Live, And Be Happy, And Make Others

The Modern Masters Promise Very Little

I Shall Commit My Thoughts To Paper, It Is True; But That Is A Poor Medium For The Communication Of Feeling. I Desire The Company Of A Man Who Could Sympathize With Me, Whose Eyes Would Reply To Mine.

It Would Be An Endless Task To Trace The Variety Of Meannesses, Cares, And Sorrows Into Which Women Are Plunged By The Prevailing Opinion That They Were Created Rather To Feel Than Reason.

But Soon, I Shall Die, And What I Now Feel Be No Longer Felt. Soon These Burning Miseries Will Be Extinct.

My Own Mind Began To Grow, Watchful With Anxoius Thoughts.