—–­What did she do?—­Why, she read, and she drew pictures, and she did needlework patterns, and played on an old harp she had; the gilt was mostly off, but it sounded very sweet, and she sung to it sometimes, those old songs that used to be in fashion twenty or thirty years ago, with words to ’em that folks could understand.

Did she do anything to help support herself?—­The Landlady couldn’t say she did, but she thought there was rich people enough that ought to buy the flowers and things she worked and painted.

All this points to the fact that she was bred to be an ornamental rather than what is called a useful member of society.  This is all very well so long as fortune favors those who are chosen to be the ornamental personages; but if the golden tide recedes and leaves them stranded, they are more to be pitied than almost any other class.  “I cannot dig, to beg I am ashamed.”

I think it is unpopular in this country to talk much about gentlemen and gentlewomen.  People are touchy about social distinctions, which no doubt are often invidious and quite arbitrary and accidental, but which it is impossible to avoid recognizing as facts of natural history.  Society stratifies itself everywhere, and the stratum which is generally recognized as the uppermost will be apt to have the advantage in easy grace of manner and in unassuming confidence, and consequently be more agreeable in the superficial relations of life.  To compare these advantages with the virtues and utilities would be foolish.  Much of the noblest work in life is done by ill-dressed, awkward, ungainly persons; but that is no more reason for undervaluing good manners and what we call high-breeding, than the fact that the best part of the sturdy labor of the world is done by men with exceptionable hands is to be urged against the use of Brown Windsor as a preliminary to appearance in cultivated society.

I mean to stand up for this poor lady, whose usefulness in the world is apparently problematical.  She seems to me like a picture which has fallen from its gilded frame and lies, face downward, on the dusty floor.  The picture never was as needful as a window or a door, but it was pleasant to see it in its place, and it would be pleasant to see it there again, and I, for one, should be thankful to have the Lady restored by some turn of fortune to the position from which she has been so cruelly cast down.

—­I have asked the Landlady about the young man sitting near her, the same who attracted my attention the other day while I was talking, as I mentioned.  He passes most of his time in a private observatory, it appears; a watcher of the stars.  That I suppose gives the peculiar look to his lustrous eyes.  The Master knows him and was pleased to tell me something about him.

You call yourself a Poet,—­he said,—­and we call you so, too, and so you are; I read your verses and like ’em.  But that young man lives in a world beyond the imagination of poets, let me tell you.  The daily home of his thought is in illimitable space, hovering between the two eternities.  In his contemplations the divisions of time run together, as in the thought of his Maker.  With him also,—­I say it not profanely,—­one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day.