"
I hope these feelings are not infectious, or I certainly
would not inflict on thee the description. But do not
take this as a _general_ picture of me. It is a morbid
occasional state of things; consequent, by reaction, on
the exclusiveness of aim with which those things were
followed. I learned sooner than I suppose many do,
the earnestness, coldness, reality of life; and there has
come an impression of its being _too late_ to prepare for
life, and quite time to live. However imperfectly, I have
learned that to live _ought_ to be to prepare to die; but,
without stopping to describe how that idea has acted, a
secondary purpose of being of some use to others has. I
might almost say, tormented my faculty of conscientiousness.
Don't suppose that this is any evidence of religion
or love. I believe it rather argues the contrary. Every
attempt to do good ought to spring naturally from love
to God and man; not from a wish merely to attain our
_beau-ideal_ of duty. Now, though I so much like reading,
I did not seem able to make any use of it; for
strangely confused were long my ideas of usefulness,
and there has followed many a conflict between these
two unsanctified tendencies. Perhaps they have done
some good in chastening each other and chastening their
owner.
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