as a child; how I love it now! But this is not the case with the
Venite; its noble simplicity and directness has no touch of intentional
subtlety about it. Rather the subtlety was in the true insight, which
saw that, if ever there was a Psalm which should at once give the reins
to joy, and at the same time pierce the careless heart with a sharp
arrow of thought, this was the Psalm.

I feel as if I had been trying in this letter to do as Mr. Interpreter
did--to have you into a room full of besoms and spiders, and to draw a
pretty moral out of it all. But I am sure that the beauty of this
particular Psalm, and of its position, is one of those things that is
only spoilt for us by familiarity; and that it is a duty in life to try
and break through the crust of familiarity which tends to be deposited
round well-known things, and to see how bright and joyful a jewel shows
its heart of fire beneath.

I have been hoping for a letter; but no doubt it is all right. I am
before my time, I see.--Ever yours,

T. B.

UPTON,
Oct. 25, 1904.

DEAR HERBERT,--I have been studying, with a good deal of interest, two
books, the Letters of Professor A----, and the Life of Bishop F----.
Given the form, I think the editor of the letters has done his work
well. His theory has been to let the Professor speak for himself; while
he himself stands, like a discreet and unobtrusive guide, and just says
what is necessary in the right place. In this he is greatly to be
commended; for it happens too often that biographers of eminent men use
their privilege to do a little adventitious self-advertisement. They
blow their own trumpets; they stand and posture courteously in the
ante-room, when what one desires is to go straight into the presence.

I once had a little piece of biography to do which necessitated my
writing requests for reminiscences to several of the friends of the
subject of my book. I never had such a strange revelation of human
nature. A very few people gave me just what I wanted to know--facts,
and sayings, and trenchant actions. A second class of correspondents
told me things which had a certain value--episodes in which my hero
appeared, but intermingled with many of their own opinions, doings, and
sayings. A third class wrote almost exclusively about themselves, using
my hero as a peg to hang their own remarks upon. The worst offender of
all wrote me long reminiscences of his own conversations, in the
following style: "H