hen
perhaps in a sudden movement, the door of the spirit is unlatched, and
the soul for a moment discerns the sweet essence, to which an instant
before it had been wholly unresponsive, and which an instant later will
lose its power. It seems to point to a possible satisfaction; and yet
it owes its poignancy to the fact that the heart is still unsatisfied.

XXVI

I once wrote and published a personal and intimate book; it was a
curious experience. There was a certain admixture of fiction in it, but
in the main it was a confession of opinions; for various reasons the
book had a certain vogue, and though it was published anonymously, the
authorship was within my own circle detected. I saw several reviews of
it, and I was amused to find that the critics perspicuously conjectured
that because it was written in the first person it was probably
autobiographical. I had several criticisms made on it by personal
friends: some of them objected to the portraiture of persons in it
being too life-like, selecting as instances two characters who were
entirely imaginary; others objected to the portraiture as not being
sufficiently life-like, and therefore tending to mislead the reader.
Others determined to see in the book a literal transcript of fact, set
themselves to localise and identify incidents which were pure fiction,
introduced for reasons of picturesqueness. It brought me, too, a whole
crop of letters from unknown people, many of which were very
interesting and touching, letters which pleased and encouraged me
greatly, because they proved that the book had made its way at all
events to certain hearts.

But one old friend, whose taste and judgment I have every reason to
respect, took me to task very seriously for writing the book. He said:
"You will not misunderstand me, I know; but I cannot help feeling that
the deliberate exposure of a naked soul before the public has something
that is almost indecent about it." I did not misunderstand him, nor did
I at all resent the faithful criticism, even though I could not agree
with it.

I had written books before, and I have written books since, but none
which made that particular personal appeal. I may proudly say that it
contained nothing that was contrary either to faith or morals; it was
quite unobjectionable. It aimed at making thought a little clearer,
hope a little brighter; at disentangling some of the complex fibres of
beauty and interest which are interwoven into