--Criticism is above all a gift, an intuition, a matter
of tact and _flair_; it cannot be taught or demonstrated,--it is an art.
Critical genius means an aptitude for discerning truth under appearances
or in disguises which conceal it; for discovering it in spite of the
errors of testimony, the frauds of tradition, the dust of time, the loss
or alteration of texts. It is the sagacity of the hunter whom nothing
deceives for long, and whom no ruse can throw off the trail. It is the
talent of the _Juge d'Instruction_ who knows how to interrogate
circumstances, and to extract an unknown secret from a thousand
falsehoods. The true critic can understand everything, but he will be
the dupe of nothing, and to no convention will he sacrifice his duty,
which is to find out and proclaim truth. Competent learning, general
cultivation, absolute probity, accuracy of general view, human sympathy,
and technical capacity,--how many things are necessary to the critic,
without reckoning grace, delicacy, _savoir vivre_, and the gift of happy
phrasemaking!

* * * * *

MAY 22D, 1879 (Ascension Day).--Wonderful and delicious weather. Soft,
caressing sunlight,--the air a limpid blue,--twitterings of birds; even
the distant voices of the city have something young and springlike in
them. It is indeed a new birth. The ascension of the Savior of men is
symbolized by the expansion, this heavenward yearning of nature.... I
feel myself born again; all the windows of the soul are clear. Forms,
lines, tints, reflections, sounds, contrasts, and harmonies, the general
play and interchange of things,--it is all enchanting!

In my courtyard the ivy is green again, the chestnut-tree is full of
leaf, the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red
and just about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and
left of the old College of Calvin I see the Saleve above the trees of
St. Antoine, the Voirons above the hill of Cologny; while the three
flights of steps which, from landing to landing, lead between two high
walls from the Rue Verdaine to the terrace of the Tranchees, recall to
one's imagination some old city of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or
of Malaga.

All the bells are ringing. It is the hour of worship. A historical and
religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the
poetical impressions of the scene. All the peoples of Christendom--all
the churches scattered over the