head--but his stories have no resemblance to mine. Mine were archaic
little romances, written in a style which a not unfriendly reviewer
called "painfully kind," an epigram which always gave Hugh extreme
amusement. His were modern, semi-mystical tales; he says that he
personally came to dislike the book intensely from the spiritual point
of view, as being feverish and sentimental, and designed unconsciously
to quicken his own spiritual temperature. He adds that he thought the
book mischievous, as laying stress on mystical intuition rather than
Divine authority, and because it substituted the imagination for the
soul. That is a dogmatic objection rather than a literary objection; and
I suppose he really disliked it because it reminded him later on of a
time when he was moving among shadows. But it was the first book in
which he spread his wings, and there is, I think, a fresh and ingenuous
beauty about it, as of a delighted adventure among new faculties and
powers.

I believe that the most beautiful book he ever wrote was _Richard
Raynal, Solitary_; and I know he thought so himself. Of course it is an
archaic book, and written, as musicians say, in a _mode_. It is easier
in some ways to write a book in a style which is not authentically one's
own, and literary imitation is not the highest art; but _Richard Raynal_
has the beauty of a fine tapestry designed on antique lines, yet
replenished and enriched by modern emotion, like Tennyson's _Mort
d'Arthur_. Yet I am sure there is a deep charm of pure beauty in the
book, both of thought and handling, and I believe that he put into it
the best essence of his feeling and imagination.

As to his historical books, I can feel their vigour and vitality, and
their deft use of old hints and fragments. I remember once discussing
one of them with him, and saying that his description of Queen Elizabeth