rs of
heaven, came to my thirsty spirit like a draught of clear spring water.
And, at the end of all, Mendelssohn's great G major fugue gave the note
of courage and endurance that I needed, the strong notes marching
solemnly and joyfully on their appointed way.

I left the cathedral, through the gathering twilight, peaceful,
hopeful, and invigorated, as a cripple dipped in the healing well.
While music is in the world, God abides among us. Ever since the day
that David soothed Saul by his sweet harp and artless song, music has
thus beguiled the heaviness of the spirit. Yet there is the mystery,
that the emotion seems to soar so much higher and dive so much deeper
than the notes that evoke it! The best argument for immortality, I
think.

Now that I have written so much, I feel that I am, perhaps,
inconsiderate in speaking so much of the healing music which you cannot
obtain. But get your wife to play to you, in a quiet and darkened room,
some of the things you love best. It is not the same as the cathedral,
with all its glory and its ancient, dim tradition, but it will serve.

And, meanwhile, think as little of your depression as you can; it won't
poison the future; just endure it like a present pain; the moment one
can do that, the victory is almost won.

The worst of the grim mood is that it seems to tear away all the
pretences with which we beguile our sadness, and to reveal the truth.
But it is only that truth which lies at the bottom of the well; and
there are fathoms of clear water lying above it, which are quite as
true as the naked fact below. That is all the philosophy I can extract
from such depression, and, in some mysterious way, it helps us, after
all, when it is over; makes us stronger, more patient, more
compassionate; and it is worth some suffering, if one lays hold of true
experience instead of wasting time in querulous
self-commiseration.--Affectionately yours,

T. B.

UPTON,
Dec. 12, 1904.

MY DEAR HERBERT,--I have lately been reading in a whimsical and
discursive fashion--you know the mood--turning the pages, and yet not
finding the repose one demands in a book.

One thought emerges from such hours; and as I cannot to-day write you a
long letter, I will just try and shape my ideas in a few sentences,
hoping that you will be able to supplement or correct it.

Is not the one thing which, after all, one demands in art, PERSONALITY?
A perfectly sincere and direct point of view? It mat