But the poison is in his system, and it afflicts me to think in how many systems the same poison is at work nowadays.  One sees the frankest form of it in the desire of third-rate people to amass letters after their names; but, putting aside all mere vulgar manifestations of it, how many of us are content to do good, solid, beautiful work unpraised, unsung, unheeded?  I will take my own case, and frankly confess that what is called recognition is a pleasure to me.  I like to have work, which I have done with energy, enjoyment, and diligence, praised—­I hope because it confirms the verdict of my own mind that it has been faithfully done.  But I can also sincerely say that, as far as literary work goes, the chief pleasure lies in the doing of it; and I could write with unabated zest even if there were no question of publication in view—­at least, I think so, but one does not know oneself.

In any event, the contemplation of poor Hardy’s case is a terrible lesson to one not to let the desire for praise get too strong a hold, or, at all events, to be deliberately on one’s guard against it.

But the pathos and sadness, after all, remain.  “Healing is well,” says the poet, “but wherefore wounds to heal?” and I find myself lost in a miserable wonder under what law it is that the Creator can mould so fine a spirit, endow it with such splendid qualities, and then allow some creeping fault to obscure it gradually, as the shadow creeps over the moon, and to plunge it into disastrous and dishonourable eclipse.

But I grow tedious; I am inoculated by Hardy’s fault.  I hastily close this letter, with all friendly greetings.  “Pray accept a blessing!” as little Miss Flite said.  I am going down to my sister’s to-morrow.—­Ever yours,

T. B.

SIBTHORPE vicarage, Wells,
Dec. 31, 1904 (and Jan. 1, 1905).

Dear Herbert,—­It is nearly midnight, and I am sitting alone in my room, by the deathbed of the Old Year, expecting every moment to hear the bells break out proclaiming the birth of the New.  It is a clear, still night, and I can see, beyond the lawn and over the shrubs of the Vicarage garden, by the light of a low moon, entangled in cloud, the high elms, the church tower, with a light in the belfry, like a solemn, cheerful eye, and the roofs of the little village, all in a patient, musing slumber.  Everything is unutterably fresh, tranquil, and serene.  By day it is a commonplace scene enough, with a sense of little work-a-day cares and businesses about it all; but now, at night, it is all dim and rich and romantic, full of a calm mystery, hushed and secret, dreaming contented dreams.