It is as clear to me as sunshine … that the greatest possible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and improvement, are these heaps of bricks, and stones, … which men painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home! The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it … There is no such unwholesome atmosphere as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one's defunct forefathers and relatives! I speak of what I know! There is a certain house within my familiar recollection …

I could never draw cheerful breath there! … And it were a relief to me, if that house could be torn down, or burnt up, and so the earth be rid of it … For, Sir, the farther I get away from it, the more does the joy, the lightsome freshness, the heart-leap … come back to me … a great weight being off my mind.

What we call real estate – the solid ground to build a house on – is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this world rests.

But who is he whose massive frame belies

The maiden shyness of his downcast eyes?

Who broods in silence till, by questions pressed,

Some answer struggles from his laboring breast?

An artist meant to dwell apart,

Locked in his studio with a human heart.