Fratres! cum bibite vino, Moralis, criminis fates, Montem hic vita damfino-- Hic vita ad Barron et Bates._ A very slight knowledge of Latin verse is needed to detect that this has no pretence to Latin composition such as Father Mahony's scholarship caracoled in, but is merely English masquerading in classical garb. Father Prout also introduced Field to fellowship with Béranger, the national song writer of France, to whom, next to the early English balladists and Horace, he owes so much of that clear, simple, sparkling style that has given his writings enduring value. Béranger's description of himself might, with some modifications, be fitted to Field: "I am a good little bit of a poet, clever in the craft, and a conscientious worker, to whom old airs have brought some success." Béranger chose to sing for the people of France, Field for the children of the world. Field caught his fervor for Béranger from the enthusiasm of Prout. "I cannot for a moment longer," wrote he, "repress my enthusiastic admiration for one who has arisen in our days to strike in France with a master hand the lyre of the troubadour and to fling into the shade all the triumphs of bygone minstrelsy. Need I designate Béranger, who has created for himself a style of transcendent vigor and originality, and who has sung of _war, love, and wine_, in strains far excelling those of Blondel, Tyrtæus, Pindar, and the Teïan bard. He is now the genuine representative of Gallic poesy in her convivial, her amatory, her warlike and her philosophic mood; and the plenitude of the inspiration that dwelt successively in the souls of all the songsters of ancient France seems to have transmigrated into Béranger and found a fit recipient in his capacious and liberal mind." That Field caught the inspiration of Béranger more truly than Father Prout, those who question can judge for themselves by a comparison of their respective versions of "Le Violon Brise"--the broken fiddle. A stanza by each must suffice to show the difference: BÉRANGER _Viens, mon chien! Viens, ma pauvre bête! Mange, malgré, mon désespoir. II me reste un gâteau de fête-- Demain nous aurons du pain noir!_ PROUT _My poor dog! here! of yesterday's festival-cake Eat the poor remains in sorrow; For when next a repast you and I shall make, It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's sake, Your master must beg or borrow._ FIELD _There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet we may,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!_ The credit for verbal literalness of translation is with Prout, but the spirit of the fiddler of Béranger glows through the free rendition of Field. [Illustration: "FATHER PROUT." _Francis Mahony._]