Union, why I did not attempt to widen the Church
from within, and why we in Elgood Street are not now in organic
connection with the new Broad Church settlement in East London. I
believe I have written him rather a sharp letter; I could not help it.
It was borne in on me to tell him that it is all owing to him and his
brethren that we are in the muddle we are in to-day. Miracle is to our
time what the law was to the early Christians. We _must_ make up our
minds about it one way or the other. And if we decide to throw it over
as Paul threw over the law, then we must _fight_ as he did. There is no
help in subterfuge, no help in anything but a perfect sincerity. We must
come out of it. The ground must be cleared; then may come the
re-building. Religion itself, the peace of generations to come, is at
stake. If we could wait indefinitely while the Church widened, well and
good. But we have but the one life, the one chance of saying the word or
playing the part assigned us.'

On another occasion, in the convent garden, he broke out with--

'I often lie here, Flaxman, wondering at the way in which men become the
slaves of some metaphysical word--_personality_, or _intelligence_, or
what not! What meaning can they have as applied to _God_? Herbert
Spencer is quite right. We no sooner attempt to define what we mean by a
Personal God than we lose ourselves in labyrinths of language and logic.
But why attempt it at all? I like that French saying, "_Quand on me
demande ce que c'est que Dieu, je l'ignore; quand on ne me le demande
pas, je le sais tres-bien!_" No, we cannot realise Him in words--we can
only live in Him, and die to Him!'

On another occasion, he said, speaking to Catherine of the squire and of
Meyrick's account of his last year of life--

'How selfish one is, _always_--when one least thinks it! How could I
have forgotten him so completely as I did during all that New
Brotherhood time? Where, what is he now? Ah! if somewhere, somehow, one
could----'

He did not finish the sentence, but the painful yearning of his look
finished it for him.

But the days passed on, and the voice grew rarer, the strength feebler.
By the beginning of March all coming downstairs was over. He was
entirely confined to his room, almost to his bed. Then there came a
horrible week, when no narcotics took effect, when every night was a
wrestle for life, which it seemed must be the last. They had a good
nurse, but Flaxman and Catherine most