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cosmos and radiantly forgetful of man, who do not under-
stand how people can occupy themselves with the hunger
of these, and the thirst of those, with the nudity of the poor
in winter, with the lymphatic curvature of the little spinal
column, with the pallet, the attic, the dungeon, and the rags
of shivering young girls, when they can dream beneath the
trees; peaceful and terrible spirits they, and pitilessly sat-
isfied. Strange to say, the infinite suffices them. That great
need of man, the finite, which admits of embrace, they ig-
nore. The finite which admits of progress and sublime toil,
they do not think about. The indefinite, which is born from
the human and divine combination of the infinite and the
finite, escapes them. Provided that they are face to face with
immensity, they smile. Joy never, ecstasy forever. Their life
lies in surrendering their personality in contemplation. The
history of humanity is for them only a detailed plan. All is
not there; the true All remains without; what is the use of
busying oneself over that detail, man? Man suffers, that is
quite possible; but look at Aldebaran rising! The mother has
no more milk, the new-born babe is dying. I know noth-
ing about that, but just look at this wonderful rosette which
a slice of wood-cells of the pine presents under the micro-
scope! Compare the most beautiful Mechlin lace to that if
you can! These thinkers forget to love. The zodiac thrives
with them to such a point that it prevents their seeing the
weeping child. God eclipses their souls. This is a family of
minds which are, at once, great and petty. Horace was one
of them; so was Goethe. La Fontaine perhaps; magnificent
egoists of the infinite, tranquil spectators of sorrow, who do