cts me a little. I
stop to listen; then I begin again, thinking that the birds and I
are alike singing a hymn to God, and that, perhaps, those little
creatures sing better than I. But the charm of prayer, the charm of
communion with God, they cannot enjoy that; one must have a soul to
feel it. This happiness that the birds have not is mine. It is
sorrow. How little time is needed for that. The joy comes from the
sun, the mild air, the song of birds, all delights to me; as well
as from a letter of Mimi's (who is now at Gaillac), in which she
tells me of Madame Vialar, who has seen thee, and of other cheerful
things.

And again:

However, I had a delightful waking this morning. As I was opening
my eyes a lovely moon faced my window, and shone into my bed, so
brightly that at first I thought it was a lamp suspended to my
shutter. It was very sweet and pretty to look at this white light,
and so I contemplated, admired, watched it till it hid itself
behind the shutter to peep out again, and then conceal itself like
a child playing at hide-and-seek.

Emerson tried to teach us that there can be infinite beauties in a
little space--untold joys within a day--and he asks us to take short
outlooks. Saint Teresa and Saint Francis de Sales were before him in
this; but Eug['e]nie de Gu['e]rin exemplifies its value much more than any
other modern writer. Her soul was often sad, but it never ceased to find
joy in the little happinesses of life. In our country, we are losing
this faculty which the best of the later New Englanders tried to
recover. It is a pity because it deprives us of the real _joie de vivre_
which is not dependent on ecstasies of restless emotions or violent
amusements.

The devotion of Eug['e]nie de Gu['e]rin to her brother resembles that of
Madame de S['e]vign['e] for her daughter, the peerless Pauline. It was
George Sand who discovered the genius of that brother, though her
characterization of the qualities of his genius did not please the
Christian soul of his sister. It was left to Sainte-Beuve to fix De
Gu['e]rin's place in French literature; and I recall now that the
reading of Sainte-Beuve led me to find the poems of David Gray, now
probably forgotten, and to go back to Keats.

After Maurice de Gu['e]rin's "Le Centaure" I found Keats even less Greek
than I thought he was, because he was less philosophical than De Gu['e]r