the all-powerful motive of ambition, and a new stimulus lately given through a friend, I have learned to believe that nothing, no! not perfection, is unattainable.  I am determined on distinction, which formerly I thought to win at an easy rate; but now I see that long years of labor must be given to secure even the “succes de societe,”—­which, however, shall never content me.  I see multitudes of examples of persons of genius, utterly deficient in grace and the power of pleasurable excitement.  I wish to combine both.  I know the obstacles in my way.  I am wanting in that intuitive tact and polish, which nature has bestowed upon some, but which I must acquire.  And, on the other hand, my powers of intellect, though sufficient, I suppose, are not well disciplined.  Yet all such hindrances may be overcome by an ardent spirit.  If I fail, my consolation shall be found in active employment.’

* * * * *

’Cambridge, March 5, 1826.—­Duke Nicholas is to succeed the Emperor Alexander, thus relieving Europe from the sad apprehension of evil to be inflicted by the brutal Constantine, and yet depriving the Holy Alliance of its very soul.  We may now hope more strongly for the liberties of unchained Europe; we look in anxious suspense for the issue of the struggle of Greece, the result of which seems to depend on the new autocrat.  I have lately been reading Anastasius, the Greek Gil Bias, which has excited and delighted me; but I do not think you like works of this cast.  You did not like my sombre and powerful Ormond,—­though this is superior to Ormond in every respect; it translates you to another scene, hurls you into the midst of the burning passions of the East, whose vicissitudes are, however, interspersed by deep pauses of shadowy reflective scenes, which open upon you like the green watered little vales occasionally to be met with in the burning desert.  There is enough of history to fix profoundly the attention, and prevent you from revolting from scenes profligate and terrific, and such characters as are never to be met with in our paler climes.  How delighted am I to read a book which can absorb me to tears and shuddering,—­not by individual traits of beauty, but by the spirit of adventure,—­happiness which one seldom enjoys after childhood in this blest age, so philosophic, free, and enlightened to a miracle, but far removed from the ardent dreams and soft credulity of the world’s youth.  Sometimes I think I would give all our gains for those times when young and old gathered in the feudal hall, listening with soul-absorbing transport to the romance of the minstrel, unrestrained and regardless of criticism, and when they worshipped nature, not as high-dressed and pampered, but as just risen from the bath.’

’Cambridge, May 14, 1826.—­I am studying Madame de Stael, Epictetus, Milton, Racine, and Castiliain ballads, with great delight.  There’s an assemblage for you.  Now tell