that I am right,” if it were not for the sense of feeling. “It is noised abroad,” if it were not for the ear; “It does not suit my taste,” if it were not for that sense; or speak of an “odor of sanctity,” if it were not for the sense of smell? The best that language can do for the soul is to call it spirit (spiritus, a breath, breeze), or soul (meaning a strong wind or storm). How fine it will be in heaven, where we will communicate as we sometimes do now by a pressure of the hand or a glance of the eye (by a method, that is, analogous to this, when soul communicates with soul directly, without the medium of language). This stuff about the origin of language I got from the Logic! But I expect I have exhausted this subject by this time, as well as your patience, so I will change the topic. You must be careful, Helen, and not overdo. You did perfectly right that day not to read a thing, though I sympathise with the feeling which made you long to get to your book. Your difficulty about sleeping I have felt something of. When my brain is unusually active, I have found it almost impossible to go to sleep. I have felt that same weariedness which you speak of arising from incessant thought, I have thought sometimes till it was positively painful, and till I wished that I might think no more. But in my case it has generally arisen from my mind’s going painfully over and over again the same wearisome, troublous questions, without ever being able to solve them or seeing the smallest clue to guide it from the inextricable endless labyrinth. It is painful to be perpetually and for ever tortured by problems which you cannot solve, sphinx riddles to which you can never reply. You must not work too hard, for good health is essential to progress. Much as we may affect to despise material things, it is still useless to ignore the fact that our poor souls are in this world inextricably intertwined and connected with matter, so that moral conditions are involved in physical conditions, and physical in moral. Can I feel the emotion of the sublime when I have a stomach-ache? The vulgar fact is that it is impossible. Can I appreciate poetry when I am seasick? Can I listen favorably to a moral appeal when suffering the pangs of hunger? No. If this answer is true, what must I say to the question: Then, does not a good dinner help moral regeneration? I must be logical and answer, it does. So are we, in this world, the slaves of vulgar clay. What is a noble thought? The product of certain physical conditions, the joint effect of good digestion, sound sleep, and exercise. Change the physical conditions somewhat. Make my sleep restless, my digestion impaired, my exercise non-existent or too violent, and what is the result? A morbid or unhealthy thought. In the first case I took a cheerful view of life, believed in the goodness of God, and the regeneration of man, regarded the world as not quite ruined, and was happy. In the second case, I become a pessimist, regard the world as bad, mankind only evil, God a cruel tyrant, and am unhappy. Truly, “dust we are.” I do not think this is all, however. I am not a materialist, whatever that may be, but I hope I have convinced you not to work too hard and lose your newly found health. I am perhaps in an over particular mood, but I am sorry you are reading Gibbon in an abridged form. For the period that it covers, the whole work is not long, and I would as soon read it mutilated as I would read a poem all carved up. Of course I do not understand the principle on which the abridgement is made, but I should think it would detract much from the excellence of the style. I suppose it is the greatest historical work in the English language, it covers an important period, is the authority on the period which it covers, and, except on one or two points, it is impartial, so that I expect that if there is any historical work in existence which is worth reading entire, it is the one. But of course you have to take what you can get. Isn’t it in that library established in connection with the reading-room? If it isn’t some one of our numerous families ought to be in possession of it, if they are not now. I am sure I do not know what historical work they consider it worth while to place on the shelves of their libraries if not that. However, chacun a son gout. How much Cæsar have you read, and how do you like it? I would not read Cicero after Caesar if I were you. I would take up Virgil at once. It is no harder, not as hard, I guess, and I am sure you will get much more out of it. To me Cicero seemed very dull and dry, as well as really being somewhat hard, while I never got one idea of the eloquence and power of the orator. I am afraid I would not get much more out of it now, though I hope to take up the Second Philippic (his finest oration) someday, and try what can be done with it. Virgil, on the contrary, I am sure you will enjoy immensely, and get a great deal of pleasure and profit from him. But do as seemeth unto thee best. I am so sorry that you cannot know Greek. But who knows? You may study it yet. Cato learned Greek after he was eighty years old, and why not you? If you find after a year or two at Latin that you are going to enjoy it, you can take up Greek, which introduces you to a far more glorious literature than the Latin. Who knows? Perhaps you can study Greek before we go to Germany in the summer of ’83. I hope you will have an opportunity to read Tacitus sometime. He is the greatest of Latin historians. The style is magnificent, and he is not difficult. Your letters never bore me, Helen, as you seem to imagine. You never give me any advice that is not thoroughly welcome. And there is no “egotism” in your letters. If they seem so to you, what must mine seem, I should like to know. I have read about eight hundred lines of Greek this vacation for amusement, in the “Orestes,” a play of Euripides. What I read I enjoyed very much. I have also read three volumes of Guizot’s History of France. I have also taken considerable of a dip into Emerson’s poetry, and find that I like it pretty well. I have also read aloud to C. B. pretty regularly. You know he cannot use his eyes very much. Doesn’t read at all hardly, and feels his loss, so I offered to read aloud to him. We have read the whole of Paradise Lost over again together, Manfred, and a number of other things. I like Milton more than I can tell. I have “got on “to him more than I ever dared to hope. I think I soon shall have him in his proper place, above every other English poet, except Shakespeare, of course. The first books of Paradise Lost are by far the best. How crowded they are with similes. And almost every simile needs marking (for I mark freely almost all my books). Read Lycidas, Helen, over and over; you cannot read it too much. You will soon get to liking it immensely. But perhaps you are already familiar with it. All Milton’s short poems are good. Comus I am just commencing to appreciate after two readings. How is this? —
“They left me then when the gray-hooded even,
Like a sad votarist in palmer’s weed,
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus’ wain.”
And to think that six months ago Milton was a school book to me. And now how much he is to me. As I look back over the year that has just passed, I can see a decided progress. My acquaintance with literature is very perceptibly widened, and in this respect I feel somewhat encouraged. But, dear Helen, it is evening, prayers are over, school has begun, and I must leave you, much as I hate to do so, for Plautus. However, the first lesson is short, and I have already read it once, so perhaps I may talk with you again to-night. An hour later. I guess I have done my duty by Plautus, and so will continue this letter. But why should I, you poor girl? I am already on my seventh sheet, and your patience must be already well-nigh exhausted. I will and must stop before I kill you completely. I will adjourn the various other subjects on which I wish to talk with you till the next steamer. However, I believe I am about at the end of my rope already; it only remains to hang myself. The question is: Is or is not Taine the most delightful, vivid, picturesque, entertaining, fascinating, and animated of writers or not? I say he is. He is the most entertaining of writers. But his style does not lack gravity, elevation, and force. I thought that Macaulay was the worst writer for keeping you hanging on for page after page when you happen to open the book at random, but I do believe Taine beats him. I do not pretend to endorse all that he says, nor indeed do I especially admire him as a critic, though his opinions are always interesting, but as a writer I do admire him most heartily, and it is rather a wonder that I do not swear by everything that he says, so brilliant and so fascinating is his way of saying it. I pick him up and read him at odd intervals. I have never read his book through, and do not expect to very soon. I have done another thing lately. I have read Vanity Fair and Pendennis. So my ignorance of Thackeray is done away with and he has begun to influence my thoughts, and has been added to my circle of friends. My circle of friends! What a circle it is! How happy I ought to feel in the thought that I can share their deepest feelings and their profoundest reflections. I know a student here who has in his autograph album facsimiles of the handwriting of many of the distinguished modern
