tics; St. Austin was talked of for a considerable time, and with the highest commendations. Fontaine listened with his natural air, and at last, after a profound silence, asked one of the Ecclesiastics, with the most unaffected seriousness, "whether he thought St. Austin had more wit than Rabelais." The Doctor, eyeing Fontaine from head to foot, answered only by observing, "that he had put on one of his stockings the wrong side out," which happened to be the case. The nurse who attended Fontaine in his illness, observing the fervour of the priest in his exhortations, said to him, "Ah, good Sir, don't disturb him so; he is rather stupid than wicked.

In the year 1692, he was seized with a dangerous illness; and when the priest came to converse with him about religion, concerning which, he had hitherto been totally unconcerned, though he had never been either an infidel or a libertine, Fontaine told him, that "he had lately bestowed some hours in reading the New Testament, which he thought a good book." Being brought to a clearer knowledge of religious truths, the priest represented to him, that

he had received intelligence of a certain dramatic piece of his, which was soon to be acted; but that he could not be admitted to the sacraments of the church, unless he suppressed it. This appeared too rigid; and Fontaine appealed to the Sorbonne, who confirming what the priest had said, this sincere penitent threw the piece into the fire, without keeping even a copy. The priest then laid before him the evil tendency of his " Tales," which are written in a very wanton manner: he told him, that while the French language subsisted, they would be a most dangerous inducement to vice; and that he could not justify administering the sacraments to him, unless he would promise to make a public acknowledgment of his crime at the time of receiving, and a public acknowledgment before the Academy of which he was a member, in case he recovered; and to exert his utmost endeavours to suppress the book. La Fontaine thought these very severe terms, but, at length, yielded to them all.

He did not die till the 13th of April, 1695, when, if we believe some, he was found with a hair shirt on.

PIETER CORNELIS HOOFT.

PIETER CORNELIS HOOFT was born at Amsterdam on the 16th of March, 1581. At the age of 19 he was already a member of the "Amsterdamsche Kamer in Liefde Bloeijende," which was entirely distinct from, and far more celebrated than, the other literary societies of that period. His earliest productions were not distinguished by any of that sweetness of versification and occasional force which afterwards lent such charms both to his prose works and poetry. He went to France and Italy, and gave the first promise of an improved style and more cultivated taste, in a poetical epistle, written at Florence, to the members of the "Amsterdamsche Kamer." He appears to have made the Greek, Latin, and Italian writers his peculiar study. By reading the latter he was first taught to impart that melody to his own language of which it had not hitherto been deemed susceptible. To no man, indeed, is Dutch literature more indebted than to Hooft. He refined the versification of his age, without divesting it of its vigour. His mind had drunk deeply at the founts of knowledge, and his productions are always harmonious and often sub

lime. The great Vondel, who was too truly noble to be jealous of his fame, calls him

"Of Holland's poets most illustrious head."

It is difficult to decide whether Hooft or Vondel was most honoured by this eulogium.

He died on the 21st of May, in the year 1647. His Granida is one of the most beautiful specimens of harmony in the Dutch language; and the critics of Holland are fond of contrasting the flowing music of Hooft with the harsh and cumbrous diction of Spiegel, his forerunner. The original of the following lines (Sc. i. of the Granida) deserves every eulogy for its poetical grace:

Het vinnigh straalen van de son
Ontschuil ik in't boschaadje.

"I'll hie me to the forest now,
The sun shines bright in glory:

And of our courtship every bough
Perchance may tell the story.

Our courtship? No! Our Courtship? Yes!

There's folly in believing;

For, of a hundred youths, I guess,

(O shame!) they're all deceiving,

A gaysome swain is wandering still,
New pleasures seeking ever;
And longer than his wanton will

His love endureth never.

My heart beats hard against my breast,
So hard-can I confide now?
No! confidence might break my rest,
And faith will not be tried now.

Oft, in the crowd, we trip and fall,
And who escape are fewest :
I hear my own deliverer call-
Of all the true the truest.

But, silly maiden! look around,
And see thy cherish'd treasure;
Who rests or tarries never found
And ne'er deserv'd a pleasure.

Should he disclose his love to me
Whilst in this forest straying,
Were there a tongue in every tree,
What might they not be saying!"

BATAVIAN ANTHOLOGY.

HUGO GROTIUS.

HUIG DE GROOT (commonly known by the name of Hugo Grotius) was born at Delft on the 10th of April, 1583. When he was only