rm
in his mind. He describes what he saw con amore, and all manner of
harmonious ideas bloom through his thoughts, like anemones and other
flowers in the Villa Pamphili and the Borghese. This desirable mood
continued until, after our return to Rome from the Florentine visit, my
sister caught the Roman fever. She lay for weeks in danger of death; and
her father's anxiety about her not only destroyed in him all thoughts of
literary production and care for it, but made even keeping his journal
no longer possible for him. That strain, so long continued, broke
him down, and he never recovered from it so as to be what he had been
before. Nevertheless, when she became convalescent, the reaction from
his dark misgivings made him, for a time, as light-hearted as a boy;
and, the carnival happening to be coincident with her recovery, he
entered into the fun of it with a zest and enjoyment that surprised
himself. But, again, it presently became evident that her recovery was
not complete, and probably never would be so; the injury to her health
was permanent, and she was liable to recurrences of disease. His spirits
sank again, not so low as before, but, on the other hand, they never
again rose to their normal level. It was in this saddened mood that he
once more took up the Roman romance and finished it; it is a sad book,
and when there is a ray of sunshine across the page, it has a melancholy
gleam. After we returned to Concord, his apprehensions concerning Una's
unsound condition were confirmed; and, in addition, the bitter cleavage
between North and South inspired in him the gloomiest forebodings. A
wasting away of his whole physical substance ensued; and he died, almost
suddenly, while in years he might be considered hardly past the prime
of his life. A sensitive eye can trace the effects of the death-blow
all through The Marble Faun, and still more in Septimius and Grimshawe,
published after his death. In The Dolliver Romance fragment, which was
the last thing he wrote, there is visible once more some reminiscence
of the old sunshine of humor that was so often apparent in his time of
youth and vigor; but it, too, has a sad touch in it, such as belongs
to the last rays of the star of day before it sinks below the horizon
forever. Night follows, and the rest is silence.

XV

The Roman carnival in three moods--Apples of Sodom--Poor,
battered, wilted, stained hearts--A living protest and
scourge--Dulce est