An Artist Cannot Do Anything Slovenly.

I Have Read Your Book, And I Disapprove.

Dearest, Loveliest Elizabeth! What Do I Not Owe You! You Taught Me A Lesson, Hard Indeed At First, But Most Advantageous. By You, I Was Properly Humbled.

We Do Not Suffer By Accident.

We Certainly Do Not Forget You As Soon As You Forget Us. It Is, Perhaps, Our Fate Rather Than Our Merit. We Cannot Help Ourselves. We Live At Home, Quiet, Confined, And Our Feelings Prey Upon Us. You Are Forced On Exertion. You Have Always A Profession, Pursuits, Business Of Some Sort Or Other, To Take You Back Into The World Immediately, And Continual Occupation And Change Soon Weaken Impressions.

I Cannot Help Thinking That It Is More Natural To Have Flowers Grow Out Of The Head Than Fruit.