d. I was
considering what unusual occurrence could have brought Mr. D. here,
when he increased my wonder still more by disclosing his errand. He had
received, he said, a letter from Prof. Woods, requesting that I, or
a "lady whose taste was as correct in dress as in literature," would
decide upon the fashion of a gown to be worn by him at his inauguration
as President of Bowdoin College, and forthwith procure such a gown to be
made. _Aug. 25th_.--I have been reading the second volume of Mackintosh,
which is much better than the first, and gives a higher opinion of him.
He is certainly well described by Coleridge as the "king of men of
talent." It is curious, by the way, to compare what M. says of C.: "It
is impossible to give a stronger example of a man, whose talents are
beneath his understanding, and who trusts to his ingenuity to atone for
his ignorance.... Shakespeare and Burke are, if I may venture on
the expression, above talent; but Coleridge is not!" Ah, well--_de
gustibus_, etc.

I have been as busy as a bee all day; wrote notes, prepared for leaving
home, read Schleiermacher, and Philip von Artevelde, which delighted me;
walked after tea with Lizzy, then examined my papers to see what is
to be burned. I wish I knew what I was made for--I mean, in
_particular_--what I _can_ do, and what I _ought_ to do. I can not bear
to live a life of literary self-indulgence, which is no better than
another self-indulgence. I _do want_ to be of some use in the world,
but I am infinitely perplexed as to the _how_ and the _what_. _Aug.
26th_.--Hurried through the last 200 pages of Mackintosh today. On the
whole, there is much to _like_ as well as to admire in him. One thing
puzzles me in his case as in others: How men who give no signs through a
long life of anything more than the most cold and distant _respect_ for
religion--the most unfrequent and uninterested remembrance, if any
at all--of the Saviour, all at once become so devout--I mean it not
disrespectfully--on their death-beds. What strange doubts this and other
like mysteries suggest!

After tea I carried a bouquet to Mrs. French. Saw all the way a sky
so magnificent that words can do no justice to it--splendors piled on
splendors, till my soul was fairly sick with admiration. Mrs. French
asked me if life ever looked sad and wearisome to me. _Ever!_

BOSTON, _Saturday morning, Sept. 8th_--The rain keeps me home from
church, but I still have the more time for reading