippled flight;
Fatigued, but glad, arrived at night,
In truly sad and piteous plight.
The doves re-joined: I leave you all to say,
What pleasure might their pains repay.
Ah, happy lovers, would you roam ?
Pray, let it not be far from home.
To each the other ought to be
A world of beauty ever new;
In each the other ought to see
The whole of what is good and true.
Myself have loved; nor would I then,
For all the wealth of crowned men,
Or arch celestial, paved with gold,
The presence of those woods have sold,
And fields and banks and hillock which
Were by the joyful steps made rich,
And smiled beneath the charming eyes
Of her who made my heart a prize, –
To whom I pledged it, nothing loath,
And sealed the pledge with virgin oath.
Ah, when will time such moments bring again?
To me are sweet and charming objects vain
My soul forsaking to its restless mood ?
Oh, did my withered heart but dare
To kindle for the bright and good,
Should not I find the charms still there?
Is love, to me, with things that were ?
Translation of Elizur Wright.


## p. 8793 (#413) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8793
THE CAT, THE WEASEL, AND THE YOUNG RABBIT
Jor
ohn Rabbit's palace under ground
Was once by Goody Weasel found.
She, sly of heart, resolved to seize
The place, and did so at her ease.
She took possession while its lord
Was absent on the dewy sward,
Intent upon his usual sport, -
A courtier at Aurora's court.
When he had browsed his fill of clover,
And cut his pranks all nicely over,
Home Johnny came to take his drowse,
All snug within his cellar-house.
The weasel's nose he came to see,
Outsticking through the open door.
“Ye gods of hospitality!
Exclaimed the creature, vexèd sore,
«Must I give up my father's lodge ?
Ho! Madam Weasel, please to budge,
Or, quicker than a weasel's dodge,
I'll call the rats to pay their grudge! ”
The sharp-nosed lady made reply
That she was first to occupy.
“The cause of war was surely small —
A house where one could only crawl!
And though it were a vast domain,”
Said she, “I'd like to know what will
Could grant to John perpetual reign, -
The son of Peter or of Bill, -
More than to Paul, or even me. ”
John Rabbit spoke - great lawyer he -
Of custom, usage, as the law,
Whereby the house, from sire to son,
As well as all its store of straw,
From Peter came at length to John.
Who could present a claim so good
As he, the first possessor, could ?
“Now," said the dame, “let's drop dispute,
And go before Raminagrobis,
Who'll judge not only in this suit,
But tell us truly whose the globe is. ”
This person was a hermit cat,
A cat that played the hypocrite;
(C
»


## p. 8794 (#414) ###########################################

8794
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
A saintly mouser, sleek and fat,
An arbiter of keenest wit.
John Rabbit in the judge concurred,
And off went both their case, to broach
Before his Majesty, the furred.
Said Clapperclaw, “My kits, approach,
And put your noses to my ears:
I'm deaf, almost, by weight of years. ”
And so they did, not fearing aught.
The good apostle Clapperclaw
Then laid on each a well-armed paw,
And both to an agreement brought,
By virtue of his tusked jaw.
This brings to mind the fate
Of little kings before the great.
Translation of Elizur Wright.
THE COBBLER AND THE FINANCIER
A
COBBLER sang from morn till night:
'Twas sweet and marvelous to hear;
His trills and quavers told the ear
Of more contentment and delight,
Enjoyed by that laborious wight,
Than e'er enjoyed the sages seven,
Or any mortals short of heaven.
His neighbor, on the other hand,
With gold in plenty at command,
But little sang, and slumbered less —
A financier of great success.
If e'er he dozed at break of day,
The cobbler's song drove sleep away;
And much he wished that Heaven had made
Sleep a commodity of trade,
In market sold, like food and drink,
So much an hour, so much a wink.
At last, our songster did he call
To meet him in his princely hall.
Said he, “Now, honest Gregory,
What may your yearly earnings be ? »
“My yearly earnings! faith, good sir,
I never go, at once, so far,”
The cheerful cobbler said,
And queerly scratched his head, -


## p. 8795 (#415) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8795
“I never reckon in that way,
But cobble on from day to day,
Content with daily bread. ”
"Indeed! Well, Gregory, pray,
What may your earnings be per day ?
“Why, sometimes more and sometimes less.
The worst of all, I must confess,
(And but for which our gains would be
A pretty sight indeed to see. )
Is that the days are made so many
In which we cannot earn a penny.
The sorest ill the poor man feels:
They tread upon each other's heels,
Those idle days of holy saints!
And though the year is shingled o'er,
The parson keeps a-finding more!
With smiles provoked by these complaints,
Replied the lordly financier,
“I'll give you better caus to sing
These hundred pounds I hand you here
Will make you happy as a king.
Go, spend them with a frugal heed:
They'll long supply your every need. ”
The cobbler thought the silver more
Than he had ever dreamed, before,
The mines for ages could produce,
Or world with all its people use.
He took it home, and there did hide,
And with it laid his joy aside.
No more of song, no more of sleep,
But cares, suspicions, in their stead,
And false alarms, by fancy fed.
His eyes and ears their vigils keep,
And not a cat can tread the floor
But seems a thief slipped through the door.
At last, poor man!
Up to the financier he ran,
Then in his morning nap profound:
“Oh, give me back my songs,” cried he,
"And sleep, that used so sweet to be.
And take the money, every pound! ”
Translation of Elizur Wright.
>


## p. 8796 (#416) ###########################################

8796
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
THE LARK AND THE FARMER
“D
EPEND upon yourself alone,”
Has to a common proverb grown.
'Tis thus confirmed in Æsop's way:
The larks to build their nests are seen
Among the wheat-crops young and green;
That is to say,
What time all things, dame Nature heeding,
Betake themselves to love and breeding,-
The monstrous whales and sharks
Beneath the briny flood,
The tigers in the wood,
And in the fields, the larks.
One she, however, of these last,
Found more than half the springtime past
Without the taste of springtime pleasures;
When firmly she set up her will
That she would be a mother still,
And resolutely took her measures;
First, got herself by Hymen matched;
Then built her nest, laid, sat, and hatched.
All went as well as such things could;
The wheat crop ripening ere the brood
Were strong enough to take their flight.
Aware how perilous their plight,
The lark went out to search for food,
And told her young to listen well,
And keep a constant sentinel.
« The owner of this field,” said she,
“Will come, I know, his grain to see.
Hear all he says: we little birds
Must shape our conduct by his words. ”
No sooner was the lark away
Than came the owner with his son.
« This wheat is ripe,” said he: “now run
And give our friends a call
To bring their sickles all,
And help us, great and small,
To-morrow, at the break of day. ”
The lark, returning, found no harm,
Except her nest in wild alarm.
»


## p. 8797 (#417) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8797
(C
Says one, “We heard the owner say,
Go, give our friends a call
To help to-morrow, break of day. ) »
Replied the lark, “If that is all,
We need not be in any fear,
But only keep an open ear.
As gay as larks now eat your victuals. ” —
They ate and slept, the great and littles.
The dawn arrives, but not the friends;
The lark soars up; the owner wends
His usual round to view his land.
« This grain,” says he, “ought not to stand.
Our friends do wrong; and so does he
Who trusts that friends will friendly be.
My son, go call our kith and kin
To help us get our harvest in. ”
This second order made
The little larks still more afraid.
“He sent for kindred, mother, by his son:
The work will now indeed be done. ”
“No, darlings: go to sleep;
Our lowly nest we'll keep. ”
With reason said, for kindred there came none.
Thus, tired of expectation vain,
Once more the owner viewed his grain.
“My son,” said he, “we're surely fools
To wait for other people's tools;
As if one might, for love or pelf,
Have friends more faithful than himself!
Engrave this lesson deep, my son.
And know you now what must be done ?
We must ourselves our sickles bring,
And while the larks their matins sing,
Begin the work; and on this plan,
Get in our harvest as we can. ”
(
This plan the lark no sooner knew,
Than, "Now's the time,” she said, “my chicks :)
And taking little time to fix,
Away they flew :
All fluttering, soaring, often grounding,
Decamped without a trumpet sounding.
Translation of Elizur Wright.


## p. 8798 (#418) ###########################################

8798
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
THE HERON
O
ne day, - no matter when or where, -
A long-legged heron chanced to fare
By a certain river's brink,
With his long, sharp beak
Helved on his slender neck;
'Twas a fish-spear, you might think.
The water was clear and still;
The carp and the pike there at will
Pursued their silent fun,
Turning up, ever and anon,
A golden side to the sun.
With ease might the heron have made
Great profits in his fishing trade.
So near came the scaly fry,
They might be caught by the passer-by.
But he thought he better might
Wait for a better appetite;
For he lived by rule, and could not eat,
Except at his hours, the best of meat.
Anon his appetite returned once more;
So, approaching again the shore,
He saw some tench taking their leaps,
Now and then, from their lowest deeps.
With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat,
He turned away from such food as that.
«What, tench for a heron! poh!
I scorn the thought, and let them go. ”
The tench refused, there came a gudgeon:
«For all that,” said the bird, “I budge on.
I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please,
For such mean little fishes as these. ”
He did it for less;
For it came to pass,
That not another fish could he see;
And at last so hungry was he
That he thought it some avail
To find on the bank a single snail.
Translation of Elizur Wright.
>


## p. 8799 (#419) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8799
THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE
T"
(C
THE sorest ill that Heaven hath
Sent on this lower world in wrath -
The plague (to call it by its name),
One single day of which
Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,-
Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.
They died not all, but all were sick:
No hunting now, by force or trick,
To save what might so soon expire.
No food excited their desire;
Nor wolf nor fox now watched to slay
The innocent and tender prey.
The turtles fed;
So love and therefore joy were dead.
The lion council held, and said :-
“My friends, I do believe
This awful scourge, for which we grieve,
Is for our sins a punishment
Most righteously by Heaven sent.
Let us our guiltiest beast resign,
A sacrifice to wrath divine.
Perhaps this offering, truly small,
May gain the life and health of all.
By history we find it noted
That lives have been just so devoted.
Then let us all turn eyes within,
And ferret out the hidden sin.
Himself let no one spare nor flatter,
But make clean conscience in the matter.
For me, my appetite has played the glutton
Too much and often upon mutton.
What harm had e'er my victims done?
I answer truly, None.
Perhaps sometimes, by hunger pressed,
I've eat the shepherd with the rest.
I yield myself, if need there be:
And yet I think in equity,
Each should confess his sins with me;
For laws of right and justice cry,
The guiltiest alone should die. ”
Sire,” said the fox, “your Majesty
Is humbler than a king should be,


## p. 8800 (#420) ###########################################

8800
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
And over-squeamish in the case.
What! eating stupid sheep a crime?
No, never, sire, at any time.
It rather was an act of grace,
A mark of honor to their race.
And as to shepherds, one may swear,
The fate your Majesty describes
Is recompense less full than fair
For such usurpers o'er our tribes. ”
»
Thus Reynard glibly spoke,
And loud applause from flatterers broke.
Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear,
Did any keen inquirer dare
To ask for crimes of high degree;
The fighters, biters, scratchers, all
From every mortal sin were free;
The very dogs, both great and small,
Were saints as far as dogs could be.
The ass, confessing in his turn,
Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:
“I happened through a mead to pass;
The monks, its owners, were at mass;
Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass,
And add to these the Devil too,
All tempted me the deed to do.
I browsed the bigness of my tongue;
Since truth must out, I own it wrong. ”
On this, a hue and cry arose,
As if the beasts were all his foes:
A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,
Denounced the ass for sacrifice,
The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,
By whom the plague had come, no doubt.
His fault was judged a hanging crime.
“What! eat another's grass ? oh, shame!
The noose of rope and death sublime,
For that offense, were all too tame! )
And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.
Thus human courts acquit the strong,
And doom the weak as therefore wrong.
Translation of Elizur Wright.


## p. 8800 (#421) ###########################################



## p. 8800 (#422) ###########################################


A. DE LAMARTINE.


## p. 8800 (#423) ###########################################

L'ARTIVE
Virt: PER
1
F (! stentorini *** in Fr,
for in orcart
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te elegant,
ľ bol pri 75 tion
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010!
still will telliittiois' of
Larrart:
»ť, urip, 5,345 Inchirg to Crenier, wil
is esse . .
Leith ir le lyre passion,
If we Wi-
P" L70s to Lamartine, we must go back to
prone writis: to ]. l. Imotli, whose works are so fuil of l'un an
Passion and at the salt i re of love of naiure; to Bernardal de
Saint-Piurie, whose Hill an! Virvinia' is so siirple and charlig:
to Viciary Steel bez pi's kinni to the Trench the ***
Gestan laris, Gersthetics
ir to Chereauiri. se
burn
1). tic tran áil '.
of Anisi rhétur
Wity for a nu kriis
::? 11tly; an! Lamartine viis
1 : ;: :.
inh vilretted iti unison the
3-2. Istor, and harmonios irds
**rataire :
Sal Sub-
(1. text:-
ܕܐ. ܢܨܶܐܪ } ܢ ܐ ; ܕ
***! ! !
fo Witi * (!
itt:1's Vi
in Fr: 1
unts of the
nuing
ISOT the


## p. 8800 (#424) ###########################################


1. JE LAMARINE


## p. 8801 (#425) ###########################################

8801
LAMARTINE
(1790–1869)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
OK
He eighteenth century in France was not fruitful in poets;
for in order to be a poet it is not sufficient to write elegant,
witty, and correct verses. There must be real inspiration
in a great poem; and that indispensable quality was lacking in the
works of Voltaire, of J. B. Rousseau, of Gilbert, and of their contem-
poraries. There was only one true poet in France in that century,-
André Chénier, who fell a victim to the Revolution on July 25th,
1794, two days before the 9th Thermidor, which put an end to Robes-
pierre's life and to the Reign of Terror. Chénier's brief works are
charming; they were inspired by the poets of Greece, and are grace-
ful and tender. They were little known at the time of the author's
death, however, and a complete edition was published only in 1819,
one year before the world was delighted with the Méditations) of
Lamartine. The latter poet, however, owes nothing to Chénier, who
is essentially a classic animated with true lyric passion.
If we wish to find precursors to Lamartine, we must go back to
prose writers: to J. J. Rousseau, whose works are so full of human
passion and at the same time of love of nature; to Bernardin de
Saint-Pierre, whose Paul and Virginia' is so simple and charming;
to Madame de Staël, who made known to the French the great
German bards, Goethe and Schiller; finally to Châteaubriand, whose
Atala,' (René,' and Martyrs) are more poetic than all the verses
written in the eighteenth century except those of André Chénier. The
great writers just mentioned had prepared the way for a new Renais-
sance in the beginning of the nineteenth century; and Lamartine was
fortunate in striking a new chord with which vibrated in unison the
hearts of all who read the tender, melancholy, and harmonious words
of the Méditations. '
It was the first time in French literature that poetry was so sub-
jective. The works of Rousseau, of Madame de Staël, of Château-
briand, were permeated with the personality of the authors; but such
had not been the case with André Chénier and with the poets of the
seventeenth century. Lamartine's Méditations) resembled nothing
which had yet been published in France, and for that reason the
>
XV-551


## p. 8802 (#426) ###########################################

8802
LAMARTINE
manuscript was rejected by the great publishing firm of Firmin Didot.
The poet expressed his own feelings in such melodious language, and
those feelings were so natural and human, that all the readers of the
(Méditations) took a personal interest in sentiments which were their
own as well as those of the poet. A critic has said of Lamartine,
“He was not a poet, but poetry itself. ” This is eminently true; for
there had not been in the French language for nearly two centuries
such touching, such musical lines as those of the Méditations. )
Racine's verses alone could be compared with them. It was in 1820
that the Méditations were published; after their rejection by Didot
the author read 'Le Lac) in the parlor of Madame de Saint-Aulaire,
and created a deep impression. The volume of Méditations) soon
found a publisher, and he became speedily famous.
Alphonse de Prat de Lamartine was born on October 21st, 1790,
at Mâcon, on the Saône. The country watered by this river is pict-
uresque and fertile, and the Saône itself is a pretty stream which
meets the Rhône at Lyon, and is merged into the impetuous river
claimed as their own by the men of Provence. In his Confidences
and his (Raphael Lamartine gives us his autobiography; somewhat
idealized, perhaps, but correct in the main. He speaks with venera-
tion of his father, who lived long enough to see his son become an
illustrious man; but he has a perfect devotion for his mother, who
was beautiful, noble, and pious, and who communicated to him that
sensibility, that generosity, which have inspired his poetical works.
His father, however, was an austere soldier, and transmitted to his
son that courage which enabled him later to quell the surging masses
by his manly eloquence.
Lamartine's early years were free and happy; he spent some time
at a Jesuit college, but when he returned home it seemed to him
that in the poetry of Creation, he read Greek and Latin verses
translated by God himself into grand and living images. ” His favor-
ite authors were Tasso, Dante, Petrarch, Milton, Shakespeare, Château-
briand, and above all «Ossian,” the mythical Homer of the Gaels,
whose alleged poem was so popular in the beginning of the nine-
teenth century.
Lamartine relates to us in his Confidences) his innocent love
for Lucy, when both he and the young girl were sixteen years old.
Then comes that most charming episode of the poet's life, his voy-
age to Italy and his love for Graziella, the Neapolitan fisherman's
daughter. The simple girl gives her heart to the young stranger: but
the latter is obliged to return to France, and a few months later he
receives a letter and a small package; it is the last farewell of the
dying girl, and her beautiful black locks sent as a memento. M. Ed-
mond Biré, who is a true iconoclast, wishes to prove that Graziella
»


## p. 8803 (#427) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8803
He was
was not a fisherman's daughter; that she was a shoemaker's daugh-
ter, and never sailed with the poet on the blue waters of the Medi-
terranean. What care we for the truth of Lamartine's story? The
creatures of the poet's imagination are more real than any living
man and woman; and on the way from Naples to Pompeii, one looks
with eager eyes at the fair island of Procida, where Lamartine met
Graziella and began his delightful idyl.
It is in 'Raphael' that we must look for other episodes in Lamar-
tine's life. We see the poet at Aix, in Savoy; he saves the life of
Julie, and relates this incident in his admirable "Le Lac. He loves
Julie, and goes with her to the Charmettes, where had lived Rousseau
and Madame de Warens; and he pays a just tribute to the woman
who gave hospitality and glory to Rousseau, while the author of the
Confessions) has degraded her and has bequeathed shame to her. ”
As the 'Méditations) had made Lamartine immediately famous, he
married a beautiful and wealthy English woman, Miss Marianne Birch,
and became secretary of the French embassy at Florence.
later appointed minister to Greece; but the Revolution of July 1830
interrupted his diplomatic career, and he undertook in 1832 a voyage
to the Orient, which he has related in one of his best-written books.
He traveled with princely magnificence, in company with his wife and
Julia his only child, — whom he lost in the East. The Voyage en
Orient’ is a beautiful work, and may be read with interest even after
Châteaubriand's 'Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem. Lamartine's prose
is almost as harmonious as his verses; and the only defect of the
book is that the author has colored somewhat, with the glamour of his
imagination, the description of the places which he visited.
When the Voyage en Orient' was published, Lamartine was
already a member of the French Academy, and had written the
Méditations) (1820), the Nouvelles Méditations) (1823), and the
Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses) (1830). The first-named poems
are sad and religious, but are also essentially tender; a hymn to love
and the well-beloved. On reading them one feels no despondency:
it is a melodious voice which speaks to us of love, of death, and of
God, and reconciles us to the idea of death by the idea of God. In
the Harmonies' we see that it is indeed the religious idea that
animates the book; but it is an idea loftier and less tender sometimes
than that of the Méditations. ) The Harmonies) may be called a
religious epic; it is in some parts the glorification of Jehovah through
the marvels of Creation. Ask the oak-tree how it was born: An
eagle has caught the acorn fallen from the tree, and has carried it
to its nest. Soon the nest rolls along swept away by a tempest, and
the acorn falls into a furrow. It is watered by the showers of spring,
the seed opens, and the gigantic oak spreads its knotty and power-
ful boughs over the peaceful flocks in the fields. The worlds which
(


## p. 8804 (#428) ###########################################

8804
LAMARTINE
us
surround are also the work of Jehovah; and the poet, in con-
templating the Infinite, is touched with sadness. He asks himself
what is life, what is death? and he says that one must regret, on
leaving this world, only one thing,- love and the woman loved.
In Jocelyn (1836), however, love is conquered by duty. Jocelyn
has entered a seminary in order that his sister may have a larger
dowry and marry the man she loves. He is on the point of becom-
ing a priest, when he is cast into a grotto on the top of the Alps
by the storm of the Revolution. He receives into his wild abode
Laurence, whom he believes to be a boy: he loves her after he has
learnt who she is, and she also loves him: but he abandons the
charming child to answer the call of an old priest, his benefactor.
He takes the oath which binds him to God's altar, and Laurence is
lost to him. He is at first in despair; but his soul is quieted, and he
leads until old age the saintly life of a devoted priest. These few
words do not give an adequate idea of Jocelyn,' in the opinion of
many critics the most beautiful poem in the French language. If
ever the author of the Méditations, and the Harmonies) were to
be forgotten, the humble Jocelyn would recall to men the name of
him who composed such noble verses.