Above all, religion should not be treated from the purely boyish point of view; let the boys feel that they are strangers, soldiers, and pilgrims, let them realise that the world is a difficult place, but that there is indeed a golden clue that leads through the darkness of the labyrinth, if they can but set their hand upon it; let them learn to be humble and grateful, not hard and self-sufficient.  And, above all, let them realise that things in this world do not come by chance, but that a soul is set in a certain place, and that happiness is to be found by interpreting the events of life rightly, by facing sorrows bravely, by showing kindness, by thankfully accepting joy and pleasure.

And lastly, there should come some sense of unity, the thought of combination for good, of unaffectedness about what we believe to be true and pure, of facing the world together and not toying with it in isolation.  All this should be held up to boys.

Even as it is boys grow to love the school chapel, and to think of it in after years as a place where gleams of goodness and power visited them.  It might be even more so than it is; but it can only be so, if we realise the conditions, the material with which we are working.  We ought to set ourselves to meet and to encourage every beautiful aspiration, every holy and humble thought; not to begin with some eclectic theory, and to try to force boys into the mould.  We do that in every other department of school life; but I would have the chapel to be a place of liberty, where tender spirits may be allowed a glimpse of high and holy things which they fitfully desire, and which may indeed prove to be a gate of heaven.

Well, for once I have been able to finish a letter without a single interruption.  If my letters, as a rule, seem very inconsequent, remember that they are often written under pressure.  But I suppose we each envy the other; you would like a little more pressure and I a little less.  I am glad to hear that all goes well; thank Nellie for her letter.—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Upton,
Oct. 19, 1904.

Dear Herbert,—­I am at present continuously liturgical, owing to my
Committee; but you must have the benefit of it.

I have often wondered which of the compilers of the Prayer-book fixed upon the Venite as the first Canticle for our Morning Service; wondered, I say, in the purposeless way that one does wonder, without ever taking the trouble to find out.  I dare say there are abundant ecclesiological precedents for it, if one took the trouble to discover them.  But the important thing is that it was done; and it is a stroke of genius to have done it. (N.B.—­I find it is in the Breviary appointed for Matins.)

The thing is so perfect in itself, and in a way so unexpected, that I feel in the selection of it the work of a deep and poetical heart.  Many an ingenious ecclesiastical mind would be afraid of putting a psalm in such a place which changed its mood so completely as the Venite does.  To end with a burst of noble and consuming anger, of vehement and merciless indignation—­that is the magnificent thing.