h subjects, though I do not think that any good
purpose can be served by them. But to make vague and libellous
accusations against members of the congregation in this way is
cowardly, dishonourable, and un-Christian. I have a strong
suspicion"--he looked steadily down the church--"of the quarter from
which these letters emanate; and I solemnly warn the writer that, if I
have to take action in the matter, I shall take measures to make that
action effective."

I never saw a thing better done; it was said without apparent
excitement or agitation; he presently gave out his text and preached as
usual. It seemed to me a supremely admirable way of dealing with the
situation. Need I add that he was practical enough to take the pieces
of the letter away with him?

I once received an anonymous letter, not about myself, but about a
friend. I took it to a celebrated lawyer, and we discovered the right
way to deal with it. I remember that, when we had finished, he took up
the letter--a really vile document--and said musingly: "I have often
wondered what the pleasure of sending such things consists in! I always
fancy the sender taking out his watch, and saying, with malicious glee,
'I suppose so-and-so will be receiving my letter about now!' It must be
a perverted sense of power, I think."

I said, "Yes, and don't you think that there is also something of the
pleasure of saying 'Bo' to a goose?" The great man smiled, and said,
"Perhaps."

Well, I must try to forget, but I don't know anything that so takes the
courage and the cheerfulness out of one's mind as one of these secret,
dastardly things. My letter this morning was not anonymous; but it was
nearly as bad, because it was impossible to use or to rely upon the
information; and it was, moreover, profoundly disquieting.

Tell me what you think! I suppose it is good for one to know how weak
one's armour is and how vulnerable is one's feeble self.--Ever yours,

T. B.

UPTON,
Sept. 20, 1904.

DEAR HERBERT,--I have been reading lately, not for the first time, but
with increased interest, the Memoir of Mark Pattison. It was, you will
remember, dictated by himself towards the end of his life, and
published after his death with a few omissions. It was not favourably
received, and was called cowardly, cynical, bitter, a "cry in the
dark," treacherous, and so forth. It is very difficult not to be
influenced by current opinion in one's view of a book; one comes to it
pre