I saw in my dreams visions, of exquisite forms and faces that I longed to transfer to my canvas, but I could never succeed in the attempt.

My hand seemed to have lost all skill.

About this time my father died, and I, having no other relation in the world, and no ties of home to cling to, lived in utter solitude, and tortured my brain more and more with the one question that baffled and perplexed me.

I became moody and irritable; I avoided intercourse with everyone, and at last sleep forsook my eyes.

Then came a terrible season of feverish trouble, nervous dejection and despair.