In timely illustration of some of this is an article by Ingersoll in the current _North American Review_--I shall send it you. It will be nothing new to you; the fate of the philanthropist who gives out of his brain and heart instead of his pocket--having nothing in that--is already known to you. It serves him richly right, too, for his low taste in loving. He who dilutes, spreads, subdivides, the love which naturally _all_ belongs to his family and friends (if they are good) should not complain of non-appreciation. Love those, help those, whom from personal knowledge you know to be worthy. To love and help others is treason to _them_. But, bless my soul! I did not mean to say all this. But while you seem clear as to your own art, you seem undecided as to the one you wish to take up. I know the strength and sweetness of the illusions (that is, _de_lusions) that you are required to forego. I know the abysmal ignorance of the world and human character which, as a girl, you necessarily have. I know the charm that inheres in the beckoning of the Britomarts, as they lean out of their dream to persuade you to be as like them as is compatible with the fact that you exist. But I believe, too, that if you are set thinking--not reading--you will find the light. You ask me of journalism. It is so low a thing that it _may_ be legitimately used as a means of reform or a means of anything deemed worth accomplishing. It is not an art; art, except in the greatest moderation, is damaging to it. The man who can write well must not write as well as he can; the others may, of course. Journalism has many purposes, and the people's welfare _may_ be one of them; though that is not the purpose-in-chief, by much. I don't mind your irony about my looking upon the unfortunate as merely "literary material." It is true in so far as I consider them _with reference to literature_. Possibly I might be willing to help them otherwise--as your father might be willing to help a beggar with money, who is not picturesque enough to go into a picture. As you might be willing to give a tramp a dinner, yet unwilling to play "The Sweet Bye-and-Bye," or "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay," to tickle his ear. You call me "master." Well, it is pleasant to think of you as a pupil, but--you know the young squire had to watch his arms all night before the day of his accolade and investiture with knighthood. I think I'll ask you to contemplate yours a little longer before donning them--not by way of penance but instruction and consecration. When you are quite sure of the nature of your _call_ to write--quite sure that it is _not_ the voice of "duty"--then let me do you such slight, poor service as my limitations and the injunctions of circumstance permit. In a few ways I can help you. * * * * *