The labor was done, and the
night was worn away somehow, and the tardy November dawn came and
looked in on the young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day's
paper, or quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work of
his genius, the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigor of his
satire, the depth of his reason. There was no hint in his writing of
the other thoughts which occupied him, and always accompanied him in
his work--a tone more melancholy than was customary, a satire more
bitter and impatient than that which he afterward showed, may have
marked the writings of this period of his life to the very few persons
who knew his style or his name. We have said before, could we know the
man's feelings as well as the author's thoughts--how interesting most
books would be! more interesting than merry. I suppose harlequin's
face behind his mask is always grave, if not melancholy--certainly
each man who lives by the pen, and happens to read this, must
remember, if he will, his own experiences, and recall many solemn
hours of solitude and labor.
Pages:
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766