quietly: "By Kultur, the Germans mean what we mean by 'state education.'"
It had been so all his life; on whatever matter, however slight the matter or however strong his own passion, there had been that same quiet precision, that same ultimate justness.
The rest of us—oh, the rest of us are caught in the flurry of controversy. Remy de Gourmont had found—it might not be incorrect to say that Paris had given him—a place where all things could be said quietly and openly, where one would not think of circumlocution and prejudice, where circumlocution and prejudice would have seemed unnatural.
En tous les pays il y a un novau de bins esprits, d'esprits libres. Il faut leur donner quelque chose qui les chonge de la fadeur des magozines, quelque chose qui leur donne confiance en eux-mêmes, et leur soit un point d'appui.
That is good news, but for years M. de Gourmont had believed it and written accordingly. He had written selflessly, and was glad when other men could write well. He dared to write for the few, for the few who are not a clique or a faction, but who are united by the ability to think clearly, and who do not attempt to warp or to smother this faculty; who do not suppress part of the evidence.
The significance of M. de Gourmont and the significance of his poetry are two things apart. He has written for the most part beautiful prose, much controversy, a book on Le Latin Mystique du Moyen Age, etc. He has written a poème champêtre and some Litanies.
I have praised these litanies elsewhere, and a man's obitu-
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