To me there are but two things that seem to point to hope.  The first is the strongest and deepest of human things, the power of love—­not, I think, the more vehement and selfish forms of love, the desire of youth for beauty, the consuming love of the mother for the infant—­for these have some physical admixture in them.  But the tranquil and purer manifestations of the spirit, the love of a father for a son, of a friend for a friend; that love which can light up a face upon the edge of the dark river, and can smile in the very throes of pain.  That seems to me the only thing which holds out a tender defiance against change and suffering and death.

And then there is the faith in the vast creative mind that bade us be; mysterious and strange as are its manifestations, harsh and indifferent as they sometimes seem, yet at worst they seem to betoken a loving purpose thwarted by some swift cross-current, like a mighty river contending with little obstacles.  Why the obstacles should be there, and how they came into being, is dark indeed.  But there is enough to make us believe in a Will that does its utmost, and that is assured of some bright and far-off victory.

A faith in God and a faith in Love; and here seems to me to lie the strength and power of the Christian Revelation.  It is to these two things that Christ pointed men.  Though overlaid with definition, with false motive, with sophistry, with pedantry, this is the deep secret of the Christian Creed; and if we dare to link our will with the Will of God, however feebly, however complainingly, if we desire and endeavour not to sin against love, not to nourish hate or strife, to hold out the hand again and again to any message of sympathy or trust, not to struggle for our own profit, not to reject tenderness, to believe in the good faith and the good-will of men, we are then in the way.  We may make mistakes, we may fail a thousand times, but the key of heaven is in our hands. . . .—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Upton,
July 29, 1904.

Dear Herbert,—­You must forgive me if this is a very sentimental letter, but this is the day that, of all days in the year, is to me most full of pathos—­the last day of the summer half.  My heart is like a full sponge and must weep a little.  The last few days have been full to the brim of work and bustle—­reports to be written, papers to be looked over.  Yesterday was a day of sad partings.  Half-a-dozen boys are leaving; and I have tried my best to tell them the truth about themselves; to say something that would linger in their minds, and yet to do it in a tender and affectionate way.  And some of these boys’ hearts are full to bursting too.  I remember as if it were yesterday the last meeting at Eton of a Debating Society of which I was a member.  We were electing new members and passing votes of thanks.  Scott, who was then President and, as you remember, Captain of the Eleven, sate in his high chair above