and sorrow still afford some comfort, when we give them to a beloved shade, when we can mix with our griefs the name of a God, and when this name appears to you the cement of all nature: but if in the universe all was deaf to our voice; if no echoes were to repeat our plaints; if the shades of eternal darkness had hid from us the object of our love, and if they were advancing to drag us into the same night; if he is the most unhappy being, he who survives, and cannot even hope, that what death has severed will again be united; if, when his whole soul was filled with the recollection of a loved object, he could not say, he is in some place, his heart so affectionate, his soul so pure and heavenly waits for me, and calls me perhaps to be near that unknown Being, whom we have, with common consent, adored; and if, instead of a thought so dear, it was necessary, without any doubt, to consider the earth as a sepulchre forever shut—my heart dies within me—unable to contend with the dreadful images, the universe itself seems to dissolve, and overwhelm us in its downfall. O source of so many hopes, sublime idea of a God! abandon not the man who has sensibility; Thou art his courage, Thou art his futurity, Thou art his life; leave him not desolate, and, above all, defend him from the ascendency of a barren and fatal philosophy, which would afflict his heart by pretending to comfort it. Well, I make another effort, and I address myself to you, who boast of being enlightened by a fresh ray of wisdom. I am lost in the most profound grief; a father, a mother, who guided me by their counsels, and watched over me by their tenderness, these protecting parents have just been taken from me; a son, a daughter, both my comfort and pride, have been cut off in the prime of youth; a faithful companion, whose words, sentiments, and actions, were the support of my life, has vanished from my arms;—a moment of strength remains with me, I come to you, ye philosophers; what have you to say?—“Seek for dissipation, turn your thoughts to some other object, an abyss not to be fathomed separates thee for ever from the objects of thy tenderness; and these recollections, which pierce thee through with so many sorrows, they are only a form of vegetation, the last play of organized matter.” Alas! have you ever loved, and can you pronounce tranquilly these cruel words! Banish far from me such consolations, I dread them more than my anguish. And thou, O daughter of heaven, lovely and mild religion, what wouldst thou say? Hope, hope; “what God gave thee—He can again restore.” What a difference between these two languages! One abases, the other exalts us! It is left to men to choose, amongst their different guides, or rather to determine, whether they prefer darkness to light, death to life; whether they prefer blighting winds to refreshing dews; the frost of winter to the charms of spring; and the insensible stone to the most brilliant gifts of animated nature.