But since I have known more of men, I have come to know that these fine powers, Honour and Virtue, do bloom in some men’s souls, and in the hearts of many women.  I have perceived their fragrance; I have seen Honour raise its glowing face like a rose, and Virtue droop its head like a pure snowdrop; and I hope that some day, as in an early day of spring, I may find some such tender green thing budding in the ugly soil of my own poor spirit.

Life would be a feeble business if it were otherwise; but the one ray of hope is not that one steadily declines in brightness from those early days, but that one may learn by admiration the beauty of the great qualities one never had by instinct.

I see myself as a boy, greedy, mean-spirited, selfish, dull.  I see myself as a young man, vain, irritable, self-absorbed, unbalanced.  I have not eradicated these weeds; but I have learnt to believe in beauty and honour, even in Truth. . . .—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Monk’s orchard,
Upton,
Sept. 13, 1904.

Dear Herbert,—­I have just come back after a long, vague holiday, feeling well and keen about my work.  The boys are not back yet, and I have returned to put things ready for next half.  But my serene mood has received a shock this morning.

I wonder if you ever get disagreeable letters?  I suppose that a schoolmaster is peculiarly liable to receive them.  The sort of letter I mean is this.  I come down to breakfast in good spirits; I pick up a letter and open it, and, all of a sudden, it is as if a snake slipped out and bit me.  I close it and put it away, thinking I will read it later; there it lies close by my plate, and takes away the taste of food, and blots the sunshine.  I take it upstairs, saying that it will want consideration.  I finish my other letters, and then I take it out again.  Out comes the snake again with a warning hiss; but I resist temptation this time, read it through, and sit staring out of the window.  A disagreeable letter from a disagreeable man, containing anxious information, of a kind that I cannot really test.  What is the best way to deal with it?  I know by experience; answer it at once, as dispassionately as one can; extract from it the few grains of probable truth it holds, and keep them in mind for possible future use; then deliberately try and forget all about it.  I know now by experience that the painful impression will gradually fade, and, meanwhile, one must try to interpret the whole matter rightly.  What is there in one’s conduct which needs the check?  Is it that one grows confident and careless?  Probably!  But the wholesome thing to do is to deal with it at once; otherwise it means anxious and feverish hours, when one composes a long and epigrammatic answer, point by point.  The letter is over-stated, gossipy, malicious; if one lets it soak into the mind, it makes one suspicious of every one, miserable, cowardly.  It is useless in the first hours, when the sting is yet tingling, to remind oneself philosophically that the suggestion is exaggerated and malignant; one does not get any comfort that way.  No, the only thing is to plunge into detail, to work, to read—­anything to recover the tone of the mind.