It Is A Strange Feeling For A

The Air Of Fashion, Which Many Young People Are So Eager To Attain, Always Strikes Me Like The Studied Attitudes Of Some Modern Prints, Copied With Tasteless Servility After The Antigue; The Soul Is Left Out, And None Of The Parts Are Tied Together By What May Properly Be Termed Character.

Our Feelings Probably Are Not Less Strong At Fifty Than They Were Ten Or Fifteen Years Before; But They Have Changed Their Objects, And Dwell On Far Different Prospects. At Five-and-thirty A Man Thinks Of What His Own Existence Is; When The Maturity Of Age Has Grown Into Its Autumn, He Is Wrapt Up In That Of Others. The Loss Of Wife Or Child Then Becomes More Deplorable, As Being Impossible To Repair; For No Fresh Connection Can Give Us Back The Companion Of Our Earlier Years, Nor A "new-sprung Race" Compensate For That, Whose Career We Hoped To See Run.

So Much Has Been Done, Exclaimed The Soul Of Frankenstein - More, Far More, Will I Achieve; Treading In The Steps Already Marked, I Will Pioneer A New Way, Explore Unknown Powers, And Unfold To The World The Deepest Mysteries Of Creation.

At The Age Of Twenty Six I Am In The Condition Of An Aged Person - All My Old Friends Are Gone... & My Heart Fails When I Think By How Few Ties I Hold To The World.

To Examine The Causes Of Life, We Must First Have Recourse To Death.