genious attempts to solve either insoluble or self-evident propositions. But what both Voltaire and Pope have done in the matter, and what gives both of them a place among philosophic poets, is, that while conducting us along paths that lead to nowhere in particular, they invest with artistic and memorable interest a great deal of what is to be met with on the road. The "Essay on Man," of which nobody could explain the scheme or justify the logic, contains many passages which have permanently enriched the popular stock of thought, often even to the degree of endowing it with proverbs; and in the same way, the "Discourses on Man," which can never have had any influence on anybody's method of seeking happiness, have nevertheless contributed many striking verses and illustrations to French didactic poetry. But the styles of the two poets have not always much in common. Voltaire generally wants the condensity, the sharp effects, the careful, neat antitheses of Pope—for his compositions were always rapidly executed, and such attributes can only be, except by happy chance, the last results of the prolonged distillation of ideas and the fastidious selection of words; but these compositions possess all his characteristic ease and grace, and much happiness of illustration.
Whether there was any apparent novelty, or special force, for contemporary readers, in Voltaire's two first Discourses, is doubtful; but it is tolerably clear that they possess only small interest now. Into the third, however, his own experience infuses vigour: he who had all his life suffered from detraction, and had felt the keenest resentment against his calumniators, could scarcely treat
