es a picture which one does not easily forget. It is like the
harangue of a snake, which is more subtle than any beast of the field.
One is conscious of a spell.

The dark tapestried room, the carved ceiling, the heavy furniture, the
embrasured windows, the whole sombre magnificence of the historic
setting, quiet, almost somnolent, with the enduring memories of Cuthbert
Tunstall and Butler, Lightfoot and Westcott, add a most telling vivacity
to the slim and dominating figure of this boylike bishop, who is so
athletic in the use of his intellect and so happy in every thesis he
sets himself to establish.

It is an equally memorable sight to see him in his castle at Bishop
Auckland in the role of host, entertaining people of intelligence with
the history of the place, showing the pictures and the chapel,
exhibiting curious relics of the past--a restless and energetic figure,
holding its own in effectiveness against men of greater stature and more
commanding presence by an inward force which has something of the tang
of a twitching bow-string.

So much energy would suggest a source of almost inexhaustible power. But
that is perhaps the greatest disappointment of all in the Bishop's
psychology. In the case of Dr. Inge one is very conscious of a rich and
deep background, a background of mysticism, from which the intellect
emerges with slow emphasis to play its part on the world's stage. In the
case of Bishop Ryle one is conscious behind the pleasant, courtierlike,
and scholarly manner of a background of very wholesome and unquestioning
moral earnestness. But in Dr. Henson one is conscious of nothing behind
the intellect but intellect itself, an intellect which has absorbed his
spiritual life into itself and will permit no other tenant of his mind
to divert attention for a single moment from its luminous brilliance,
its perfection of mechanism.

One may be quite wrong, of course; one can speak only of the impression
which he makes upon oneself and perhaps a few of one's friends; but it
would almost seem as if he had ever regarded Christianity as a thesis to
be argued, not a religion to be preached, a principle to be enunciated,
not a practice to be extended, a tradition to be maintained, not a
passion to be communicated.

Yet his sermons, which a great Anglo-Catholic declared to me with a
mocking mordancy to be full of "edification," do often enter that region
of religion which seems to demand an appeal to the emotions; m