He was like some young preachers who spend a part
of the Saturday in reading this or that author, in order to
_get up_ the mental condition favorable to preaching on the
Sunday. He was really fond of poetry; delighted in the study of
its external elements for the sake of his craft; possessed not
only a good but cultivated ear for verse, which is a rare thing
out of the craft; had true pleasure in a fine phrase, in a strong
or brilliant word; last and chief, had a special faculty for
imitation; from which gifts, graces, and acquirements, it came,
that he could write almost in any style that moved him--so far,
at least, as to remind one who knew it, of that style; and that
every now and then appeared verses of his in "The Firefly."
As often as this took place, Letty was in the third heaven of
delight. For was not Tom's poetry unquestionably superior to
anything else the age could produce? was the poetry Cousin
Godfrey made her read once to be compared to Tom's? and was not
Tom her own husband? Happy woman she!
But, by the time at which my narrative has arrived, the first
mist of a coming fog had begun to gather faintly dim in her
heart. When Tom would come home happy, but talk perplexingly;
when he would drop asleep in the middle of a story she could make
nothing of; when he would burst out and go on laughing, and
refuse to explain the motive--how was she to avoid the conclusion
forced upon her, that he had taken too much strong drink? and,
when she noted that this condition reappeared at shorter and
shorter intervals, might she not well begin to be frightened, and
to feel, what she dared not allow, that she was being gradually
left alone--that Tom had struck into a diverging path, and they
were slowing parting miles from each other?
CHAPTER XXVIII.
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