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.