An Artist Cannot Do Anything Slovenly.

Her Form, Though Not So Correct As Her Sister's, In Having The Advantage Of Height, Was More Striking; And Her Face Was So Lovely, That When In The Common Cant Of Praise She Was Called A Beautiful Girl, Truth Was Less Violently Outraged Than Usually Happens.

But It Is Very Foolish To Ask Questions About Any Young Ladies — About Any Three Sisters Just Grown Up; For One Knows, Without Being Told, Exactly What They Are — All Very Accomplished And Pleasing, And One Very Pretty. There Is A Beauty In Every Family. — It Is A Regular Thing

I Can Recollect Nothing More To Say At Present; Perhaps Breakfast May Assist My Ideas. I Was Deceived -- My Breakfast Supplied Only Two Ideas -- That The Rolls Were Good And The Butter Bad.

I Do Not Think I Ever Opened A Book In My Life Which Had Not Something To Say Upon Woman's Inconstancy. Songs And Proverbs, All Talk Of Woman's Fickleness. But Perhaps You Will Say, These Were All Written By Men.

There Is Something In The Eloquence Of The Pulpit, When It Is Really Eloquence, Which Is Entitled To The Highest Praise And Honour. The Preacher Who Can Touch And Affect Such An Heterogeneous Mass Of Hearers, On Subjects Limited, And Long Worn Thread-bare In All Common Hands; Who Can Say Any Thing New Or Striking, Any Thing That Rouses The Attention, Without Offending The Taste, Or Wearing Out The Feelings Of His Hearers, Is A Man Whom One Could Not (in His Public Capacity) Honour Enough.