Nothing can lessen the dignity and value of humanity Was einmal war, in allem Glanz und Schein, Es regt sich dort; denn es will ewig sein. Und ihr vertheilt es, allgewaltige Mächte, Zum Zelt des Tages, zum Gewölb’ der Nächte. so long as the religion of love, of unselfishness and devotion endures; and none can destroy the altars of this faith for us so long as we feel ourselves still capable of love. April 15,1867--(_Seven_ A. M.).--Rain storms in the night--the weather is showing its April caprice. From the window one sees a gray and melancholy sky, and roofs glistering with rain. The spring is at its work. Yes, and the implacable flight of time is driving us toward the grave. Well--each has his turn! “Allez, allez, ô jeunes filles, Cueillir des bleuets dans les blés!” I am overpowered with melancholy, languor, lassitude. A longing for the last great sleep has taken possession of me, combated, however, by a thirst for sacrifice--sacrifice heroic and long-sustained. Are not both simply ways of escape from one’s self? “Sleep, or self-surrender, that I may die to self!”--such is the cry of the heart. Poor heart! April 17, 1867.--Awake, thou that sleepest, and rise from the dead. What needs perpetually refreshing and renewing in me is my store of courage. By nature I am so easily disgusted with life, I fall a prey so readily to despair and pessimism. “The happy man, as this century is able to produce him,” according to Madame ----, is a _Weltmüde_, one who keeps a brave face before the world, and distracts himself as best he can from dwelling upon the thought which is hidden at his heart--a thought which has in it the sadness of death--the thought of the irreparable. The outward peace of such a man is but despair well masked; his gayety is the carelessness of a heart which has lost all its illusions, and has learned to acquiesce in an indefinite putting off of happiness. His wisdom is really acclimatization to sacrifice, his gentleness should be taken to mean privation patiently borne rather than resignation. In a word, he submits to an existence in which he feels no joy, and he cannot hide from himself that all the alleviations with which it is strewn cannot satisfy the soul. The thirst for the infinite is never appeased. God is wanting.