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Chapter 17

           Butyoudonotknowmereally—youareattractedbymyfaceandform—andyouadmiremyyouthandinnocence,whichyouthinkIpossess.ButIamnotyoung—Iamoldinheartandfeeling.IwasyoungforalittlewhileatWillowsmere,whenIlivedamongflowersandbirdsandallthetrustfulhonestcreaturesofthewoodsandfields—butoneseasonintownwassufficienttokillmyyouthinme—oneseasonofdinnersandballs,and—fashionablenovel-reading.Nowyouhavewrittenabook,andthereforeyoumustknowsomethingaboutthedutiesofauthorship—oftheseriousandeventerribleresponsibilitywritersincurwhentheysendouttotheworldbooksfullofperniciousandpoisonoussuggestiontocontaminatethemindsthathavehithertobeencleanandundiseased.Yourbookhasanoblemotive;andforthisIadmireitinmanyparts,thoughtomeitisnotasconvincingasitmighthavebeen.Itiswellwrittentoo;butIgainedtheimpressionwhilereadingit,thatyouwerenotaltogethersincereyourselfinthethoughtsyoustrovetoinculcate—andthatthereforeyoujustmissedwhatyoushouldhavegained."

           "Iamsureyouareright,"—Isaid,withawholesomepangofhumiliation—"Thebookisworthlessasliterature—itisonlythe‘boom’ofaseason!"

           "Atanyrate,"—shewenton,hereyesdarkeningwiththeintensityofherfeeling—"youhavenotpollutedyourpenwiththevilenesscommontomanyoftheauthorsoftheday.

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