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?