He had, however, begun to age. He was forty-six years old, and the
last year had told upon him, with its various anxieties,
excitement, and hard labor with the pen. He was more easily
fatigued, he was less robust and venturesome, less physically
confident. He showed the changes of time. On his arrival, "weary
and worn," says his wife, "with waiting for a place to be, to
think, and to write in," he gave up with something like nervous
fever; "his eyes looked like two immense spheres of troubled light;
his face was wan and shadowy, and he was wholly uncomfortable."
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