in the icy regions of the Pole if I knew it were there. But I do
not know where it is. I do not know if it be guarded in a triple-
locked iron case by some jealous biblomaniac. I do not know if it
be growing mouldy in the attic of some ignoramus. I shudder at the
thought that perhaps its tore-out leaves may have been used to cover
the pickle-jars of some housekeeper."



August 30, 1850


The heavy heat compelled me to walk slowly. I kept close to the
walls of the north quays; and, in the lukewarm shade, the shops of
the dealers in old books, engravings, and antiquated furniture drew
my eyes and appealed to my fancy. Rummaging and idling among these,
I hastily enjoyed some verses spiritedly thrown off by a poet of the
Pleiad. I examined an elegant Masquerade by Watteau. I felt, with
my eye, the weight of a two-handed sword, a steel gorgerin, a
morion. What a thick helmet! What a ponderous breastplate--
Seigneur! A giant's garb? No--the carapace of an insect. The
men of those days were cuirassed like beetles; their weakness was
within them. To-day, on the contrary, our strength is interior, and
our armed souls dwell in feeble bodies.

...Here is a pastel-portrait of a lady of the old time--the face,
vague like a shadow, smiles; and a hand, gloved with an openwork
mitten, retains upon her satiny knees a lap-dog, with a ribbon about
its neck. That picture fills me with a sort of charming melancholy.
Let those who have no half-effaced pastels in their own hearts laugh