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Updated: May 21, 2025
Amiel is no doubt often guilty, as M. Caro puts it, of attempts "to write German in French," and there are in his thought itself veins of mysticism, elements of Schwaermerei, here and there, of which a good deal must be laid to the account of his German training. M. Renan regrets that after Geneva and after Berlin he never came to Paris. Possibly but how much we should have lost!
She spoke savagely, tearing out her soul, and flinging it as it were in Mike's face, frightening him not a little. "I wish I had known Amiel; I think I could have loved him." "Did he never write anything but this diary?" "Oh, yes; but nothing of any worth. The diary was not written for publication. A friend of his found it among his papers, and from a huge mass extricated two volumes."
Why was he unhappy? ... But, after all, commentaries on the lives of distinguished men are of very doubtful value. There is the life take it and read it who can. Amiel was a great genius, as is shown by his power of style.... His Journal is a book in which the thoughts of many hearts are revealed.... There are strange forms of mysticism, which the poetical intellect takes.
It seemed to answer the question he had been asking himself; for he wondered whether these fellows could have heard about the scare Herb and his friends received some little time ago, when they tried to stop on the island over night. Apparently, then, they had, and the fact had even made a strong impression on the weakest one of the lot, Amiel Toots.
Amiel, in return, had stared at her, and in the tone he might have used to a younger brother had said briefly, "Well, go on and bait it. What's the matter?" She had baited it. Also, she had carried home the net while Amiel had borne the spoils and protested courteously when Jennie offered an assisting hand. It was dreary consolation to realize that never for a moment had the proud smile wavered.
Since then the "gang" had been led by a new recruit, named Ossie Kemp; and the other two with him were the old offenders, who have appeared before now in the stories of this series, Amiel Toots and Shack Beggs. "Back me up, boys," said Max, hastily turning to his three chums, "and we'll run that crowd out of there in a hurry, or know the reason why."
I suppose we must not try to explain them. Amiel was a Neo-Platonist and a skeptic in one. To my mind, the beliefs and the function in the world of the historic Church form just one of those obscure but all-important possibilities which the human mind is powerless effectively to dismiss from itself, and might wisely accept, in the first place, as a workable hypothesis.
And what difference is there between this and the internal and mystical silence of Miguel de Molinos, the third and most perfect degree of which is the silence of thought? And what marvel is it that Amiel in his Journal Intime should twice have made use of the Spanish word nada, nothing, doubtless because he found none more expressive in any other language?
To begin with, he urged him to join the Revue Germanique, then being started by Charles Dollfus, Renan, Littre, and others. Amiel left the letter for three months unanswered and then wrote a reply which M. Scherer probably received with a sigh of impatience. For, rightly interpreted, it meant that old habits were too strong, and that the momentary impulse had died away.
So there we stood, John Burroughs and his humble reader, washing and wiping dishes, and weighing Amiel and Schopenhauer in the balance at the same time; and a very novel and amusing experience it was. Yet it did not seem so strange after all, but almost as though it had happened before.
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