that one does encounter beautiful natures
that seem to flower very generously in the light of experience, yet
most people grow dull, dreary, conventional, grasping,
commonplace--they grow to think rather contemptuously of emotion and
generosity--they think it weak to be amiable, unselfish, kind. They
become fond of comfort and position and respect and money. They think
such things the serious concerns of life, and sentiment a kind of
relaxation. But with Willett it was the precise reverse. He claimed
nothing for himself, he never profited at the expense of another; he
was utterly humble, gentle, unpretentious, kind, sincere. An hour ago I
should have called him "poor fellow," and wished that he had had a more
robust kind of fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in
my heart to wish him any such qualities. His life appears to me utterly
beautiful and fragrant. He never incurred any taint of grossness from
prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and in the
light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one thing worth
achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and rich with
possibilities of blessing and glory. He would hardly have called
himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he could not have
attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful certainty; but the
only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about him, echoing sweetly
and softly through the ages, are the words in which Christ described
the tender spirits of those who were nearest to the Father's heart, and
to whom it is given to see God.

July 28, 1889.

Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely. I have given
up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for plots or
situations. I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects beside me,
and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely indifferent to
the whole thing. Meanwhile the flood of letters about my book,
invitations from editors, offers from publishers, continues to flow. I
reply to these benignantly and courteously, but undertake nothing,
promise nothing. I seem to have recovered my balance. I think no more
about my bodily complaints, and my nerves no longer sting and thrill.
The day is hardly long enough for all I have to do. It may be that when
the novelty of the experiment in education wears off, I shall begin to
hanker after authorship again. Alec will have to go to school in a year
or two, I suppose; but it