Kitabı oku: «Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848», sayfa 7

THE GARDENER
BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH

 
From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,
Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,
With life as fresh and musical as fills
Their varied round, in quiet joyance goes
The faithful gardener, spying out the foes
Of queenly Beauty, whom, for all the ills
They wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.
That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.
He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,
And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;
Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,
And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;
Let others find what prize befits their powers,
His deeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.
 

ONE OF THE "SOUTHERN TIER OF COUNTIES."
BY ALFRED B. STREET

 
A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,
Nestling in wild and unknown loveliness
Beneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;
But be not too inquisitive and press
Its name – my motto must be, reader! "Stat
Nominis umbra" – I'll not tell that's flat.
 
 
But this much I will say; it bears the name
Of a brave warrior, who, in times of old,
Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,
And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.
And well that warrior kept unstained the wreath
Reaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.
 
 
And to be more explicit – on the west
The Chihohocki ¹ laves its mountain sides;
East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,
And monarch-like this forest-land divides
From that whose name superfluous 't were to utter
If mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."
 
 
Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wide
Has scarcely yet been rent by human toil;
Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,
There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soil
Is such, in truth, no wonder people chose
To leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.
 
 
Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when Summer
Wakens the forest depths to light and life;
The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,
Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;
The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,
And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.
 
 
The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,
The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,
Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the foot
Of the quick squirrel as it glides across;
And, glancing like a vision to the eye,
Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.
 
 
Fancy your wearied foot has clambered now
The Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.
The splendid sight will put you in a glow!
There winds the river in its snake-like track,
Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view —
Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,
 
 
And then White Lake, expanding far away!
Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!
It sheds upon my world-worn heart a ray
Bright as the crystal beauty of its brow.
Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beat
Ere I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!
 
 
M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,
Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,
With the grand woods around – in blended grace
Nature and Art at every point are seen.
Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearls
Of man's prosaic being – witching girls.
 
 
Yet there are places in this rising county
Where Nature seems determined not to grow;
Where travelers merit an especial bounty
For perseverance, where the starving crow
Would pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;
(But these things in strict confidence I write.)
 
 
The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growth
Of ragged, scrubby pine, and here and there
A lofty hemlock, looking as if loath
To show its surly head – while grim and bare
The ghosts of former trees their mossy locks
Shake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.
 
 
Yet there is beauty even there when green
And sunbright – there the ground-pine twines its fringe,
And the low whortleberries give the scene
(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,
And mossy paths are branching all about,
But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!
 
 
Hour after hour, the stranger passing through
This member of the "southern tier" will see
Naught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,
But then life's naught without variety,
Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,
He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,
 
 
And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"
Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,
Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,
Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,
How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,
You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.
 
 
The people, too, who live – I mean, who stay
In their green Alpine homes, (I like a touch
Of the sublime,) presents a queer array
Of three most interesting species – Dutch,
Yankee and mongrel – and this triple mixture
Form when they meet a very curious picture.
 
 
They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,
"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,
They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"
And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"
And the word "deacon," in this charming region,
Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.
 
 
And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"
That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,
Ready to fight or drink as others wish,
Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,
Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumber
When "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."
 
 
Their toil is pastime when the river leaps
On, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,
With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweeps
The forest fragments on its roaring path,
What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,
And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."
 
 
Then from deep eddy and from winding creek
His mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,
And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,
With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,
Whilst confident in skill he fearless drifts
By swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.
 
 
From rafts we glance to saw-mills – oft you meet
Their pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,
And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheet
Flinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,
(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)
Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.
 

THE EXHAUSTED TOPIC
BY CAROLINE C —

What shall I write about? A sensible question enough for me to address to you, good reader, were I a worn-out school-girl, with a mind quite like an "exhausted receiver" on the one subject, frightful, dismal, and hated at all times to her. But, thanks be to Time, I am no school-girl – and it is rather a foolish question, this same one I have proposed, considering that for sixty long seconds my mind has been fully determined as to what I will write about this morning.

I have been looking over a file of old magazines, which are now scattered about me in most beautiful confusion, for the sole purpose of discovering in the steps of how many "illustrious predecessors" I am to follow, when I expatiate on that, which, by the last tale in the last new magazine, seems to be still a marvelous object in creation, namely, "The Coquette."

And oh the poems, and tales, and essays, by the Mrs.'s and Misses – the Mr.'s and Esqr.'s, let alone the Dr.'s and Rev.'s, who have not disdained to pour forth their thoughts like water on this exhausted (?) topic! I will spare you, through mere Christian charity, dear reader, from listening to their enumeration.

By this time, if you are any thing of a magazine or newspaper reader, you must necessarily have arrived at some conclusion as to this tribe of humans. Well, what do you think of coquettes in general, my friend – what do you think of those with whom you have had to do with in particular? According to Johnson, a coquette is "a gay, airy girl, who by various arts endeavors to gain admirers." Natural enough, all that, I should say.

When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the shrine of beauty – and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation man forces to her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so very unnatural in the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why, even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give —give!"

Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you – what warrior, after a brilliant achievement in one battle – after one glorious conquest over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity, and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners in the vallies of the world – I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes? Was Alexander?

What author, after writing one book that took the reading world by storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their death-stiffened fingers can write for us no more? Are the writers of our day satisfied with one brilliant and successful effort in the field of literary labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and Cooper, and James, to the absurdity of such an idea! Wait – I would be truthful – even as I write there comes before me a bright remembrance of one glorious bard, living, voiceless now– our own well-beloved Halleck; but even he may awake, and speak yet – and so make way with the exception to my rule.

And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise, wide-awake century it is all for country and the good of man! We are a wise people, WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for the enlightenment of mankind – the improvement of his fellows? Who will say that this is not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all, the secondary consideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" There is such a thing as a "lord of creation," pining for distinction, and braving every distress, and even death, for – Fame! Yes, we have records of sons of Genius who have died because men recognized not the light they set before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais! he is dead."

I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do not say quite) sickened the patient bystanders.

Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But, if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled, pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles of one woman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens! whom shall he blame, if the smile does not always await him? Whose fault is it if he does not continue to please, when the eyes of the fair one are awakened to his numberless "short comings?" And some day when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might some day come to a just conclusion.

But enough of this; I have given a preface– and I know a case in point – more satisfactory than all my arguments I think it will prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge, if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on this important subject.

From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors. Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world," I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience" to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods, she will never know that I have seized upon her as a "subject" whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by touching on this topic.

Every body said Flory was a coquette – and adopting as a settled point the sentiment that "what every body says must be true," I suppose she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly the idea that she was artful and designing, or that she ever regularly set a trap to ensnare any human heart.

Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair, and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light, glossy brown – and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the truth of it, they never emerged from curl-papers – (and by the way, how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing natural, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, holy light, and again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.

Though Flory was the admiration of all eyes, and "the beaux" seemed really to have no appreciation of the presence of we poor insignificants when she was by, yet to not many of us did the "green-eyed monster" ever whisper one bad, ungracious thought of her.

We all loved her – and a sadder set never waited in our depôt the arrival of the eastern train, than gathered there the day Mr. Cleveland and family were to leave for a home in the "far West."

There were some, indeed, who invariably honored Florence with the title of "coquette!" and pursed up their lips very sanctimoniously whenever they heard of her new conquests; particularly may this remark apply to old Widow Forbes, who rejoiced in the possession of four grown-up daughters – "fixtures" most decidedly they were in her household – for these four above-mentioned, were not in any way remarkable for their personal attractions; and two of them had well-nigh passed the third stage of woman's unmarried life! But by far the greater part of the villagers rejoiced in the presence of Florence Cleveland as they would in a sunbeam on a dull day; she was always so cheerful, so generous and obliging.

None of those sunny curls of hers were visible the day Florence set out on her journey; perhaps you think that was because ladies do not usually travel with such appendages in view, and that they were snugly packed away in the back part of her traveling hat. But had Flory's head been uncovered then, I fear me it would have borne terrible witness of the desecrating hands which had been busy about it; for the fairy-like ringlets which had so long adorned the beautiful head, full beautiful enough without them, were slumbering on the hearts of us, her miserable, weeping cronies; and I know not how many gentlemen's purses were freighted with like treasure.

What a silent, stupid company we were gathered there that day. It was a bright morning – there was not a cloud to be seen in all the sky; and Susy, the old fortune-teller, said it was a day that augured well for their future prosperity; but that did not help us any. Every body seemed to think we were to lose one of the choicest lights of our village – and so, indeed, we were.

At last the odious depôt-bell rung – soon after the "fire-demon" heaved in sight, followed by its long train of crowded cars. In ten minutes the leave-taking was all over, our friends were seated – their "worldly goods" were stowed away – another ring of the bell, that never sounded half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the road – across the bridge – past the burial-ground – and on – on – on!

To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone. I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her depart – how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often together – how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should be, now that she was gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out to me of her; there, by the window, was her "old arm-chair;" she had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad, leather-covered seat supported us both – so, of course, the very sight of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open "arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. But when I had fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.

It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all the contents – satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige yours, &c.

"Writing is not my forte, Carry, you know that very well," the epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that the West is such a wonderful country, and that it is the best and only place for them to safely settle our troop of boys, then I made up my mind to write you what I had intended to speak. Don't think me vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with others, may now think quite unexplainable.

"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me what they think my 'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of those horrible 'fevers,' into whose hands we are about to commit ourselves, 'Aunt Sally,' may say it is a just 'dispensation of Providence' that has removed me; and that old Juliet Baker might take it into her head to write my veritable history, under the title of 'The Coquette,' and so be published in one of the magazines as a warning for all who shall come after me – an immortality to which I assure you I do not aspire. Or Tom Harding might be tempted to discourse more eloquently than ever on my respective demerits – drawing some of his sage conclusions therefrom. So, dear, if such things should happen, remember to stand up valiantly for 'woman's rights,' and me! As I have mentioned Tom Harding's name, I may as well, in these 'confessions,' have done with him as speedily as possible. I know very well what all the gossips said when it was rumored that I had 'cut him dead,' after encouraging the poor fellow, who was really 'too good for me!' But, as it happened in this case, they were all wrong – as doth unfortunately sometimes happen even with gossipers. Tom, since time immemorial, (you will bear me out in the truth of this statement,) has been one of the most active beaux in our village; attaching himself, with all his canine characteristics, to every lady who was favored with the least pretensions to beauty, and making himself vastly useful in the way of getting up all sorts of 'parties of pleasure' in summer, and in the winter also. It was very needful, was it not, that we should be always on good terms with him, which, as a body, we managed very well to do. As he had been in love with, and offered himself to at least a dozen girls of our acquaintance, I don't yet know why he should have thought that I would take up with him at last. Now was it not presumption, Carry? To be sure, he came to our house night after night, and sat often with us in church on Sundays – and it was rumored we were engaged; but that, I fancy, did not make the case a clear one."

Ladies may be attentive and agreeable, even over the verge of intimacy with one another, and yet not be suspected of designs matrimonial; but boys and girls, who have from early childhood grown up with the most fraternal feelings, as soon as childhood has passed, must be expected to give up what was a very delightful kind of friendship, indeed; is that wise?

"The fact is, I never for a moment thought of marrying Tom Harding; but I did think him a great deal better youth than he proved to be. When he foolishly proposed the subject to me, I dismissed it again quietly as might be, convincing him, as I hope, that the thing was forever impossible. And I kept his secret well. No one till to-day can say that I was ever guilty of parading this offer, and its refusal, before my friends; and I scarcely think you will consider me as parading it now; or, indeed, of entering on this recital merely to gratify a foolish personal vanity. Tom, himself, by his ungentlemanly conduct, exposed all that ever was exposed; and his impudent, silly behavior toward me has had the final result of making me heartily despise him; and I sincerely hope no damsel that I love will ever accept offers, which some dozens may yet have the honor, or – which is it? be doomed to hear!

"Harry Kirkland was, indeed, a fine fellow – at least I thought so once, for I was engaged to him within a time I well remember. Talented, too – was he not? But, oh, what an unreasonable mortal he was.

"When I engaged myself to Harry, I did love him truly, or what I thought was him, but you will not wonder that my love cooled before such evidences of tyranny, incipient it could hardly be called, as he exhibited, truly in a petty manner, but giving me good, overpowering evidence of what I might expect when the chains of Hymen should be flung around us.

"He went to his Club, and the Lyceum, and became a member of the Odd Fellows Society, so soon as there was one organized in the village – indeed, on all points acted his own pleasure, even as to the number of cigars he would smoke per day. And I, like a reasonable woman, thinking all this part and parcel of his own business, never for a moment thought of interfering. But no sooner had I, in a kind of dumb way, (foolishly enough, I confess now,) answered his pathetic appeals, by acknowledging that I loved him, than he at once, without questioning his right and title, proceeded to take the reins of government into his own hands. And then it was incessantly, 'Florence, why do you allow that cox-comb to visit you?' or, 'why did you go to the party last night when I was away?' or, 'how can you endure that conceited fool?' or, 'do, dear, arrange your hair in some other style – curls are so common!' or, at another time, when I had adorned myself with special thoughts of him, and his particular taste, the ungracious salutation would be, 'It is so strange you will wear flounces —I cannot endure them, and they are so unbecoming for you!'

"Well, I did give James Thompson, 'the cox-comb,' as Harry called him, leave to understand I was not 'at home' to him; and I stayed away from all places of amusement to which Harry would not, or could not go, (which former I came at last to know was most frequently the case.) And I did treat Charles Wood more coolly than my conscience approved, for nature gave to him a good, kind heart, if she did not make him a genius. And I left off flounces, which my tasty little 'dress-maker' thought 'such a pity;' and I braided my hair, which all the time cried out against the stiff bands I put on the curly locks; in short, for six months I made a fool of myself, by giving way to all my exacting lover's whims. It makes me shudder when I think of what had been my fate had I married him – I should have died a very martyr long before this day.

"I knew that on most subjects Harry's opinion was worth having – his judgment sound; so I resolved to try what might be done on this point, which certainly concerned our happiness so much. By degrees I went back to my old habits, saying never a word to him of the test I was intending to put to him. Perhaps you would have proceeded differently – you might have reasoned with him, and urged him not to distress himself about affairs far too trifling for him to interfere with – about which no woman likes the interference, even of a favored lover.

"But such a course was not the one for me – and in the end, a person pursuing a far different method of reasoning might, probably would, have arrived at the same climax that I did. Wherever among my old friends I chose to go, I went without consulting the pleasure of his highness, who had led me about as a child in leading-strings quite long enough. What books I liked, I read; concerning my judgment on this point, perhaps, (not altogether unwarrantably either,) quite as good as his own. I dressed in what fashion I pleased – and wore my hair in the style nature intended. At one determined stroke I broke the thread-like chains which, from their very fineness, had been more galling to me than links of iron. I could read by Harry's look of astonishment what his thoughts were, as he saw these changes in me – and it was with some anxiety, I do confess, that I awaited the result; for all this time I loved him well, though my attachment was not so selfish in its nature as was his love toward me.

"One day I sent Harry a note, with a purse which I had knitted for him, and requested that he would accompany me in the evening, when there was to be a horseback-party on the lake-shore. In about half an hour much was I astonished by the return of the messenger, with an answer to my note, and my rejected gift. He declined the ride also, saying that he had a severe headache – (well might his head ache when it contained a brain capable of suggesting such a note.) After some few preliminaries, Harry proceeded to tell me that my gifts were altogether unacceptable so long as my heart continued not right toward him; that I had grieved him beyond all power of expression by the heartlessness I had exhibited in my disregard of all his wishes and opinions; this strange note ended by begging that I would not join the riding-party that night; that he would visit me in the evening, and receive from me then any explanations I might be ready to make.

"In ten minutes more the messenger was on his way back to Harry Kirkland's office, with a neat package, which contained the young man's notes, miniature, gifts, &c., with an assurance, which I wrote with a most steady hand, that my evening ride would, doubtless, prove more agreeable than a tête-tête with him, and that, as I had no explanations or apologies to offer, he need not be under the inconvenience of seeking me again at home, or elsewhere. I will not speak of the manner in which I passed that afternoon, after I had returned Harry's second note, unanswered, and unopened; nor what thoughts were busy in my mind, nor what feelings were busy in my heart. But I will tell you this, at tea-time, when father came home, he did not reject his daughter's kiss, or the purse either; and now it is snugly resting in the bottom of his pocket, well-filled, as I hope it ever will be.

"That moonlight ride – you remember it; perhaps you remember, also, that there was no gayer mortal among you than a certain Florence Cleveland. She might not have slept quite soundly that night, when she was alone in her little chamber, but it was not very long that Harry Kirkland's image disturbed her dreams. Harry was proud as I; doubtless he thought himself the abused one, (and that, you know, is wonderfully efficacious in curing heart-wounds,) and I can readily believe that many times since he has blessed the day that saved him from coquetting Florence Cleveland. But – you know already how suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you wondered we did not correspond.

"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of him —do you, dear? What did we think of him, mon ami, till we discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.

"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented – being our own spectators – when, with your head resting on my knee in the old summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the interesting climax, I joined in with you and told my story, too; and how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of bigamists! Well, there was never a more captivating youth than he – at least we must say so, to save ourselves from the obloquy of falling in love with such a scamp! Who'd have thought it? those very stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears from my eyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he told them. Ah, me!

"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. I tolerated him because his father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so friendless. But you cannot believe that I loved him. Poor fellow! he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the fact is, he did not possess energy enough to keep him alive. And he was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who wishes to gain favor in my eyes must indulge in. His talents were not of that order which commands the ear of the public – and yet he seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly described as having lost their way in the great roads of life, having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity – more than should have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer, or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such purpose, and might have excelled in some such art; but least of all, you will acknowledge, was Ernest Ward fitted to be my husband. And well for us was it, that if he did not know it, I did.