ners. If a man can only, in early life, get into his
head that it is essentially bad manners to thrust himself forward, and
determine rather to encourage others to speak out what is in their
minds, a habit can be acquired; and probably, upon acquaintance, an
interest in the point of view of others will grow. That is not a very
lofty solution, but I believe it to be a practical one; and certainly
for a man of egotistic nature it is a severe and fruitful lesson to
read the lives of two such self-absorbed characters as Spencer and
Farrar, and to see, in the one case, how ugly and distorting a fault,
in the other, how hampering a burden it may become.

Egotism is really a failure of sympathy, a failure of justice, a
failure of proportion, and to recognise this is the first step towards
establishing a desire to be loving, just, and well-balanced.

But still the mystery remains: and I think that perhaps the most
wholesome attitude is to be grateful for what in the way of work, of
precept, of example these men achieved, and to leave the mystery of
their faults to their Maker, in the noble spirit of Gray's Elegy:--

"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God."

--Ever yours,

T. B.

MONK'S ORCHARD,
UPTON,
Nov. 8, 1904.

DEAR HERBERT,--I have been trying to read the letters of T. E. Brown.
Do you know anything about him? He was a Manxman by birth, a fellow of
Oriel, a Clifton Master for many years, and at the end of his life a
Manxman again--he held a living there. He wrote some spirited tales in
verse, in the Manx vernacular, and he was certainly a poet at heart. He
was fond of music, and a true lover of nature. He had a genius for
friendship, and evidently had the gift of inspiring other people;
high-minded and intelligent men speak of him, in the little memoir that
precedes the letters, with a pathetic reverence and a profound belief
in the man's originality, and even genius. I was so sure that I should
enjoy the book that I ordered it before it was published, and, when it
appeared, it was a very profound disappointment. I don't mean to say
that there are not beautiful things in it; it shows one a wholesome
nature and a grateful, kindly heart; but, in the first place, he writes
a terrible style, the kind of style that imposes on simple people
because it i