he made real progress, despite occasional fits of waywardness.

The Greek drama to be read this year was the "Electra" of Sophocles. The class, with Sophomoric wisdom, decided that the drama was too difficult for their unaided intellects, and agreed, as a body, to obtain translations, — by which piece of mutual transgression the weak in will or conscience might have the moral support of their fellows. David, who, from his residence in Boston, was constantly made an agent for the class, was appointed commissioner to procure the copies during the next vacation. The only translation he could find was one included in a complete translation of Sophocles, published in Bohn's "Classical Library." It seemed foolish to buy the whole book for the sake of forty odd pages; and after some embarrassment it occurred to him to get the "Electra " printed by itself. He had a reckless disregard of common sense in business affairs, and the unlucky measure resulted in obtaining a quantity of unbound "Electras," which cost more than if he had bought the entire volumes. The class had a good-natured laugh at him for his simplicity, but relieved his mind by paying the bill. Meanwhile his room was full of the translations, lying about everywhere for any who chose to call and obtain their copies. Nearly every one used the help; and it was considered wholly justifiable, first because the Greek was so hard, and then because where all went astray, the responsibility was equally distributed; but not once did David ever glance at the English “Electra"; he labored through the unadulterated Greek alone.

He began this year to read outside of the college

studies, with no very clear notion of what he wanted, following the suggestion of the time; but even then there was indication of a preference for a class of reading which afterward engaged his attention, the suggestive writings of essayists, like John Foster, which treat of morals in the broader relations, and yet give a practical turn to the results reached. There was a catholicity about David's mind which, so early as this, made him best pleased with truth when presented in its sphericity, while he was so practical in his application of truth that he wished the sphere, in conclusion, to become a wedge. There is plenty of time in the idle hours of Sophomore year for reading, and many students become diverted by it from study, persuading themselves that one may fairly choose between discursive reading and close study, getting about equal advantage from either. Sophomore wisdom fails frequently when tested on this point. David's diversion from study by reading was very slight; he kept at his books as much as seemed necessary; the by-hours he preferred to spend on excursions, and in dabbling in Natural History. There was, besides, the traditional initiation of Freshmen in the trials of college-life; but where this was neither illegal nor mean, there was little to recommend it to any one's notice, so that he kept clear of such folly. Back and forth between Williamstown and Boston, he kept up outwardly an uneventful life, unless there be excepted the long excursions which he planned so profusely whenever summer approached, and some one of which he carried out each vacation, — taking long pedestrian tours through New England, or, with his father, ever desirous of anticipating his pleasures, travelling into Canada. He was restless with schemes, going

just as far as the tether of circumstances would allow, and taking the keenest delight in the fulfilment of his plans.

When he returned to college, at the beginning of his third or Junior year, he found a necessity for most resolute exertion. The classics were dropped out of the course of study after a portion of Demosthenes and of Tacitus had been read; the prominent study of the year was Physics and higher Mathematics, together with an increased amount of composition work. His youth and unmethodical habits of mind made all this hard for him; besides, the Junior dignity is rather ashamed of the flippancy and laziness of Sophomore year, so that he entered with resolution and industry upon his tasks. He never achieved any honor in the performance, but he had the greater gain in a more capable mind and readier pen. Surely and rapidly, by vigorous application to work, he was adding to his mental stature. A certain extreme confidence in other men's opinions gave way to more careful judgment and selfreliance. He stood higher, took in a wider reach in all his observations, and moved unresistingly forward in his proposed career.

As his mind became more analytical, he understood himself better, and could detect the true character of his unhealthy moods. The corrective measures which formerly he had instinctively adopted, were now employed at the suggestion also of his thought. The morbidness clung to him, since by his injudicious, ignorant yielding it had become a habit, only to be worn away by constant attrition with his will, and by the severe letting alone which he learned to practise. The beginning of this unhealthy state of mind has been indicated;

the disease was at its height during this year, and the following extracts from two letters, written in immediate succession, give pretty fully the form which his selftorture assumed. A frankness is used which we should call unmerciful to himself, were it not in part one of the very symptoms of the disease, that it hides itself for a time only to pour its horrors more fully into the most sympathetic ear; some momentary relief is thus gained, but such a confidence, by its outward expression of vague experience, rarely fails to give body and long life to the diseased fancy. I have hesitated whether it be right to disclose such a revelation of himself, but the mastery which he obtained over this strong evil cannot adequately be indicated unless the strength of the evil be first shown. The extracts show the workings of his mind better than any mere description of mine could.

WILLIAMS COLLEGE, May, 1854.

Different circumstances conspire to render me perfectly miserable; a very agreeable condition, I assure you. I don't know as you are aware of it, but I am very often subject to fits of the indigoes, as some would term them. At all events, whatever may be the causes, I am altogether in despair at such times.

For the last three years nearly, I have seldom been happy for any length of time, all last vacation I was wretched; to-day I have almost wished to die. My prayers seem like mockeries, heartless, cold, and ineffectual. I can and usually do appear lighthearted, but within a continual fire is burning. I see what I ought to be as a Christian, but not having motives to exertion sufficiently heavenly, I make but little true progress.

I have harbored these feelings for so long that

they have become a kind of monomania, which I love to gloat over, and thus they continually react upon me. Instead of building castles in the air, I dig dungeons in the earth. I continually think of myself as of no ability, having no decision of character, no originality, no judgment, no perseverance, no taste in regard to any matter, no conversational powers, no power in writing, no agreeable companionship, and, in fine, no anything which I ought to have. I seem to have lost all true self-esteem; and to crown all, and that which causes me most to despair, is my want of patience in well-doing, my having a name to live when I am dead.

I don't know

As regards my religious feelings, if I wanted to be better I could, but there is a kind of dogged, sullen determination to continue as I am, moping and fretting; and the only cure is to let myself alone until I see what a fool I am. You seem to think that I have deep sorrow for sin. I differ from you. what true, sincere, heartfelt sorrow is no godly sorrow, for godly sorrow worketh repentance unto salvation, not to be repented of. My sorrow produces no such results. Vanity of the lowest stamp here comes in, and I delight in feeling miserable, and would rejoice if others knew it and would pity me. I know perfectly well that I ought to forget myself and look to Christ, but I don't want to, for that would be depriving my mind of one source of its delight, morbid self-contemplation. . . . . The least sign in any particular that I am low in piety is magnified and construed into a sort of invincible sin. For instance, when prayer is offered, no matter where, I cannot follow, but instinctively my mind goes hop, skip, jump. I have tried a little to overcome this propensity, but in vain. I think I see