the fleeting forms, which melt away and elude us in the distance.
Of all that I had hoped to do, I now find but too surely how small
a part I shall accomplish. In those early aspirations, there was
much that was fanciful; perhaps there was much that was foolish.
Perhaps, too, they contained a moral defect, and savored of an
arrogance which belongs to a strength that refuses to recognize its
own weakness. Still, even now that they are defeated and brought to
nought, I cannot repent having indulged in them, but, on the
contrary, I would willingly recall them if I could. For, such hopes
belong to that joyous and sanguine period of life, when alone we
are really happy; when the emotions are more active than the
judgment; when experience has not yet hardened our nature; when the
affections are not yet blighted and nipped to the core; and when
the bitterness of disappointment not having yet been felt,
difficulties are unheeded, obstacles are unseen, ambition is a
pleasure instead of a pang, and the blood coursing swiftly through
the veins, the pulse beats high, while the heart throbs at the
prospect of the future. Those are glorious days; but they go from
us, and nothing can compensate their absence. To me, they now seem
more like the visions of a disordered fancy than the sober
realities of things that were, and are not. It is painful to make
this confession; but I owe it to the reader, because I would not
have him to suppose that either in this or in the future volumes of
my History I shall be able to redeem my pledge, and to perform all
that I promised. Something I hope to achieve which will interest
the thinkers of this age; and, something, perhaps, on which
posterity may build. It will, however, only be a fragment of my
original design.'

In estimating the extent to which Mr. Buckle succeeded in consummating