I love languages,--above all, the expressive
German; but I know too little to make it expressive
for myself. But my own mother-tongue, though
my tongue is so deficient to use thee, canst thou
afford no other outlet to the struggling ideas that are
within; may I not write? I did write poetry sometimes:
is it presumptuous to call it poetry? It was
certainly the poetry of my heart; the pieces entitled
"The Complaint," and "What profit hath a man,
etc." were certainly poetry to me. But the fate of
my poetry is written before. Perhaps it was a
groundless fear; but still it has given it the death-blow.
But may I write prose? I will tell that by-and-by.
This has brought down my history in this
respect till now:--
The constructive playing age,
The learning age,
The combining age,
So far the intellect.
* * * I am conscientious naturally, rather
than adhesive or benevolent. This natural conscientiousness,
independent of spirituals, has been like
a goad in my side all my life, and its demands, I
think, heighten. It is evidently independent of religion,
because it is independent of the love of God
and of man. For instance, I form to myself an
idea of my reasonable amount of service in visiting
the poor. Have I fallen short of this amount, I am
uneasy, and feel myself burdened; the thing is before
me, I must do it: why? Because I feel the
love of God constraining me? Sometimes far otherwise.
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