I thought of my poor
mother, and of the excellent parting advice she gave me,--but more
particularly of the night-caps with strings, which she extracted such a
solemn promise from me to wear carefully every night in all climates, and
which, on the second evening of my sojourn in barracks, were so
unceremoniously reduced to ashes in a noisy _auto-da-fe_. These
retrospective pictures were succeeded by others of more modern date,
coming round in a progressive series, until I had painted myself up to
within a few weeks of my present position, the foreground of my existence.
Then I remembered promises made by me of contributions to a certain
album,--further contributions,--for I had already furnished several pages
of it with food for mind and eye in the form of melancholy verses and
"funny" sketches, with brief dramatic dialogues beneath the latter, to
elucidate the "story." I particularly recollected having volunteered a
translation or imitation of a pretty song in Ruy Blas; and as the fit was
upon me, I produced my pocketbook, to commit to paper a version of it
which I had mentally devised. The leaves of my book were all filled,
however; some with memoranda,--a sort of savage diary it was,--some with
sketches of scenes in the wilderness: there was not a corner vacant.
Turning towards the planking of my bulwark, I perceived that it was
smoothly planed and clean, and to work on it I went, pencil in hand.
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