THE YOUNG AUTHOR'S DREAM.
'One more Unfortunate.'
Alone in a garret where cobwebs hang thick
Over walls that display the bare mortar and brick,
Whose windows look down on the roofs of back sheds,
From a height that would dizzy the coolest of heads,
A young author sits by a rickety stand,
In a broken-backed chair, with a pen in his hand,
And patiently toils ere the sunlight shall fade
To black the last quire of a ream of 'white laid.'
The shadows have deepened that hang on the wall;
But the Finis is written, the pen is let fall;
And, glad of a respite from labors complete,
His hands and his head press the last written sheet.
Sleep comes not alone; for the goddess of dreams
Is accustomed to visit this blacker of reams.
Like the man that sits under a monster balloon,
And soars o'er the earth halfway up to the moon,
Now stepping at once into Fancy's fair car,
He sails from the dusky old garret afar;
And, leaving the world with its practical crowds,
Such visions as these meet his gaze in the clouds:
THE DREAM.
Forty large editions
Of the 'thrilling tale;'
Forty thousand dollars,
Net proceeds of sale.
Forty smiling critics
Lavishing their praise;
Forty famous florists
Bidding for the bays.
Forty thousand maidens
Sitting up at night,
Poring o'er the volume
With intense delight.
Forty thousand letters
From the country sent,
Blurred by frequent teardrops,
Filled with sentiment.
Forty scheming mothers
Anxious for a match;
Forty blushing daughters,
Each a glorious catch.
Forty generations
Reverence his name;
Forty future ages
Fortify his fame.
THE REALITY.
Forty dunning letters
Coming every day;
Forty cents for washing,
Which he cannot pay.
Forty jokes malicious
Cracked by forty wags;
Forty pert young misses
Sneering at his rags.
Forty old companions
Wondering at his mood;
Forty friends officious
Preaching fortitude.
Forty days of sadness;
Forty nights of sorrow;
Forty dark forebodings
Hanging o'er the morrow.
Forty hempen inches
Borrowed from a friend;
Rafter at the upper,
Neck at lower, end.
Forty earthy spadefuls
On the green hillside;
Forty lines of 'local,'
Telling now he died.
THE GREAT LAKES TO ST. PAUL.
Toward the close of July, 1860, our party gathered at Canaudaigua, that beautiful piece of Swiss overland scenery, transported to Western New York. Its Indian name, signifying 'the chosen place,' was not inapt for our meeting ground.
By the 31st of July we were at Cleveland, Ohio, over the Buffalo and Lake Shore Railway and New York Central. It was a beautiful day's ride, the most of the way skirting the lake, whose broad expanse gleamed in the sunshine, and bore many a sail and propeller to the great havens of its commerce. The railway borders fine towns and farms, formed by the dense settlement of the oak openings and groves of the Western Reserve of Ohio, which was purchased from the Holland Land Company, by a company from Connecticut, of whom General Cleveland, who names the present city, was the agent.
Cleveland city, with about forty thousand population, lies on Lake Erie, at the mouth of the Cuyahoga River, which forms its harbor. It is well built, chiefly of the light graystone of the vicinity, upon a declivity shaded with trees, among which the buckeye hickory abounds, has many fine dwellings, and presents a fair front to the lake view.