Thursday, July 25th.—­“My soul is dark.”  What with the sin I find within me, and the darkness and error, disputes and perplexities around me, I well-nigh despair.  Whether I seek to discover truth or to live it, I am equally unsuccessful.  “I grope at noon-day as in the night.”  But there is a God, holy and changeless.  He is.  From eternity to eternity, He IS.  On this Rock will I rest——.  I stopped a moment and my eye was caught by the waving trees.  What do they say to me?  How silent they are! and yet how eloquent! And here I sit—­to myself the centre of the world, wondering and speculating about this same little self.  Do the trees so?  No; they wave and bend and bloom for others. I am ready to join with Herbert in wishing that I were a tree; then

        “At least some bird would trust
  Her household to me, and I should be just.”

Evening.—­I read to-day another of Lessing’s tragedies—­“Miss Sarah Sampson,”—­which I do not like nearly as well as Mina von Barnhelm.  We were engaged to take tea with “the Mayor,” and went with many tremblings and hesitations on account of the rain.  Very few there, and a most uncommonly stupid time.

Saturday Evening.—­I have been alone for a little while, and, as usual, this time brings with it thronging remembrances of absent friends.  Their forms flit before me; their spirits are around me; I feel their presence—­almost; dear friends, almost I clasp you in my arms.  My soul yearns for love and sympathy.  I do bless and praise my God for all His goodness to me in this respect, for my many tender and faithful and devoted friends.  Part of the day I spent in arranging shells in my cabinet of drawers.  This afternoon I went to Mr. Prentiss’ library and obtained Schlegel’s Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature.

Monday Morning.—­Have been trying to rouse myself to write Lessing, but can not.  It looks so little.  When it is all done, what will it amount to?  Why, I shall get a few dollars for mother, which will go to buy bread and butter—­and that’s the end of it.

Evening.—­S.  W. and M. W. made a call on us and the former played and sang.  Then we sat up till after eleven naming each of our acquaintances after some flower. Aug. 8th,—­Oh, what a happy half hour I had last evening, looking at the sky after sunset!  We went down to the water—­it was smooth as a crystal lake.  The horizon was all in a glow—­the softest, mellowest, warmest glow, and above dark, heavy clouds of every variety of form—­the clouds and the glow alike reflected in the answering heaven below—­I was almost too happy; but—­it faded. Evening.—­I had something to wake me up this afternoon, viz., the arrival of the July No. of the New York Review, containing “Claudius.”  This led to some conversation about writing, its pecuniary profitableness, subjects for it, etc.  Julia