hem unwittingly under foot. And I reflected that it is much
the same in every quarter of Paris. Only yesterday, some Roman tombs and
a coin with the effigy of Nero were found in a garden near the
Observatory.

And from the most general standpoint of Life, the whole world is in the
same case, and even more so, seeing that all that exists, all that
lives, is formed of elements that have already been incorporated in
other beings, no longer living. The roses that adorn the bosom of the
fair ... but I will not enlarge upon this topic.

And you, so strong and virile, of what elements is your splendid body
formed? Where have the elements you absorb to-day in respiration and
assimilation been drawn from, what lugubrious adventures have they been
subject to? Think away from it: do not insist on this point: on no
account consider it....

And yet, let us dwell on it, since this reality is the most evident
demonstration of the ideal; since what exists is you, is all of us, is
_Life_; and matter is only its substance, like the materials of a house,
and even less so, since its particles only pass rapidly through the
framework of our bodies. A heap of stones does not make a house.
Quintillions of tons of materials would not represent the Earth or any
other world.

Yes, what really exists, what constitutes a complete orb, is the city of
Life. Let us recognize that the flower of life flourishes on the surface
of our planet, embellishing it with its perfume; that it is just this
life that we see and admire,--of which we form part,--and which is the
_raison d'etre_ of things; that matter floats, and crosses, and crosses
back again, in the web of living beings,--and the reality, the goal, is
not matter--it is the life matter is employed upon.

Yes, matter passes, and being also, after sharing in the concerted
symphony of life.

And indeed everything passes rapidly!

What irrepressible grief, what deep melancholy, what ineffaceable
regrets we feel, when as age comes on we look back, when we see our
friends fallen upon the road one after the other, above all when we
visit the beloved scenes of our childhood, those homes of other years,
that witnessed our first start in terrestrial existence, our first
games, our first affections--those affections of childhood that seemed
eternal--when we wander over those fields and valleys and hills, when
we see again the landscape whose aspect has hardly changed, and whose
image is so intimately l