something more than what is stated, and more inward and potent than what is stated. Affection as a settled subject is incompatible with art. And thus the poetry of society is limited on its romantic side in two ways: first, by the infinite, intense nature of passion, which forces the voice of art beyond the social tone; and by the confidential, incomprehensible nature of affection, which will not bear to be developed for the public by the fancy in any way. Being so bounded within the ordinary sphere of their art, poets of this world have contrived or found a substitute. In every country there is a society which is no society. The French, which is the most worldly of literatures, has devoted itself to the delineation of this outside world. There is no form, comic or serious, dramatic or lyrical, in which the subject has not been treated: the burden is— ‘Lisette, ma Lisette, Tu m’as trompé toujours; Mais vive la grisette! Je veux, Lisette, Boire à nos amours.’ There is obviously no need of affection in _this_ society. The whole plot of the notorious novel, _La Dame aux Camélias_,—and a very remarkable one it is,—is founded on the incongruity of real feeling with this world, and the singular and inappropriate consequences which result, if, by any rare chance, it does appear there. Passion is almost _à fortiori_ out of the question. The depths of human nature have nothing to do with this life. On this account, perhaps, it is that it harmonises so little with the English literature and character. An Englishman can scarcely live on the surface; his passions are too strong, his power of _finesse_ too little. Accordingly, since Defoe, who treated the subject with a coarse matter-of-factness, there has been nothing in our literature of this kind—nothing at least professedly devoted to it. How far this is due to real excellence, how far to the _bourgeois_ and not very outspoken temper of our recent writers, we need not in this place discuss. There is no occasion to quote in this country the early poetry of Béranger, at least not the sentimental part of it. We may take, in preference, one of his poems written in old, or rather in middle age: ‘_Cinquante Ans._ ‘Pourquoi ces fleurs? est-ce ma fête? Non; ce bouquet vient m’annoncer Qu’un demi-siècle sur ma tête Achève aujourd’hui de passer. Oh! combien nos jours sont rapides! Oh! combien j’ai perdu d’instants! Oh! combien je me sens de rides! Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans. ‘A cet âge, tout nous échappe; Le fruit meurt sur l’arbre jauni. Mais à ma porte quelqu’un frappe; N’ouvrons point: mon rôle est fini. C’est, je gage, un docteur qui jette Sa carte, où s’est logé le Temps. Jadis, j’aurais dit: C’est Lisette. Hélas! hélas! j’ai cinquante ans.