Chapter 7

           Thenextthreeorfourweeksflewbyinawhirlofexcitement,andbythetimetheywereendedIfoundithardtorecognizemyselfintheindolent,listless,extravagantmanoffashionIhadsosuddenlybecome.Sometimesatstrayandsolitarymomentsthepastturnedbackuponmelikearevolvingpictureinaglasswithaflashofunwelcomerecollection,andIsawmyselfwornandhungry,andshabbilyclothed,bendingovermywritinginmydrearylodging,wretched,yetamidallmywretchednessreceivingcuriouscomfortfrommyownthoughtswhichcreatedbeautyoutofpenury,andloveoutofloneliness.Thiscreativefacultywasnowdormantinme—Ididverylittle,andthoughtless.ButIfeltcertainthatthisintellectualapathywasbutapassingphase—amentalholidayanddesirablecessationfrombrain-worktowhichIwasdeservedlyentitledafterallmysufferingsatthehandsofpovertyanddisappointment.Mybookwasnearlythroughthepress—andperhapsthechiefestpleasureofanyInowenjoyedwasthecorrectionoftheproofsastheypassedundermysupervision.Yeteventhis,thesatisfactionofauthorship,haditsdrawback—andmyparticulargrievancewassomewhatsingular.Ireadmyownworkwithgratificationofcourse,forIwasnotbehindmycontemporariesinthinkingwellofmyselfinallIdid—butmycomplacentliteraryegoismwasmixedwithagooddealofdisagreeableastonishmentandincredulity,becausemywork,writtenwithenthusiasmandfeeling,propoundedsentimentsandinculcatedtheorieswhichIpersonallydidnotbelievein.

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