The last thing that is discarded by Protestants when they reject religion altogether is a vision of Christ as the perfect man. That persisted with me, sentimentally, for years. At the age of nineteen I wrote a poem called ‘In the Wilderness.’ It was about Christ meeting the scapegoat—a silly, quaint poem-and has appeared in at least seventy anthologies. Its perpetual recurrence. Strangers are always writing to me to say what a beautiful poem it is, and how much strength it has given them, and would I, etc.? Here, for instance, is a letter that came yesterday: Sir,—I heard with great delight your beautiful poem ‘In the Wilderness,’ broadcast from 2LO last night, and am writing to you because your poem has given me strength and hope. I am a gentlelady in need—in great need—not of a gift, but of a _loan_, on interest of 5 per cent. I also need a kind friend to show me human sympathy and to help me if possible by an introduction to a really upright and conscientious London solicitor who will fight my cause, not primarily for the filthy lucre, but because it is waging the the battle of Right against the most infamous Wrong. First of all I ask you to believe that I am writing you the simple truth. I also am gifted as a writer, but as my physical health has always been a great struggle, and poverty from my childhood has been my lot, and I will not stoop to write down to the popular taste, and perhaps, also, because I have no influential friends to give me a helping hand, I earn very little by my pen. But I know how to wield a pen, and I am going to put myself into this letter just as I am—I am not apt to deceive, I hate lies and every form of deception. This letter is ‘a bow sent at a venture,’—to see if you would like to help a literary sister who is being gravely wronged by her only near relative, an abnormal woman, who has hated her for years without any cause. To be very direct—I need £10 for one year at 5 per cent.—to be repaid £10, 10s. 0d. I need it _at once, very urgently_—to pay arrears of furnished digs—£3, 13s. 0d.—Milk Bill 16s. 8d., Grocery Bill 10s. 6d. and coal 1s. 8d.—then to leave Bolton (the black town of mills which fogs incessantly) and go for a change to Blackpool: then to go up to Town to put my legal business into a London solicitor’s hands. I will sign a Promissory Note for £10, 10s. 0d., to repay a year hence. I am cultured and and highly educated and well-born. I was trained to teach on the higher schools and I hold high testimonials for teaching. But I overworked and at last became consumptive, and had tuberculosis of both lungs. It was taken early and I am relatively cured. But my teaching career is broken, and I do so love teaching. In consequence of this I have a monthly pension from a Philanthropic Society of £2, 11s. 8d. But it is so tiny, I cannot possibly live on it, squeeze as I may. But an inheritance of over £1000 is mine, which