Oh! these little iron wills, how is a great artist to fight three hundred
and sixty-five days against such an antagonist?

Every day saw a repetition of these dialogues, in which genius made
gallant bursts into the air, and strong, hard sense caught him on his
descent, and dabbed glue on his gauzy wings.

Old age and youth see life so differently. To youth, it is a story-book,
in which we are to command the incidents, and be the bright exceptions to
one rule after another.

To age it is an almanac, in which everything will happen just as it has
happened so many times.

To youth, it is a path through a sunny meadow.

To age, a hard turnpike:

Whose travelers must be all sweat and dust, when they are not in mud and
drenched:

Which wants mending in many places, and is mended with sharp stones.

Gatty would not yield to go down to Newhaven and take a step against his
love, but he yielded so far as to remain passive, and see whether this
creature was necessary to his existence or not. Mrs. G. scouted the idea.
"He was to work, and he would soon forget her." Poor boy! he wanted to
work; his debt weighed on him; a week's resolute labor might finish his
first picture and satisfy his creditor. The subject was an interior. He