The Only Woman To Whom

A Man Who Means To Think And Write A Great Deal Must, After Six And Twenty, Learn To Read With His Fingers.

Who Does Not Observe The Immediate Glow And Security That Is Diffused Over The Life Of Woman, Before Restless Or Fretful, By Engaging In Gardening, Building, Or The Lowest Department Of Art? Here Is Something That Is Not Routine--something That Draws Forth Life Towards The Infinite.

I Stand In The Sunny Noon Of Life. Objects No Longer Glitter In The Dews Of Morning, Neither Are Yet Softened By The Shadows Of Evening.

Essays, Entitled Critical, Are Epistles Addressed To The Public, Through Which The Mind Of The Recluse Relieves Itself Of Its Impressions.

Art Can Only Be Truly Art By Presenting An Adequate Outward Symbol Of Some Fact In The Interior Life.