from mentioning them. I once had a pupil, a simple-minded, serene,
ordinary creature, who attained to extraordinary popularity. I
often wondered why; after he had left, I asked a boy to tell me; he
thought for a moment, and then he said, "I suppose, sir, it was
because when we were all talking about other chaps--and one does
that nearly all the time--he used to be as much down on them as any
one else, and he never jawed--but he always had something nice to
say about them, not made up, but as if it just came into his head."

Well, I must stop; I suppose you are forging out over the Bay, and
sleeping, I hope, like a top. There is no sleep like the sleep on a
steamer--profound, deep, so that one wakes up hardly knowing where
or who one is, and in the morning you will see the great purple
league-long rollers. I remember them; I generally felt very unwell;
but there was something tranquillising about them, all the same--
and then the mysterious steamers that used to appear alongside,
pitching and tumbling, with the little people moving about on the
decks; and a mile away in a minute. Then the water in the wake,
like marble, with its white-veined sapphire, and the hiss and smell
of the foam; all that is very pleasant. Good night, Herbert!--Ever
yours,

T. B.



UPTON,
Feb. 9, 1904.