The fable entitled “Death and the Dying,” is much admired for its union of pathos with wit. “The Two Doves,” is another of La Fontaine’s more tender inspirations. “The Mogul’s Dream” is a somewhat ambitious flight of the fabulist’s muse. On the whole, however, the masterpiece among the fables of La Fontaine is that of “The Animals Sick of the Plague.” Such at least is the opinion of critics in general. The idea of this fable is not original with La Fontaine. The homilists of the middle ages used a similar fiction to enforce on priests the duty of impartiality in administering the sacrament, so called, of confession. We give this famous fable as our closing specimen of La Fontaine:

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 fled, 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, 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 Renard glibly spoke, And loud applause from listeners broke Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear, Did any keen inquiry 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.

It is suitable to add, in conclusion, that La Fontaine is a crucial author for disclosing the irreconcilable difference that exists, at bottom, between the Englishman’s and the Frenchman’s idea of poetry. No English-speaker, heir of Shakespeare and Milton, will ever be able to satisfy a Frenchman with admiration such as he can conscientiously profess for the poetry of La Fontaine.

VII.

MOLIÈRE.

1623-1673.

Molière is confessedly the greatest writer of comedy in the world. Greek Menander might have disputed the palm; but Menander’s works have perished, and his greatness must be guessed. Who knows but we guess him too great? Molière’s works survive, and his greatness may be measured.

We have stinted our praise. Molière is not only the foremost name in a certain department of literature; he is one of the foremost names in literature. The names are few on which critics are willing to bestow this distinction. But critics generally agree in bestowing this distinction on Molière.

Molière’s comedy is by no means mere farce. Farces he wrote, undoubtedly; and some element of farce, perhaps, entered to qualify nearly every comedy that flowed from his pen. But it is not for his farce that Molière is rated one of the few greatest producers of literature. Molière’s comedy constitutes to Molière the patent that it does, of high degree in genius, not because it provokes laughter, but because, amid laughter provoked, it not seldom reveals, as if with flashes of lightning—lightning playful, indeed, but lightning that might have been deadly—the “secrets of the nethermost abyss” of human nature. Not human manners merely, those of a time, or a race, but human attributes, those of all times, and of all races, are the things with which, in his higher comedies, Molière deals. Some transient whim of fashion may in these supply to him the mould of form that he uses, but it is human nature itself that supplies to Molière the substance of his dramatic creations. Now and again, if you read Molière wisely and deeply, you find your laughter at comedy fairly frozen in your throat, by a gelid horror seizing you, to feel that these follies or these crimes displayed belong to that human nature, one and the same everywhere and always, of which also you yourself partake. Comedy, Dante, too, called his poem, which included the Inferno. And a Dantesque quality, not of method, but of power, is to be felt in Molière.