without fear; a gloomily serious, silent, and sad old man;
gazing into the final chasm of things, in mute dialogue with
"Death, Judgment, and Eternity" (dialogue _mute_ on _both_
sides!), not caring to discourse with poor articulate-speaking
fellow creatures on their sorts of topics. It is right of me;
and yet also it is not right. I often feel that I had better be
dead than thus indifferent, contemptuous, disgusted with the
world and its roaring nonsense, which I have no thought farther
of lifting a finger to help, and only try to keep out of the way
of, and shut my door against. But the truth is, I was nearly
killed by that hideous Book on Friedrich,--twelve years in
continuous wrestle with the nightmares and the subterranean
hydras;--nearly _killed,_ and had often thought I should be
altogether, and must die leaving the monster not so much as
finished! This is one truth, not so evident to any friend or
onlooker as it is to myself: and then there is another, known to
myself alone, as it were; and of which I am best not to speak to
others, or to speak to them no farther. By the calamity of April
last, I lost my little all in this world; and have no soul left
who can make any corner of this world into a _home_ for me any
more. Bright, heroic, tender, true and noble was that lost
treasure of my heart, who faithfully accompanied me in all the
rocky ways and climbings; and I am forever poor without her.
She was snatched from me in a moment,--as by a death from the
gods. Very beautiful her death was; radiantly beautiful (to
those who understand it) had all her life been _quid plura?_ I
should be among the dullest and stupidest, if I were not among
the saddest of all men. But not a word more on all this.

All summer last, my one solacement in the form of work was