Fevered Toil Toward Completion

The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day

shewed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety,

and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome

trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was

oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease

that I regretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted

of the firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would soon drive

away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when my creation should be complete.