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 defeced 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 ot 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,