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William Carey had prided himself on never destroying any-
thing, and there were piles of correspondence dating back
for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed
bills. He had kept not only letters addressed to him, but let-
ters which himself had written. There was a yellow packet
of letters which he had written to his father in the forties,
when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to Germany
for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a differ-
ent William Carey from the William Carey he had known,
and yet there were traces in the boy which might to an acute
observer have suggested the man. The letters were formal
and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous to see all
that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusi-
asm the castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made
him ‘offer reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the
universe, whose works were wondrous and beautiful,’ and
he could not help thinking that they who lived in sight of
‘this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by
the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.’ Among some
bills Philip found a miniature which had been painted of
William Carey soon after he was ordained. It represented a
thin young curate, with long hair that fell over his head in
natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a pale
ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which
his uncle used to tell of the dozens of slippers which were
worked for him by adoring ladies.
The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled
through the innumerable correspondence. He glanced at
the address and at the signature, then tore the letter in two

1 Of Human Bondage