I suppose the Spartan who felt the gnawing of the hidden fox was a mere
type of this species of anguish, which reproduces itself wherever
wounded pride underlies concealment, or wherever injustice and
ingratitude render us uncomplaining through a sense of moral dignity.
The first six months succeeding my rupture with Claude Bainrothe went
by like a leaden dream. My heart lay like a stone in my bosom, and the
gloss had dropped from life, and the glory from the face of Nature for
me, in that dreary interval, as though I had grown suddenly old.
In routine, in occupation alone, I found relief and companionship. I
compelled myself to teach Mabel, and pursue my own studies, lest my mind
should fall back on my body, and destroy both.
A nervous peculiarity manifested itself about this time, that was
singularly distressing to me, and which I confided to no one, not even
that excellent physician who kept a quiet and observant eye fixed upon
me during all this period of my probation.
I became nervously but not mentally convinced of the want of substance
in every thing around me, and have repeatedly risen and crossed the
room, and touched an article on the opposite side, to compel my better
judgment to the conviction that it was indeed tangible and substantial,
and not the merest shadow of a shade.
I was sustained in my resolution to conquer this besetting weakness,
from a vague horror and fear that, should I suffer it to gain further
ascendency, I might fall back into habitual lethargies, and, remembering
what Dr.
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