Si l’impiété pouvait se comprendre, ce serait au sein des grandes villes où il ne reste presque plus rien de ce que Dieu a fait, où on ne voit pas le Ciel. Mais en présence des grandes colères de l’océan, l’homme se trouve à chaque instant dans des situations telles que la puissance de tous les hommes réunis n’en pourrait sauver un seul. Peut-on oublier Dieu, peut-on croire que les fleurs n’ont été inventées que pour être jetées au théâtre à des danseuses en sueur?-- ❦ [Sidenote: Calumny.] Montesquieu says, I never listen to calumnies, because if they are untrue I run the risk of being deceived, and if they be true, of hating persons not worth thinking about. ❦ [Sidenote: Temper.] When moralists, religionists, and philosophers of all sorts, set about reasoning on the phenomena of the world we live in, and contemplating the mass of human misery to be found therein, trace it to fearful crimes, they overlook one little cause of suffering which blights more happiness, and neutralises a greater portion of God’s bounteous favours, than all the heinous enormities of our depraved race put together. This hateful, stealthy, heart-destroying blight is often found, where every thing like atrocious vice is utterly unknown, and where many of the highest virtues flourish. All may exist, with a _sour temper_! ❦ _Set forms of expression inserted for imitation, by Edward Philips, a nephew of_ Milton’s. [Sidenote: Forms of expression.] You are the miracle of friendship. You are the usurer of fame. My genius and yours are friends. I will unrip my very bosom to you. My tongue speaks the freedom of my heart. Sure winter dwells upon your lip, the snow is not more cold. The sun never met the summer with more joy. It is no pilgrimage to travel to your lips. You are a white enchantress, lady, you can enchain me with a smile. Her name like some celestial fire quickens my spirit. Midnight would blush at this. There’s music in her smiles. I will, like the perfumed winde, sport with your hair. Report could never have a sweeter air to fly in, than your breath. Would I were secretary to your thoughts. You walk in artificial clouds, and bathe your silver limbs in wanton dalliance. ❦ [Sidenote: An Answer to Vanity.] In the reign of Louis XIV. the citizens of Pau had petitioned the King for leave to place a statue of “Henri quatre” in the market place of this his native town. The only reply which the vain monarch condescended to make was to send them his own statue. Of course obedience was imperative, but in erecting the statue of Louis the XIV. they inscribed on the pedestal, “This is the grandson of our good Henri.”[2] [2] Celui-ci est le petit fils de notre bon Henri. ❦ [Sidenote: Woman’s pride.] The _Pride_ of woman, natural to her, never sleeps till _modesty_ is gone. ❦ [Sidenote: “Parliament Heel.”]