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ILLUSTRATED ARTICLE.

TASSO'S JERUSALEM DELIVERED.

THE SUBJECT OF THE EMBELLISHMENT Is the death of the valiant warrior maid Clorinda, she having been left behind by her party, the Pagans, whilst effecting a retreat from the Christians, who were fiercely pursuing them for firing one of their towers, is overtaken by Prince Tancred, a Christian leader, who she engages with, and by him is slain. He is supposed to be motionless with amazement on discovering that he has unknowingly mortally wounded Clorinda of whom he was enamoured.

But now behold the mournful hour at hand, In which the fates Clorinda's life demand. Full at her bosom Tancred aim'd the sword; The thirsty steel her lovely bosom gor'd: The sanguine current stain'd with blushing red

Th' embroidered vest that o'er her arms was spread.

She feels approaching death in every vein; Her trembling knees no more her weight sus tain: But still the Christian knight pursues the blow, And threats and presses close bis vanquish'd foe.

She, as she fell, with moving voice address'd VOL I.

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! let me pardon too from thee invoke !Not for this mortal frame I urge my prayer, For this I know no fear, and ask no care:

No, for my soul alone I pity crave;

O! cleanse my follies in the sacred wave?
Feebly she spoke; the mournful sounds
A tender feeling to the victor's heart;
impart
His wrath subsides, while softer passions rise,
And call the tear of pity from his eyes.
Not distant far, adown the mossy hill
In gentle murmurs roll'd a crystal rill:
There in his casque the limpid stream he took;
Then sad and pensive hasten'd from the brook.
His hands now trembled, while her helm he
rear'd,

Ere yet the features of his foe appear'd ;-
He sees !-he knows?-and senseless stands
the knight,

O fatal knowledge-O distracting sight!
Yet still be lives, and rouz'd with holy zeal,
Prepares the last sad duty to fulfil.
While from his lips he gave the words of grace,
A smile of transport brighten'd in her face,
Rejoic'd in death, she seem'd her joy to tell,
And bade for Heaven the empty world farewell
A lovely paleness o'er her features flew;
As violets mix'd with lilies blend their hue.

15-SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 1828.

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seem that when a man's mind is so totally engrossed with one object as to enable him to carry that particular object of pursuit to an extraordinary degree of perfection, it is necessarily abstracted from others; so that it often happens that the faculty called common sense, which is that of deliberately comparing with one

Recollections of Books and another the objects that occur in common

their Authors.

LA FONTAINE THE SIMPLE.

IT is natural for those who read the works of men of genius, to think that writers of such excellence should be endowed with talents in every respect superior to the common run of mankind; nothing can be more delusive than such expectations. Man is an imperfect creature, and though heaven sometimes confers upon individuals, talents of a certain kind in a super-eminent degree, it is seldom that any one man possesses a great variety of talents in unusual perfection. It oftener happens that men who are endowed with the singular faculty of excelling in one kind of composition, are remarkably deficient in other respects. It would

life, and drawing just inferences from them, for regulating the ordinary transactions of life, seems to be entirely obliterated in these men.

La Fontaine, the celebrated fabulist, affords a remarkable illustration of the truth of this remark. Every person, the least conversant in French literature, is acquainted with the writings of this author, which possess, in an unequalled degree, an ease, an elegance, a natural, unaffected simplicity, both in thought and expression, that other writers have in vain Yet this man, attempted to imitate. though endowed with the faculty of writing in a manner that no other person has yet been able to attain, was so deficient in the article of common-sense, that, in the ordinary transactions of life, he was scarcely to be distinguished from an idiot.

The following anecdotes of this singular genius can scarcely prove uninteresting to any one who wishes to become acquainted with the human character.

Jean de la Fontaine, remarkable for carrying to its highest and most amusing pitch, the quality which the French happily call naïveté, or nativeness, that is to say, a certain fresh taste of the most natural and ingenuous feelings that are innate with us, was born at Chateau Thierry, July the 20th, (8th O. S.) 1621. He was of a gentle and easy disposition, without pride, incapable of hatred, and free from the passions which tyrannize over the souls of most men. Happy would it be for society, if it were composed only of men like him. It is true he did not add to the pleasures of society in his own person, however much his writings contributed to that end. Those who saw without knowing him, had no other idea of him, than that of a man who was both disagreeable and very tiresome. He spoke little, and unless the talk was of something to his liking, he remained in a stupid silence, which any one unacquainted with his genius would have taken for confirmed idiotism. If he told a tale, he related it lamely; and that author who had written stories so natural and so live ly, interested nobody when he related one. There are other examples, which prove that with much wit, and a variety of talents, a man may not have the gift of conversation.

Fontaine was well-educated, and, at nineteen, went among the Fathers of the Oratory, but left them soon afterwards. His father, who was the forest-keeper of the district, put his son in his place, but he had less taste for business than for polemics, and quitted the forest-hedges to converse with the birds. His discovery of the poetic faculty, however, was of a piece with the rest of his simple and offhand character: for he did not find it out till his twenty-second year, when upon accidentally hearing an ode of Malherbe's repeated, he was seized with a transport, which hurried him at once into the arms of the Muses. He chose the wildest and the giddiest, but by no means the least knowing of the family, retaining nevertheless his personal character for extreme stillness and simplicity. Of these apparent contradictions, the phenomenon called La Fontaine, was ever after composed. He was a good scholar, could be critical with Quintilian, and romantically moral with Plato; but his favourite authors were the romancers and novelists of Italy, and such of his own countrymen as had given way to their animal spirits before him, such as Rabelais and Marot.

One of his biographers has well said, that though averse to restraint of any kind, yet, to oblige his parents, he "suffered himself to be married;" and he was espoused to Mary Hericard, daughter of a lieutenant-general de la Ferte-Milon. An anecdote of this marriage will display his character in the truest and most amusing light. His wife, while he was present with her, sufficed him with her beauty and wit, and he used to consult her on what he wrote, but the Duchess de Bouillon, coming to Chateau Thierry, and Fontaine being introduced to her and pleasing her, he was tempted by her society, and by the hope of getting among the Parisian wits, to follow her to the metropolis, where he made no more ado, but took up his abode there like a bachelor. Soon after this step, a pension was procured for him; he was subsequently in the service of Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans the sister of our Charles the IInd, and finally settled for twenty years in the house of the witty Madame de la Sabliere, who having one day discharged all her servants in a pet, said " she had retained but three animals of her former establishment-her cat, her dog, and La Fontaine." It was the same lady, who, in allusion to the apparent insensibility with which he put forth the finest productions, called him "the fable-bearing tree.'

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In the meanwhile, he had by no means quarrelled with his wife, but used to go down in the country to her every September, the lady perhaps being well contented to pass the rest of her time as she pleased. They were neither of them economical, and whenever he made a visit, he used to contrive to part with some piece of his family property in house or land, so that a handsome estate was well nigh consumed. Whether this, or any other of his habits, produced a rupture, we cannot say; but we read of his being advised to reconcile himself to Madame de la Fontaine and of his going down in the country for that purpose.

He set out, in consequence, from Paris, in the public stage, arrived at his house, and asked for his wife. The servants who did not know him, told him that his mistress was at evening prayers. Fontaine went directly to the house of a friend, who gave him supper and a bed, and kept him for two days; when the coach was ready to return to Paris, Fontaine got into it, and thought no more of his wife. His friends were surprised to meet him so speedily in town again, and upon asking him about his reconciliation, he replied, with his usual air of simplicity and sincerity, that he had been down

to see his wife, but was told that she was at church."

He continued in the establishment of Mad. de la Sabliere nearly twenty years. A day or two after losing this generous patroness, he met his acquaintance, M. d'Hervart: "My dear Fontaine," said that worthy man to him, "I have heard of your misfortune, and was going to propose your coming to live with me." "I was going to you," answered Fontaine, with his usual naiveté.

There never was a man who believed what was told him so readily and implicitly, witness his adventure with a captain of dragoons named Poignan. This officer used to frequent the country house of Fontaine, and was particularly pleased with the conversation of his wife, whose society was very agreeable. Poignan was neither of an age, humour, nor figure to disturb the peace of a husband. How ever, some mischievous wits insinuated to Fontaine that all was not right at home, and that he was dishonoured, if he did not fight the captain. Struck with that idea, he gets up very early in the morning, goes to the house of his man, wakens him, and bids him dress and follow him. Poignan, who knew not what all this meant, goes out with him like an obedient gentleman as he was: they arrive at a remote corner of the city: "I wish to fight with you-I have been advised to it," said Fontaine : he explains his reason in very few words, draws his sword without waiting for Poignan's answer, and puts himself on the defensive. The combat is not long: the captain disarms him at the first pass: Fontaine is satisfied, and Poignan conducts him home, and they are reconciled at breakfast.

It was difficult to restrain him sometimes when on a particular subject. One day dining with Moliere and Despreaux, he inveighed against the absurdity of making performers speak aside what is heard by the stage and the whole house. Heated with this idea, he would listen to no argument. "It cannot be denied," exclaimed Despreaux, in a loud key, "it cannot be denied, that La Fontaine is a rogue, a great rogue, a villain, a rascal, &c." multiplying his terms of abuse, and increasing the loudness of his voice. Fontaine, without paying any regard to his abuse, went on declaiming. At last the company's roar of laughter recalled him to himself. "What is this roar of laughter about?" said he. "At what?" said Despreaux, "why at you to be sure you have not heard a word of the abuse which I have been bawling at your ears, yet you are surprised at the folly of supposing a performer not to hear what another actor whispers at the opposite side of the stage.'

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Fontaine had a son whom he kept but a very short time under his own care. At fourteen years of age, he put him into the hands of M. de Harley, who was afterwards First President, and recommended to him his education and his fortune. He went one day to a house where his son was, but he did not know him : he told the company, however, that he thought the lad had wit and taste: he was then informed he was his son : Indeed,' said Fontaine, calmly: "I am very glad

of it."

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He was seen one morning by Madame de Bouillon, when on her way to Versailles, sitting under a tree by the roadside; on her return in the evening, there was La Fontaine in the same attitude, notwithstanding the day had been cold, and much rain had fallen!

Another trait may further serve to shew that a man who applies himself to abstruse studies, lives, as it were, out of the world that he moves in. Hence those natural and inattentive answers which so often furnish people of middling talents with occasions for ridiculing genius. Fontaine had received an invitation to attend the funeral of a person of his acquaintance. He went; the lapse of a few days had quite obliterated the recollection of his death, and he visited the same house, and informed the porter as he went in, that he had come to dine with his master: the porter, astonished, said that his master was dead and buried eight days ago : "God bless me," replied the poet, So he was, but I did not think that it had been so long."

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He was invited once to a dinner at a great house, in hopes of his contributing to the company's intellectual enjoyment. He took the invitation however at its word; and did so much justice to the dinner, that not a syllable could be got out of him. He even rose to go away, when he had done eating, and upon being asked why he did so, said he had to attend a sitting of the Academy. "But it is not time," said they. "Just so,

"said

"But

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the poet, "but I always go soon." M. de la Fontaine," returned the guests, "the Academy is only over the way.' "Ah, so it is," replied he; " true, I shall take the longest way then."

Rabelais, whom Despreaux used to call "Reason in a mask;" was always the idol of Fontaine. He was the only author whom he admired without reserve. He was one day at Despreaux's house with Racine, Boileau, and other persons of distinguished merit. There was a good deal of discussion about the merits of St. Augustine and his works. Fontaine did not join in the conversation, but kept

the most indifferent silence. At last he awakened as from a profound sleep, and asked of the Abbé Boileau, if he thought St. Augustine had as much wit as Rabelais? The Abbé, who seems to have had his brother's shrewdness, looking at him from head to foot, said, M. de la F ntaine, one of your stockings is wrong side outwards," which was the case.

Racine took him in the Holy week to a Tenebros, and perceiving that the office seemed long to him, to amuse his mind, he gave him a volume of the Bible which contained the Prophets. He read the prayer of the Jews in Baruch, and not being satisfied with merely admiring, he said to Racine, "Baruch was a fine genius! who was he?" For several days afterwards, when he met an acquaintance in the streets, after the ordinary compliments, he raised his voice to say, "Have He was a great

you read Baruch ? genius!"

M. Racine, the son of the poet, who wrote the memoirs of his great father, says of Fontaine, that after having consumed his fortune, he still preserved his disinterestedness.

He preferred the fables of the ancients to his own, which made Fontenelle say, "Fontaine is foolish enough to think that the ancients had more wit than himself," a phrase, says La Motte, which expresses finely the character of a superior genius, who does not know himself, for want of examining himself with sufficient attention.

When the fables of La Motte appeared, it was fashionable in France to despise them. One evening, at an entertainment given by the Prince de Vendome, several of the first critics of the kingdom made themselves exceedingly merry at the expense of the author." Voltaire happened to be present: "Gentlemen, (said he,) I perfectly agree with you. What a difference there is between the style of La Motte, and the style of La Fontaine ! Have you seen the new edition of the latThe company answered in the negative. "Then you have not read that beautiful Fable of his, which was found among the papers of the Duchess of Bouillon." He accordingly repeated it to them. Every one present was charmedtransported with it. "Here (said he,) is the spirit of La Fontaine ;-here is nature

ter ?"

in her simplicity. What naïveté-what grace !-Gentlemen, (resumed Voltaire,) you will find this Fable among those of La Motte." Confusion took possession of all but Voltaire, who was happy in exposing the folly of these pretended judges.

[To be Continued.]

THE LADY OF GOLLERUS.

On the shore of Smerwick harbour one fine summer's morning, just at day break, stood Dick Fitzgerald" shoghing the dudeen," which may be translated, "smoking his pipe." The sun was gradually rising behind the lofty Brandon, the dark sea was getting green in the light, and the mists clearing away out of the valleys, went rolling and curling like the smoke from the corner of Dick's mouth.

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'Tis just the pattern of a pretty morning," said Dick, taking the pipe from between his lips, and looking towards the distant ocean, which lay as still and tranquil as a tomb of polished marble. "Well to be sure," continued he, after a pause, "'tis mighty lonesome to be talking to one's self by way of company, and not to have another soul to answer one, nothing but the child of one's own voice, the echo, I know this, that if I had the luck, or may be the misfortune," said, with a melancholy smile" to have the woman, it would not be this way with me !-and what in the wide world is a man without a wife? He's no more surely than a bottle without a drop of drink in it, or dancing without music, or the left leg of a scissors, or a fishing-line without a hook, or any other matter that is no-ways complete. Is it not so?" said Dick Fitzgerald, casting his eyes towards a rock upon the strand, which though it could not speak, stood up as firm and looked as bold as ever Kerry witness did.

But what was his astonishment at beholding just at the foot of that rock, a beautiful young creature combing her hair, which was of a sea-green colour, and now the salt water shining on it, appeared, in the morning light, like melted butter upon cabbage.

Dick guessed at once that she was a Merrow, although he had never seen one before, for he spied the cohuleen driuth, or little enchanted cap, which the sea people use for diving down into the ocean, lying upon the strand, near her; and he had heard, that if once he could possess himself of the cap, she would lose the power of going away in the water, so he seized it with all speed, and she, hearing the noise, turned her head about as natural as any Christian.

When the Merrow saw that her living little diving cap was gone, the salt tears,

doubly salt, no doubt, from her-came trickling down her cheeks, and she began a low mournful cry with just the tender voice of a new-born infant, Dick, although he knew well enough what she was crying for, determined to keep the cohuleen driuth, let her cry never so much to see what luck would come out of it.

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