ll bring with them but too much.

"But do not suppose that I disparage the gift which you possess; nor that
I would discourage you from exercising it. I only exhort you so to think
of it, and so to use it, as to render it conducive to your own permanent
good. Write poetry for its own sake; not in a spirit of emulation, and
not with a view to celebrity; the less you aim at that the more likely
you will be to deserve and finally to obtain it. So written, it is
wholesome both for the heart and soul; it may be made the surest means,
next to religion, of soothing the mind and elevating it. You may embody
in it your best thoughts and your wisest feelings, and in so doing
discipline and strengthen them.

"Farewell, madam. It is not because I have forgotten that I was once
young myself, that I write to you in this strain; but because I remember
it. You will neither doubt my sincerity nor my good will; and however
ill what has here been said may accord with your present views and
temper, the longer you live the more reasonable it will appear to you.
Though I may be but an ungracious adviser, you will allow me, therefore,
to subscribe myself, with the best wishes for your happiness here and
hereafter, your true friend,

"ROBERT SOUTHEY."

* * * * *

I was with Miss Bronte when she received Mr. Cuthbert Southey's note,
requesting her permission to insert the foregoing letter in his father's
life. She said to me, "Mr. Southey's letter was kind and admirable; a
little stringent, but it did me good."

It is partly because I think it so admirable, and partly because it tends
to bring out her character, as shown in the following reply, that I have
taken the liberty of inserting the foregoing extracts from it.

"Sir, March 16th.

"I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, even though by
addressing you a second time I should appear a little intrusive; but I
must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have condescended to
give me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply; so considerate
in its tone, so noble in its spirit. I must suppress what I feel, or
you will think me foolishly enthusiastic.

"At the first perusal of your letter, I felt only shame and regret
that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody; I felt
a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I
had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was