He Is Dead Who Called Me Into

I Am Very Averse To Bringing Myself Forward In Print, But As My Account Will Only Appear As An Appendage To A Former Production, And As It Will Be Confined To Such Topics As Have Connection With My Authorship Alone, I Can Hardly Accuse Myself Of A Personal Intrusion.

Elegance Is Inferior To Virtue.

But I Am A Blasted Tree; The Bolt Has Entered My Soul; And I Felt Then That I Should Survive To Exhibit What I Shall Soon Cease To Be - A Miserable Spectacle Of Wrecked Humanity, Pitiable To Others And Intolerable To Myself.

There Is Something At Work In My Soul Which I Do Not Understand. I Am Practically Industrious - Painstaking, A Workman To Execute With Perseverance And Labour - But Besides This There Is A Love For The Marvellous, A Belief In The Marvellous, Intertwined In All My Projects, Which Hurries Me Out Of The Common Pathways Of Men, Even To The Wild Sea And Unvisited Regions I Am About To Explore.

Nothing Is More Painful To The Human Mind Than, After The Feelings Have Been Worked Up By A Quick Succession Of Events, The Dead Calmness Of Inaction And Certainty Which Follows And Deprives The Soul Both Of Hope And Fear.