"In our house I found nothing changed,[170] nor anything in our neighbor's; and I found in all souls the same old love with which we had parted from each other,--only my Agatha, to be sure, is merry, but yet less so than she used to be. The only change in Herr Eymann's house is a guest whom every one calls by a different name,--Victor, Horion, Sebastian, young Lord, Doctor. This last name he fully deserves by his first action and first joy in St. Luna, which was the healing of the blind Lord Horion. What a piece of happiness for the saved and for his saviour!--May this youth one day only pass through your Eden, and meet with your good Julius, so as to repeat upon him the beautiful art--Oh! as often as I think upon it, that the male sex is blest with the means of the greatest, godlike benefactions,--that they, like a god, can distribute eyes, life, justice, science,--whereas my sex must confine its heart, so yearning to do good, to lesser services,--to the drying away of a tear for another, to the concealing of its own, to the exercise of a secret patience with happy and unhappy;--then the wish rises, O that that sex which has the highest benefits in its hands would vouchsafe to us the greatest,--that of imitating itself, and getting into our hands good things which should bless us by our distribution of them!---At present, a woman can have nothing in her soul to make her great, except only wishes. "I have just come in out of the open air from a little garden-feast at my Agatha's; and never is any fair bit of deep-blue sky exactly right to me, if it does not stand over your weeping-birch, where your eye counts up all its treasures and suns, and shows my heart all the tokens of Infinite Power and Love. To-day, in the garden, I thought with almost too sad a longing on your Maienthal; Herr Sebastian reminded me of it still oftener, because he seems to have had a teacher who resembled mine.[171] He talked very well to-day, and seemed to be made up of two halves,--a British and a French. Some of his fine observations have not gone from me,--e. g., 'Sorrows are like thunder-clouds: in the distance they look black, over our heads hardly gray.--As sad dreams betoken a glad future, so may it be with the so-often-tormenting dream of life when it is over.--All our strong feelings, like ghosts, hold sway only up to a certain hour; and if a man would always say to himself, This passion, this grief, this rapture, will in three days certainly be gone from this soul,--then would he become more and more tranquil and composed.' I report all this to you so exactly, in order, as it were, to punish myself for a too hasty judgment which I passed some days since (though within myself) on his propensity to satire.--Satire, also, seems to be merely for the stronger sex; I have never yet found one of my own who had found in the works of Swift or Cervantes or Tristram anything to her taste.--