an of his day?
I have just had it, and if it is new to you, I recommend it as an agreeable book to read at night just before you go to bed. There is much curious matter concerning Catharine II.'s famous expedition into Taurida, which puts down some of the romantic stories prevalent on that score, but relates more surprising realities.
Also it gives much interesting information about that noble philosopher, Joseph II., and about the Turkish tactics and national character.
Cambridge, Jan. 1830.—You need not fear to revive painful recollections.
I often think of those sad experiences.
True, they agitate me deeply.
But it was best so. They have had a most powerful effect on my character.
I tremble at whatever looks like dissimulation.
The remembrance of that evening subdues every proud, passionate impulse.
My beloved supporter in those sorrowful hours, your image shines as fair to my mind's eye as it did in 1825, when I left you with my heart overflowing with gratitude for your
hy, no creation, but only his life, his Roman life felt in every pulse, realized in every gesture.
The universal heaven takes in the Roman only to make us feel his individuality the more.
The Will, the Resolve of Man!—it has been expressed,— fully expressed!
I steadily loved this ideal in my childhood, and this is the cause, probably, why I have always felt that man must know how to stand firm on the ground, before he can fly. In vain for me are men more, if they are less, than Romans.
Dante was far greater than any Roman, yet I feel he was right to take the Mantuan as his guide through hell, and to heaven.
Horace was a great deal to me then, and is so still.
Though his words do not abide in memory, his presence does: serene, courtly, of darting hazel eye, a selfsufficient grace, and an appreciation of the world of stern realities, sometimes pathetic, never tragic.
He is the natural man of the world; he is what he ought to be, and his darts never fail of their aim. There i
he only human presence.
Like a guardian spirit she led me through the fields and groves, and every tree, every bird greeted me, and said, what I felt, She is the first angel of your life.
One time I had been passing the afternoon with her. She had been playing to me on the harp, and I sat listening in happiness almost unbearable.
Some guests were announced.
She went into another room to receive them, and I took up her book.
It was Guy Mannering, then lately published, and the first of Scott's novels I had ever seen.
I opened where her mark lay, and read merely with the feeling of continuing our mutual existence by passing my eyes over the same page where hers had been.
It was the description of the rocks on the sea-coast where the little Harry Bertram was lost.
I had never seen such places, and my mind was vividly stirred to imagine them.
The scene rose before me, very unlike reality, doubtless, but majestic and wild.
I was the little Harry Bertram, and had lost her,—all