one must conform one's self to the nature of the things about which one writes. Now, that I should be permitted to write about these as so many others have done and with success I do not believe it can be doubted; and people cannot condemn me for so doing, without also condemning Ariosto before me and the Ancients before Ariosto. It may be said that I should have done better to have suppressed certain details, or at least to have disguised them. Nothing was more easy, but it would have weakened the tale and taken away some of its charm: So much circumspection is only necessary in works which promise great discretion from the beginning, either by their subject or by the manner in which they are treated. I confess that it is necessary to keep within certain limits, and that the narrowest are the best; also it must be allowed me that to be too scrupulous would spoil all. He who would wish to reduce Boccaccio to the same modesty as Virgil, would assuredly produce nothing worth having, and would sin against the laws of propriety by setting himself the task to observe them. For in order that one may not make a mistake in matters of verse and prose, extreme modesty and propriety are two very different things. Cicero makes the latter consist in saying what is appropriate one should say, considering the place, the time, and the persons to whom one is speaking. This principle once admitted, it is not a fault of judgment to entertain the people of to-day with Tales which are a little broad. Neither do I sin in that against morality. If there is anything in our writings which is capable of making an impression on the mind, it is by no means the gaiety of these Tales; it passes off lightly; I should rather fear a tranquil melancholy, into which the most chaste and modest novels are very capable of plunging us, and which is a great preparation for love. As to the second objection, by which people reproach me that this book does wrong to womankind, they would be right if I were speaking seriously: but who does not see that this is all in jest, and consequently cannot injure? We must not be afraid on that account that marriages in the future will be less frequent, and husbands more on their guard. It may still be objected that these Tales are unfounded or that they have everywhere a foundation easy to destroy; in short that they are absurdities and have not the least tinge of probability. I reply in a few words that I have my authorities: and besides it is neither truth nor probability which makes the beauty and the charm of these Tales: it is only the manner of telling them. These are the principal points on which I have thought it necessary to defend myself. I abandon the rest to the censors; the more so as it would be an infinite undertaking to pretend to reply to all. Criticism never stops short nor ever wants for subjects on which to exercise itself: even if those I am able to foresee were taken from it, it would soon have discovered others.

TALES AND NOVELS OF J. DE LA FONTAINE .......

JOCONDE

IN Lombardy's fair land, in days of yore, Once dwelt a prince, of youthful charms, a store; Each FAIR, with anxious look, his favours sought, And ev'ry heart within his net was caught. Quite proud of beauteous form and smart address, In which the world was led to acquiesce, He cried one day, while ALL attention paid, I'll bet a million, Nature never made Beneath the sun, another man like me, Whose symmetry with mine can well agree. If such exist, and here will come, I swear I'll show him ev'ry lib'ral princely care.

A noble Roman, who the challenge heard, This answer gave the king his soul preferr'd --Great prince, if you would see a handsome man, To have my brother here should be your plan; A frame more perfect Nature never gave; But this to prove, your courtly dames I crave; May judge the fact, when I'm convinc'd they'll find: Like you, the youth will please all womankind; And since so many sweets at once may cloy, 'Twere well to have a partner in your joy.

THE king, surpris'd, expressed a wish to view This brother, form'd by lines so very true; We'll see, said he, if here his charms divine Attract the heart of ev'ry nymph, like mine; And should success attend our am'rous lord, To you, my friend, full credit we'll accord.

AWAY the Roman flew, Joconde to get, (So nam'd was he in whom these features met;) 'Midst woods and lawns, retir'd from city strife, And lately wedded to a beauteous wife; If bless'd, I know not; but with such a fair, On him must rest the folly to despair.

THE Roman courtier came, his business told The brilliant offers from the monarch bold; His mission had success, but still the youth Distraction felt, which 'gan to shake his truth; A pow'rful monarch's favour there he view'd; A partner here, with melting tears bedew'd; And while he wavered on the painful choice, She thus address'd her spouse with plaintive voice:

CAN you, Joconde, so truly cruel prove, To quit my fervent love in courts to move? The promises of kings are airy dreams, And scarcely last beyond the day's extremes By watchful, anxious care alone retain'd, And lost, through mere caprice, as soon as gain'd. If weary of my charms, alas! you feel, Still think, my love, what joys these woods conceal; Here dwell around tranquillity and ease; The streams' soft murmurs, and the balmy breeze, Invite to sleep; these vales where breathe the doves, All, all, my dear Joconde, renew our loves; You laugh!--Ah! cruel, go, expose thy charms, Grim death will quickly spare me these alarms!

JOCONDE'S reply our records ne'er relate, Nor what he did, nor how he left his mate; And since contemp'raries decline the task; 'Twere folly, such details of me to ask. We're told, howe'er, when ready to depart, With flowing tears she press'd him to her heart; And on his arm a brilliant bracelet plac'd, With hair around her picture nicely trac'd; This guard in full remembrance of my love, She cried;--then clasped her hands to pow'rs above.

TO see such dire distress, and poignant grief, Might lead to think, soon death would bring relief; But I, who know full well the female mind, At best oft doubt affliction of the kind.

JOCONDE set out at length; but that same morn; As on he mov'd, his soul with anguish torn, He found the picture he had quite forgot, Then turn'd his steed, and back began to trot. While musing what excuse to make his mate, At home he soon arriv'd, and op'd the gate; Alighted unobserv'd, ran up the stairs; And ent'ring to the lady unawares, He found this darling rib, so full of charms; Intwin'd within a valet's brawny arms!

'MIDST first emotions of the husband's ire; To stab them while asleep he felt desire; Howe'er, he nothing did; the courteous wight; In this dilemma, clearly acted right; The less of such misfortunes said is best; 'Twere well the soul of feeling to divest; Their lives, through pity, or prudential care; With much reluctance, he was led to spare; Asleep he left the pair, for if awake, In honour, he a diff'rent step would take.-- Had any smart gallant supplied my place, Said he, I might put up with this disgrace; But naught consoles the thought of such a beast; Dan Cupid wantons, or is blind at least; A bet, or some such whim, induc'd the god, To give his sanction to amours so odd.

THIS perfidy Joconde so much dismay'd; His spirits droop'd, his lilies 'gan to fade; No more he look'd the charmer he had been; And when the court's gay dames his face had seen; They cried, Is this the beauty, we were told, Would captivate each heart, or young or old? Why, he's the jaundice; ev'ry view displays The mien of one,--just fasted forty days!

WITH secret pleasure, this, Astolphus learn'd; The Roman, for his brother, risks discern'd, Whose secret griefs were carefully conceal'd, (And these Joconde could never wish reveal'd;) Yet, spite of gloomy looks and hollow eyes, His graceful features pierc'd the wan disguise, Which fail'd to please, alone through want of life, Destroy'd by thinking on a guilty wife.

THE god of love, in pity to our swain, At last revok'd BLACK CARE'S corroding reign; For, doubtless, in his views he oft was cross'd, While such a lover to the world was lost.

THE hero of our tale, at length, we find Was well rewarded: LOVE again proved kind; For, musing as he walk'd alone one day, And pass'd a gall'ry, (held a secret way,) A voice in plaintive accents caught his ear, And from the neighb'ring closet came, 'twas clear: My dear Curtade, my only hope below, In vain I love;--you colder, colder grow; While round no fair can boast so fine a face, And numbers wish they might supply thy place, Whilst thou with some gay page prefer'st a bet, Or game of dice with some low, vulgar set, To meeting me alone; and when just now To thee I sent, with rage thou knit'st thy brow, And Dorimene, with ev'ry curse abus'd Then played again, since better that amus'd, And left me here, as if not worth a thought,