ow; he would wear out the pavement, if it was never
renewed. And by this same street he goes to the same house, ascends to
the same story, and in the same cabinet speaks to the same person. He
speaks of the same things, and his manner seems the same. The person
who listens to him sees no difference between yesterday and
to-day:--gentle uniformity, as serene as an infant's sleep, whose
breathing raises its chest at equal intervals with the same soft sound.

You think that nothing changes in this monotonous equality; that all
these days are the same. You are mistaken; you have _perceived_
nothing, yet every day there is a change, slight, it is true, and
imperceptible, which the person, himself changed by little and little,
does not remark.

It is like a dream in a bark. What distance have you come, whilst you
were dreaming? Who can tell? Thus you go on, without seeming to
move--still, and yet rapidly. Once out of the river, or canal, you
soon find yourself at sea; the uniform immensity in which you now are
will inform you still less of the distance you go. Time and place are
equally uncertain; no sure point to occupy attention; and attention
itself is gone. The reverie is profound, and becomes more and more
so:--an ocean of dreams upon the smooth ocean of waters.

A pleasant state, in which everything becomes insensible, even
gentleness itself. Is it death, or is it life? To distinguish, we
require attention, and we should awake from our dream.--No, let it go
on, whatever it may be that carries me along with it, whether it lead
me to life or death.

Alas! 'tis habit! that gently sloping formidable abyss, into which we
slide so easily! we may say everything that is bad of it, and, also,
everything that is good, and it will be always true.

Let us be frank: if the action that we did in the first instance
knowingly and voluntarily, was never done but with will and attention,
if it never became habitual and easy, we should act but little and
slowly, and our life would pass away in endeavours and efforts. If,
for instance, every time we stepped forward we had to reflect upon our
direction, and how to keep our balance, we should not walk much better
than the child who is trying to go alone. But walking soon becomes a
habit, an action that is performed without any need of invoking the
constant and intermediate operation of the will. It is the same with
many other acts which, still less voluntary, become at la