And what are those many nations doing who have other prophets, and honor the Divinity in other ways—­the Jews, the Mussulmans, the Buddhists, the Vishnuists, the Guebers?  They have other sacred days, other rites, other solemnities, other beliefs.  But all have some religion, some ideal end for life—­all aim at raising man above the sorrows and smallnesses of the present, and of the individual existence.  All have faith in something greater than themselves, all pray, all bow, all adore; all see beyond nature, Spirit, and beyond evil, Good.  All bear witness to the Invisible.  Here we have the link which binds all peoples together.  All men are equally creatures of sorrow and desire, of hope and fear.  All long to recover some lost harmony with the great order of things, and to feel themselves approved and blessed by the Author of the universe.  All know what suffering is, and yearn for happiness.  All know what sin is, and feel the need of pardon.

Christianity, reduced to its original simplicity, is the reconciliation of the sinner with God, by means of the certainty that God loves in spite of everything, and that he chastises because he loves.  Christianity furnished a new motive and a new strength for the achievement of moral perfection.  It made holiness attractive by giving to it the air of filial gratitude.

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July 28th, 1880.—­This afternoon I have had a walk in the sunshine, and have just come back rejoicing in a renewed communion with nature.  The waters of the Rhone and the Arve, the murmur of the river, the austerity of its banks, the brilliancy of the foliage, the play of the leaves, the splendor of the July sunlight, the rich fertility of the fields, the lucidity of the distant mountains, the whiteness of the glaciers under the azure serenity of the sky, the sparkle and foam of the mingling rivers, the leafy masses of the La Batie woods,—­all and everything delighted me.  It seemed to me as though the years of strength had come back to me.  I was overwhelmed with sensations.  I was surprised and grateful.  The universal life carried me on its breast; the summer’s caress went to my heart.  Once more my eyes beheld the vast horizons, the soaring peaks, the blue lakes, the winding valleys, and all the free outlets of old days.  And yet there was no painful sense of longing.  The scene left upon me an indefinable impression, which was neither hope, nor desire, nor regret, but rather a sense of emotion, of passionate impulse, mingled with admiration and anxiety.  I am conscious at once of joy and of want; beyond what I possess I see the impossible and the unattainable; I gauge my own wealth and poverty:  in a word, I am and I am not—­my inner state is one of contradiction, because it is one of transition.

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April 1OTH, 1881 [he died May 11th].—­What dupes we are of our own desires!...  Destiny has two ways of crushing us—­by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them.  But he who only wills what God wills escapes both catastrophes.  “All things work together for his good.”