The great thing is to _live_, you know—to feel, to be conscious of one’s possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, even as a letter through the post-office. There are times, my dear Harvard, when I feel as if I were really capable of everything—_capable de tout_, as they say here—of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. Oh to be able to say that one has lived—_qu’on a vécu_, as they say here—that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. You’ll perhaps reply that nothing’s easier than to say it! Only the thing’s to make people believe you—to make above all one’s self. And then I don’t want any second-hand spurious sensations; I want the knowledge that leaves a trace—that leaves strange scars and stains, ineffable reveries and aftertastes, behind it! But I’m afraid I shock you, perhaps even frighten you. If you repeat my remarks to any of the West Cedar Street circle be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. For yourself you’ll know that I have always had an intense desire to see something of _real French life_. You’re acquainted with my great sympathy with the French; with my natural tendency to enter into their so supremely fine exploitation of the whole personal consciousness. I sympathise with the artistic temperament; I remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament _too_ artistic. I don’t consider that in Boston there’s any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. And in Boston one can’t _live_—_on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. I don’t mean one can’t reside—for a great many people manage that; but one can’t live esthetically—I almost venture to say one can’t live sensuously. This is why I’ve always been so much drawn to the French, who are so esthetic, so sensuous, so _entirely_ living. I’m so sorry dear Théophile Gautier has passed away; I should have liked so much to go and see him and tell him all I owe him. He was living when I was here before; but, you know, at that time I was travelling with the Johnsons, who are not esthetic and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my love and my need of beauty. If I had gone to see the great apostle of that religion I should have had to go clandestinely—_en cachette_, as they say here; and that’s not my nature; I like to do everything frankly, freely, _naïvement, au grand jour_. That’s the great thing—to be free, to be frank, to be naïf. Doesn’t Matthew Arnold say that somewhere—or is it Swinburne or Pater?