"simulated thunder-claps," all our "counterfeited truths," all those
glimpses of beauty which startle while they elude the soul, are messages
of this kind: darts shot from the spirit world, which rebound as they
touch, yet sting us to the consciousness of its existence. And so René
Gentilhomme had had a true revelation, in what reminded him that there
are things higher than rhyming and its rewards.

Paul Desforges Maillard was born nearly a century later, and wrote
society verses till the age of thirty, when the desire for wider fame
took possession of him. He competed for a prize which the Academy had
offered to the poet who should best commemorate the progress made by the
art of navigation during the last reign. His poem was returned. It was
offered, through the agency of a friend, to a paper called "The
Mercury." The editor, La Roque, praised the work in florid terms, but
said he dared not offend the Academy; he, too, returned the MS. Paul,
mistaking the polite fiction for truth, wrote back an angry tirade
against the editor's cowardice; and the latter, retorting in as frank a
fashion, told the writer that his poem was execrable, and that it was
only consideration for his feelings which had hitherto prevented his
hearing so.

At this juncture Paul's sister interposed. He was wrong, she declared,
to proceed in such a point-blank manner. In cases like these, it was
only wile which conquered. He must resume his incognito, and try, this
time, the effect of a feminine disguise. She picked out and copied the
feeblest of his songs or sonnets, and sent it to La Roque, as from a
girl-novice who humbly sued for his literary protection. She was known
by another name than her brother's (Mr. Browning explains why); the
travesty was therefore complete. The poem was accepted; then another and
another. The lady's fame grew. La Roque made her, by letter, a