1. I have not that mental discipline, or that command of my own powers, which is one of the most valuable results of properly directed study. I can not grasp a subject at once, and view it in all its bearings.

2. I have not that self-knowledge which is another sure result of proper study. I do not know what I am capable of, nor what I am particularly fitted for, nor what I am most deficient in. I am forever pouring into my own mind, and yet never find out what is there.

3d. I have no principle of arrangement or a.s.similation which might unite all my scattered knowledge. Oh, how different if I had had one definite object which, like the lens, should concentrate all the scattered rays to one focus. I met with this remark of Sir Egerton Bridges to-day; it applies to me exactly: "I have never met with one who seemed to have the same overruling pa.s.sion for literature as I have always had. A thousand others have pursued it with more principle, reason, method, fixed purpose, and effect; mine I admit to have been pure, blind, unregulated love."

4th. I have lost the power of thinking for myself. My memory, which was originally good, has been so washed away by the floods of trash which have been poured into it, that now it scarcely serves me at all.

A pleasant picture this of a mind, which ought to be in the full maturity of its powers. And much reason have I to hope that with such an instrument I shall leave an impress on other minds!... How I envy the other s.e.x! They have certain fixed paths marked out for them--regular professions and trades--between which they may make a choice and know what they have to do. A friend, to whom I had spoken of some of these feelings, tried last night to convince me that they are the result of physical derangement, and not at all the expression of a sane mind in a sound body. I laughed at him, but have every now and then a suspicion that he was right.

_Feb. 25th._--Last evening we had the company of some friends who are interested in the subjects which I love most to talk about. We had a good deal of conversation about books, authors, the laws of mind and spirit, etc. My enthusiasm on these subjects revived; I felt a genial glow resulting from the action of mind upon mind, and the delight of finding sympathy in my most cherished tastes and pursuits. Whether it is owing to this or not, I can not say; but I must confess to a new change of mood, and, consequently, of opinion. I mean that my studies have not only regained their former attractions in my eyes, but that it seems unquestionably right and proper to pursue them (when they interfere with no positive duty) as a means of expanding and strengthening the mind-- even when I can not point out the precise _use_ I expect to make of such acquisition....

One of my friends tried to convince me last night that I was not deficient in invention, because I a.s.signed the fact that I am so, as a reason for attempting translation rather than original writing. Several others have labored to convince me of the same thing. Strange that they can be so mistaken! I know that I have no fancy, from having tried to exert it; and, as this is the lower power and implied in imagination, of course I have none of the latter faculty. The only two things which look like it are my enthusiasm and my relish for works of a high imaginative order.

_Feb. 28th._--... Oh, how transporting--how infinite will be the delight when _all_ truth shall burst upon us as ONE beautiful and perfect whole--each distinct ray harmonising and blending with every other, and all together forming one mighty flood of radiance!... I can not remember all the thoughts which have given so much pleasure this evening; I only know that I have been very happy, and wondered not a little at my late melancholy. I believe it must have been partly caused by looking at myself (and that, too, as if I were a little, miserable, isolated wretch), instead of contemplating those things which have no relation to s.p.a.ce and time and matter--the eternal and the infinite--or, if I thought of myself at all, feeling that I am part of a great and wonderful whole. It seems as if a new inner sense had been opened, revealing to me a world of beauty and perfection that I have never before seen. I am filled with a strange, yet sweet astonishment.

_Sept. 24, 1837._--I have been profoundly interested in the character of Goethe, from reading Mrs. Austin's "Characteristics" of him. Certainly, very few men have ever lived of equally wonderful powers. A thing most remarkable in him is what the Germans call Vielseitigkeit, many-sidedness. There was no department of science or art of which he was wholly ignorant, while in very many of both cla.s.ses his knowledge was accurate and profound. Most men who have attained to distinguished excellence, have done so by confining themselves to a single department--frequently being led to the choice by a strong, original bias. Even when this is not the case, there is some _cla.s.s_ of objects or pursuits, towards which a particular inclination is manifested; one loves facts, and devotes himself to observations and experiments; another loves principles and seeks everywhere to discover a _law_. One cherishes the Ideal, and neglects and despises the Real, while another reverses his judgment. We have become so accustomed to this one-sidedness that it occasions no wonder, and is regarded as the natural state of the mind. Thus we are struck with astonishment on finding a mind like Goethe's equally at home in the Ideal and the Real; equally interested in the laws of poetical criticism, and the theory of colors, equally attentive to a drawing of a new species of plants, and to the plan of a railroad or ca.n.a.l. In short, with the most delicate sense of the Beautiful, the most accurate conception of the mode of its representation, and the most intense longing for it (which alone would have sufficed to make him an Idealist) he united a fondness for observation, a love of the actual in nature, and a susceptibility to deep impressions from and interest in the objects of sense, which would have seemed to mark him out for a Realist. But is not this the true stale of the mind, instead of being; one which should excite astonishment? Is it not one-sidedness rather than many-sidedness that should be regarded as strange? Is it not as much an evidence of disease as the preponderance of one element or function in the physical const.i.tution?

_26th._--I have been thinking more about this many-sidedness of Goethe.

It is by no means that _versatility_ which distinguishes so many second-rate geniuses, which inclines to the selection of many pursuits, but seldom permits the attainment of distinguished excellence in one.

It was one and the same principle acting throughout, the striving after unity. It was this which made him seek to idealise the actual, and to actualise the Ideal. The former he attempted by searching in each outward object for the law which governed its existence and of which its outward development was but an imperfect symbol, the latter by giving form and consistency to the creations of his own fancy. Thus _the one_ was ever-present to him, and he sought it not in one path, among the objects of one science alone, but everywhere in nature and out. In all that was genuine nature he knew that it was to be found; that it was _not_ to be found in the acquired and the artificial was perhaps the reason of his aversion for them. This aversion he carried so far that even acquired virtue was distasteful to him. Whatever may be thought of such a distaste esthetically, we must think that, morally, it was carrying his principle rather to an extreme. I have just come across a plan of study which I formed some months ago and I could not but smile to see how nothing of it has been accomplished. I was to divide my attention between philosophy, language (not languages), and poetry. The former I was to study by topics; e.g., take the subject of perception, write out my own ideas upon it, if I had any, and then read those of other people. In studying language, or rather ethnography, I intended--1. To take the Hebrew roots, trace all the derivatives and related words first in that language, then in others. 2. To examine words relating to the spiritual, with a view to discover their original picture-meaning. 3. Search for a type or symbol in nature of every spiritual fact. Under the head of poetry I mean, to study the great masters of epic and dramatic poetry, especially Shakspeare and Milton, and from them make out a science of criticism. Alas!

_April 5, 1838._--I have been thinking about myself--what a strange, wayward, incomprehensible being I am, and how completely misunderstood by almost everybody. Uniting excessive pride with excessive sensitiveness, the greatest ardor and pa.s.sionateness of emotion with an irresolute will, a disposition to _distrust_, in so far only as the affection of others for me is concerned, with the extreme of confidence and credulity in everything else--an incapability of expressing, except occasionally as it were in gushes, any strong feeling--a tendency to melancholy, yet with a susceptibility of enjoyment almost transporting--subject to the most sudden, unaccountable and irresistible changes of mood--capable of being melted and moulded to anything by kindness, but as cold and unyielding as a rock against harshness and compulsion--such are some of the peculiarities which excellently prepare me for un-happiness. It is true that sometimes I am conscious of none of them--when for days together I pursue my regular routine of studies and employments, half mechanically--or when completely under the influence of the outward, I live for a time in what is around me. But this never lasts long. One of the most painful feelings I ever know is the sense of an unappeasable craving for sympathy and appreciation--the desire to be understood and loved, united with the conviction that this desire can never be gratified. I feel _alone_, different from all others and of course misunderstood by them. The only other feeling I have more miserable than this is the sense of being _worse_ than all others, and utterly dest.i.tute of anything excellent or beautiful. Oh! what mysteries are wrapped up in the mind and heart of man! What a development will be made when the light of another world shall be let in upon these impenetrable recesses!

BOSTON, _Jan. 7, 1839._--I came here on the last day of the last year, and have since then been very much occupied in different ways.

Yesterday, I heard President Hopkins all day, and in the evening, a lecture from Dr. Follen on Pantheism. The most abstract of all pantheistic systems he described to be that of the Brahmans, as taught in the Vedas and Vedashta, and also at _first_ by Sch.e.l.ling, viz., that the _absolute_ is the first principle of all things; and this absolute is not to be conceived of as possessing any attribute at all--not even that of existence. A system a little less abstract is that of the Eleatics, who believed in the absolute as existing. Then that of Giordano Bruno, who made _soul_ and _matter_ the formative principle and the princ.i.p.al recipient of forces--to be the ground of the universe.

Then Spinoza, who postulated _thought_ as the representative of the spiritual, and _extension_ as that of the material principle; and these together are his _originaux_. From thence sprang the spiritual pantheists--such as Sch.e.l.ling, Fichte, and Hegel--and the material pantheists.

_Wednesday, April 10th._--To-morrow I go to Andover. Have been indescribably hurried of late. Have finished Claudius--am reading Prometheus and Kant's Critique. _April 19th_.--Am reading Seneca's Medea and Southey's Life of Cowper.

ANDOVER, _May 13th._--Dr. Woods was remarking to-day at dinner on the influence of _hope_ in sustaining under the severest sufferings. It recalled a thought which occurred to me the other day in reading Prometheus; that, regarded as an example of unyielding determination and unconquerable fort.i.tude he is not equal to Milton's Satan. For he has before him not only the _hope_, but the _certainty_ of ultimate deliverance, whereas Satan bears himself up, by the mere force of his will, unsustained by hope, "which comes to all," but not to him.

_15th_.--It has just occurred to me that the doctrine of the soul's mortality seems to have _no_ point of contact with humanity. It surely can not have been entertained as being agreeable to man's _wishes_. And what is there in the system of things, or in the nature of the mind, to suggest it? On the contrary, everything looks in an opposite direction.

How is it _possible_ to help seeing that the soul is not here in its proper element, in its native air? How is it possible to escape the conviction that all its unsatisfied yearnings, its baffled aims, its restless, agonizing aspirings after a _something_, clearly perceived to exist, but to be here unattainable--that all these things point to _another_ life, the _only_ true life of the soul? There is such a manifest disproportion between all objects of earthly attainment and the capacities of the spirit, that, unless man is immortal, he is vastly more to be pitied than the meanest reptile that crawls upon the earth.

So I thought as I was walking this morning and saw a frog swimming in a puddle of water. I could hardly help envying him when I considered that _his_ condition was suited to his nature, and that he has no wants which are not supplied.

_June 17th._--I am reading Goethe's Conversations with Eckermann. One thing I remark is this--he does not, as most men do, make the degree of sympathy he finds in others the measure of his interest in them and attention to them. Goethe looked at all as specimens of human nature, and, therefore, all worthy of study. But, after all, this way of looking at others seems to be more suited to the _artist_ than to the man; and I can not conceive of any but a very pa.s.sionless and immobile person who could do it.... Does all nature furnish one type of the soul? If so, it might be the ocean; the rough, swelling, fluctuating, unsounded ocean.

Shall it ever _rest? Rest?_ What an infinite, mournful sweetness in the word! How perfectly sure I feel that my soul can never rest in _itself_, nor in anything of earth; if I find peace, it must be in the bosom of G.o.d.

_July 2d._--The vulgar proverb, "It never rains but it pours," is fully ill.u.s.trated in my case. Last week I would have given half the world for a new book; yesterday and today have overflooded me. Mr. Hubbard has sent me Prof. Park's "German Selections," Pliny, Heeren's Ancient Greece, two volumes of the Biblical Repository, and two of his own magazines; Mr. Judd has sent me two volumes of Carlyle, and Mr. Ripley four of Lessing--all of these must be despatched _a la hate. July 5th._--Last evening we spent upon the Common witnessing a beautiful exhibition of fireworks. This morning I have been to Union wharf to see the departure of some missionaries. For a few minutes, time seemed a speck and eternity near--but how transient with me are such impressions! I am indulging myself too much of late in a sort of sentimental reverie. Life and its changes, the depths of the soul, the fluctuations of pa.s.sion and feeling--these are the subjects which attract my thoughts perpetually.... We spent last evening at Richard H.

Dana's. _He_ does not separate his intellectual and sentimental tastes from his moral convictions as I do--I mean that neither in books nor men does he find pleasure unless they are such as his conscience approves.

_Tuesday, 9th._--Have visited the Allston gallery and seen Rosalie for the last time before going home. I could not have believed that I should feel such a pang at parting from a picture. I did not succeed in getting to the gallery before others--but, no matter. I forgot the presence of everybody else and sat for an hour before Rosalie without moving. I took leave of the other pictures mentally, for I could not look. Farewell, sweet Beatrice, lovely Inez, beautiful Ursulina--dear, dear Rosalie, farewell!

_Monday, 15th._--Yesterday I was happy; to-day I am not exactly unhappy, but morbid and anxious. I feel continually the pressure of obligation to write something, in order to contribute toward the support of the family--and yet, I can not write. Mother wants me to write children's books; Lizzy wants me to write a book of Natural Philosophy for schools.

I wish I had a "vocation." _Sabbath._--Stayed at home on account of the rain and read one of Tholuck's sermons to Julia. Wrote in my other journal some account of my thoughts and feelings. Burned up part of an old diary.

_Thursday, July 25th._--"My soul is dark." What with the sin I find within me, and the darkness and error, disputes and perplexities around me, I well-nigh despair. Whether I seek to _discover_ truth or to _live_ it, I am _equally_ unsuccessful. "I grope at noon-day as in the night."

But there is a G.o.d, holy and changeless. He _is_. From eternity to eternity, He IS. On this Rock will I rest----. I stopped a moment and my eye was caught by the waving trees. What do they say to me? How silent they are! and yet how _eloquent!_ And here I sit--to myself the centre of the world, wondering and speculating about this same little self. Do the trees so? No; they wave and bend and bloom for _others._ I am ready to join with Herbert in wishing that I were a tree; then

"At least some bird would trust Her household to me, and I should be just."

_Evening._--I read to-day another of Lessing's tragedies--"Miss Sarah Sampson,"--which I do not like nearly as well as Mina von Barnhelm. We were engaged to take tea with "the Mayor," and went with many tremblings and hesitations on account of the rain. Very few there, and a most uncommonly stupid time.

_Sat.u.r.day Evening._--I have been alone for a little while, and, as usual, this time brings with it thronging remembrances of absent friends. Their forms flit before me; their spirits are around me; I feel their presence--almost; dear friends, almost I clasp you in my arms. My soul yearns for love and sympathy. I do bless and praise my G.o.d for all His goodness to me in this respect, for my _many_ tender and faithful and devoted friends. Part of the day I spent in arranging sh.e.l.ls in my cabinet of drawers. This afternoon I went to Mr. Prentiss' library and obtained Schlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature.

_Monday Morning._--Have been trying to rouse myself to write Lessing, but can not. It looks so little. When it is all done, what will it amount to? Why, I shall get a few dollars for mother, which will go to buy bread and b.u.t.ter--and that's the end of it.

_Evening._--S. W. and M. W. made a call on us and the former played and sang. Then we sat up till after eleven naming each of our acquaintances after some flower. _Aug. 8th_,--Oh, what a happy half hour I had last evening, looking at the sky after sunset! We went down to the water--it was smooth as a crystal lake. The horizon was all in a glow--the softest, mellowest, warmest glow, and above dark, heavy clouds of every variety of form--the clouds and the glow alike reflected in the answering heaven below--I was almost _too_ happy; but--it _faded_.

_Evening_.--I had something to wake me up this afternoon, viz., the arrival of the July No. of the New York Review, containing "Claudius."

This led to some conversation about writing, its pecuniary profitableness, subjects for it, etc. Julia wished I would take some other topics besides German authors, but when I told her the alternative would be metaphysics, she laughed and retracted the wish. We then laughed over several schemes such as these--that one of us should write a review and another make the book for it afterward; that I should review some book which did not exist and give professed extracts from it, etc. Soon after Mrs. D. came in and began to talk about "Undine,"

which she and her husband have just been reading--the new translation.

I was amused at their opinion of it. The most absurd, ridiculous story, she said--with no _rationality_, nothing that one can _understand_ in it--and so on, showing that she had not the slightest idea of a work of fancy merely. I have been wishing, as I often do, for some records of my past life. What could I not give for a daily journal as minute as this, beginning from my childhood! My past life is mostly a blank to me. _Aug.

15th_.--I am beginning to see dimly some new truths--such I believe them to be--in theology. I am inclined to think, but do not feel sure, that Redemption, instead of being merely a necessary _remedy_ for a great evil, is in itself the highest positive good, and that the state into which it brings man, of union with G.o.d, is a far n.o.bler and better condition than that of primitive innocence, and at the same time a condition attainable in no other way than through redemption, and, of course, through sin. In this case the plan of redemption, instead of being an _afterthought_ of the divine mind (speaking anthropomorphically), is that in reference to which the whole world-system was contrived. These thoughts were partly suggested by reading Schleiermacher, who, if I understand him, has some such notions.

If there is any truth in them, do they not throw light on the much-vexed question why G.o.d permitted the introduction of moral evil? Another point which I feel confident is misunderstood by our theologians is the nature of the redemptive act. The work of Christ in redemption is generally explained to be His incarnation, sufferings, and death, by which He made _atonement_ to justice for the sins of the world. This, it is true, is a part of what He did; it is that part which He performed in reference to G.o.d and His law, but it is not what Coleridge calls the "spiritual and transcendent act" by which He made us one with Himself, and thus secured the possibility of our restoration to spiritual life. _Aug. 17th_.--Have devoted almost the whole day to Coleridge's Literary Remains, which Mr.

Davenport brought me. My admiration, even veneration, for his almost unequalled power is greater than ever, but I can not help thinking that his studies--some of them--exerted an unfavorable influence upon him, especially, perhaps, Spinoza. _Aug. 22d_--Mr. Park sent me the Life of Mackintosh by his son. I rejoiced much too soon over it, for it proves very uninteresting. This is partly to be accounted for from my want of interest in politics, etc. In great measure, however, it is the fault of the biographer, who has shown us the man at a distance, on stilts, or at best only in his most outward circ.u.mstances, never letting us know, as Carlyle says, what sort of stockings he wore, and what he ate for dinner. I don't think Sir James himself has much _inwardness_ to him, but certainly his son has shown us only the outermost sh.e.l.l. Have read the Iliad and Schleiermacher to-day. _Aug. 24th_.--A queer circ.u.mstance happened this evening. Col. Kinsman and Mr. C. S. Davies called. I was considering what unusual occurrence could have brought Mr. D. here, when he increased my wonder still more by disclosing his errand. He had received, he said, a letter from Prof. Woods, requesting that I, or a "lady whose taste was as correct in dress as in literature," would decide upon the fashion of a gown to be worn by him at his inauguration as President of Bowdoin College, and forthwith procure such a gown to be made. _Aug. 25th_.--I have been reading the second volume of Mackintosh, which is much better than the first, and gives a higher opinion of him.

He is certainly well described by Coleridge as the "king of men of talent." It is curious, by the way, to compare what M. says of C.: "It is impossible to give a stronger example of a man, whose talents are beneath his understanding, and who trusts to his ingenuity to atone for his ignorance.... Shakespeare and Burke are, if I may venture on the expression, above talent; but Coleridge is not!" Ah, well--_de gustibus_, etc.

I have been as busy as a bee all day; wrote notes, prepared for leaving home, read Schleiermacher, and Philip von Artevelde, which delighted me; walked after tea with Lizzy, then examined my papers to see what is to be burned. I wish I knew what I was made for--I mean, in _particular_--what I _can_ do, and what I _ought_ to do. I can not bear to live a life of literary self-indulgence, which is no better than another self-indulgence. I _do want_ to be of some use in the world, but I am infinitely perplexed as to the _how_ and the _what_. _Aug.

26th_.--Hurried through the last 200 pages of Mackintosh today. On the whole, there is much to _like_ as well as to admire in him. One thing puzzles me in his case as in others: How men who give no signs through a long life of anything more than the most cold and distant _respect_ for religion--the most unfrequent and uninterested remembrance, if any at all--of the Saviour, all at once become so devout--I mean it not disrespectfully--on their death-beds. What strange doubts this and other like mysteries suggest!

After tea I carried a bouquet to Mrs. French. Saw all the way a sky so magnificent that words can do no justice to it--splendors piled on splendors, till my soul was fairly sick with admiration. Mrs. French asked me if life ever looked sad and wearisome to me. _Ever!_

BOSTON, _Sat.u.r.day morning, Sept. 8th_--The rain keeps me home from church, but I still have the more time for reading and reflection. At every change in my outward situation I find myself forming new purposes and plans for the future.... I _will_ trust that, by the grace of G.o.d, the ensuing winter shall be a period of more vigorous effort and more persevering self-culture than any previous season of my life. Above all, let me remember that intellectual culture is worthless when dissociated from moral progress; that true spiritual growth embraces both; and the latter as the basis and mould of the former. Let me remember, too, that in the universe _everything_ may be had for a price, but nothing can be had without price. The price of successful self-culture is unremitted toil, labor, and self-denial; am I willing to pay it? I feel that I need light and strength and life; may I find them in _Christ!_ As to studies, I mean to study the Bible _much;_ also dogmatic theology--which of late has an increasing interest for me--and ecclesiastical history. To the Spirit of all Truth I surrender my mind.

_Monday._--I have fallen in with Swedenborg's writings. Wonder whether the destiny which seems to bring to us just what we chance to be interested in is a real ordinance of fate or only a seeming one--because interest in a subject makes us observant. Am reading Greek with Julia.

We began the sixth book of the Iliad. _Tuesday_.--Fifty lines in Homer; Companion proofs; Schleiermacher; the prologue and first scene of Terence's comedy of Andria; two Nos. of N. Nickleby, and walked round the Common with Julia twice. _Wednesday_.--Studies the same as yesterday, except that I read less of Schleiermacher and spent an hour or so upon Lessing. Read "Much Ado about Nothing," and disliked Beatrice less than ever before. But I am not satisfied with Claudio; he is not _half_ sorry and remorseful enough for the supposed death of Hero--and then to think of his being willing to marry another right off! Oh, it is abominable! Walked over _four miles_ in the morning, and out again before tea.

_Tuesday, Sept. 17th_--Well. The family are off--Mr. and Mrs. Willis, and Julia too--and the Recorder and Companion [10] are left for a fortnight in my charge. I have been much interested in what I have read to-day in Schleiermacher. It is his evolution of the idea of G.o.d--if I may so say--from holy, human consciousness. It recalls some thoughts which I had on this subject once before, and which I began to write about. My notion was this--that an absolutely perfect idea of man implies, contains an idea of G.o.d. I have a great mind to try and make something out of it, only I am so hurried just now. They keep sending me papers to make selections for the Recorder, and I have just been writing an article for the Companion. I spend half my time looking over newspapers. Double, double toil and trouble; most wearisome and profitless. Would not edit a paper for the world.

No truth can be said to be seen _as it is_ until it is seen in its relation to all other truths. In this relation only is it true.... No _error_ is understood till we have seen all the truth there is in it, and, therefore, as Coleridge says, you must "understand an author's ignorance, or conclude yourself ignorant of his understanding."

_Monday, 30th._--I have been very happy this afternoon--writing all the time with a genial flow of thought and without effort. How I love to feel that for this I am indebted to G.o.d. He is my intellectual source, the Father of my spirit, as well as the author of everything morally good in me.

_Friday, Oct. 4th._--I have been too busy reading and writing for the last few days to find time for my journal. I go on with Schleiermacher and have resumed Lessing. I am reading the Memoir of Mrs. S. L. Smith and Tappan's "Review of Edwards on the Will." Fifty lines in the Iliad with Julia. Finished the Andria and to-day began the Adelphi. I am amused at comparing the comedy of that day with the modern French school. Davus in Andria is but a rough sketch of Moliere's valet, and the whole plot is so bungling in comparison. Have had very few attacks of melancholy lately; because, I suppose, my health is good and I am constantly employed.

_Evening_.--I never came nearer losing my wits with delight than this afternoon. Went to call on Mr. and Mrs. Ripley, and saw his fine library of German books. The sight was enough to excite me to the utmost, but to be told that they were all at my service put me into such an ecstasy that I could hardly behave with decency. I selected several immediately and promised myself fuller examination of the library very soon.... Mr.

R. proposed to me to translate something for his series. Shall I? [11]

_Sabbath Evening, Oct. 13th_.--I have just been writing to my dear brother G., for whom as well as for my other brothers, I feel the greatest solicitude. I have separate sources of anxiety for each of them, and hope that the intenseness of this anxiety will make me more earnest in commending them to G.o.d. _Oct. 14th_.--Gave up the time usually devoted to Lessing to writing two articles for the Mother's Magazine. Read Homer, and the 149th and 150th Psalms and the first chapter of Genesis in Hebrew. Read or rather _studied_ Schleiermacher.

Corrected proof. Read several articles in the Biblical Repository--one by Prof. Park--aloud to Julia. On the whole, I have been pretty industrious. Oh, how many reasons I have for grat.i.tude! Health, friends, books--nothing is wanting but the heart to enjoy G.o.d in all. Wrote to mother.

_Oct. 17th._--This morning dear Lizzy came; of course the day has been given up to _miscellanies_.

_Oct. 21st._--Mr. Albro [12] called and stayed till dinner-time. After dinner read Greek with Julia and then wrote a notice of Gesenius' Hebrew Grammar, and then set off for Lucy's, where the others were already gone. Mr. Albro has concluded to read Schleiermacher with me--that is, to keep along at the same rate, that we may talk about it. Letter from mother, and notes from Mr. Condit and Mr. Hamlin, with a copy of "Payson's Thoughts" in Armenian. Have just finished reading Mr. Ripley's Reply to Mr. Norton. Mr. Willis is forming a Bible-cla.s.s for me to teach on the Sabbath--am very glad.

_Nov. 14th._--Finished Lessing yesterday, and hope for a little rest from hurry. Shall resume Schleiermacher and take up Fichte on the Destination of Man.

_Nov. 22nd._--I am afraid that I may have to be resigned to a very great misfortune; namely, to the partial loss of eyesight--for a time at least; so yesterday I resolved to give them a holiday, though sorely against my will, by not opening a book the whole day. Whether I should have succeeded in observing such a desperate resolution without the aid of circ.u.mstances is quite problematical, but Mr. Gray opportunely came with a request that I should take a ride with him to Cambridge, and visit the libraries there. This occupied four or five hours, and a lyceum lecture provided for the evening. I have always congratulated myself on being so little dependent on _others_ for entertainment--but never considered how entirely I am dependent on _books_. If I should be deprived of the use of my eyes, I should be a most miserable creature.

_Thanksgiving, Nov. 29th._--A very pleasant and delightful day--our hearts full of gladness and, I hope, of grat.i.tude. I hope dear mother and all at home are as happy.