Democracy
could never have invented it, and in this delicate _genre_ of literature
France may give points to all rival peoples, for it is the fruit of that
refined and yet vigorous social sense which is produced by court and
drawing-room life, by literature and good company, by means of a mutual
education continued for centuries. This complicated product is as
original in its way as Athenian eloquence, but it is less healthy and
less durable. If ever France becomes Americanized this _genre_ at least
will perish, without hope of revival.
April 16, 1875. (_Hyeres_).--I have already gone through the various
emotions of leave-taking. I have been wandering slowly through the
streets and up the castle hill, gathering a harvest of images and
recollections. Already I am full of regret that I have not made a better
study of the country, in which I have now spent four months and more. It
is like what happens when a friend dies; we accuse ourselves of having
loved him too little, or loved him ill; or it is like our own death,
when we look back upon life and feel that it has been misspent.
August 16,1875.--Life is but a daily oscillation between revolt and
submission, between the instinct of the _ego_, which is to expand, to
take delight in its own tranquil sense of inviolability, if not to
triumph in its own sovereignty, and the instinct of the soul, which is
to obey the universal order, to accept the will of God.
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