chamber." His Note-Books show how the sense of unreality vexed and
pursued him; and how the sadness and solemnity of life returned upon him
again and again; and how he clothed these dark visitants of his brain
with the colors of imagination, and turned them away from him in the
guise of miraculous fantasies. He talks with himself of writing "the
journal of a human heart for a single day, in ordinary circumstances.
The lights and shadows that flit across it, its internal vicissitudes."
But this is almost precisely what his printed Note-Books have revealed
to us. Only now and then do we get precisely the thought that is passing
through his mind at the moment; it more often throws upon the page a
reflected image,--some strange and subtle hint for a story, the germs of
delicate fabrics long afterward matured, some merry or sad conceit, some
tender yet piercing inference,--like the shadows of clouds passing
quickly across a clear sky, and casting momentary glooms, and glances of
light, on the ground below. These journals do not begin until a date
seven years after "Fanshawe" was published; but it is safe to assume
that they mirror pretty closely the general complexion of the
intervening years.

His mode of life during this period was fitted to nurture his
imagination, but must have put the endurance of his nerves to the
severest test. The statement that for several years "he never saw the
sun," is entirely an error; but it is true that he seldom chose to walk
in the town except at night, and it is said that he was extremely fond
of going to fires if they occurred after dark. In summer he was up
shortly after sunrise, and would go down to bathe in the sea. The
morning was chiefly given to study, the afternoon to writing, and in the
evening he would take long walks, exploring the coast from Gloucester to
Marblehead and Lynn,--a range of many miles. Or perhaps he would pace
the streets of the town, unseen but observing, gathering material for