living place was so
lost in the shadow of the mountain that I would not have known
where the opening was if rushing sometimes into this opening the
winds had not passed about me certain movements suddenly and
refreshing breezes. Sometimes, too, my mother came back carrying
the perfume of the valleys, or dripping with the waves of the water
she frequented. Now these returns of hers gave me no knowledge of
the valleys or the stream, but their suggestions disquieted my
spirit, and I paced agitatedly in my shades.

After all, it requires leisure to enjoy fully the writings of Eug['e]nie de
Gu['e]rin and her brother--I inevitably think of this brother and sister
together. There always lingers about the genius of these two delicate
and sensitive beings a certain perfume of the white lilac which Maurice
loved. It happened that through the amiability of my father, when I read
the Journals of the De Gu['e]rins, I had leisure. A period of ill health
stopped my work--I had begun to study law--and there were long days that
could easily be filled by strolls in Fairmount Park in the early spring
days, when it seems most appropriate to associate one's self with these
two who ought to be read in the mood of the early spring, and they ought
to be read slowly and even prayerfully. I hope I may be pardoned for
quoting a sonnet which had a great vogue in the late 'seventies showing
the impression that Maurice de Gu['e]rin made. It was a great surprise to
find part of the sestette copied in the "Prose Writings" of Walt
Whitman, who very rarely quoted any verse.

The old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair
Unseen by others; to him maidenhair
And waxen lilacs, and those birds that rise
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise,
Brought charm[`e]d thoughts; and in earth everywhere
He, like sad Jacques, found a music rare
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise.
A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he:
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed,
Till earth and heaven met within his breast;
As if Theocritus in Sicily
Had come upon the Figure crucified
And lost his gods in deep, Christ given rest.

I found, too, satisfaction of the taste which Hamerton had corroborated,
in Eug['e]nie de Gu['e]rin's little sketches of outdoor scenery--sketches
which always have a human interest. I had not yet begun to