October, 5th, 1868. — My guardian and Maud left Tübingen last evening, finally abandoning me, as the former characteristically expressed it, to my own devices. What these devices may be, I think neither of them has a very clear idea; possibly they look upon me as a hare-brained girl, possessing a desperate will of my own, and determined to gratify every whim, great or small. Doubtless it is partly my own fault if I am misunderstood by them, for I have never in reality opened my heart to them and exposed all the irresistible yearnings which have driven me to this step. These yearnings, it must be confessed, are as yet a trifle vague; yet there is one definite cry which my heart gives forth day after day, and that is — knowledge, knowledge, knowledge! It is for knowledge that I have come here, and knowledge I will pursue with all the energy my nature is capable of.
“Whither that knowledge may lead me, I cannot as yet tell. Never mind; at least it will lead somewhere, give me, sooner or later, some definite convictions, such as my soul hungers for.
“This is the first time I have ever begun to keep a diary, and I wonder the thought never occurred to me before. The following pages are not to be filled with pretty sentiments, hysterical wailings, or scraps of verse — I will not say poetry — I write for my own benefit, that I may more clearly gauge my own progress, and not for the amusement of others.
“I am such a poor hand at conversation that it is really only fair I should be permitted to soliloquise a little. Who is there in the world with whom I can talk confidentially? Not a soul. I once thought that Maud would make a true friend, but I have long felt her companionship terribly unsatisfying. I wonder whether I shall make a friend here in Germany? I fear not; I am too timid and retiring, and adapt myself with such difficulty to the usages of society. Here in the silence of my own room I am comfortable; I wish there were no necessity for me to ever leave it. But I must really force myself to become acquainted with people, if only for the sake of learning to speak German.
“Frau Stockmaier, with whom I am living, seems really a very agreeable woman, and, I should imagine, cultivated to a very fair degree. She cannot speak English, but is well acquainted with French, and in the latter language we have hitherto for the most part conversed. But, of course, as she reminds me, that will not do. I must reconcile myself to the first serious plunge into the troubled waters of German conversation, and the sooner the better.
“One thing, however, I do not like in Frau Stockmaier. She really treats me too much as if I were still a child. She asked me my age this morning, and on my telling her that I was seventeen last April, she smiled and expressed a wonder that my guardian should have ventured to leave me here alone. I confess I felt a little piqued, for, if I may trust my glass, my personal appearance is not very childish, and as regards my mind ——. But here I should perhaps whisper to myself a caution against spiritual pride.
“As yet I am far from clear as to the order of studies I shall pursue; but perhaps that is of no immediate consequence. My first task is to become thoroughly acquainted with German, and how long that will take me I dare not think.
“Frau Stockmaier is to be herself my instructress for the present. I think she will not exercise too strict a despotism in intellectual matters, for that would be intolerable. I cannot as yet make out whether she is orthodox and conventional in her beliefs; at any rate, she does not appear to be intolerant, and for that I must be thankful.”
“Oct. 10th. — A delightful walk this morning with Frau Stockmaier, through lovely autumn scenery. How I wish I had taken up my abode here earlier in the summer, and how I shall long, all through the coming winter, for the return of sunny weather.
“After walking through the town, crossing the Neckar, and taking a turn through the beautiful Platanen–Allee, we passed over the bridge and went in the direction of the Oesterberg, passing the house of the poet Uhland. At present I am purposely abstaining from all reading of poetry, but some day I hope to know Uhland; Frau Stockmaier speaks of him with much enthusiasm. We climbed the Oesterberg, passing between vineyards and orchards, and, on reaching the summit, were richly rewarded for our efforts. On the point known as the Wielandsh?he, we stood for fully an hour, enjoying the glorious view. Below us lay the whole valley of the Neckar, the river flowing along it like a green cord, and also the valley of the little river Ammer, on the banks of which are the Botanical Gardens, and, near them, our house. In the distance stretched the Swabian Alps, one could see the Castle of Hohenzollern, making a fine object against a background of clear sky. We returned home tired but delighted with our walk.
“Already I am becoming very fond of Tübingen. I wish Mr. Gresham had remained long enough to paint views of the beautiful old place from several points which I could point out. I think I shall be tempted to exercise my own slight skill before the rich autumn hues have quite died away from the trees and the hillsides. I should like to sketch the whole town as it creeps in terraces up the mountain to the grey old towered and moated stronghold of Hohentübingen.
“The mountain-scenery around, without being absolutely imposing, is excessively beautiful. Especially the form of the Oesterberg, seen from a distance, is wonderfully graceful.
“And then there is such a delightful air of peace and quietness throughout the whole country, as if these pleasant hills shut out all the troublous noises of the busy world. I like to pass the University in my walks, to dream over its four hundred years of existence; to go back in fancy to the days when Reuchlin and Melanchthon taught within its walls. In the University the air of peace, of which I have spoken, is especially noticeable, for here, side by side, are a Protestant or a Roman Catholic institution, the Stift and the Convict, each nursing its own disciples undisturbed by the neighbourhood of a creed essentially different.
“It strikes me that this state of affairs must very greatly conduce to liberality of thought among the students, at all events among the Protestant students. And yet I cannot forget how Strauss was rewarded for his labours; but I suppose it would be too much to demand toleration for such a spirit as his.
“Frau Stockmaier is very agreeable company on a walk, and yet I cannot shake off my habit of very much preferring to be alone. During the last few days I have been especially thoughtful, finding a constant delight in wandering about alone, especially — and this would, to some, seem childish — in watching the golden leaves fall one by one to the ground. A favourite resort, when I am alone, is the fine ‘Platanen–Allee’ on the other side of the river. The trees run in two noble rows over against the houses of the town, forming, as it were, a natural temple. When I walk alone here an inexpressible longing comes over me to take up some ‘of our dear old English poets and revel in them once more; but I do not permit myself to yield. For the present I must give myself wholly to stern facts; imagination must be laid aside till my mind is more at ease. But if I only could once throw aside this eternal trouble of my thoughts which does not let me rest, how delightful would it be to yield to the impressions of this lovely nature and dream away my life. But that is a dangerous thought.”
“Nov. 30th. — As winter draws on, and there is less and less temptation to wander about the hills, I am able to devote myself to severer study. Already I have made very noticeable progress in my German, and can now understand and make myself understood on every-day matters with very tolerable facility. I have determined that at the beginning of the new year I will commence a theological course, and, perhaps, at the same time, peep a little into philosophy. I begin to associate rather more freely with the friends and acquaintances of Frau Stockmaier, and have already been introduced to several gentlemen who would be willing to act as my tutors. Frau Stockmaier recommends me to choose a certain Dr. Eidenbenz, who is a Stiftsrepetent, that is to say, one who has completed his University curriculum, and is now engaged in directing the studies of undergraduates. Dr. E. is a youngish man, of rather pleasing appearance, and said to be remarkably clever. Though essentially a theologian, he would also be able to direct my philosophical reading, since, I am informed, all the students of the Stift are compelled to study philosophy for two years before commencing their theology. Of course I am, as yet, very ignorant in these matters, but it appears to me, from what I have heard and read of German philosophy, that those two years must be a somewhat dangerous side-path into the high-road of orthodox religion.
“I am prepared to find my tutor rather uncongenial at first, for I hear he is a stout opponent of dear old Strauss. Yet, on that very account he will be very useful to me. I want to see orthodox Christianity vigorously defended, not on the ground of mere sentiment, with which I am but too familiar, but with sterling arguments which will bear criticism of the light of superior knowledge. I trust I am by no means bigoted, though prejudiced I certainly am. Something warns me that the end of my intercourse with Dr. Eidenbenz will be mutual dissatisfaction; but probably he will have more ground for dissatisfaction than myself. At all events, he will serve to conform me in the beliefs I have embraced. And then, if his theology is barren to me, possibly his philosophy may stand me in better stead.
“In addition to my German, I have commenced to study Greek for a few hours each day; also to read a little Latin occasionally. I wish my poor father had lived long enough to give me the solid grounding in Greek that he did in Latin. I found the grammar horribly difficult, but it must be acquired. First of all I wish to be able to read the New Testament in the original; then, when I have got through my period of doubt and see my life float once more into calm waters, I know well what glorious regions a knowledge of Greek will open to me. If a mere translation could inspire such a sonnet as that of Keats, what must Homer in the original be!”
“Feb. 1st, 1869. — For a month I have been working with Dr. Eidenbenz, and with what result? I think I may already safely say that my prophecy has fulfilled itself. In a word, the doctor is an unmitigated sophist. At first he followed my request, and adhered strictly to a critical examination of the origins of Christianity, and in his treatment of the subject there was little to find fault with. His knowledge seemed deep and extensive, and some of the information he gave me proved extremely interesting. But by the end of the second week I noticed a decided change for the worse; he began to be polemical, and polemical to an alarming degree. Oh, how learned he has already made me in modern sects and schisms. And to maintain his position he has recourse to sophisms which a healthy-minded child could at once see through, though I grant he seems to be sincerely their dupe. It is evident that he will never turn my mind back from the course into which Strauss irresistibly propelled it. I have, however, no intention of ceasing these lessons as yet. It is only fair to hear him to the end.”
“March 1st. — To-day ends my second month with Dr. Eidenbenz, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily tired of him. As I foresaw, I am merely strengthened in my rationalism; no argument I have heard advanced has sufficed to shake it. For several hours after he had left me yesterday, I sat reflecting earnestly upon these matters, endeavouring to ask myself, with all the solemnity of which I am capable, whether I am a really conscientious disbeliever, or one merely from caprice, affectation, or any other unworthy impulse. I convinced myself that no such impulse has power over me; I disbelieve because my reason bids me do so. It may be my mind follows a hereditary tendency on this, for, looking back in memory to those last years of my father’s life, I now feel convinced that he, too, had yielded to the force of doubt; a suggestion which explains much in his conduct to me which I was never able to understand.
“In truth, I have fed to repletion on comparative estimates of Petrine and Pauline Christianity, and the like, and I have resolved to cease these theological studies, for my object is gained. But the philosophical readings I shall still persist in, for I find them vastly more interesting. True, the question now and then arose in my mind: ‘Of what avail will all these metaphysical systems be in helping me to lead a happier and a better life, or in enabling me to make the lives of others happier and better?’ But I suppose such doubts are really too profane. Dr. Eidenbenz is an enthusiastic metaphysician, and it puzzles me sadly to explain the coexistence of this enthusiasm with that mania for religious dogmas. The other morning I actually ventured to ask him to justify himself, and he replied with the curious statement that this philosophy was a mere matter of abstract speculation, a highly-amusing mental employment which could not in the least interfere with his more serious views of life. I could have made a rather startling reply, but wisely held my peace.
“A letter from Maud today. It seems to me sadly empty and unsatisfying. Why does she never send me her serious thoughts? Perhaps she would ask me the same question.”
“April 18th. — The last few days have witnessed a most curious, and rather alarming event here, which Frau Stockmaier tells me is by no means uncommon in the springtime. The whole valley of the Neckar is flooded. All the beautiful walks which I had again begun to visit with delightful anticipations of spring sunshine, are deep under water, which rises even to the boughs of the linden and plane trees. This morning I ascended the Schlossberg, from whence the view was very extraordinary. All the lovely stretch of green meadows on the south side of the Neckar up to the foot of the hills, was converted into a vast rolling sea. I thought irresistibly of Dr. Eidenbenz and of the Deluge.
“The doctor has remained here during the Easter vacation, and we have been busy for some weeks investigating the fearful and wonderful theories of Messrs. Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel, and I protest I am sick to death of them all. It is a habit of mine to listen very patiently for a long time to my tutor’s expositions, and then suddenly to astound him by some startling question. I know he regards me as a veritable daughter of the Philistines; but I follow the bent of my nature, and better to do that than to play the hypocrite. For the life of me, I cannot help interrupting him now and then, and exclaiming: ‘What is the use of it?’ In reply to which he merely smiles contemptuously, pitying my lack of appreciation. But I am not so sure that a contemptuous smile is a satisfactory answer to my question. If he asserts that such philosophising is of use, inasmuch as it sharpens the human intellect, keeps active speculation alive, and strengthens habits of independent thought, then I will grant that he is right. But surely the same results might be obtained by exercise upon very much more satisfactory topics. What is it to me whether I am or I am not, whether the internal world really exists, or is a mere creation of my fancy? Such speculations do not and cannot influence my practical life, which is the most serious consideration to me. I may be a young, unlearned, inexperienced girl, but still there is that within me that says that such questions as these are unanswerable, that to endeavour to ascertain the ultimate foundation of our knowledge of existing things, is, as men now are, an impossible task. And, such being the case, I confess I am rapidly losing all interest in metaphysics. Possibly if I were reading with a man who really held one of these theories, and could press it on me with all the energy of true conviction, I might see it in a different light; but Dr. Eidenbenz does not pretend to hold one of them.
“I was rather surprised last night to find Frau Stockmaier reading a German translation of Darwin’s ‘Origin of Species.’ I have never read the book, though I heard father speak of it occasionally. I am sure it must be immensely interesting. A hunger for it seemed to seize me as I looked over the pages. I almost think natural science would be a study admirably adapted to my taste.”
“May 2. — I have read the ‘Origin of Species’ in German, and it has created an enthusiasm in me such as perhaps no other book, except the ‘Leben Jesu,’ ever did. How delightful it is to receive fresh, strong support when one is at war with one’s own mind. Here is a theory which recompenses me a thousand fold for my loss of the old Biblical superstitions. What immense labour, what a wonderful intellect does it represent! Yes, yes, this is real, solid food, no insubstantial cloud-shape or chimera. Here is a theory built up on solid facts, facts one can grasp, handle, examine with the eye or the microscope. Oh, how dear hard, plain facts have become to me since I have been wandering in the dreamlands of philosophy. I wonder whether Dr. Eidenbenz has read Darwin. I must ask him.
“Beautiful spring weather is once more breathing upon the face of the land, making field and land lovely past description. I begin to look forward eagerly to long summer walks in the woods, lonely walks, when I can indulge to the uttermost in that self-communing which I delight in. With the impulse of a great delight, born, perhaps, of the season, I have cast aside, for a while — perhaps for ever — both theology and philosophy, and returned to poetry and romance. Long, long have I panted for them, ‘as the hart panteth for the water brooks.’ I have begun to read Goethe and Schiller both at once. Uhland, too, I have at length peeped into, and with much delight. Frau Stockmaier loves Uhland, and often warms eloquent to me with regard to him. What I know of his life and personal character pleases me much. A great poet is a fine subject for thought, but surely a great poet who also takes a noble part in the practical life of the world is fit for the admiration of the gods. Henceforth I shall always pass his house with a fresh interest. This morning I made a pilgrimage to his grave in the cemetery.
“I made a new acquaintance last night, a certain Dr. Gmelin, Frau Stockmaier’s brother-in-law, who has been living as privatgelehrter in Stuttgart, but is now come to settle in Tübingen. It is probable he will have rooms in our house, and I sincerely hope so, for even at the first aspect I conceived a strong liking for him. He may be some forty years old, and has a wonderfully intellectual countenance, marked, moreover, with a rare benevolence. Frau Stockmaier smiles when she speaks of him; he seems a favourite of hers. She tells me he has never filled any professorship, though several have, from time to time, been offered him. He has very independent ideas on many subjects, and would never consent to hamper his free development by submission to official responsibilities and restraints. I admire him for his consistency.”
“May 10. — I have definitely ceased my connection with Dr. Eidenbenz, and rejoice that I had the resolution to do so. Really, to relinquish Dr. Gmelin’s conversation for Dr. Eidenbenz’s prelections was rather too much. I admire Dr. Gmelin more every day, and am flattered at the interest he appears to take in me. Frau Stockmaier tells me he has always been esteemed a misogamist, but that he ever really was such I cannot believe. He’s all courtesy; certainly I never associated with a truer gentleman. And then his conversation is so fresh, so genial. Since he has come to reside in our house, he and I frequently take long walks together, and never run short of matter for discussion. Dr. Gmelin is a philosopher, without doubt, but, it appears to me, not committed to any definite system. In our conversation this morning he made frequent mention of Comte, whose name I have frequently seen, but of whom I know nothing. I must seek for information regarding him, for he evidently exercises much influence over Dr. Gmelin’s mind.
“Dr. G. has lent me H?ckel’s ‘Natürliche Sch?pfungs-geschichte,’ a work inspired by Darwin. I shall read it greedily.”
“June 20th. — I have had a delightful walk with Dr. Gmelin over the hills, through woods and orchards, to Bebenhausen, where the cloister is. The building is one of the finest remnants of Gothic architecture in Germany. It lies buried in a deep valley, appearing suddenly at one’s feet as you issue from the thick beech-wood. The foliage was glorious, lighted up by the warm June sun. Exquisitely peaceful did the old cloister look, wonderfully attractive for an imaginative mind wearied with the combats of life. Dr. Gmelin told me that he had often wished his conscience would allow him to turn Roman Catholic and enter some such retreat as this; and indeed I am not surprised at his experiencing the desire, for his character has much of gentle and poetical mysticism in it. Yet at other times I see him give signs of such an earnestly practical temperament, that I can hardly reconcile the two sides of his nature. Doubtless it is this wavering and undecided bending of his mind which has prevented him from ever doing any important literary work. I, too, fear very much the same conflict within me at times; perhaps it is the same with all people in a greater or lesser degree. But for the cloister I can now feel little but horror, I can only see the dreadful side of this seclusion from the world’s life. Even the life I lead here in Tübingen, though far from monastic, often somewhat irks me. I often think I should find a truer field for my exertions in the turmoil of some great city, such as London. But how I should employ myself I cannot yet clearly see. Possibly I may some day.
“We talked of a multitude of things on our way — of fate, of predestination, of the basis of morals, of the future of society, of woman’s place in the history of the world, in short of almost every important question which either of us has ever thought of. Dr. Gmelin holds many strange theories, some of them wonderfully at variance with his practice. As we stood looking at the cloister, the conversation turned on the subject of asceticism, and he thereupon unfolded to me a dreadful theory of life. The substance of it was this: That the origin of all evil is to be found in the desire for life, and that he is the perfect man who succeeds in altogether uprooting this desire from his mind, losing the sense of his own identity, fixing his thoughts eternally in an absolutely passionless calm. The desire for life being the root of all evil, it follows that the world, by virtue of its very existence, is hopelessly corrupt, that there is no hope for it in the future, nothing but condemnation for its past. Hence, if every man were truly wise, he would mortify all his passions, settle down to a condition of absolute inactivity, and so overcome evil by the complete extinction of life. On my expressing myself pained and shocked at such a philosophy, Dr. Gmelin laughed and told me that it was his favourite theory. Subsequently I learned from him that it was the teaching of the philosopher Schopenhauer, whom hitherto I have only known by name. Dr. Gmelin confesses that, with him, it is nothing more than a theory, that it does not in the least influence his practical life, as indeed I know from experience. Yet it is strange to be pessimistic in theory and optimistic in practice; such a contradiction would be impossible in my own nature. I suppose the truth of it is that his holding such a theory is a mere matter of sentiment; his mind, I know, has a natural bent towards asceticism and mysticism.
“Dr. Gmelin has just knocked at my door and brought me two rather large volumes. He handed me them with a smile, and, on examining the titles, I found they were a work of Schopenhauer, called ‘Parerga and Paralipomena.’ In them, he tells me, I shall find the kernel of the philosopher’s theories. I shall read them at once.”
“August 3rd. — I have read through the two volumes of Schopenhauer twice, very carefully. I confess I have been agreeably disappointed. From what Dr. Gmelin had told me, I expected to find a misanthrope, but I have found the very opposite. The reading of these volumes has given me the utmost pleasure, and I am sure they will exercise a lasting influence upon my mind. Am I then a convert to the doctrine of pessimism? Not by any means, for, after all it appears to me that his pessimism is the least valuable part of Schopenhauer’s teaching. The really excellent part of him is his wonderfully strong sympathy with the sufferings of mankind. Again and again he tells us that we should lose the consciousness of self in care for others, in fact identify ourselves with all our fellows, see only one great self in the whole world. For this doctrine alone I thank him heartily; it chimes exactly with the principle which has long been yearning for expression in my own mind.”
“August 10th. — Having acquired some knowledge of Schopenhauer, Dr. Gmelin is now very anxious that I should read Comte; he asserts that I should like him immensely. When he first proposed it, I declared that I was weary of philosophy, and had begun to wander at my will over the fields of poetry. But he presses me so earnestly that I shall be obliged to yield. Indeed, from what he tells me of Comte, I feel rather attracted. It seems it is Comte’s principle that the true destination of philosophy must be social, practical, and herein I heartily agree with him. He, too, insists strongly upon the development of sympathetic instincts for the human race at large. The latter principle I have thoroughly imbibed from Schopenhauer. What if Comte can afford me some idea of the manner in which the principle may be practically worked out? That would be just what I need.”
“Dec. 1st. — For nearly four months I have been hard at work upon Comte’s ‘Philosophie Positive.’ Yes, Dr. Gmelin was indeed right when he said this would suit me. I could not have conceived a system so admirably adapted to secure my sympathy. First and foremost, Comte discards metaphysics, thereby earning my heartiest approbation. He shows that metaphysical systems are a thing of the past, something which had its inevitable place in the history of mankind, but which has served its purpose and may be cast aside for something better. How delighted I am with his masterly following of the history of mankind through every stage of its development. There is something entrancing to me in these firmly-fixed laws, these positive investigations. Comte is for me the supplement to Darwin; the theories of both point to the same result, and must be true! What encouragement he gives to ardent work! How grand to feel that one is actually helping on the progress of humanity, as every one is doing who seeks earnestly to learn and to propagate the truth. Comte hopes for a speedy rectification of all the errors of our social system, not a rectification of arbitrary means, but one which follows naturally and necessarily upon the whole course of previous history. He holds that the first step towards this improvement is the rediscussing and remodelling of all social theories in a purely scientific spirit, and their disposition in a systematic whole with all the rest of human knowledge. This is a noble theory. 1 feel convinced that Dr. Gmelin in reality holds these views; I must bring him to confession.”
“Dec. 10th. — It has been decided between Dr. Gmelin and myself that our conversation shall henceforth always run in practical grooves. Our metaphysical and religious discussions we will henceforth throw aside as done with. Every day I feel the longing for active life growing stronger within me. ‘What can a woman do in the world?’ I asked my friend this morning. His reply was wise and encouraging. I have already told him that I am possessed of considerable means, and it is his belief that, under these circumstances, if only I have the courage to despise vulgar conventionality and to pursue what I consider the path of duty, I can do considerable good. In early life, he travelled a good deal in Europe, and made it one of his special objects to observe the condition of the poor. Even now it is one of his favourite occupations to plan schemes for the relief of the poverty which burdens the world. In the course of a long conversation he made me acquainted with some of the theories of social improvement which are beginning to be advocated in Germany. Most of these involve an entire reorganisation of society, and that, though it will come in time, I fear neither Dr. Gmelin nor I shall live to see. Putting aside these extensive plans, we agreed that what was especially needed just now was the earnest exertion of private individuals. Let only private individuals do their utmost to relieve misery, let them keep the subject constantly in discussion, let them never lose sight of the need for improvement, and radical improvement will come as soon as is consistent with the progress of destiny. I am ashamed to think how little I know practically of the misery of great cities. Often I think that I shall cut short my proposed two years’ stay in Germany, and return forthwith to London, to learn how I may perhaps be useful. Yet I am very loth to lose Dr. Gmelin’s society. He has already done me vast good, and is capable of benefiting me still more.”
“January 3rd, 1870. — A new year has begun for me. Never before had this commencement of a new division of time such significance for me as now. Oh, how eagerly I long to get away into the midst of active life, there to play my part in the service of that true religion, the Religion of Humanity. What wonderful changes has my mind undergone since I have been in Germany, and how I shall always love to look upon Tübingen, upon this dear Schwaben where I have seen so much and been so happy.
“Yes, how much have I to thank Germany for. I came here with a mind rudely enough ploughed by the ploughshare of anguish, a mind lying in readiness for the sower, and here did the furrows receive these seeds which were to spring up into a harvest of peace and joy. How distant now seem those days which I languished out in bondage to the power of darkness, bondage of the spirit, far sterner and more deadly than any veritable bondage of the flesh could be! How well I remember the day when I took up Strauss’ ‘Leben Jesu’ as Maud left it on the library table at home. The book was to me like the first ray of heavenly light piercing the darkness of a night of anguish, and striving, and woe unutterable. And yet how strange it now seems to me that I should ever have gone through such suffering, and so young, too. But it was terribly real at the time, and, but for happy circumstances, might have terminated very differently. I might even now have been telling my beads in a convent, hard-bound in the conception that thus I was fulfilling my own destiny and propitiating the favour of an avenging deity.
“No one can ever know how near I was becoming a Catholic during those days of bitter, bitter sorrow after my poor father’s death. Even when I appeared to those who reasoned with me, most stubborn on my own faith, even then I was often on the point of raising my eyes to Heaven with a wild cry of rapture at my release from the agony of doubt, and for ever after bending before the crucifix in a sunless contrition of soul. Thanks to the unknown hand which guides suffering humanity through the storms of intellectual growth, safely leading it at length into the predestined haven, thanks to that mighty hand, which at times I feel pressing upon my heart, and moulding it into the forms to which its energies adapt it, I survived the struggle, and live to look back with a smile of pity upon all that I endured. Of pity — by no means of contempt. At no stage in its struggles is a human mind contemptible; for as long as it does struggle, it asserts its native nobility, its inherent principle of life.
“For some months I have read the Times regularly, day after day. I have been wrong to neglect newspapers so long. What an apocalypse of human mystery is here set before my eyes! And yet how little conscious of it seem those whom good fortune has raised above the fear of cold, hunger, and the diseases they engender. I read the reports of a sitting in Parliament, and find that hours have been spent in the angry discussion of some absurd point of national etiquette, or on the clauses of a Bill the object of which seems to be merely to enrich a body of most undeserving men, and when I afterwards turn to the police reports, and read, as long as my nerves will permit me, the heart-rending stories which abound there, I am compelled to marvel that humanity is content to suffer so uncomplainingly.”
“May 12th. — I have had many a long talk lately with Dr. Gmelin on the course I propose to pursue when I return to England, and he has given me many practical hints which I am sure will be useful. In religious matters he is wonderfully tolerant; almost too tolerant, I think; and he never ceases to impress upon me what great and useful schemes of private charity are carried out by the religious sects. With some such sect he would have me enroll myself, merely for the purpose of having a better field for my work. But I fail to see how this would be possible without a degree of hypocrisy to which I could never reconcile myself. Doubtless I shall see my way much more clearly when I am once more actually in London; I shall be able to gauge the existent misery with my own eyes, and I am sure some good plan or other will not fail to suggest itself. Something I am determined to do. To live the life of an ordinary wealthy lady, the life of ‘society,’ either altogether heedless of the sufferings of the poor, or occasionally satisfying my conscience with a perfunctory contribution to one or two ill-conducted charities — that would be quite impossible for me. I wonder whether I am what is generally known as a ‘strong-minded’ woman? It is possible; for I certainly feel but little sympathy with those many pitiful weaknesses generally pronounced to be the amiabilities of my sex. Well, I can only hope that my strength of mind, if it exist, will stand me in good stead, and enable me to make my life not altogether useless.
“Dr. Gmelin asked me the other day whether I did not intend to write at all on the subjects which interest me; write, that is to say, in the periodicals and daily papers. On reflection, I think not. In the first place I am not by any means sure that I possess a spark of literary ability, and then it is my firm belief that such work is not woman’s true sphere. If I were to write, it must be something of genuine scientific value, something which would hasten the advent of vast social reforms; and to do that is certainly beyond my power. What ideas may sooner or later occur to me I shall employ myself in putting into practice; doubtless I shall have abundant opportunities. Nature appears to me to have ordained that woman’s sphere should be that of personal influence, and the influence of my own personality, such as it is, should be brought face to face with the horrors of helpless poverty. My ideas may be extravagant and unpractical, but I have faith in humanity. The results of my determination may not be great, but at all events they shall be real.”
“May 15th. — My time in Germany grows short. As regards those I shall leave behind me here in dear old Tübingen, I shall depart with unfeigned regret; as regards the prospects before me, I am all eagerness to be gone. I have compelled Dr. Gmelin to promise that he will pay me a visit some day in England, but I very much fear such a journey would require too much resolution for him. Years of motionless existence have so bound him down to his books that I believe it would break his heart to have to leave them.
“Of late I have departed from my strict principle of reading none but German works, and in favour of one who I am surprised has not long since tempted me to forbidden fields. For a week I have been poring over Shelley, reading him to the exclusion of almost everything else — Shelley, whom when I was a child I read without understanding, yet with such delight, carried on from page to page by the magic of his verse, and occasionally the glimpse of a thought which dazzled my feeble eyes. Of all the poets — yes, of all I have ever read — Shelley is my chosen one. Poets such as Keats, who live for art alone, regardless of the stream of human life, which makes fresh the meadows and the woods where they sing their songs, these have their irresistible charm, but they cannot always satisfy the heart. It is that glorious band of which Shelley is the foremost spirit, who, not content with for ever hymning poems at the altar of beauty, echo in their noblest songs the accents of that unceasing woe which writhes in the heart of the universe — it is before these that I will fall down and worship with a devotion which shall only fade when the fire of life is quenched in my soul. They recognise that poetry is not alone the voice of joy, but rather the noblest utterance of humanity clamouring for vengeance against its oppressors at the door of Fate. Nature has forbidden that I should join this noble choir, but I can at least assert my privilege to listen when others are deaf, and feel my heart stirred to action by the inspiring harmony.
“Schopenhauer, Comte, and Shelley — these three have each in turn directed the growth of my moral life. Schopenhauer awakened within me the fire of sympathy, gave a name to the uneasy feeling which made my life restless, taught me to forget myself and to live in others. Comte then came to me with his lucid unfolding of the mystery of the world, showed me why the fire of sympathy burned so within my breast, taught me the use to which it should be directed. Last of all Shelley breathed with the breath of life on the dry bones of scientific theory, turned conviction into passion, lit the heavens of the future with such glorious rays that the eye dazzles in gazing upwards, strengthened the heart with enthusiasm as with a coat of mail. Can I ever count myself an atheist when I worship such gods as these?”
“May 30th. — A few more days, and farewell to Germany! Farewell, also, to one phase of my life, that of sitting still and reflecting. When I again step on the shores of England I shall be no longer a girl; but, I trust, a woman whose sufferings and struggles have not been without profit to herself, and may, perchance, be the means of good to others.”