More than that, and by far the worst, if I have not gone back in my art these six months, I have at least stood still, and to me this is the most trying reflection of all.

I have been immured in the paralyzing atmosphere of trade till my mind was near partaking the infection.

I have been listening to the grovelling, avaricious devotees of mammon, whose souls are narrowed to the studious contemplation of a hard-earned shilling, whose leaden imaginations never soared above the prospect of a good bargain, and whose _summum bonum_ is the inspiring idea of counting a hundred thousand: I say I have been listening to these miserly beings till the idea did not seem so repugnant of lowering my noble art to a trade, of painting for money, of degrading myself and the soul-enlarging art which I possess, to the narrow idea of merely getting money.
Fie on myself! I am ashamed of myself; no, never will I degrade myself by making a trade of a profession.

If I cannot live a gentleman, I will starve a gentleman.

But I will dismiss this unpleasant subject, the particulars of which I can better relate to you than write.