June 17th.—­I am reading Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann.  One thing I remark is this—­he does not, as most men do, make the degree of sympathy he finds in others the measure of his interest in them and attention to them.  Goethe looked at all as specimens of human nature, and, therefore, all worthy of study.  But, after all, this way of looking at others seems to be more suited to the artist than to the man; and I can not conceive of any but a very passionless and immobile person who could do it....  Does all nature furnish one type of the soul?  If so, it might be the ocean; the rough, swelling, fluctuating, unsounded ocean.  Shall it ever rest?  Rest? What an infinite, mournful sweetness in the word!  How perfectly sure I feel that my soul can never rest in itself, nor in anything of earth; if I find peace, it must be in the bosom of God.

July 2d.—­The vulgar proverb, “It never rains but it pours,” is fully illustrated in my case.  Last week I would have given half the world for a new book; yesterday and today have overflooded me.  Mr. Hubbard has sent me Prof.  Park’s “German Selections,” Pliny, Heeren’s Ancient Greece, two volumes of the Biblical Repository, and two of his own magazines; Mr. Judd has sent me two volumes of Carlyle, and Mr. Ripley four of Lessing—­all of these must be despatched a la hate.  July 5th.—­Last evening we spent upon the Common witnessing a beautiful exhibition of fireworks.  This morning I have been to Union wharf to see the departure of some missionaries.  For a few minutes, time seemed a speck and eternity near—­but how transient with me are such impressions!  I am indulging myself too much of late in a sort of sentimental reverie.  Life and its changes, the depths of the soul, the fluctuations of passion and feeling—­these are the subjects which attract my thoughts perpetually....  We spent last evening at Richard H. Dana’s. He does not separate his intellectual and sentimental tastes from his moral convictions as I do—­I mean that neither in books nor men does he find pleasure unless they are such as his conscience approves. Tuesday, 9th.—­Have visited the Allston gallery and seen Rosalie for the last time before going home.  I could not have believed that I should feel such a pang at parting from a picture.  I did not succeed in getting to the gallery before others—­but, no matter.  I forgot the presence of everybody else and sat for an hour before Rosalie without moving.  I took leave of the other pictures mentally, for I could not look.  Farewell, sweet Beatrice, lovely Inez, beautiful Ursulina—­dear, dear Rosalie, farewell!

Monday, 15th.—­Yesterday I was happy; to-day I am not exactly unhappy, but morbid and anxious.  I feel continually the pressure of obligation to write something, in order to contribute toward the support of the family—­and yet, I can not write.  Mother wants me to write children’s books; Lizzy wants me to write a book of Natural Philosophy for schools.  I wish I had a “vocation.” Sabbath.—­Stayed at home on account of the rain and read one of Tholuck’s sermons to Julia.  Wrote in my other journal some account of my thoughts and feelings.  Burned up part of an old diary.