the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight.  Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me.  Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the intensity of my present anguish.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and, instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned before me.  Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes away, when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things onward, —­ and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks?  There is not a moment but preys upon you, —­ and upon all around you, not a moment in which you do not yourself become a destroyer.  The most innocent walk deprives of life thousands of poor insects:  one step destroys the fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos.  No:  it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our towns, that affect me.  My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature.  Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and every object near it:  so that, surrounded by earth and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring.

August 21.

In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers.  In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless kisses.  And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

August 22.