height, and the wind comes cool across the moor from the open
gates of the evening.

XVII

ACCESSIBILITY

I was greatly interested the other day by seeing a photograph, in his
old age, of Henry Phillpotts, the redoubtable Bishop of Exeter, who
lost more money in lawsuits with clergymen than any Bishop, I suppose,
who ever lived. He sate, the old man, in his clumsily fitting gaiters,
bowed or crouched in an arm-chair, reading a letter. His face was
turned to the spectator; with his stiff, upstanding hair, his
out-thrust lip, his corrugated brow, and the deep pouched lines
beneath his eyes, he looked like a terrible old lion, who could no
longer spring, but who had not forgotten how to roar. His face was
full of displeasure and anger. I remembered that a clergyman once told
me how he had been sitting next the Bishop at a dinner of parsons, and
a young curate, sitting on the other side of the Bishop, affronted
him by believing him to be deaf, and by speaking very loudly and
distinctly to him. The Bishop at last turned to him, with a furious
visage, and said, "I would have you to understand, sir, that I am not
deaf!" This disconcerted the young man so much that he could neither
speak nor eat. The old Bishop turned to my friend, and said, in a
heavy tone, "I'm not fit for society!" Indeed he was not, if he could
unchain so fierce a beast on such slight provocation.

And there are many other stories of the bitter things he said, and how
his displeasure could brood like a cloud over a whole company. He was
a gallant old figure, it is true, very energetic, very able,
determined to do what he thought right, and infinitely courageous. I
mused over the portrait, thought how lifelike and picturesque it was,
and how utterly unlike one's idea of an aged Christian or a chief
shepherd. In his beautiful villa by the sea, with its hanging woods
and gardens, ruling with diligence, he seemed to me more like a
stoical Roman Emperor, or a tempestuous Sadducee, the spirit of the
world incarnate. One wondered what it could have been that had drawn
him to Christ, or what part he would have taken if he had been on the
Sanhedrin that judged Him!

It seems to me that one of the first characteristics which one ought
to do one's best to cast out of one's life is that of formidableness.
Yet to tell a man that he is formidable is not an accusation that is
often resented. He may indulgently deprecate it, but it seems to most
people a so