Nature Seemed To Me Benign And Good;

For A Long Time The Fear Of Seeming Singular Scared Me Away; But By Degrees, As People Became Accustomed To Me And My Habits, And To Such Shadows Of Peculiarity As Were Engrained In My Nature - Shades, Certainly Not Striking Enough To Interest, And Perhaps Not Prominent Enough To Offend, But Born In And With Me, And No More To Be Parted With Than My Identity - But Slow Degrees I Became A Frequenter Of This Straight Narrow Path.

My Sister Emily Loved The Moors. Flowers Brighter Than The Rose Bloomed In The Blackest Of The Heath For Her; Out Of A Sullen Hollow In A Livid Hillside Her Mind Could Make An Eden. She Found In The Bleak Solitude Many And Dear Delights; And Not The Least And Best-loved Was – Liberty.

I Am Anchored On A Resolve You Cannot Shake. My Heart, My Conscience Shall Dispose Of My Hand - They Only. Know This At Last.

Poverty, For Me, Is Synonymous With Degradation.

Conventionality Is Not Morality. Self-righteousness Is Not Religion. To Attack The First Is Not To Assail The Last.