Every young sculptor seems to think that he must give the world some specimen of indecorous womanhood, and call it Eve, Venus, a Nymph, or any name that may apologize for a lack of decent clothing.

The greatest obstacle to being heroic is the doubt whether one may going to prove one's self a fool.

Or-but this more rarely happened-she would be convulsed with a rage of grief, and sob out her love for her mother, in broken words, and seem intent on proving that she had a heart, by breaking it.

It loves more readily than it hates.

Not yet hardened, many young die good.

She wanted—what some people want throughout life—a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanize and make her capable of sympathy.

I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh it was. My very heart leapt with the sound.