'_Aug_. 7, 1832.--I feel quite lost; it is so long since I
have talked myself. To see so many acquaintances, to talk
so many words, and never tell my mind completely on any
subject--to say so many things which do not seem called out,
makes me feel strangely vague and movable.
''Tis true, the time is probably near when I must live alone,
to all intents and purposes,--separate entirely my acting from
my thinking world, take care of my ideas without aid,--except
from the illustrious dead,--answer my own questions, correct
my own feelings, and do all that hard work for myself. How
tiresome 'tis to find out all one's self-delusion! I thought
myself so very independent, because I could conceal some
feelings at will, and did not need the same excitement as
other young characters did. And I am not independent, nor
never shall be, while I can get anybody to minister to me. But
I shall go where there is never a spirit to come, if I call
ever so loudly.
'Perhaps I shall talk to you about Körner, but need not write.
He charms me, and has become a fixed star in the heaven of
my thought; but I understand all that he excites perfectly.
I felt very '_new_ about Novalis,--"the good Novalis," as
you call him after Mr. Carlyle. He is, indeed, _good_, most
enlightened, yet most pure; every link of his experience
framed--no, _beaten_--from the tried gold.
'I have read, thoroughly, only two of his pieces, "Die
Lehrlinge zu Sais," and "Heinrich von Ofterdingen." From the
former I have only brought away piecemeal impressions, but the
plan and treatment of the latter, I believe, I understand. It
describes the development of poetry in a mind; and with this
several other developments are connected. I think I shall tell
you all I know about it, some quiet time after your return,
but if not, will certainly keep a Novalis-journal for you some
favorable season, when I live regularly for a fort night.'
* * * * *
'_June_, 1833.--I return Lessing. I could hardly get through
Miss Sampson. E. Galeotti is good in the same way as
Minna. Well-conceived and sustained characters, interesting
situations, but never that profound knowledge of human nature,
those minute beauties, and delicate vivifying traits, which
lead on so in the writings of some authors, who may be
nameless. I think him easily followed; strong, but not deep.'
* * * * *
'_May_, 1833.--_Groton_.--I think you are wrong in applying
your artistical ideas to occasional poetry. An epic, a drama,
must have a fixed form in the mind of the poet from the first;
and copious draughts of ambrosia quaffed in the heaven of
thought, soft fanning gales and bright light from the outward
world, give muscle and bloom,--that is, give life,--to this
skeleton. But all occasional poems must be moods, and can a
mood have a form fixed and perfect, more than a wave of the
sea?'
* * * * *
'Three or four afternoons I have passed very happily at my
beloved haunt in the wood, reading Goethe's "Second Residence
in Rome." Your pencil-marks show that you have been before me.
I shut the book each time with an earnest desire to live as
he did,--always to have some engrossing object of pursuit.
I sympathize deeply with a mind in that state. While mine is
being used up by ounces, I wish pailfuls might be poured into
it. I am dejected and uneasy when I see no results from my
daily existence, but I am suffocated and lost when I have not
the bright feeling of progression.' * *
* * * * *
'I think I am less happy, in many respects, than you, but
particularly in this. You can speak freely to me of all your
circumstances and feelings, can you not? It is not possible
for me to be so profoundly frank with any earthly friend. Thus
my heart has no proper home; it only can prefer some of its
visiting-places to others; and with deep regret I realize that
I have, at length, entered on the concentrating stage of
life. It was not time. I had been too sadly cramped. I had not
learned enough, and must always remain imperfect. Enough! I am
glad I have been able to say so much.'
* * * * *
'I have read nothing,--to signify,--except Goethe's "Campagne
in Frankreich." Have you looked through it, and do you
remember his intercourse with the Wertherian Plessing? That
tale pained me exceedingly. We cry, "help, help," and there is
no help--in man at least. How often I have thought, if I could
see Goethe, and tell him my state of mind, he would support
and guide me! He would be able to understand; he would show
me how to rule circumstances, instead of being ruled by them;
and, above all, he would not have been so sure that all would
be for the best, without our making an effort to act out the
oracles; he would have wished to see me what Nature intended.
But his conduct to Plessing and Ohlenschlager shows that to
him, also, an appeal would have been vain.'
'Do you really believe there is anything "all-comprehending"
but religion? Are not these distinctions imaginary? Must not
the philosophy of every mind, or set of minds, be a system
suited to guide them, and give a home where they can bring
materials among which to accept, reject, and shape at
pleasure? Novalis calls those, who harbor these ideas,
"unbelievers;" but hard names make no difference. He says with
disdain, "To _such_, philosophy is only a system which will
spare them the trouble of reflecting." Now this is just
my case. I _do_ want a system which shall suffice to my
character, and in whose applications I shall have faith. I
do not wish to _reflect_ always, if reflecting must be always
about one's identity, whether "_ich_" am the true "_ich_" &c.
I wish to arrive at that point where I can trust myself, and
leave off saying, "It seems to me," and boldly feel, It _is_
so TO ME. My character has got its natural regulator, my heart
beats, my lips speak truth, I can walk alone, or offer my arm
to a friend, or if I lean on another, it is not the debility
of sickness, but only wayside weariness. This is the
philosophy _I_ want; this much would satisfy _me_.
'Then Novalis says, "Philosophy is the art of discovering the
place of truth in every encountered event and circumstance, to
attune all relations to truth."
'Philosophy is peculiarly home-sickness; an over-mastering
desire to be at home.
'I think so; but what is there _all-comprehending_;
eternally-conscious, about that?'
* * * * *
'_Sept.,_ 1832.--"Not see the use of metaphysics?" A moderate
portion, taken at stated intervals, I hold to be of much
use as discipline of the faculties. I only object to them as
having an absorbing and anti-productive tendency. But 'tis not
always so; may not be so with you. Wait till you are two years
older, before you decide that 'tis your vocation. Time
enough at six-and-twenty to form yourself into a metaphysical
philosopher. The brain does not easily get too dry for
_that_. Happy you, in these ideas which give you a tendency to
optimism. May you become a proselyte to that consoling faith.
I shall never be able to follow you, but shall look after you
with longing eyes.'
* * * * *
'_Groton._--Spring has come, and I shall see you soon. If
I could pour into your mind all the ideas which have passed
through mine, you would be well entertained, I think, for
three or four days. But no hour will receive aught beyond its
own appropriate wealth.
'I am at present engaged in surveying the level on which the
public mind is poised. I no longer lie in wait for the
tragedy and comedy of life; the rules of its _prose_ engage my
attention. I talk incessantly with common-place people, full
of curiosity to ascertain the process by which materials,
apparently so jarring and incapable of classification, get
united into that strange whole, the American public. I have
read all Jefferson's letters, the North American, the daily
papers, &c., without end. H. seems to be weaving his Kantisms
into the American system in a tolerably happy manner.'
* * * * *
* * 'George Thompson has a voice of uncommon compass and
beauty; never sharp in its highest, or rough and husky in its
lowest, tones. A perfect enunciation, every syllable round
and energetic; though his manner was the one I love best,
very rapid, and full of eager climaxes. Earnestness in every
part,--sometimes impassioned earnestness,--a sort of "Dear
friends, believe, _pray_ believe, I love you, and you MUST
believe as I do" expression, even in the argumentative parts.
I felt, as I have so often done before, if I were a man, the
gift I would choose should be that of eloquence. That power of
forcing the vital currents of thousands of human hearts into
ONE current, by the constraining power of that most delicate
instrument, the voice, is so intense,--yes, I would prefer it
to a more extensive fame, a more permanent influence.'
'Did I describe to you my feelings on hearing Mr. Everett's
eulogy on Lafayette? No; I did not. That was exquisite.
The old, hackneyed story; not a new anecdote, not a single
reflection of any value; but the manner, the _manner_^ the
delicate inflections of voice, the elegant and appropriate
gesture, the sense of beauty produced by the whole, which
thrilled us all to tears, flowing from a deeper and purer
source than that which answers to pathos. This was fine; but
I prefer the Thompson manner. Then there is Mr. Webster's,
unlike either; simple grandeur, nobler, more impressive, less
captivating. I have heard few fine speakers; I wish I could
hear a thousand.
Are you vexed by my keeping the six volumes of your Goethe?
I read him very little either; I have so little time,--many
things to do at home,--my three children, and three pupils
besides, whom I instruct.
'By the way, I have always thought all that was said about
the anti-religious tendency of a classical education to be
old wives' tales. But their puzzles about Virgil's notions
of heaven and virtue, and his gracefully-described gods and
goddesses, have led me to alter my opinions; and I suspect,
from reminiscences of my own mental history, that if all
governors do not think the same 't is from want of that
intimate knowledge of their pupils' minds which I naturally
possess. I really find it difficult to keep their _morale_
steady, and am inclined to think many of my own sceptical
sufferings are traceable to this source. I well remember what
reflections arose in my childish mind from a comparison of the
Hebrew history, where every moral obliquity is shown out with
such naïveté, and the Greek history, full of sparkling deeds
and brilliant sayings, and their gods and goddesses, the
types of beauty and power, with the dazzling veil of flowery
language and poetical imagery cast over their vices and
failings.'
* * * * *
'My own favorite project, since I began seriously to entertain
any of that sort, is six historical tragedies; of which I have
the plans of three quite perfect. However, the attempts I
have made on them have served to show me the vast difference
between conception and execution. Yet I am, though abashed,
not altogether discouraged. My next favorite plan is a series
of tales illustrative of Hebrew history. The proper junctures
have occurred to me during my late studies on the historical
books of the Old Testament. This task, however, requires
a thorough and imbuing knowledge of the Hebrew manners and
spirit, with a chastened energy of imagination, which I am as
yet far from possessing. But if I should be permitted peace
and time to follow out my ideas, I have hopes. Perhaps it is
a weakness to confide to you embryo designs, which never may
glow into life, or mock me by their failure.'
* * * * *
'I have long had a suspicion that no mind can systematize its
knowledge, and carry on the concentrating processes, without
some fixed opinion on the subject of metaphysics. But that
indisposition, or even dread of the study, which you may
remember, has kept me from meddling with it, till lately, in
meditating on the life of Goethe, I thought I must get some
idea of the history of philosophical opinion in Germany, that
I might be able to judge of the influence it exercised upon
his mind. I think I can comprehend him every other way, and
probably interpret him satisfactorily to others,--if I can get
the proper materials. When I was in Cambridge, I got Fichte
and Jacobi; I was much interrupted, but some time and earnest
thought I devoted. Fichte I could not understand at all;
though the treatise which I read was one intended to be
popular, and which he says must compel (_bezwingen_) to
conviction. Jacobi I could understand in details, but not in
system. It seemed to me that his mind must have been moulded
by some other mind, with which I ought to be acquainted, in
order to know him well,--perhaps Spinoza's. Since I came home,
I have been consulting Buhle's and Tennemann's histories of
philosophy, and dipping into Brown, Stewart, and that class of
books.'
* * * * *
'After I had cast the burden of my cares upon you, I rested,
and read Petrarch for a day or two. But that could not last.
I had begun to "take an account of stock," as Coleridge calls
it, and was forced to proceed. He says few persons ever did
this faithfully, without being dissatisfied with the result,
and lowering their estimate of their supposed riches. With
me it has ended in the most humiliating sense of poverty; and
only just enough pride is left to keep your poor friend off
the parish. As it is, I have already asked items of several
besides yourself; but, though they have all given what they
had, it has by no means answered my purpose; and I have laid
their gifts aside, with my other hoards, which gleamed so
fairy bright, and are now, in the hour of trial, turned into
mere slate-stones. I am not sure that even if I do find the
philosopher's stone, I shall be able to transmute them into
the gold they looked so like formerly. It will be long before
I can give a distinct, and at the same time concise, account
of my present state. I believe it is a great era. I am
thinking now,--really thinking, I believe; certainly it seems
as if I had never done so before. If it does not kill me,
something will come of it. Never was my mind so active; and
the subjects are God, the universe, immortality. But shall I
be fit for anything till I have absolutely re-educated myself?
Am I, can I make myself, fit to write an account of half a
century of the existence of one of the master-spirits of this
world? It seems as if I had been very arrogant to dare
to think it; yet will I not shrink back from what I have
undertaken,--even by failure I shall learn much.'
* * * * *
'I am shocked to perceive you think I am _writing_ the life of
Goethe. No, indeed! I shall need a great deal of preparation
before I shall have it clear in my head, I have taken a great
many notes; but I shall not begin to write it, till it all
lies mapped out before me. I have no materials for ten years
of his life, from the time he went to Weimar, up to the
Italian journey. Besides, I wish to see the books that have
been written about him in Germany, by friend or foe. I wish to
look at the matter from all sides. New lights are constantly
dawning on me; and I think it possible I shall come out from
the Carlyle view, and perhaps from yours, and distaste you,
which will trouble me.
* * 'How am I to get the information I want, unless I go to
Europe? To whom shall I write to choose my materials? I have
thought of Mr. Carlyle, but still more of Goethe's friend, Von
Muller. I dare say he would be pleased at the idea of a life
of G. written in this hemisphere, and be very willing to help
me. If you have anything to tell me, you will, and not mince
matters. Of course, my impressions of Goethe's works cannot be
influenced by information I get about his _life_; but, as
to this latter, I suspect I must have been hasty in my
inferences. I apply to you without scruple. There are subjects
on which men and women usually talk a great deal, but apart
from one another. You, however, are well aware that I am very
destitute of what is commonly _called_ modesty. With regard to
this, how fine the remark of our present subject: "Courage
and modesty are virtues which every sort of society reveres,
because they are virtues which cannot be counterfeited; also,
they are known by the _same hue_." When that blush does not
come naturally to my face, I do not drop a veil to make people
think it is there. All this may be very unlovely, but it is
_I_.'