But it enabled Mr.Ruskin to do it, and it has enabled me to do it, and I am thankful for it.

A Boston newspaper reporter went and took a look at the Slave Ship floundering about in that fierce conflagration of reds and yellows, and said it reminded him of a tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes.

In my then uneducated state, that went home to my non-cultivation, and I thought here is a man with an unobstructed eye.
Mr.Ruskin would have said: This person is an ass.

That is what I would say, now.
Months after this was written, I happened into the National Gallery in London, and soon became so fascinated with the Turner pictures that I could hardly get away from the place.

I went there often, afterward, meaning to see the rest of the gallery, but the Turner spell was too strong; it could not be shaken off.