JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, a noted French fabulist and poet, was born in Champagne, July 8, 1621; died in Paris, April 13, 1695. In his early youth he learned almost nothing, and at the age of twenty was sent by his father to the Oratory at Rheims, in a state of extreme ignorance. Here, however, he began to exhibit a decided taste for the classics and for poetry. Though selfish and vicious to the last degree, he possessed withal a certain childlike bonhommie; it was not grace, or vivacity, or wit, but a certain soft and pleasant amiability of manner, so that he never wanted friends. He successively found protectors in the Duchess de Bouillon, who drew him to Paris; in Madame de Sablière, and in M. and Madame Hervert. He enjoyed the friendship of Molière, Boileau, Racine, and other contemporary celebrities; and even the saintly Fénelon lamented his death in extravagant strains. In 1693, after a dangerous illness, he carried into execution what a French critic characteristically terms his projet de conversion, and spent the brief remainder of his life in a kind of artificial penitence, common enough among licentious men and women in those sensual days. His best, which, however, are also his most immoral, productions are "Contes et Nouvelles en Vers" (1665; 2d part, 1666; 3d part, 1671). His "Fables Choisies mises en Vers" (1668–1693), in this respect are without blemish, while as works of literary art they stand in the foremost rank. He wrote some dramas, of little worth; also a version in prose and verse of "The Loves of Psyche" (1669).

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;

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.

-

"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?"

THE TWO DOVES.

Two 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

Prevailed at last; and so said he:
"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.
Away the lonely wanderer flew.-
A thunder-cloud began to lower;