And Thackeray, who laughs with us over the weaknesses of humanity, yet once in a great while strikes sech a hard and onexpected blow onto our hearts and feelin’s, that we look right under that cynical veil he chose to wear, and see the great, tender heart of the man. His name, writ by his own hand, gin me powerful emotions, and sights on ’em.
Lord Byron’s name rousted me up some. Poor, onhappy, restless creeter! I wuz always sorry for him—sorry he wuz so mean and grand too—dretful grand. I spoze he wuz so onhappy that he couldn’t help lettin’ it run off the ends of his fingers sometimes onto the paper.
Some of his poetry uplifts you, like bein’ on a mountain-top in a storm, and some is like a calm moonlight night in the tropics, and still there is some on’t that I never felt willin’ that Josiah Allen should read—I felt that it would be resky to allow it. As I looked at his signature I instinctively sez over to myself a verse of hisen, that always seemed to be kinder open-hearted, and ownin’ up, and had a good deal of human nater in it. Some despair and some plain curosity—they always seem to touch a chord in everybody’s nater—I guess that most everybody sometimes feels jest about so, jest so kinder curous to know what is comin’ next—
“My whole life was a contest since the day
That gave me being—
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay;
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive!”
Wall, he see the last thing arrive that we know anything about here. What come next, after he shet his eyes in Greece (dyin’ nobly, anyway) we can’t tell. But probble the one who formed that strange soul knew jest what it needed the most, and deserved.