"I try to write upon you," wrote Mr. Gladstone; "wholly despair of satisfying myself--cannot quite tell whether to persevere or desist." Mr. Pater let me know that he was writing on it for the _Guardian_. "It is a _chef d'oeuvre_ after its kind, and justifies the care you have devoted to it." "I see," said Andrew Lang, on April 30th, "that _R.E._ is running into as many editions as _The Rights of Man_ by Tom Paine.... You know he is not _my_ sort (at least unless you have a ghost, a murder, a duel, and some savages)." Burne-Jones wrote, with the fun and sweetness that made his letters a delight: Not one least bitter word in it!--threading your way through intricacies of parsons so finely and justly.... As each new one came on the scene, I wondered if you would fall upon him and rend him--but you never do.... Certainly I never thought I should devour a book about parsons--my desires lying toward--"time upon once there was a dreadful pirate"--but I am back again five and thirty years and feeling softened and subdued with memories you have wakened up so piercingly--and I wanted to tell you this. And in the same packet lie letters from the honored and beloved Edward Talbot, now Bishop of Winchester, Stopford Brooke--the Master of Balliol--Lord Justice Bowen--Professor Huxley--and so many, many more. Best of all, Henry James! His two long letters I have already printed, naturally with his full leave and blessing, in the Library Edition of the novel. Not his the grudging and faultfinding temper that besets the lesser man when he comes to write of his contemporaries! Full of generous honor for what he thought good and honest work, however faulty, his praise kindled--and his blame no less. He appreciated so fully _your_ way of doing it; and his suggestion, alongside, of what would have been _his_ way of doing it, was so stimulating--touched one with so light a Socratean sting, and set a hundred thoughts on the alert. Of this delightful critical art of his his letters to myself over many years are one long illustration. And now--"There is none like him--none!" The honeyed lips are silent and the helping hand at rest.