there was a double Moreau, and those who contend for the duality of the human mind could scarcely find a better illustration of their theory, than his life and writings. There was a Moreau, the author of 'La Fermière,' of the 'Contes,' of the 'L'Oiseau que j'attends,' of the 'Hameau incendié,' of the ode 'A mes Chansons,' and of 'La Voulzie,' and there was a Moreau, the author of the horrible and blasphemous 'Noces de Cana' and of the 'Bohème du Quartier Latin.' There was a Moreau simple as a child and pure as an angel, whose themes were the beauties of his lovely native land, and a Moreau who revelled in the dreadful world of 'jupes retroussées,' of 'vin répandu,' of 'miroirs cassés' and of 'châles aux fenêtres.' The difference between the two Moreaus was so great, that the only wonder is, they could have been amalgamated into one person. Can anything be more lovely than the description of the Voulzie which the dwarf green Oberon could cross 'sans mouiller ses grelots,' and which a thirsty giant could drink up at a breath, or than the description of 'l'imprimerie proprette' where the poet received a hospitality so noble, or than the description of the farm, for ever blessed, where milk and brown bread and fraternal caresses were lavished on the poor wanderer? And can anything be more blasphemous, absurd, and horrible, than the 'Noces de Cana' to which we have already made reference? Moreau's mind was by its nature pure, and his habitual delight was in rural scenes of peace and plenty, but he joined in the Revolution of 1830, fought in the barricades, got into bad company, and then tried hard to be a writer of political satires for which he never had any turn, and of libertine chansons from which his better nature revolted. Glimpses of that nature flashed out, however, even in his utter debasement, for he could sing, addressing his own soul, when he had already been touched by the cold hand of death, in terms such as these:—
'Fuis sans trembler: veuf d'une sainte amie,
Quand du plaisir j'ai senti le besom,
De mes erreurs, toi, colombe endormie,
Tu n'as été complice ni témoin.
Ne trouvant pas la manne qu'elle implore,
Ma faim mordit la poussière (insensé!);
Mais toi, mon âme, à Dieu, ton fiancé,
Tu peux demain te dire vierge encore;
Fuis, âme blanche, un corps malade et nu,
Fuis en chantant vers le monde inconnu!'
He died in great poverty, in a public charitable hospital.
Page 199.
Le Fond de la Mer. M. Autran was born at Marseilles. In 1832 he published an ode to Lamartine, which brought him to the notice of the literary world. His works are 'Les Poèmes de la Mer,' 'Ludibria Ventis,' 'Milianah,' 'Laboureurs et Soldats,' 'La Vie Rurale,' 'Epîtres Rustiques,' 'Le Poème des Beaux Jours,' besides a tragedy 'La Fille d'Eschyle,' acted in the
