Of North, this review contends that "[t]hroughout all his writings there is a gloomy indifference to life, and a bitter contempt for a world of which he knew nothing; yet Mr. North was capable of lasting genuine friendship. A little genial appreciation was all he asked; he felt he deserved it, for he had worked hard for the boon. It was when this was disputed -- and in his forays among strangers who had never heard his name it was apt to be -- that he became most gloomy, and retired bitterly within himself to fresh contemplation of human destiny and woe."
