her story,—­and I was almost suffocated by the effort she made to divulge her sin and fall,—­she sunk to the earth, her head bowed upon her knee, her white drapery falling in large, graceful folds about this broken piece of beautiful humanity, crushed in the very manner so well described by Scott when speaking of a far different person, “not as one who intentionally stoops, kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible force, which crushes him to the earth without power of resistance.”  A movement of abhorrence from me, as her insipid confidante turned away, attested the triumph of the poet-actress.  Had not all been over in a moment, I believe I could not have refrained from rushing forward to raise the fair frail being, who seemed so prematurely humbled in her parent dust.  I burst into tears; and, with the stifled, hopeless feeling of a real sorrow, continued to weep till the very end; nor could I recover till I left the house.

’That is genius, which could give such life to this play; for, if I may judge from other parts, it is defaced by inflated sentiments, and verified by few natural touches.  I wish I had it to read, for I should like to recall her every tone and look.’

* * * * *

’I have been studying Flaxman and Retzsch.  How pure, how immortal, the language of Form!  Fools cannot fancy they fathom its meaning; witless dillettanti cannot degrade it by hackneyed usage; none but genius can create or reproduce it.  Unlike the colorist, he who expresses his thought in form is secure as man can be against the ravages of time.’

* * * * *

’I went to the Athenaeum in an agonizing conflict of mind, when some high influence was needed to rouse me from the state of sickly sensitiveness, which, much as I despise, I cannot wholly conquer.  How soothing it was to feel the blessed power of the Ideal world, to be surrounded, once more with the records of lives poured out in embodying thought in beauty!  I seemed to breathe my native atmosphere, and smoothed my ruffled pinions.’

* * * * *

’No wonder God made a world to express his thought.  Who, that has a soul for beauty, does not feel the need of creating, and that the power of creation alone can satisfy the spirit?  When I thus reflect, the Artist seems the only fortunate man.  Had I but as much creative genius as I have apprehensiveness!’

* * * * *

’How transcendently lovely was the face of one young angel by Raphael!  It was the perfection of physical, moral, and mental life.  Variegated wings, of pinkish-purple touched with green, like the breasts of doves, and in perfect harmony with the complexion, spring from the shoulders upwards, and against them leans the divine head.  The eye seems fixed on the centre of being, and the lips are gently parted, as if uttering strains of celestial melody.’

* * * * *