And then the passion of the mood, the fierce indignation, rises and breaks, as it were, in a dreadful thunderclap:—­

“Unto whom I sware in my wrath that they should not enter into my rest.”

But even so the very horror of the denunciation holds within it a thought of beauty, like an oasis in a burning desert.  “My rest”—­ that sweet haven which does truly await all those who will but follow and wait upon God.

I declare that the effect of this amazing lyric grows upon me every time that I hear it.  Some Psalms, like the delicate and tender cxix., steal into the heart after long and quiet use.  How dull I used to find it as a child; how I love it now!  But this is not the case with the Venite; its noble simplicity and directness has no touch of intentional subtlety about it.  Rather the subtlety was in the true insight, which saw that, if ever there was a Psalm which should at once give the reins to joy, and at the same time pierce the careless heart with a sharp arrow of thought, this was the Psalm.

I feel as if I had been trying in this letter to do as Mr. Interpreter did—­to have you into a room full of besoms and spiders, and to draw a pretty moral out of it all.  But I am sure that the beauty of this particular Psalm, and of its position, is one of those things that is only spoilt for us by familiarity; and that it is a duty in life to try and break through the crust of familiarity which tends to be deposited round well-known things, and to see how bright and joyful a jewel shows its heart of fire beneath.

I have been hoping for a letter; but no doubt it is all right.  I am before my time, I see.—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Upton,
Oct. 25, 1904.

Dear Herbert,—­I have been studying, with a good deal of interest, two books, the Letters of Professor A——­, and the Life of Bishop F——.  Given the form, I think the editor of the letters has done his work well.  His theory has been to let the Professor speak for himself; while he himself stands, like a discreet and unobtrusive guide, and just says what is necessary in the right place.  In this he is greatly to be commended; for it happens too often that biographers of eminent men use their privilege to do a little adventitious self-advertisement.  They blow their own trumpets; they stand and posture courteously in the ante-room, when what one desires is to go straight into the presence.

I once had a little piece of biography to do which necessitated my writing requests for reminiscences to several of the friends of the subject of my book.  I never had such a strange revelation of human nature.  A very few people gave me just what I wanted to know—­ facts, and sayings, and trenchant actions.  A second class of correspondents told me things which had a certain value—­episodes in which my hero appeared, but intermingled with many of their own opinions, doings, and sayings.  A third class wrote