sad changes should be written out
in Godwin's best manner: such are the themes he loved, as did
also Rousseau. Through all the dark shadows shone a pure
white ray, one high, spiritual character, a man, too, and of
advanced age. I begin to respect men more,--I mean actual men.
What men may be, I know; but the men of to-day have seemed to
me of such coarse fibre, or else such poor wan shadows!

'---- had scarcely gone, when ---- came and wished to spend
a few hours with me. I was totally exhausted, but I lay down,
and she sat beside me, and poured out all her noble feelings
and bright fancies. There was little light in the room, and
she gleamed like a cloud

--"of pearl and opal,"

and reminded me more than ever of

--"the light-haired Lombardess
Singing a song of her own native land,"

to the dying Correggio, beside the fountain.

'I am astonished to see how much Bettine's book is to all
these people. This shows how little courage they have had to
live out themselves. She really brings them a revelation. The
men wish they had been loved by Bettine; the girls wish to
write down the thoughts that come, and see if just such a book
does not grow up. ----, however, was one of the few who do not
over-estimate her; she truly thought Bettine only publishes
what many burn. Would not genius be common as light, if men
trusted their higher selves?'

* * * * *

'I heard in town that ---- is a father, and has gone to see
his child. This news made me more grave even than such news
usually does; I suppose because I have known the growth of
his character so intimately. I called to mind a letter he had
written me of what we had expected of our fathers. The ideal
father, the profoundly wise, provident, divinely tender and
benign, he is indeed the God of the human heart. How solemn
this moment of being called to prepare the way, to _make way_
for another generation! What fulfilment does it claim in
the character of a man, that he should be worthy to be a
father!--what purity of motive, what dignity, what knowledge!
When I recollect how deep the anguish, how deeper still the
want, with which I walked alone in hours of childish passion,
and called for a Father, often saying the word a hundred
times, till stifled by sobs, how great s