had a certain consciousness of his own powers which bore him up
through his spiritual cogitations. How delightful it was to me to feel
his soul acting on my own! Many a time have we remained sitting on our
form, both buried in one book, having quite forgotten each other's
existence, and yet not apart; each conscious of the other's presence,
and bathing in an ocean of thought, like two fish swimming in the same
waters.

Our life, apparently, was merely vegetating; but we lived through our
heart and brain.

Lambert's influence over my imagination left traces that still abide.
I used to listen hungrily to his tales, full of the marvels which make
men, as well as children, rapturously devour stories in which truth
assumes the most grotesque forms. His passion for mystery, and the
credulity natural to the young, often led us to discuss Heaven and
Hell. Then Louis, by expounding Swedenborg, would try to make me share
in his beliefs concerning angels. In his least logical arguments there
were still amazing observations as to the powers of man, which gave
his words that color of truth without which nothing can be done in any
art. The romantic end he foresaw as the destiny of man was calculated
to flatter the yearning which tempts blameless imaginations to give
themselves up to beliefs. Is it not during the youth of a nation that
its dogmas and idols are conceived? And are not the supernatural
beings before whom the people tremble the personification of their
feelings and their magnified desires?



All that I can now remember of the poetical conversations we held