‘ ... I am sending you a little book on Psychology by a young teacher and writer. I wish she had shown me the MS. or the proof. If you feel inclined to look at it, and give her a few written criticisms I should be glad. We want so much common language in all these subjects, words are used so differently; e.g. “conception” is not generally used as she does. Intuition is another which we must fix the meaning of, for each book one reads. Real, reason, etc., want defining. A dictionary of philosophical terms should be made by some people authorised to establish an Eirenicon.’
To the same:—
‘? 1896.
‘No; I am sure you ought not to give anything. I am sorry even that the notice was sent you. Perhaps, however, you may know some one or ones who may have money that they want to put out in some way for the Master’s service, and might think this a right way. We shall not get on if the Guild has to produce funds unasked. I don’t want any one to be asked, but they might be shown a paper.’
To the same:—
‘January 1897.
‘ ... I find I read Not made in Germany without knowing it was yours. It is prettily written, but I don’t consider such things worthy of you, and the variations on that one tune are so very numerous. I wish we, like the Greeks, had things written which turned on other problems. These things are very well as a diversion. I wonder what is the subject of the novel.
‘One of our teachers has been translating a book of Herbart’s. I have sent for his introduction to philosophy. I will tell you if I think it would do for what I want; something giving the fundamental questions which come before beginners. Herbart is much read now, but he is difficult to translate, and the people who have tried have not been very successful; I wonder if you have read any of him.
‘I send a letter of introduction to Miss Swanwick, I suppose you know her translations and writings. I think she is only second to Mrs. Browning, and she is charming, and young still. When I last saw her, the friend of so many distinguished people, her memory was wonderful. Tennyson had one of her books open upon his table during the last days.’