phin to sleep; and that, having succeeded in the object of soporific efficacy, the poetess (for some make Madame de Sevigné the authoress of "Malbrouck," she being a sort of L. F. L. in her day) deemed historical accuracy a minor consideration. It is a fact, that this tune is the only one relished by the South Sea islanders, who find it "most musical, most melancholy." Chateaubriand, in his Itineraire de Jerusalem, says the air was brought from Palestine by Crusaders.

As we have just given a war-song, or a lullaby, I shall introduce a different subject, to avoid monotony. I shall therefore give the poet Béranger's famous ode to Dr. Lardner, concerning his Cyclopædia. The occasion which gave rise to this lyrical effusion was the recent trip of Dionysius Lardner to Paris, and his proposal (conveyed through Dr., Bowring) to Béranger, of a handsome remuneration, if the poet would sing or say a good word about his " Cabinet Cyclopædia," which Dr. Bowring translated as "son Encyclopédie des Cabinets" (d'aisance?) Lardner gave the poet a dinner on the strength of the expected commendatory poem, when the following song was composed after the third bottle:

Dr. L. had then a bill before the Lords for divorce from his first wife, Cecilia Flood, niece of the celebrated Irish orator.

Le fer pesant tombe sur ma tête
chauve,
J'entends ces mots, "Denis sçait
se venger!"

Me voilà mort et poursuivant mon
rêve-

La coupe en main, je répète aux enfers,

O vieux Denis, je me ris de ton glaive,

Je bois, je chante, et je siffle tes vers!

And, lo! from the ceiling there hung by a thread

66

A bale of unsaleable copies.
"Puff my writings," he cried, or
your skull shall be crushed!"
"That I cannot," I answered, with
honesty flushed.

"Be your name Dionysius or
Thady, ah!

Old Dennis, my boy, though I were
to enjoy

But one glass and one song, still
one laugh, loud and long,
I should have at your Cyclopædia.”

So adieu, Dr. Lardner, for the present, ass in præsenti ; and turn we to other topics of song.

The eye of the connoisseur has no doubt detected sundry latent indications of the poet's consummate drollery; but it is in ennobling insignificant subjects by reference to historical anecdote and classic allegory, that the delicate tact and singular ability of Béranger are to be admired. It will be in the recollection of those who have read the accomplished fabulist of Rome, Phædrus, that he commends Simonides of Cos for his stratagem, when hired to sing the praise of some obscure candidate for the honours of the Olympic race-course. The bard, finding no material for verse in the life of his vulgar hero, launched into an encomium on Castor and Pollux, twin-brothers of the olden turf. Béranger thus exemplifies his most homely subject by the admixture of Greek and Roman associations. The original is rather too long to be transcribed here; and as my translation is not, in this case, a literal version, the less it is confronted with its prototype the better. The last stanza I do not pretend to understand rightly, so I put it at the bottom of the page in a note,* supposing that my readers may not be so blind as I confess I am concerning this intricate and enigmatical passage of the ode.

*

"Diogène! sous ton manteau,
Libre et content, je ris, je bois, sans gêne;
Libre et content, je roule mon tonneau!
Lauterne en main, dans l'Athènes moderne

Chercher un homme est un dessein fort beau!
Mais quand le soir voit briller ma lanterne,
C'est aux amours qu'elle sert de flambeau."

And into my tub when I've crept,
They may canvass in vain for my vote.
For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub,
REFORM gave no '
ten pound franchise" to my tub
So your "bill" I don't value a groat!
And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity,
Adorned now-a-days, and yclept Popularity,
To my home

Should it come,

And my hogshead's bright aperture darken,
Think not to such summons I'd hearken.
No! I'd say to that goule grim and gaunt,
Vile phantom, avaunt!

Get thee out of my sight!

For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light
Of the gay glorious sun

From my classical tun,

Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun

Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge in ease— The classical tub of Diogenes!

In the park of St. Cloud there stares at you
A pillar or statue

Of my liege, the philosopher cynical:
There he stands on a pinnacle,

And his lantern is placed on the ground,
While, with both eyes fixed wholly on
The favourite haunt of Napoleon,

"A MAN!" he exclaims, "by the powers, I have found!"
But for me, when at eve I go sau tering

On the boulevards of Athens, "Love" carries my lantern;
And, egad! though I walk most demurely,

For a man I'm not looking full surely;

Nay, I'm sometimes brought drunk home,

Like honest Jack Reeve, or like honest Tom Duncombe.
O! the nest

So much for the poet's capability of embellishing what is vulgar, by the magic wand of antique recollections: propriè communia dicere, is a secret as rare as ever. When Hercules took a distaff in hand, he made but a poor spinner, and broke all the threads, to the amusement of his mistress; Béranger would have gracefully gone through even that minor accomplishment, at the same time that the war-club and the battle-axe lost nothing of their power when wielded by his hand. Such is the versatility of genius!

Can any thing compare with the following ode of this very songster of "the tub," who herein shews strikingly with what facility he can diversify his style, vary his tone, run "through each mood of the lyre, a master in all !"