The art of the pen (we write on darkness) is to rouse the inward vision, instead of labouring with a Drop-scene brush, as if it were to the eye; because our flying minds cannot contain a protracted description.

That is why the poets, who spring imagination with a word or a phrase, paint lasting pictures.

The Shakespearian, the Dantesque, are in a line, two at most.
He lends an attentive ear when I speak, agrees or has a quaint pucker of the eyebrows dissenting inwardly.

He lacks mental liveliness--cheerfulness, I should say, and is thankful to have it imparted.

One suspects he would be a dull domestic companion.