with wonder. Constance, the creature is
a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his
life. No, I'll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh.
Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,--and he
too.

December 1st.

We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a
cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!

We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of
them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might
have used must have sounded fulsome flattery. But later on, I
asked:--

"Have you thought of a publisher for your verse?"

He shook his head and made a face at me.

"You must certainly publish those poems," I said; "you surely know
that they are unusually beautiful, and that you have no right to
keep them to yourself."

"Dear Emilia," he answered, "I like to hear this from you, but you
are mistaken. My poems are not so remarkable as you imagine; you are
too near a friend to be a fair judge. They are intensely
subjective,--that is, by the way, one of their faults; they reflect
me; therefore you, who know me well and care for me, find them
sympathetic. That's the whole of the tale."

"If I cared for you ten times more than I do," said I then, "I
should not be quite so blind as you suppose. But, if you doubt my
judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with
other verse."

"Never!" he said. "How can you even suggest such a thing? Look here,
Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up
there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words.
When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall
he judge? He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by
the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than
himself."

I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever climbed
less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing
where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.

"No," he replied again, "no, I am too weak myself to help others.
Dear girl, don't you see that those things were written with the
blood of my heart? Cold men would read them, tear them to pieces.
Emilia! they would review me!"

He said this with a sort of yell of despair. I saw that he was in a
perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace. We talked of you
afterwar