In all that was genuine nature he knew that it was to be found; that it was not to be found in the acquired and the artificial was perhaps the reason of his aversion for them.  This aversion he carried so far that even acquired virtue was distasteful to him.  Whatever may be thought of such a distaste esthetically, we must think that, morally, it was carrying his principle rather to an extreme.  I have just come across a plan of study which I formed some months ago and I could not but smile to see how nothing of it has been accomplished.  I was to divide my attention between philosophy, language (not languages), and poetry.  The former I was to study by topics; e.g., take the subject of perception, write out my own ideas upon it, if I had any, and then read those of other people.  In studying language, or rather ethnography, I intended—­1.  To take the Hebrew roots, trace all the derivatives and related words first in that language, then in others. 2.  To examine words relating to the spiritual, with a view to discover their original picture-meaning. 3.  Search for a type or symbol in nature of every spiritual fact.  Under the head of poetry I mean, to study the great masters of epic and dramatic poetry, especially Shakspeare and Milton, and from them make out a science of criticism.  Alas!

April 5, 1838.—­I have been thinking about myself—­what a strange, wayward, incomprehensible being I am, and how completely misunderstood by almost everybody.  Uniting excessive pride with excessive sensitiveness, the greatest ardor and passionateness of emotion with an irresolute will, a disposition to distrust, in so far only as the affection of others for me is concerned, with the extreme of confidence and credulity in everything else—­an incapability of expressing, except occasionally as it were in gushes, any strong feeling—­a tendency to melancholy, yet with a susceptibility of enjoyment almost transporting—­subject to the most sudden, unaccountable and irresistible changes of mood—­capable of being melted and moulded to anything by kindness, but as cold and unyielding as a rock against harshness and compulsion—­such are some of the peculiarities which excellently prepare me for un-happiness.  It is true that sometimes I am conscious of none of them—­when for days together I pursue my regular routine of studies and employments, half mechanically—­or when completely under the influence of the outward, I live for a time in what is around me.  But this never lasts long.  One of the most painful feelings I ever know is the sense of an unappeasable craving for sympathy and appreciation—­the desire to be understood and loved, united with the conviction that this desire can never be gratified.  I feel alone, different from all others and of course misunderstood by them.  The only other feeling I have more miserable than this is the sense of being worse than all others, and utterly destitute of anything excellent or beautiful.  Oh! what mysteries are wrapped up in the mind and heart of man!  What a development will be made when the light of another world shall be let in upon these impenetrable recesses!