I think that you might happily fill up a great portion of your
life with literature (I am convinced that you have considerable
talent and might become eminent) and a small portion with works of
benevolence, just to keep us in love and charity with our poor
neighbours; and the rest I do not grudge to society and hunting.
Do you think that I am a hard taskmaster? Not very, I think. More
especially as you will not be led away by my good advice. You see
that I cannot bear to think of you hunting and ballet-dancing when
you are "fair, fat and forty-five." Do prepare yourself for that
awful age.

I went to see Mrs. H. Ward the other day: she insists on doing
battle with the reviewer in the Quarterly, and is thinking of
another novel, of which the subject will be the free-thinking of
honest working-men in Paris and elsewhere. People say that in
"Robert Elsmere" Rose is intended for you, Catherine for your
sister Laura, the Squire for Mark Pattison, the Provost for me,
etc., and Mr. Grey for Professor Green. All the portraits are
about equally unlike the originals.

Good-bye, you have been sitting with me for nearly an hour, and
now, like Laodamia or Protesilaus, you disappear. I have been the
better for your company. One serious word: May God bless you and
help you in this and every other great hurt of life.

Ever yours,

B. JOWETT.

I will publish all his letters to me together, as, however