e laundress, was the only
person whom Arthur found in the dear old chambers. George had taken a
carpet-bag, and was gone. His address was to his brother's house, in
Suffolk. Packages addressed to the newspaper and review for which he
wrote lay on the table, awaiting delivery.

"I found him at the table, when I came, the dear gentleman!" Mrs.
Flanagan said, "writing at his papers, and one of the candles was burned
out; and hard as his bed is, he wasn't in it all night, sir."

Indeed, having sat at the Club until the brawl there became intolerable
to him, George had walked home, and had passed the night finishing some
work on which he was employed, and to the completion of which he bent
himself with all his might. The labour was done, and the night was worn
away somehow, and the tardy November dawn came and looked in on
the young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day's paper, or
quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work of his genius,
the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigour of his satire, the
depth of his reason. There was no hint in his writing of the other
thoughts which occupied him, and always accompanied him in his work--a
tone more melancholy than was customary, a satire more bitter and
impatient than that which he afterwards showed, may have marked the
writings of this period of his life to the very few persons who knew his
style or his name. We have said before, could we know the man's feelings
as well as the author's thoughts--how interesting most books would
be!--more interesting than merry. I suppose harlequin's face behind his
mask is always grave, if not melancholy--certainly each man who lives
by the pen, and happens to read this, must remember, if he will, his own
experiences, and recall many solemn hours of solitude and labour. What a
constant care sate at the side of the desk and accompanied him! Fever
or sickness were lying possibly in the next room: a sick child might be
there, with a wife watching over it terrified and in prayer: or grief
might be bearing him down, and the cruel mist before the eyes rendering
the paper scarce visible as he wrote on it, and the inexorable necessity
drove on the pen. What man among us has not had nights and hours like
these? But to the manly heart--severe as these pangs are, they are
endurable: long as the night seems, the dawn comes at last, and the
wounds heal, and the fever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to
look back on