Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long, dim chamber, whispered sedately—“He may write once. So kind is his nature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it _cannot_ be continued—it _may_ not be repeated. Great were that folly which should build on such a promise—insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught, for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons.” I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear with the chill blue lips of eld. “If,” muttered she, “if he _should_ write, what then? Do you meditate pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart—no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling—give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly exchange: foster no genial intercommunion….” “But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,” I pleaded. “No,” said she, “I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority—no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp your language….” “But,” I again broke in, “where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can achieve?” Reason only answered, “At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer its influence to animate any writing of yours!” “But if I feel, may I _never_ express?” “_Never!_” declared Reason.