an to know; and the
setting in which he lives is precisely adapted to this role. Instead of
which it may safely be said that, if he were to announce his departure
from town, it would be received with general and cordial satisfaction
by his fellow-clubmen.

Even if he had not his circle, he might live a quiet, tranquil, and
laborious life in surroundings which are simple and yet dignified.

But the poison is in his system, and it afflicts me to think in how
many systems the same poison is at work nowadays. One sees the frankest
form of it in the desire of third-rate people to amass letters after
their names; but, putting aside all mere vulgar manifestations of it,
how many of us are content to do good, solid, beautiful work unpraised,
unsung, unheeded? I will take my own case, and frankly confess that
what is called recognition is a pleasure to me. I like to have work,
which I have done with energy, enjoyment, and diligence, praised--I
hope because it confirms the verdict of my own mind that it has been
faithfully done. But I can also sincerely say that, as far as literary
work goes, the chief pleasure lies in the doing of it; and I could
write with unabated zest even if there were no question of publication
in view--at least, I think so, but one does not know oneself.

In any event, the contemplation of poor Hardy's case is a terrible
lesson to one not to let the desire for praise get too strong a hold,
or, at all events, to be deliberately on one's guard against it.

But the pathos and sadness, after all, remain. "Healing is well," says
the poet, "but wherefore wounds to heal?" and I find myself lost in a
miserable wonder under what law it is that the Creator can mould so
fine a spirit, endow it with such splendid qualities, and then allow
some creeping fault to obscure it gradually, as the shadow creeps over
the moon, and to plunge it into disastrous and dishonourable eclipse.

But I grow tedious; I am inoculated by Hardy's fault. I hastily close
this letter, with all friendly greetings. "Pray accept a blessing!" as
little Miss Flite said. I am going down to my sister's to-morrow.--Ever
yours,

T. B.

SIBTHORPE VICARAGE, WELLS,
Dec. 31, 1904 (and Jan. 1, 1905).

DEAR HERBERT,--It is nearly midnight, and I am sitting alone in my
room, by the deathbed of the Old Year, expecting every moment to hear
the bells break out proclaiming the birth of the New. It is a clear,
still night, and I can see, beyond t