back upon
itself. Now, since I have lost the childish awe of hearing in it the
voice of an infallible spirit, an Omniscient God, since I have read the
story of one of the noblest and most wonderful of men, I have found
much that greatly refreshed me. But the subdued tone of the whole at
last oppressed me again. What do we mortals possess that is more
elevating, pure, and consoling than joy; joy in beauty, in goodness, in
the brightness of this world! And while we read this book, we are
constantly wandering in the dusk of expectation and hope, the promise
of eternal life is never fulfilled, but just dawning when we have
struggled through time, uncheered by a bright ray of joy, a jest, a
laugh--the pleasure of this world is vanity--we are referred to a
future which makes the present worthless, and the brightest earthly
bliss, that of becoming absorbed in a pure, deep, loving thought, must
also be suspected by us, since only the poor in spirit inherit the
kingdom of heaven--

"I am poor in spirit, but it makes me unhappy that I feel it, and at
the same time feel that if I could break though these restrictions, I
should no longer be what I am, not yet become sure of my redemption and
happiness. For what transcends me is no more mine.

"And then the thought that this gentle man, in order to belong to all
humanity, should turn away from his relatives with such strange
harshness, have no family ties--I suppose it was necessary but it
always chills the ardor of my feelings. All the other great souls I
have loved, have been glad and bright, and amid their majesty were
allied to my nature by the chords of human needs. When I read Goeethe's
letters, of Schiller's narrow circumstances, Luther and his family, or
of the people of still more ancient times, up to Socrates and his
scolding wife, I always feel a breeze from the native soil out of which
the plant of their spirits has sprung, and which also bears and
supports my insignificant one. But the absence of everything akin to
humanity alarms and estranges me, and to make amends I have not even
the faith to believe that all, as with God, is perfectly right.

"I have often wished I were a genius, for I thought geniuses must be
very happy people, since with a sudden bound of fancy they leap over
all the abysses of doubt at which quiet thinkers, to whom no brilliant
idea suddenly lends wings, stand gazing helplessly. But on the other
hand no applause from others or myself--though