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Gentler and truer hearts than those of
Nicholas and John Romer there are not many.
I shared my room with another countryman, Anthony Ronne, a young
axe-maker, who, like myself, was in hard luck. The axe-factory had
burned down, and, with no work in sight, the outlook for him was
not exactly bright. He had not my way of laughing it off, but was
rather disposed to see the serious side of it. Probably that was the
reason we took to each other; the balance was restored so. Maybe
he sobered me down somewhat. If any one assumes that in my role
of unhappy lover I went about glooming and glowering on mankind,
he makes a big mistake. Besides, I had not the least notion of
accepting that role as permanent. I was out to twist the wheel of
fortune my way when I could get my hands upon it. I never doubted
that I should do that sooner or later, if only I kept doing things.
That Elizabeth should ever marry anybody but me was preposterously
impossible, no matter what she or anybody said.
Was this madness? They half thought so at home when they caught
a glimpse of it in my letters.


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