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 the fabric of life.  I tried to put down very plainly some of the things that had helped me, some of the sights that had pleased me, some of the thoughts that had fed me.  I do not really know what else is the purpose of writing at all; it is only a kind of extended human intercourse.  I am not a good conversationalist; my thoughts do not flow fast enough, do not come crowding to the lips; moreover, the personalities of those with whom I talk affect me too strongly.  There are people with whom one cannot be natural or sincere.  There are people whose whole range of interests is different from one’s own.  There are critical people who love to trip one up and lay one flat, boisterous people who disagree, ironical people who mock one’s sentiment, matter-of-fact people who dislike one’s fancies.  But one can talk in a book without gene or restraint.  It is like talking to a perfectly sympathetic listener when no third person is by.  I wrote the book without premeditation and without calculation, just as the thoughts rose to my mind, as I should like to speak to the people I met, if I had the art and the courage.  Well, it found its way, I am glad to think, to the right people; and as for exposing my heart for all the world to read, I cannot see why one should not do that!  I am not ashamed of anything that I said, and I have no sort of objection to any one knowing what I think, if they care to know.  I spoke, if I may say so without conceit, just as a bird will sing, careless who listens to it.  If the people who wander in the garden do not like the song, the garden is mine as well as theirs; they need not listen, or they can scare the bird with ugly gestures out of his bush if they will.  I have never been able to sympathise with that jealous sense of privacy about one’s thoughts, that is so strong in some people.  I like to be able to be alone and to have my little stronghold; but that is because the presence of conventional and unsympathetic people bores and tires me.  But in a book it is different.  One is not intruded upon or gazed at; one may tell exactly as much of one’s inner life as one will—­and there are, of course, many things which I would not commit