done—mix it with some of his native Champagne. I think the extent of our obligations to that most perfect of translators has never been felt. Compare his with the versions that have since come—
'Sad dreams, as when the spirit of youth
Returns again in sleep, and leads us back
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track'
of the enchanted world of genii, sultans, and princesses. The reason is, they give us the literal story, and foolishly pique themselves on the accuracy of their translation, and their knowledge of Arabic. Caillaud, on the contrary, did as Shakespeare did, who, out of the stupid novels of Cynthio, extracted a Romeo and Juliet. He modelled his raw matériel, and told the story with his own especial grace, in addition to what is a national gift to his countrymen, l'art de conter. By the by, I think it among the great honours to French literature, that one of its most original branches, fairy tales, is peculiarly its own. I believe the Children in the Wood, Whittington and his Cat, and Little Red Ridinghood, are those only, of all our popular tales, which have an English origin. Now, the first rather belongs to our
