Miss Peters,[[71]] my new assistant, has not come yet unfortunately. I almost pray that she may stay, as she seems so exactly all that I have so long wanted.

Mr. Barrington is so good that I grow much interested in him, and am very grateful to him.

The following letter refers to a testimonial presented to Mr. Cockerell by the members of a Workmen’s Club.

December 21st, 1873.

To Mr. Cockerell.

Surely the recognition of and approval of good work depends on the degree of the perfection of the perceiving and measuring power of onlookers. There is much glittering meretricious work which everyone sees and applauds; there is much of the noblest work which few, if any, see; but surely, while we have spirits and hearts, we must sometimes catch a glimpse of the good things done among us, and of their value. You must indeed have a low opinion of your poor club friends, if you think that, because they see it, and respect it, and delight in your work, it must be bad. There was no oppressive sense of obligation among them; there was no flattery, expectant of returned compliments; there was no thought of your expecting word or token of thanks; but so far as I could see, a happy over-brimming sense of help, joyfully given and joyfully received. Nothing delighted me more than the earnest, intense way in which when the speaker poured out his epithets of “liberal,” “gracious,” “generous,” the noun that had to come was (rather, I thought, to his own surprise) “advice.” It seemed to me quite beautiful that, with the wide class gulf between you, the relation was so manly, so happy, so independent; and that the adjectives were so evidently hearty and sincere and the gift so pure from all taint. When you read the end of Brook Lambert’s letter, or Lowell’s Sir Launfal, you will know why the relationship between you seemed to me so real, even tho’ their sense that the only thing they could give you was not a thing at all, but a few words to tell you what they felt. Did you feel so “dumb”? Well! it did not strike me so. I believe I anticipated that; I do not think people can do otherwise than as their nature prompts them, especially when suddenly tried. But do not be uneasy; your life has not been “dumb” to them, and will not be; perhaps will speak none the less deeply for that very dumbness....

Yes! I suppose you too would have shut yourself out from the inscription, if I had been foolish enough to mean, and you had known me so little as to think I meant, that you should measure the amount and form of your faith, before helping us. I never meant it. It is good to be wholly honest, and to say the difficult and unpopular thing, when one has to answer a question, and to be cautious not to confuse a feeling with an opinion, nor a hope with a logically proved conviction. But I should be the last person to ask the question, especially in that way, or to desire to shut out anyone in the cold, who had not clearly thought out their belief, or to whom gigantic problems loomed terrible between themselves and the desired belief....

HOW TO FIND “THE REAL MAN”

I didn’t want the gift made unwillingly, nor, certainly, insincerely; but the latter I never suspected. To me the real man is the man when his hope is brightest, and the vision of what may be almost trembles into certainty, that that best thing is. This is the man I see and know, see as I myself believe that he will be when the veils are rent asunder, and he sees, after having learnt what it is to be alone and blind. To me too there is much the same kind of distinction between a man’s distinctly grasped and well defined opinions, and his gleams of what may be beyond them, as Browning shows, between his achieved work and visions of better things, when he says:—

Then she quotes the three verses beginning “Not on the vulgar mass,” from Rabbi Ben Ezra.