’Mr. ——­ says the Wanderjahre is “wise.” It must be presumed so; and yet one is not satisfied.  I was perfectly so with my manner of interpreting the Lehrjahre; but this sequel keeps jerking my clue, and threatens to break it.  I do not know our Goethe yet.  I have changed my opinion about his religious views many times.  Sometimes I am tempted to think that it is only his wonderful knowledge of human nature which has excited in me such reverence for his philosophy, and that no worthy fabric has been elevated on this broad foundation.  Yet often, when suspecting that I have found a huge gap, the next turning it appears that it was but an air-hole, and there is a brick all ready to stop it.  On the whole, though my enthusiasm for the Goetherian philosophy is checked, my admiration for the genius of Goethe is in nowise lessened, and I stand in a sceptical attitude, ready to try his philosophy, and, if needs must, play the Eclectic.’

’Did I write that a kind-hearted neighbor, fearing I might be dull, sent to offer me the use of a book-caseful of Souvenirs, Gems, and such-like glittering ware?  I took a two or three year old “Token,” and chanced on a story, called the “Gentle Boy,” which I remembered to have heard was written by somebody in Salem.  It is marked by so much grace and delicacy of feeling, that I am very desirous to know the author, whom I take to be a lady.’ * *

’With regard to what you say about the American Monthly, my answer is, I would gladly sell some part of my mind for lucre, to get the command of time; but I will not sell my soul:  that is, I am perfectly willing to take the trouble of writing for money to pay the seamstress; but I am not willing to have what I write mutilated, or what I ought to say dictated to suit the public taste.  You speak of my writing about Tieck.  It is my earnest wish to interpret the German authors of whom I am most fond to such Americans as are ready to receive.  Perhaps some might sneer at the notion of my becoming a teacher; but where I love so much, surely I might inspire others to love a little; and I think this kind of culture would be precisely the counterpoise required by the utilitarian tendencies of our day and place.  My very imperfections may be of value.  While enthusiasm is yet fresh, while I am still a novice, it may be more easy to communicate with those quite uninitiated, than when I shall have attained to a higher and calmer state of knowledge.  I hope a periodical may arise, by and by, which may think me worthy to furnish a series of articles on German literature, giving room enough and perfect freedom to say what I please.  In this case, I should wish to devote at least eight numbers to Tieck, and should use the Garden of Poesy, and my other translations.

’I have sometimes thought of translating his Little Red Riding Hood, for children.  If it could be adorned with illustrations, like