about Goethe since I saw you, for nothing reigns here but
twilight delusion (falser for the time than midnight darkness) on
that subject, and I feel that the most suffer nothing thereby,
having properly nothing or little to do with such a matter but
with you, who are not "seeking recipes for happiness," but
something far higher, it is not so, and _therefore_ I have spoken
and appealed; and hope the new curiosity, if I have awakened
any, will do you no mischief.

------------
* Obviously Carlyle's _Specimens of German Romance,_ of which the
fourth volume was devoted to Goethe.
------------

But now as to myself; for you will grumble at a sheet of
speculation sent so far: I am here still, as Rob Roy was on
Glasgow Bridge, _biding tryste;_ busy extremely, with work that
will not profit me at all in some senses; suffering rather in
health and nerves; and still with nothing like dawn on any
quarter of my horizon. _The Diamond Necklace_ has not been
printed, but will be, were this _French Revolution_ out; which
latter, however, drags itself along in a way that would fill your
benevolent heart with pity. I am for three small volumes now,
and have one done. It is the dreadfulest labor (with these
nerves, this liver) I ever undertook; all is so inaccurate,
superficial, vague, in the numberless books I consult; and
without accuracy at least, what other good is possible? Add to
this that I have no hope about the thing, except only that I
_shall be done with it:_ I can reasonably expect nothing from
any considerable class here, but at _best_ to be scolded and
reproached; perhaps to be left standing "on my own basis,"
without note or comment of any kind, save from the Bookseller,
who will lose his printing. The hope I have however is sure: if
life is lent me, I shall be _done with_ the business; I will
write this "History of Sansculottism," the notablest phenomenon I
meet with since the time of the Crusades or earlier; after which
my part is played. As for the future, I heed it little when so
busy; but it often seems to me as if one thing were becoming
indisputable: that I must seek another craft than literature for
these years that may remain to me. Surely, I often say, if ever
man had a finger-of-Providence shown him, thou hast it; literature
will neither yield thee bread, nor a stomach to digest bread with:
quit it in God's name, shouldst thou take spade and mattock instead.
The truth is, I believe li