Chapter 7

           Thenextthreeorfourweeksflewbyinawhirlofexcitement,andbythetimetheywereendedIfoundithardtorecognizemyselfintheindolent,listless,extravagantmanoffashionIhadsosuddenlybecome.Sometimesatstrayandsolitarymomentsthepastturnedbackuponmelikearevolvingpictureinaglasswithaflashofunwelcomerecollection,andIsawmyselfwornandhungry,andshabbilyclothed,bendingovermywritinginmydrearylodging,wretched,yetamidallmywretchednessreceivingcuriouscomfortfrommyownthoughtswhichcreatedbeautyoutofpenury,andloveoutofloneliness.ThiscreativefacultywasnowdormantinmeIdidverylittle,andthoughtless.ButIfeltcertainthatthisintellectualapathywasbutapassingphaseamentalholidayanddesirablecessationfrombrain-worktowhichIwasdeservedlyentitledafterallmysufferingsatthehandsofpovertyanddisappointment.MybookwasnearlythroughthepressandperhapsthechiefestpleasureofanyInowenjoyedwasthecorrectionoftheproofsastheypassedundermysupervision.Yeteventhis,thesatisfactionofauthorship,haditsdrawbackandmyparticulargrievancewassomewhatsingular.Ireadmyownworkwithgratificationofcourse,forIwasnotbehindmycontemporariesinthinkingwellofmyselfinallIdidbutmycomplacentliteraryegoismwasmixedwithagooddealofdisagreeableastonishmentandincredulity,becausemywork,writtenwithenthusiasmandfeeling,propoundedsentimentsandinculcatedtheorieswhichIpersonallydidnotbelievein.

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