Amid the howling storm,
He hears his children shout, Hurrah!
Amid the howling storm," etc., etc.

Few men ever elaborated as he did,--not even Rousseau, when he wrote
over whole pages and chapters of his "Confessions," I forget how many
times. Fine thoughts were never spontaneous with him, never unexpected,
never unwaited for,--never, certainly till long after he had got his
growth. In fact, some of the happiest passages we have seem to be
engraved, letter by letter, instead of being written at once, or
launched away into the stillness, like a red-hot thunderbolt. Well do I
remember a little incident which occurred in Baltimore, soon after the
failure of Pierpont and Lord--and Neal, when we were all dying of sheer
inaction, and almost ready to hang ourselves--in a metaphorical
sense--as the shortest way of scoring off with the world.

We were at breakfast,--it was rather late.

"Where on earth is your good husband?" said I to Mrs. Pierpont.

"In bed, making poetry," said she.

"Indeed!"

"Yes, flat on his back, with his eyes rolled up in his head."

Soon after, the gentleman himself appeared, looking somewhat the worse
for the labor he had gone through with, and all the happier, that the
throes were over, and the offspring ready for exhibition. "Here," said
he, "tell me what you think of these two lines,"--handing me a paper on