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358 real and sometimes affected, which mark the writings of the English poet. Like Byron, he has no great depth of thought. Like Byron, he is sometimes eccentric and wild. His landscapes, like Byron's, seem to have been elaborated more often in a study, under the fumes of wine, than in the open air and under the blue sky. But his passion, like Byron's, has often the true ring. His epigrams, like Byron's, sparkle. And his pathos, like Byron's also, is sometimes profound.

In early life he considered himself above the power of Love, and wrote the well-known lines:

But his boasting was premature; he was attained by the arrow of the god at last, and thenceforth his life became a dreary desert, without joy and without hope. It is not known whom he loved or why his love was unsuccessful. His proud heart ever guarded the mystery of his torment. 'Not one confidence, not one indiscretion, not even an involuntary confession, or a portrait of the lady, is to be found in the whole of his works,' and yet there can be no question that he suffered greatly; for after this time, for many long, long years, he lived like a blasted tree, forgotten by a generation that had before adored him.

The verses we give here have much of the manner of Byron, and a touch of sincerity which has made them a general favourite.

The Hope in God. Pascal and Locke and even Kant are hardly treated with justice in this poem. It is good to be terse and epigrammatic, but not at the expense of perfect fairness and accuracy.

The Farmer's Wife. In an eloquent essay on the writings of Hégésippe Moreau, author of this piece, M. Théodore de Banville broaches the theory that a true poet is ever subject 'to the contempt, the hate, the invincible antipathy of the Philistine, who, in the innumerable crowd of versifiers, signals him out with an unerring scent.' 'Whoever,' according to M. Banville, 'has not been condemned like Corneille, hissed like Racine, called impious like Molière, immoral like La Fontaine, rude and savage like Shakspeare, barbarous like Victor Hugo, a libertine like Alfred de Musset, can never be a true poet.' Without attempting seriously to refute a paradox so apparent, and which may nevertheless be supported by many more numerous examples in its favour, we may simply remark that Hégésippe Moreau has been the butt of as much censure as he has been the subject of praise, and that in his case both the blame and the commendation seem to have been deserved. The fact is,