ent and hyperbolical expression to the mood of the
moment. The unhappy passion which he could at times smother, but never
subdue, went boring away into his heart like a subterranean fire,
consuming his vitals, and occasionally breaking forth into a wild blaze.
The following reference to it, in his letter to Franzen (November 13,
1825), is very pathetic:

"It is to-day my forty-third birthday. I have thus long since
passed the highest altitude of life where the waters divide. With
every year one now becomes smaller and smaller; one star is
extinguished after another. And yet the sun does not rise. One dies
by degrees and by halves. Therefore only children and youth ought
to celebrate their birthdays with joy; we who have passed into the
valley of age, which with every step is growing darker and
chillier, are right in celebrating them with--whims.... However,
this is not my only or my greatest affliction, I have had and have
others. But the night is silent and the grave is dumb, and their
sister, Sorrow, should be as they. Therefore--let this suffice."

December 29th. "Alas, this old year! What I have suffered in it no
one knows, if not, perhaps, the Recorder beyond the clouds. But I
am indebted to this year. It has been darker, but also more serious
than all the others put together. I have learned at my own expense
what a human heart can endure without breaking, and what power God
has deposited in a man under his left nipple. As I say, I am under
obligation to this year, for it has enriched me with what is the
real sinking fund of human wisdom and human independence--a mighty,
deeply rooted contempt for man.... My inner nature emerges from the
crisis like the hibernating bear from his den, emaciated and
exhausted, but happily with my ursine sinews well preserved; and by
and by some flesh will be growing on them again. It seems to me
that my old barbaric, Titanic self, with its hairy arms, is
constantly more and more rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. I hope
that some vine may still grow upon the scorched and petrified
volcano of my heart."

January, 1826. "But when one is compelled to despise the
_character_ of a human being, especially of one who has been or is
dear to one, then that is the bitterest experience which life can
afford; then it is not strange if a fran