" Tranquil they of
course were; and to the happy and successful man of forty-seven, the
vexing moods and dragging loneliness of that earlier period would seem
"not unhappy," because he could then see all the good it had contained.
I cannot agree with Edwin Whipple, who says of them, "There was audible
to the delicate ear a faint and muffled growl of personal discontent,
which showed they were not mere exercises of penetrating imaginative
analysis, but had in them the morbid vitality of a despondent mood." For
this applies to only one of the number, "The Ambitious Guest." Nor do I
find in them the "misanthropy" which he defines at some length. On the
contrary, they are, as the author says, "his attempts to open an
intercourse with the world," incited by an eager sympathy, but also
restrained by a stern perception of right and wrong.
Yet I am inclined to adhere to the grave view of his inner life just
sketched. When his friend Miss Peabody first penetrated his retirement,
his pent-up sympathies flowed forth in a way that showed how they had
longed for relief. He returned constantly to the discussion of his
peculiar mode of living, as if there could be no understanding between
himself and another, until this had been cleared up and set aside. Among
other things, he spoke of a dream by which he was beset, that he was
walking abroad, and that all the houses were mirrors which reflected him
a thousand times and overwhelmed him with mortification. This gives a
peculiar insight into his sensitive condition.
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