ade quite a secondary figure.

It is also to be noticed that George Bancroft, one of the half dozen men
in America who had studied at a German University, wrote about the same
time a violent attack on Goethe in the Boston "Christian Examiner," in
which he pronounced him far inferior to Voltaire, "not in genius and
industry only, but still more in morality." He says of him farther, "He
imitates, he reproduces, he does not create and he does not build up....
His chances at popularity are diminishing. Twaddle will not pass long
for wisdom. The active spirit of movement and progress finds in his
works little that attracts sympathy."{34} It is to be remembered in the
same connection that Longfellow, in 1837, wrote to his friend, George W.
Greene, of "Jean Paul Richter, the most magnificent of the German prose
writers,"{35} and it was chiefly on Richter that his prose style was
formed.

In June he left Heidelberg for the Tyrol and Switzerland, where the
scene of "Hyperion" was laid. He called it "quite a sad and lonely
journey," but it afterwards led to results both in his personal and
literary career. He sailed for home in October and established himself
in Cambridge in December, 1836. The following letter to his wife's
sister was written after his return.

CAMBRIDGE, Sunday evening.

MY DEAR ELIZA,--By tomorrow's steamboat I shall send you two trunks,
containing the clothes which once belonged to your sister. What I
have suffered in getting them ready to send to you, I cannot
describe. It is not necessary, that I should. Cheerful as I may have
seemed to you at times, there are other times, when it seems to me
that my heart would break. The world considers grief unmanly, and is
suspicious of that sorrow, which is expressed by words and outward
signs. Hence we strive to be gay and put a cheerful courage on, when
our souls are very sad. But there are hours, when the world is shut
out, and we can no longer hear the voices, that cheer and encourage
us. To me such hours come daily. I was so happy with my dear Mary,
that it is very hard to be alone. The sympathies of friendship are
doubtless something--but after all how little, how unsatisfying they
are to one who has been so loved as I have been! This is a selfish
sorrow, I know: but neither reason nor reflection can still it.
Affliction makes us childish. A grieved