single gift, to please the pride of a county or a city; and this in days when England is a thousandfold richer than she was.  They are no longer a part of the essence of life; life has flowed away from their portals, and left them a beautiful shadow, a venerable monument, a fragrant sentiment.  No doubt it was largely superstition that constructed them, a kind of insurance paid for heavenly security.  No one now seriously thinks that to endow a college of priests to perform services would affect his spiritual prospects in the life to come.  The Church itself does not countenance the idea.  Moreover, there is little demand in the world at large for the kind of beauty which they can and do minister to such as myself.  The pleasure for which people spend money nowadays has to have a stirring, exciting, physical element in it to be acceptable.  If it were otherwise, then our cathedrals could take their place in the life of the nation; but they are out of touch with railways, and newspapers, and the furious pursuit of athletics.  They are on the side of peace and delicate impressions and quiet emotions.  I wish it were not so; but it would be faithless to believe that we are not in the hand of God still, and that our restless energies develop against His will.

And then there falls a darker, more bewildering thought.  Suppose that one could bring one of the rough Galilean fishermen who sowed the seed of the faith, into a place like this, and say to him, “This is the fruit of your teaching; you, whose Master never spoke a word of art or music, who taught poverty and simplicity, bareness of life, and an unclouded heart, you are honoured here; these towers and bells are called after your names; you stand in gorgeous robes in these storied windows.”  Would they not think and say that it was all a terrible mistake? would they not say that the desire of the world, the lust of the eye and ear, had laid subtle and gentle hands on a stern and rugged creed, and bade it serve and be bound?

    “Thy nakedness involves thy Spouse
     In the soft sanguine stuff she wears.”

So says an eager and vehement poet, apostrophising the tortured limbs, the drooping eye of the Crucified Lord; and is it true that these stately and solemn houses, these sweet strains of unearthly music, serve His purpose and will?  Nay, is it not rather true that the serpent is here again aping the mildness of the dove, and using all the delicate, luxurious accessories of life to blind us to the truth?

I do not know; it leaves me in a sad and bewildered conflict of spirit.  And yet I somehow feel that God is in these places, and that, if only the heart is pure and the will strong, such influences can minister to the growth of the meek and loving spirit.—­Ever yours,

T. B.

I don’t know what has happened to your letters.  Perhaps you have not been able to write?  I go back to work to-morrow.

Upton,
May 2, 1904.