September 20, 1864.--Read Eugenie de Guerin's volume again right and
left with a growing sense of attraction. Everything is heart, force,
impulse, in these pages which have the power of sincerity and a
brilliance of suffused poetry. A great and strong soul, a clear mind,
distinction, elevation, the freedom of unconscious talent, reserve and
depth--nothing is wanting for this Sevigne of the fields, who has to
hold herself in with both hands lest she should write verse, so strong
in her is the artistic impulse.
October 16, 1864.--I have just read a part of Eugenie de Guerin's
journal over again. It charmed me a little less than the first time. The
nature seemed to me as beautiful, but the life of Eugenie was too empty,
and the circle of ideas which occupied her, too narrow.
It is touching and wonderful to see how little space is enough for
thought to spread its wings in, but this perpetual motion within the
four walls of a cell ends none the less by becoming wearisome to minds
which are accustomed to embrace more objects in their field of vision.
Instead of a garden, the world; instead of a library, the whole of
literature; instead of three or four faces, a whole people and all
history--this is what the virile, the philosophic temper demands. Men
must have more air, more room, mere horizon, more positive knowledge,
and they end by suffocating in this little cage where Eugenie lives and
moves, though the breath of heaven blows into it and the radiance of the
stars shines down upon it.
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