That
trouble, perhaps, still awaits you, after I shall have reached a further
stage of decay. Seriously, my mind has, for the present, lost its temper
and its fine edge, and I have an instinct that I had better kept quiet.
Perhaps I shall have a new spirit of vigor, if I wait quietly for it;
perhaps not."
But over all these last notes there hangs a melancholy shadow that makes
the flickering humor even sadder than the awesome conviction that he has
done with writing. How singular the mingled mood of that last letter, in
which he grimly jests upon the breaking-down of his literary faculty!
Here he announces, finally: "I hardly know what to say to the public
about this abortive Romance, though I know pretty well what the case
will be. I shall never finish it." Yet the cause was not so much the
loss of literary power, as the physical exhaustion that had already worn
him away beyond recovery. He longed for England; and possibly if he
could have gone thither, the voyage, the milder climate, and the sense
of rest that he would have felt there, might have restored him. He had
friends in this country, however, who made attempts to break up the
disastrous condition into which he had so unexpectedly come. In May of
1863, when "Our Old Home" was printing, he received from his friend Mr.
Lowell this most charming invitation to come to Cambridge:--
MY DEAR HAWTHORNE:--I hope you have not forgotten that during
"anniversary week" you were to make me a little anniversary by a visit?
I have been looking forward to it _ever_ so long.
Pages:
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369