The worst of the grim mood is that it seems to tear away all the pretences with which we beguile our sadness, and to reveal the truth.  But it is only that truth which lies at the bottom of the well; and there are fathoms of clear water lying above it, which are quite as true as the naked fact below.  That is all the philosophy I can extract from such depression, and, in some mysterious way, it helps us, after all, when it is over; makes us stronger, more patient, more compassionate; and it is worth some suffering, if one lays hold of true experience instead of wasting time in querulous self-commiseration.—­Affectionately yours,

T. B.

Upton,
Dec. 12, 1904.

My dear Herbert,—­I have lately been reading in a whimsical and discursive fashion—­you know the mood—­turning the pages, and yet not finding the repose one demands in a book.

One thought emerges from such hours; and as I cannot to-day write you a long letter, I will just try and shape my ideas in a few sentences, hoping that you will be able to supplement or correct it.

Is not the one thing which, after all, one demands in art, personality?  A perfectly sincere and direct point of view?  It matters little what the point of view is, and whether one agrees with it or not, so long as one is certain of its truth and reality.  Books where there is any sense of pose, of affectation, of insincerity, do not ever really please or satisfy; of course there are books which are entirely sincere which are yet so unsympathetic that one cannot get near them.  But presupposing a certain sympathy of aim and ideal, one may disagree with, or think incomplete, or consider overstrained, the sincere presentment of some thought, but one realises it to be true and natural—­to be there.

Well, such a point of view holds both hope and discouragement for a writer.  Writers have long periods, I suppose, when they don’t seem to have anything to say; or, even worse, when they have something to say but can’t please themselves as to the manner of saying it.  But all these delays, these inarticulate silences, these dumb discouragements are part, after all, of the same thing.  It is useless to try and say anything under these conditions; or, if one does contrive to express something, one must look upon it merely as an exercise in expression, a piece of training, a sort of gymnastic—­and be content to throw the thing aside.

The only kind of thing that is worth saying is the thing that is conceived in perfect sincerity; it need not be original or new—­ sometimes, indeed, it is some one else’s thought which touches the train which seems so difficult to fire.  But it must be sincere; one’s very own; if one does not originate it one must, at least, give it the impress of one’s own inmost mind.

Of course, even then the thing may not win acceptance; for a thought to appeal to others a certain sympathy must be abroad; there must be, to use a musical metaphor, a certain descant or accompaniment going on, into which one can drop one’s music as an organist plays a solo, which gives voice and individuality to some quiet, gliding strain.