The Mind Is But A Barren Soil;

The Distinct Blue, Red, And Yellow Colors... Though They Have Not The Kind Of Harmony Which Is Produced By A Variety Of Broken And Transparent Colors, Have The Effect Of Grandeur.

Gardening As Far As Gardening Is Art, Or Entitled To That Appellation, Is A Deviation From Nature; For If The True Taste Consists, As Many Hold, In Banishing Every Appearance Of Art, Or Any Traces Of The Footsteps Of Man, It Would Then Be No Longer A Garden.

But Young Men Have Not Only This Frivolous Ambition Of Being Thought Masters Of Execution, Inciting Them On The One Hand, But Also Their Natural Sloth Tempting Them On The Other. They Are Terrified At The Prospect Before Them, Of The Toil Required To Attain Exactness. The Impetuosity Of Youth Is Disgusted At The Slow Approaches Of A Regular Siege, And Desires, From Mere Impatience Of Labour, To Take The Citadel By Storm. They Wish To Find Some Shorter Path To Excellence, And Hope To Obtain The Reward Of Eminence By Other Means, Than Those Which The Indispensable Rules Of Art Have Prescribed.

A Passion For His Art, And An Eager Desire To Excel, Will More Than Supply An Artist With The Place Of Method.

Poetry Operates By Raising Our Curiosity, Engaging The Mind By Degrees To Take An Interest In The Event, Keeping That Event Suspended, And Surprising At Last With An Unexpected Catastrophe. The Painter's Art Is More Confined, And Has Nothing That Corresponds With, Or Perhaps Is Equivalent To, This Power And Advantage Of Leading The Mind On, Till Attention Is Totally Engaged. What Is Done By Painting, Must Be Done At One Blow; Curiosity Has Received At Once All The Satisfaction It Can Ever Have.