him even of the little he has, and hurl him into the very vortex of life, see him struggle and fight and come out a conqueror.  I see in him the germs of so much greatness that I cannot believe he was meant to dream his days away on the heather.  It was right of him, certainly, to break from a course of life he felt himself unable to pursue, and right it is also that he should pause now, and breathe, and feel his wings.  But it will soon be time for energy and action.  We are not here for ourselves only; there is so much to be done.  And if I am often discontented with myself for the futility of my dreams, for sitting here a mere spectator, as it were, of struggles that I long to share, yet know not how, greater still is my impatience at the sight of one wasting his days in mere speculation, who, having all the strength, the manhood, that I lack, might leap into the very thick of the fight, Truth’s warrior.

He tells me that he has written a great deal, and has promised to bring me a bundle of poems to read at my leisure.  “You must understand,” said he, “that you will be the only one to whom I ever showed them.”  I feel very proud.

To revert to what I said above, I believe, too, that it is very bad for any man not to have a fixed occupation; however great his natural energy may be, it either relaxes with time, or expends itself uselessly.  The mere thinker often ends by hovering on the confines of lunacy.

Good-bye, dear love. 
Your Emilia.

LETTER XIX.

Graysmill, November 30th.

I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that crossed mine, but principally because I feel that I must write you a few words before I go to sleep.  I have just gone through Gabriel’s poems, and am beside myself with wonder.  Constance, the creature is a genius.  I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his life.  No, I’ll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh.  Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,—­and he too.

December 1st.

We had a walk this afternoon.  He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a cold.  How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!

We had a great altercation about his poems.  I could not speak of them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might have used must have sounded fulsome flattery.  But later on, I asked:—­

“Have you thought of a publisher for your verse?”

He shook his head and made a face at me.

“You must certainly publish those poems,” I said; “you surely know that they are unusually beautiful, and that you have no right to keep them to yourself.”

“Dear Emilia,” he answered, “I like to hear this from you, but you are mistaken.  My poems are not so remarkable as you imagine; you are too near a friend to be a fair judge.  They are intensely subjective,—­that is, by the way, one of their faults; they reflect me; therefore you, who know me well and care for me, find them sympathetic.  That’s the whole of the tale.”