it were better they were on
open shelves, and that I had power to take them
down, and combine at will. The age of combining
has come; I feel sensibly the diminution of the
power of acquiring: I can do little in that, but
lament that I have acquired so little; but I seem
rebuked in myself at the incessant wish to gain--gain
for what? I must _do_ something with what, I
gain; for, as I said before, I have nowhere to put it
away. 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.
Because I feel benevolence towards the poor?
No; for the thing itself is a task; but because it is
my duty; because I would justify myself; because
I would lighten my conscience. I have called this
feeling independent of religion; but perhaps it is
most intense when religion is faintest. This latter
supplies, evidently, the only true motive for benevolent
actions. Then they are a pleasure: then the
divergence of the impulse of duty from the impulse
of inclination is done away; and I believe the lov