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 The problem which presents itself to the professional man of letters might be illustrated by that most pathetic autobiography of Mrs. Oliphant which has, I think, been rather harshly judged. Mrs. Oliphant thought (and, as I believe, with some justice) that, if freed from pecuniary pressure, she could have rivalled some more successful authors, and possibly have written a novel fit to stand on the same shelf with Adam Bede. She resigned her chance of such fame because she wished to send her sons to Eton. It is, of course, clear enough that, if she had sent them to some humbler school, she might have come nearer to combining the two aims, and have kept her family without sacrificing her talents to over-production. But, granting the force of the dilemma, I confess that I honour rather than blame the choice. I take it to be better for a parent to do his (or her) parental duty than to sacrifice the duty to art or the demands of posterity. Perhaps that is because I have a low opinion of the intrinsic value of artistic masterpieces. But I refer to Mrs. Oliphant merely to emphasise Southey's peculiarity. To him there scarcely appeared to be any dilemma at all. He says in an early letter that he has sacrificed prospects of wealth and rank to 'one overwhelming