something with what, I gain; for, as I said before, I have nowhere to put it away.  I love languages,—­above all, the expressive German; but I know too little to make it expressive for myself.  But my own mother-tongue, though my tongue is so deficient to use thee, canst thou afford no other outlet to the struggling ideas that are within; may I not write?  I did write poetry sometimes:  is it presumptuous to call it poetry?  It was certainly the poetry of my heart; the pieces entitled “The Complaint,” and “What profit hath a man, etc.” were certainly poetry to me.  But the fate of my poetry is written before.  Perhaps it was a groundless fear; but still it has given it the death-blow.  But may I write prose?  I will tell that by-and-by.  This has brought down my history in this respect till now:—­

      The constructive playing age,
      The learning age,
      The combining age,
    So far the intellect.

* * * I am conscientious naturally, rather than adhesive or benevolent.  This natural conscientiousness, independent of spirituals, has been like a goad in my side all my life, and its demands, I think, heighten.  It is evidently independent of religion, because it is independent of the love of God and of man.  For instance, I form to myself an idea of my reasonable amount of service in visiting the poor.  Have I fallen short of this amount, I am uneasy, and feel myself burdened; the thing is before me, I must do it:  why?  Because I feel the love of God constraining me?  Sometimes far otherwise.  Because I feel benevolence towards the poor?  No; for the thing itself is a task; but because it is my duty; because I would justify myself; because I would lighten my conscience.  I have called this feeling independent of religion; but perhaps it is most intense when religion is faintest.  This latter supplies, evidently, the only true motive for benevolent actions.  Then they are a pleasure:  then the divergence of the impulse of duty from the impulse of inclination is done away; and I believe the love of God is the only thing, which, thus redeeming those that were under the law, can place them under the law of Christ.  Though it is little I can do for the poor, I ought to feel it both a duty and a pleasure to devote some time to them most days.  To see the aged, whose poverty we have witnessed, whose declining days we have tried to soothe, safely gathered home, is a comfort and pleasure I would not forego; and, though the real benefit we render to them must depend on our own spiritual state, their cottages have often been to me places of deep instruction.

The useful desire to learn, may be carried too far; we may sacrifice the duties we owe to each other, by an eagerness of this kind; nor, I believe, can we, without culpable negligence, adhere tenaciously to any plan of study.  The moral self-training which is exercised by giving up a book, to converse with or help another, is of more value than the