ove the former, and am completely indifferent
to the latter, but I would _do_ as much for the latter as for the
former.

My marks in "Wilhelm Meister" will not, as you expect, "explain
themselves," for the passages that I admire for their artistic literary
beauty, their keen worldly wisdom, their profound insight, and noble
truth, as well as those which charm me only by their brilliant
execution, and those which command my whole, my entire feeling of
sympathy, are all alike indicated by the one straight line down the side
of the text. I think, however, you will distinguish what I agree with
from what I only admire. It is a wonderful book, and its most striking
characteristic to me is its absolute moral, dispassionate impartiality.
Outward loveliness of the material universe, inward ugliness of human
nature in its various distortions; the wisdom and the foolishness of
man's aims, and the modes of pursuing them; the passions of the senses,
the affections of the heart, the aspirations of the soul; the fine
metaphysical experiences of the transcendental religionists; the
semi-sensual, outward piety of the half-idolatrous Roman Catholic; the
great and the little, the shallow and the deep of humanity in this its
stage of action and development,--are delineated with the most perfect
apparent indifference of sentiment, combined with the most perfect
accuracy of observation. He pleads no cause of man or thing, and the
absence of all indication of human sympathy is very painful to me in his
book. It is only because God is represented as a Being of perfect love
that we can endure the idea of Him as also a Being of perfect knowledge.
Goethe, as I believe I have told you, always reminds me of Ariel, a
creature whose nature--_super_human through power and knowledge of
various kinds--is _under_-human in other respects (love and the capacity
of sympathy), and was therefore subject to the nobler moral nature of
Prospero. Activity seems to be the only principle which Goethe
advocates, activity and earnestness--especially in self-culture,--and in
this last quality, which he sublimely advocates, I find the only
_comfortable_ element in his wonderful writings. _He_ is _in_human, not
superhuman.

God bless you. Good-bye.

Ever yours,
FANNY.

KING STREET, St. James, Friday, 17th.
MY DEAREST HAL,

I cannot