e that might seem superfluous, if the question had not become so utterly bemazed and bedarkened of late.
After all, it is probable that, in addressing the public at large, it is not best to express a thought in as few words as possible; there is much classic authority for diffuseness.
Ritcher says, the childish heart vies in the height of its surges with the manly, only is not furnished with lead for sounding them.
How thoroughly am I converted to the love of Jean Paul, and wonder at the indolence or shallowness which could resist so long, and call his profuse riches want of system!
What a mistake!
System, plan, there is, but on so broad a basis that I did not at first comprehend it. In every page I am forced to pencil.
I will make me a book, or, as he would say, bind me a bouquet from his pages, and wear it on my heart of hearts, and be ever refreshing my wearied inward sense with its exquisite fragrance.
I must have improved, to love him as I do.
Guten, and Schonen.
May, 1833.—As to German, I have done less that I hoped, so much had the time been necessarily broken up. I have with me the works of Goethe which I have not yet read, and am now engaged upon Kunst and Alterthum, and Campagne in Frankreich.
I still prefer Goethe to any one, and, as I proceed, find more and more to learn, and am made to feel that my general notion of his mind is most imperfect, and needs testing and sifting.
I brought your beloved Jean Paul with me, too. I cannot yet judge well, but think we shall not be ultimate.
His infinitely variegated, and certainly most exquisitely colored, web fatigues attention.
I prefer, too, wit to humor, and daring imagination to the richest fancy.
Besides, his philosophy and religion seem to be of the sighing sort, and, having some tendency that way myself, I want opposing force in a favorite author.
Perhaps I have spoken unadvisedly; if so, I shall recant on further knowledge.
And thus rec
a professed declaration of universal independence turned out in practice to be rather oligarchic.
Of the class of persons most frequently found at these meetings Margaret has left the following sketch:—
I am not mad, most noble Festus, was Paul s rejoinder, as he turned upon his vulgar censor with the grace of a courtier, the dignity of a prophet, and the mildness of a saint.
But many there are, who, adhering to the faith of the soul with that unusual earnestness which the world calls mow we consider those men insane.
What this meant, I could not at first well guess, so completely was my scale of character turned topsyturvy.
But revolving the subject afterward, I perceived that we was the multiple of Festus, and those men of Paul.
All the circumstances seemed the same as in that Syrian hall; for the persons in question were they who cared more for doing good than for fortune and success,—more for the one risen from the dead than for fleshly life,—more for the Being in wh<