Where are the pictures I should have given to the world? Where my
record of the wrongs and outrages of my age; of the sorrows and
joys; the trials and triumphs, that should have been written amid
autumn and sunset glories in the eloquent faces and speaking forms
which have everywhere presented themselves, begging to be
interpreted? Why have I never put on canvas one pair of those
pleading eyes, in which are garnered the woes of centuries?
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