"THE WAY OF ALL FLESH\n\n\n\"We know that all things work together for good to them that love\nGod.\"--ROM. viii. 28\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nSamuel Butleter began to write \"The Way of All Flesh\" about the year\n1872, and was engaged upon it intermittently until 1884.  It is\ntherefore, to a great extent, contemporaneous with \"Life and Habit,\" and\nmay be taken as a practical illustration of the theory of heredity\nembodied in that book.  He did not work at it after 1884, but for various\nreasons he postponed its publication.  He was occupied in other ways, and\nhe professed himself dissatisfied with it as a whole, and always intended\nto rewrite or at any rate to revise it.  His death in 1902 prevented him\nfrom doing this, and on his death-bed he gave me clearly to understand\nthat he wished it to be published in its present form.  I found that the\nMS. of the fourth and fifth chapters had disappeared, but by consulting\nand comparing various notes and sketches, which remained among his\npapers, I have been able to supply the missing chapters in a form which I\nbelieve does not differ materially from that which he finally adopted.\nWith regard to the chronology of the events recorded, the reader will do\nwell to bear in mind that the main body of the novel is supposed to have\nbeen written in the year 1867, and the last chapter added as a postscript\nin 1882.\n\nR. A. STREATFEILD.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nWhen I was a small boy at the beginning of the century I remember an old\nman who wore knee-breeches and worsted stockings, and who used to hobble\nabout the street of our village with the help of a stick.  He must have\nbeen getting on for eighty in the year 1807, earlier than which date I\nsuppose I can hardly remember him, for I was born in 1802.  A few white\nlocks hung about his ears, his shoulders were bent and his knees feeble,\nbut he was still hale, and was much respected in our little world of\nPaleham.  His name was Pontifex.\n\nHis wife was said to be his master; I have been told she brought him a\nlittle money, but it cannot have been much.  She was a tall,\nsquare-shouldered person (I have heard my father call her a Gothic woman)\nwho had insisted on being married to Mr Pontifex when he was young and\ntoo good-natured to say nay to any woman who wooed him.  The pair had\nlived not unhappily together, for Mr Pontifex's temper was easy and he\nsoon learned to bow before his wife's more stormy moods.\n\nMr Pontifex was a carpenter by trade; he was also at one time parish\nclerk; when I remember him, however, he had so far risen in life as to be\nno longer compelled to work with his own hands.  In his earlier days he\nhad taught himself to draw.  I do not say he drew well, but it was\nsurprising he should draw as well as he did.  My father, who took the\nliving of Paleham about the year 1797, became possessed of a good many of\nold Mr Pontifex's drawings, which were always of local subjects, and so\nunaffectedly painstaking that they might have passed for the work of some\ngood early master.  I remember them as hanging up framed and glazed in\nthe study at the Rectory, and tinted, as all else in the room was tinted,\nwith the green reflected from the fringe of ivy leaves that grew around\nthe windows.  I wonder how they will actually cease and come to an end as\ndrawings, and into what new phases of being they will then enter.\n\nNot content with being an artist, Mr Pontifex must needs also be a\nmusician.  He built the organ in the church with his own hands, and made\na smaller one which he kept in his own house.  He could play as much as\nhe could draw, not very well according to professional standards, but\nmuch better than could have been expected.  I myself showed a taste for\nmusic at an early age, and old Mr Pontifex on finding it out, as he soon\ndid, became partial to me in consequence.\n\nIt may be thought that with so many irons in the fire he could hardly be\na very thriving man, but this was not the case.  His father had been a\nday labourer, and he had himself begun life with no other capital than\nhis good sense and good constitution; now, however, there was a goodly\nshow of timber about his yard, and a look of solid comfort over his whole\nestablishment.  Towards the close of the eighteenth century and not long\nbefore my father came to Paleham, he had taken a farm of about ninety\nacres, thus making a considerable rise in life.  Along with the farm\nthere went an old-fashioned but comfortable house with a charming garden\nand an orchard.  The carpenter's business was now carried on in one of\nthe outhouses that had once been part of some conventual buildings, the\nremains of which could be seen in what was called the Abbey Close.  The\nhouse itself, embosomed in honeysuckles and creeping roses, was an\nornament to the whole village, nor were its internal arrangements less\nexemplary than its outside was ornamental.  Report said that Mrs Pontifex\nstarched the sheets for her best bed, and I can well believe it.\n\nHow well do I remember her parlour half filled with the organ which her\nhusband had built, and scented with a withered apple or two from the\n_pyrus japonica_ that grew outside the house; the picture of the prize ox\nover the chimney-piece, which Mr Pontifex himself had painted; the\ntransparency of the man coming to show light to a coach upon a snowy\nnight, also by Mr Pontifex; the little old man and little old woman who\ntold the weather; the china shepherd and shepherdess; the jars of\nfeathery flowering grasses with a peacock's feather or two among them to\nset them off, and the china bowls full of dead rose leaves dried with bay\nsalt.  All has long since vanished and become a memory, faded but still\nfragrant to myself.\n\nNay, but her kitchen--and the glimpses into a cavernous cellar beyond it,\nwherefrom came gleams from the pale surfaces of milk cans, or it may be\nof the arms and face of a milkmaid skimming the cream; or again her\nstoreroom, where among other treasures she kept the famous lipsalve which\nwas one of her especial glories, and of which she would present a shape\nyearly to those whom she delighted to honour.  She wrote out the recipe\nfor this and gave it to my mother a year or two before she died, but we\ncould never make it as she did.  When we were children she used sometimes\nto send her respects to my mother, and ask leave for us to come and take\ntea with her.  Right well she used to ply us.  As for her temper, we\nnever met such a delightful old lady in our lives; whatever Mr Pontifex\nmay have had to put up with, we had no cause for complaint, and then Mr\nPontifex would play to us upon the organ, and we would stand round him\nopen-mouthed and think him the most wonderfully clever man that ever was\nborn, except of course our papa.\n\nMrs Pontifex had no sense of humour, at least I can call to mind no signs\nof this, but her husband had plenty of fun in him, though few would have\nguessed it from his appearance.  I remember my father once sent me down\nto his workship to get some glue, and I happened to come when old\nPontifex was in the act of scolding his boy.  He had got the lad--a\npudding-headed fellow--by the ear and was saying, \"What?  Lost\nagain--smothered o' wit.\"  (I believe it was the boy who was himself\nsupposed to be a wandering soul, and who was thus addressed as lost.)\n\"Now, look here, my lad,\" he continued, \"some boys are born stupid, and\nthou art one of them; some achieve stupidity--that's thee again, Jim--thou\nwast both born stupid and hast greatly increased thy birthright--and\nsome\" (and here came a climax during which the boy's head and ear were\nswayed from side to side) \"have stupidity thrust upon them, which, if it\nplease the Lord, shall not be thy case, my lad, for I will thrust\nstupidity from thee, though I have to box thine ears in doing so,\" but I\ndid not see that the old man really did box Jim's ears, or do more than\npretend to frighten him, for the two understood one another perfectly\nwell.  Another time I remember hearing him call the village rat-catcher\nby saying, \"Come hither, thou three-days-and-three-nights, thou,\"\nalluding, as I afterwards learned, to the rat-catcher's periods of\nintoxication; but I will tell no more of such trifles.  My father's face\nwould always brighten when old Pontifex's name was mentioned.  \"I tell\nyou, Edward,\" he would say to me, \"old Pontifex was not only an able man,\nbut he was one of the very ablest men that ever I knew.\"\n\nThis was more than I as a young man was prepared to stand.  \"My dear\nfather,\" I answered, \"what did he do?  He could draw a little, but could\nhe to save his life have got a picture into the Royal Academy exhibition?\nHe built two organs and could play the Minuet in _Samson_ on one and the\nMarch in _Scipio_ on the other; he was a good carpenter and a bit of a\nwag; he was a good old fellow enough, but why make him out so much abler\nthan he was?\"\n\n\"My boy,\" returned my father, \"you must not judge by the work, but by the\nwork in connection with the surroundings.  Could Giotto or Filippo Lippi,\nthink you, have got a picture into the Exhibition?  Would a single one of\nthose frescoes we went to see when we were at Padua have the remotest\nchance of being hung, if it were sent in for exhibition now?  Why, the\nAcademy people would be so outraged that they would not even write to\npoor Giotto to tell him to come and take his fresco away.  Phew!\"\ncontinued he, waxing warm, \"if old Pontifex had had Cromwell's chances he\nwould have done all that Cromwell did, and have done it better; if he had\nhad Giotto's chances he would have done all that Giotto did, and done it\nno worse; as it was, he was a village carpenter, and I will undertake to\nsay he never scamped a job in the whole course of his life.\"\n\n\"But,\" said I, \"we cannot judge people with so many 'ifs.'  If old\nPontifex had lived in Giotto's time he might have been another Giotto,\nbut he did not live in Giotto's time.\"\n\n\"I tell you, Edward,\" said my father with some severity, \"we must judge\nmen not so much by what they do, as by what they make us feel that they\nhave it in them to do.  If a man has done enough either in painting,\nmusic or the affairs of life, to make me feel that I might trust him in\nan emergency he has done enough.  It is not by what a man has actually\nput upon his canvas, nor yet by the acts which he has set down, so to\nspeak, upon the canvas of his life that I will judge him, but by what he\nmakes me feel that he felt and aimed at.  If he has made me feel that he\nfelt those things to be loveable which I hold loveable myself I ask no\nmore; his grammar may have been imperfect, but still I have understood\nhim; he and I are _en rapport_; and I say again, Edward, that old\nPontifex was not only an able man, but one of the very ablest men I ever\nknew.\"\n\nAgainst this there was no more to be said, and my sisters eyed me to\nsilence.  Somehow or other my sisters always did eye me to silence when I\ndiffered from my father.\n\n\"Talk of his successful son,\" snorted my father, whom I had fairly\nroused.  \"He is not fit to black his father's boots.  He has his\nthousands of pounds a year, while his father had perhaps three thousand\nshillings a year towards the end of his life.  He _is_ a successful man;\nbut his father, hobbling about Paleham Street in his grey worsted\nstockings, broad brimmed hat and brown swallow-tailed coat was worth a\nhundred of George Pontifexes, for all his carriages and horses and the\nairs he gives himself.\"\n\n\"But yet,\" he added, \"George Pontifex is no fool either.\"  And this\nbrings us to the second generation of the Pontifex family with whom we\nneed concern ourselves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nOld Mr Pontifex had married in the year 1750, but for fifteen years his\nwife bore no children.  At the end of that time Mrs Pontifex astonished\nthe whole village by showing unmistakable signs of a disposition to\npresent her husband with an heir or heiress.  Hers had long ago been\nconsidered a hopeless case, and when on consulting the doctor concerning\nthe meaning of certain symptoms she was informed of their significance,\nshe became very angry and abused the doctor roundly for talking nonsense.\nShe refused to put so much as a piece of thread into a needle in\nanticipation of her confinement and would have been absolutely\nunprepared, if her neighbours had not been better judges of her condition\nthan she was, and got things ready without telling her anything about it.\nPerhaps she feared Nemesis, though assuredly she knew not who or what\nNemesis was; perhaps she feared the doctor had made a mistake and she\nshould be laughed at; from whatever cause, however, her refusal to\nrecognise the obvious arose, she certainly refused to recognise it, until\none snowy night in January the doctor was sent for with all urgent speed\nacross the rough country roads.  When he arrived he found two patients,\nnot one, in need of his assistance, for a boy had been born who was in\ndue time christened George, in honour of his then reigning majesty.\n\nTo the best of my belief George Pontifex got the greater part of his\nnature from this obstinate old lady, his mother--a mother who though she\nloved no one else in the world except her husband (and him only after a\nfashion) was most tenderly attached to the unexpected child of her old\nage; nevertheless she showed it little.\n\nThe boy grew up into a sturdy bright-eyed little fellow, with plenty of\nintelligence, and perhaps a trifle too great readiness at book learning.\nBeing kindly treated at home, he was as fond of his father and mother as\nit was in his nature to be of anyone, but he was fond of no one else.  He\nhad a good healthy sense of _meum_, and as little of _tuum_ as he could\nhelp.  Brought up much in the open air in one of the best situated and\nhealthiest villages in England, his little limbs had fair play, and in\nthose days children's brains were not overtasked as they now are; perhaps\nit was for this very reason that the boy showed an avidity to learn.  At\nseven or eight years old he could read, write and sum better than any\nother boy of his age in the village.  My father was not yet rector of\nPaleham, and did not remember George Pontifex's childhood, but I have\nheard neighbours tell him that the boy was looked upon as unusually quick\nand forward.  His father and mother were naturally proud of their\noffspring, and his mother was determined that he should one day become\none of the kings and councillors of the earth.\n\nIt is one thing however to resolve that one's son shall win some of\nlife's larger prizes, and another to square matters with fortune in this\nrespect.  George Pontifex might have been brought up as a carpenter and\nsucceeded in no other way than as succeeding his father as one of the\nminor magnates of Paleham, and yet have been a more truly successful man\nthan he actually was--for I take it there is not much more solid success\nin this world than what fell to the lot of old Mr and Mrs Pontifex; it\nhappened, however, that about the year 1780, when George was a boy of\nfifteen, a sister of Mrs Pontifex's, who had married a Mr Fairlie, came\nto pay a few days' visit at Paleham.  Mr Fairlie was a publisher, chiefly\nof religious works, and had an establishment in Paternoster Row; he had\nrisen in life, and his wife had risen with him.  No very close relations\nhad been maintained between the sisters for some years, and I forget\nexactly how it came about that Mr and Mrs Fairlie were guests in the\nquiet but exceedingly comfortable house of their sister and brother-in-\nlaw; but for some reason or other the visit was paid, and little George\nsoon succeeded in making his way into his uncle and aunt's good graces.  A\nquick, intelligent boy with a good address, a sound constitution, and\ncoming of respectable parents, has a potential value which a practised\nbusiness man who has need of many subordinates is little likely to\noverlook.  Before his visit was over Mr Fairlie proposed to the lad's\nfather and mother that he should put him into his own business, at the\nsame time promising that if the boy did well he should not want some one\nto bring him forward.  Mrs Pontifex had her son's interest too much at\nheart to refuse such an offer, so the matter was soon arranged, and about\na fortnight after the Fairlies had left, George was sent up by coach to\nLondon, where he was met by his uncle and aunt, with whom it was arranged\nthat he should live.\n\nThis was George's great start in life.  He now wore more fashionable\nclothes than he had yet been accustomed to, and any little rusticity of\ngait or pronunciation which he had brought from Paleham, was so quickly\nand completely lost that it was ere long impossible to detect that he had\nnot been born and bred among people of what is commonly called education.\nThe boy paid great attention to his work, and more than justified the\nfavourable opinion which Mr Fairlie had formed concerning him.  Sometimes\nMr Fairlie would send him down to Paleham for a few days' holiday, and\nere long his parents perceived that he had acquired an air and manner of\ntalking different from any that he had taken with him from Paleham.  They\nwere proud of him, and soon fell into their proper places, resigning all\nappearance of a parental control, for which indeed there was no kind of\nnecessity.  In return, George was always kindly to them, and to the end\nof his life retained a more affectionate feeling towards his father and\nmother than I imagine him ever to have felt again for man, woman, or\nchild.\n\nGeorge's visits to Paleham were never long, for the distance from London\nwas under fifty miles and there was a direct coach, so that the journey\nwas easy; there was not time, therefore, for the novelty to wear off\neither on the part of the young man or of his parents.  George liked the\nfresh country air and green fields after the darkness to which he had\nbeen so long accustomed in Paternoster Row, which then, as now, was a\nnarrow gloomy lane rather than a street.  Independently of the pleasure\nof seeing the familiar faces of the farmers and villagers, he liked also\nbeing seen and being congratulated on growing up such a fine-looking and\nfortunate young fellow, for he was not the youth to hide his light under\na bushel.  His uncle had had him taught Latin and Greek of an evening; he\nhad taken kindly to these languages and had rapidly and easily mastered\nwhat many boys take years in acquiring.  I suppose his knowledge gave him\na self-confidence which made itself felt whether he intended it or not;\nat any rate, he soon began to pose as a judge of literature, and from\nthis to being a judge of art, architecture, music and everything else,\nthe path was easy.  Like his father, he knew the value of money, but he\nwas at once more ostentatious and less liberal than his father; while yet\na boy he was a thorough little man of the world, and did well rather upon\nprinciples which he had tested by personal experiment, and recognised as\nprinciples, than from those profounder convictions which in his father\nwere so instinctive that he could give no account concerning them.\n\nHis father, as I have said, wondered at him and let him alone.  His son\nhad fairly distanced him, and in an inarticulate way the father knew it\nperfectly well.  After a few years he took to wearing his best clothes\nwhenever his son came to stay with him, nor would he discard them for his\nordinary ones till the young man had returned to London.  I believe old\nMr Pontifex, along with his pride and affection, felt also a certain fear\nof his son, as though of something which he could not thoroughly\nunderstand, and whose ways, notwithstanding outward agreement, were\nnevertheless not as his ways.  Mrs Pontifex felt nothing of this; to her\nGeorge was pure and absolute perfection, and she saw, or thought she saw,\nwith pleasure, that he resembled her and her family in feature as well as\nin disposition rather than her husband and his.\n\nWhen George was about twenty-five years old his uncle took him into\npartnership on very liberal terms.  He had little cause to regret this\nstep.  The young man infused fresh vigour into a concern that was already\nvigorous, and by the time he was thirty found himself in the receipt of\nnot less than 1500 pounds a year as his share of the profits.  Two years\nlater he married a lady about seven years younger than himself, who\nbrought him a handsome dowry.  She died in 1805, when her youngest child\nAlethea was born, and her husband did not marry again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nIn the early years of the century five little children and a couple of\nnurses began to make periodical visits to Paleham.  It is needless to say\nthey were a rising generation of Pontifexes, towards whom the old couple,\ntheir grandparents, were as tenderly deferential as they would have been\nto the children of the Lord Lieutenant of the County.  Their names were\nEliza, Maria, John, Theobald (who like myself was born in 1802), and\nAlethea.  Mr Pontifex always put the prefix \"master\" or \"miss\" before the\nnames of his grandchildren, except in the case of Alethea, who was his\nfavourite.  To have resisted his grandchildren would have been as\nimpossible for him as to have resisted his wife; even old Mrs Pontifex\nyielded before her son's children, and gave them all manner of licence\nwhich she would never have allowed even to my sisters and myself, who\nstood next in her regard.  Two regulations only they must attend to; they\nmust wipe their shoes well on coming into the house, and they must not\noverfeed Mr Pontifex's organ with wind, nor take the pipes out.\n\nBy us at the Rectory there was no time so much looked forward to as the\nannual visit of the little Pontifexes to Paleham.  We came in for some of\nthe prevailing licence; we went to tea with Mrs Pontifex to meet her\ngrandchildren, and then our young friends were asked to the Rectory to\nhave tea with us, and we had what we considered great times.  I fell\ndesperately in love with Alethea, indeed we all fell in love with each\nother, plurality and exchange whether of wives or husbands being openly\nand unblushingly advocated in the very presence of our nurses.  We were\nvery merry, but it is so long ago that I have forgotten nearly everything\nsave that we _were_ very merry.  Almost the only thing that remains with\nme as a permanent impression was the fact that Theobald one day beat his\nnurse and teased her, and when she said she should go away cried out,\n\"You shan't go away--I'll keep you on purpose to torment you.\"\n\nOne winter's morning, however, in the year 1811, we heard the church bell\ntolling while we were dressing in the back nursery and were told it was\nfor old Mrs Pontifex.  Our man-servant John told us and added with grim\nlevity that they were ringing the bell to come and take her away.  She\nhad had a fit of paralysis which had carried her off quite suddenly.  It\nwas very shocking, the more so because our nurse assured us that if God\nchose we might all have fits of paralysis ourselves that very day and be\ntaken straight off to the Day of Judgement.  The Day of Judgement indeed,\naccording to the opinion of those who were most likely to know, would not\nunder any circumstances be delayed more than a few years longer, and then\nthe whole world would be burned, and we ourselves be consigned to an\neternity of torture, unless we mended our ways more than we at present\nseemed at all likely to do.  All this was so alarming that we fell to\nscreaming and made such a hullabaloo that the nurse was obliged for her\nown peace to reassure us.  Then we wept, but more composedly, as we\nremembered that there would be no more tea and cakes for us now at old\nMrs Pontifex's.\n\nOn the day of the funeral, however, we had a great excitement; old Mr\nPontifex sent round a penny loaf to every inhabitant of the village\naccording to a custom still not uncommon at the beginning of the century;\nthe loaf was called a dole.  We had never heard of this custom before,\nbesides, though we had often heard of penny loaves, we had never before\nseen one; moreover, they were presents to us as inhabitants of the\nvillage, and we were treated as grown up people, for our father and\nmother and the servants had each one loaf sent them, but only one.  We\nhad never yet suspected that we were inhabitants at all; finally, the\nlittle loaves were new, and we were passionately fond of new bread, which\nwe were seldom or never allowed to have, as it was supposed not to be\ngood for us.  Our affection, therefore, for our old friend had to stand\nagainst the combined attacks of archaeological interest, the rights of\ncitizenship and property, the pleasantness to the eye and goodness for\nfood of the little loaves themselves, and the sense of importance which\nwas given us by our having been intimate with someone who had actually\ndied.  It seemed upon further inquiry that there was little reason to\nanticipate an early death for anyone of ourselves, and this being so, we\nrather liked the idea of someone else's being put away into the\nchurchyard; we passed, therefore, in a short time from extreme depression\nto a no less extreme exultation; a new heaven and a new earth had been\nrevealed to us in our perception of the possibility of benefiting by the\ndeath of our friends, and I fear that for some time we took an interest\nin the health of everyone in the village whose position rendered a\nrepetition of the dole in the least likely.\n\nThose were the days in which all great things seemed far off, and we were\nastonished to find that Napoleon Buonaparte was an actually living\nperson.  We had thought such a great man could only have lived a very\nlong time ago, and here he was after all almost as it were at our own\ndoors.  This lent colour to the view that the Day of Judgement might\nindeed be nearer than we had thought, but nurse said that was all right\nnow, and she knew.  In those days the snow lay longer and drifted deeper\nin the lanes than it does now, and the milk was sometimes brought in\nfrozen in winter, and we were taken down into the back kitchen to see it.\nI suppose there are rectories up and down the country now where the milk\ncomes in frozen sometimes in winter, and the children go down to wonder\nat it, but I never see any frozen milk in London, so I suppose the\nwinters are warmer than they used to be.\n\nAbout one year after his wife's death Mr Pontifex also was gathered to\nhis fathers.  My father saw him the day before he died.  The old man had\na theory about sunsets, and had had two steps built up against a wall in\nthe kitchen garden on which he used to stand and watch the sun go down\nwhenever it was clear.  My father came on him in the afternoon, just as\nthe sun was setting, and saw him with his arms resting on the top of the\nwall looking towards the sun over a field through which there was a path\non which my father was.  My father heard him say \"Good-bye, sun; good-\nbye, sun,\" as the sun sank, and saw by his tone and manner that he was\nfeeling very feeble.  Before the next sunset he was gone.\n\nThere was no dole.  Some of his grandchildren were brought to the funeral\nand we remonstrated with them, but did not take much by doing so.  John\nPontifex, who was a year older than I was, sneered at penny loaves, and\nintimated that if I wanted one it must be because my papa and mamma could\nnot afford to buy me one, whereon I believe we did something like\nfighting, and I rather think John Pontifex got the worst of it, but it\nmay have been the other way.  I remember my sister's nurse, for I was\njust outgrowing nurses myself, reported the matter to higher quarters,\nand we were all of us put to some ignominy, but we had been thoroughly\nawakened from our dream, and it was long enough before we could hear the\nwords \"penny loaf\" mentioned without our ears tingling with shame.  If\nthere had been a dozen doles afterwards we should not have deigned to\ntouch one of them.\n\nGeorge Pontifex put up a monument to his parents, a plain slab in Paleham\nchurch, inscribed with the following epitaph:--\n\nSACRED TO THE MEMORY\n\nOF\n\nJOHN PONTIFEX\n\nWHO WAS BORN AUGUST 16TH,\n\n1727, AND DIED FEBRUARY 8, 1812,\n\nIN HIS 85TH YEAR,\n\nAND OF\n\nRUTH PONTIFEX, HIS WIFE,\n\nWHO WAS BORN OCTOBER 13, 1727, AND DIED JANUARY 10, 1811,\n\nIN HER 84TH YEAR.\n\nTHEY WERE UNOSTENTATIOUS BUT EXEMPLARY\n\nIN THE DISCHARGE OF THEIR\n\nRELIGIOUS, MORAL, AND SOCIAL DUTIES.\n\nTHIS MONUMENT WAS PLACED\n\nBY THEIR ONLY SON.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nIn a year or two more came Waterloo and the European peace.  Then Mr\nGeorge Pontifex went abroad more than once.  I remember seeing at\nBattersby in after years the diary which he kept on the first of these\noccasions.  It is a characteristic document.  I felt as I read it that\nthe author before starting had made up his mind to admire only what he\nthought it would be creditable in him to admire, to look at nature and\nart only through the spectacles that had been handed down to him by\ngeneration after generation of prigs and impostors.  The first glimpse of\nMont Blanc threw Mr Pontifex into a conventional ecstasy.  \"My feelings I\ncannot express.  I gasped, yet hardly dared to breathe, as I viewed for\nthe first time the monarch of the mountains.  I seemed to fancy the\ngenius seated on his stupendous throne far above his aspiring brethren\nand in his solitary might defying the universe.  I was so overcome by my\nfeelings that I was almost bereft of my faculties, and would not for\nworlds have spoken after my first exclamation till I found some relief in\na gush of tears.  With pain I tore myself from contemplating for the\nfirst time 'at distance dimly seen' (though I felt as if I had sent my\nsoul and eyes after it), this sublime spectacle.\"  After a nearer view of\nthe Alps from above Geneva he walked nine out of the twelve miles of the\ndescent: \"My mind and heart were too full to sit still, and I found some\nrelief by exhausting my feelings through exercise.\"  In the course of\ntime he reached Chamonix and went on a Sunday to the Montanvert to see\nthe Mer de Glace.  There he wrote the following verses for the visitors'\nbook, which he considered, so he says, \"suitable to the day and scene\":--\n\n   Lord, while these wonders of thy hand I see,\n   My soul in holy reverence bends to thee.\n   These awful solitudes, this dread repose,\n   Yon pyramid sublime of spotless snows,\n   These spiry pinnacles, those smiling plains,\n   This sea where one eternal winter reigns,\n   These are thy works, and while on them I gaze\n   I hear a silent tongue that speaks thy praise.\n\nSome poets always begin to get groggy about the knees after running for\nseven or eight lines.  Mr Pontifex's last couplet gave him a lot of\ntrouble, and nearly every word has been erased and rewritten once at\nleast.  In the visitors' book at the Montanvert, however, he must have\nbeen obliged to commit himself definitely to one reading or another.\nTaking the verses all round, I should say that Mr Pontifex was right in\nconsidering them suitable to the day; I don't like being too hard even on\nthe Mer de Glace, so will give no opinion as to whether they are suitable\nto the scene also.\n\nMr Pontifex went on to the Great St Bernard and there he wrote some more\nverses, this time I am afraid in Latin.  He also took good care to be\nproperly impressed by the Hospice and its situation.  \"The whole of this\nmost extraordinary journey seemed like a dream, its conclusion\nespecially, in gentlemanly society, with every comfort and accommodation\namidst the rudest rocks and in the region of perpetual snow.  The thought\nthat I was sleeping in a convent and occupied the bed of no less a person\nthan Napoleon, that I was in the highest inhabited spot in the old world\nand in a place celebrated in every part of it, kept me awake some time.\"\nAs a contrast to this, I may quote here an extract from a letter written\nto me last year by his grandson Ernest, of whom the reader will hear more\npresently.  The passage runs: \"I went up to the Great St Bernard and saw\nthe dogs.\"  In due course Mr Pontifex found his way into Italy, where the\npictures and other works of art--those, at least, which were fashionable\nat that time--threw him into genteel paroxysms of admiration.  Of the\nUffizi Gallery at Florence he writes: \"I have spent three hours this\nmorning in the gallery and I have made up my mind that if of all the\ntreasures I have seen in Italy I were to choose one room it would be the\nTribune of this gallery.  It contains the Venus de' Medici, the\nExplorator, the Pancratist, the Dancing Faun and a fine Apollo.  These\nmore than outweigh the Laocoon and the Belvedere Apollo at Rome.  It\ncontains, besides, the St John of Raphael and many other _chefs-d'oeuvre_\nof the greatest masters in the world.\"  It is interesting to compare Mr\nPontifex's effusions with the rhapsodies of critics in our own times.  Not\nlong ago a much esteemed writer informed the world that he felt \"disposed\nto cry out with delight\" before a figure by Michael Angelo.  I wonder\nwhether he would feel disposed to cry out before a real Michael Angelo,\nif the critics had decided that it was not genuine, or before a reputed\nMichael Angelo which was really by someone else.  But I suppose that a\nprig with more money than brains was much the same sixty or seventy years\nago as he is now.\n\nLook at Mendelssohn again about this same Tribune on which Mr Pontifex\nfelt so safe in staking his reputation as a man of taste and culture.  He\nfeels no less safe and writes, \"I then went to the Tribune.  This room is\nso delightfully small you can traverse it in fifteen paces, yet it\ncontains a world of art.  I again sought out my favourite arm chair which\nstands under the statue of the 'Slave whetting his knife' (L'Arrotino),\nand taking possession of it I enjoyed myself for a couple of hours; for\nhere at one glance I had the 'Madonna del Cardellino,' Pope Julius II., a\nfemale portrait by Raphael, and above it a lovely Holy Family by\nPerugino; and so close to me that I could have touched it with my hand\nthe Venus de' Medici; beyond, that of Titian . . . The space between is\noccupied by other pictures of Raphael's, a portrait by Titian, a\nDomenichino, etc., etc., all these within the circumference of a small\nsemi-circle no larger than one of your own rooms.  This is a spot where a\nman feels his own insignificance and may well learn to be humble.\"  The\nTribune is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study humility\nin.  They generally take two steps away from it for one they take towards\nit.  I wonder how many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for having sat two\nhours on that chair.  I wonder how often he looked at his watch to see if\nhis two hours were up.  I wonder how often he told himself that he was\nquite as big a gun, if the truth were known, as any of the men whose\nworks he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of the\nvisitors were recognizing him and admiring him for sitting such a long\ntime in the same chair, and how often he was vexed at seeing them pass\nhim by and take no notice of him.  But perhaps if the truth were known\nhis two hours was not quite two hours.\n\nReturning to Mr Pontifex, whether he liked what he believed to be the\nmasterpieces of Greek and Italian art or no he brought back some copies\nby Italian artists, which I have no doubt he satisfied himself would bear\nthe strictest examination with the originals.  Two of these copies fell\nto Theobald's share on the division of his father's furniture, and I have\noften seen them at Battersby on my visits to Theobald and his wife.  The\none was a Madonna by Sassoferrato with a blue hood over her head which\nthrew it half into shadow.  The other was a Magdalen by Carlo Dolci with\na very fine head of hair and a marble vase in her hands.  When I was a\nyoung man I used to think these pictures were beautiful, but with each\nsuccessive visit to Battersby I got to dislike them more and more and to\nsee \"George Pontifex\" written all over both of them.  In the end I\nventured after a tentative fashion to blow on them a little, but Theobald\nand his wife were up in arms at once.  They did not like their father and\nfather-in-law, but there could be no question about his power and general\nability, nor about his having been a man of consummate taste both in\nliterature and art--indeed the diary he kept during his foreign tour was\nenough to prove this.  With one more short extract I will leave this\ndiary and proceed with my story.  During his stay in Florence Mr Pontifex\nwrote: \"I have just seen the Grand Duke and his family pass by in two\ncarriages and six, but little more notice is taken of them than if I, who\nam utterly unknown here, were to pass by.\"  I don't think that he half\nbelieved in his being utterly unknown in Florence or anywhere else!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nFortune, we are told, is a blind and fickle foster-mother, who showers\nher gifts at random upon her nurslings.  But we do her a grave injustice\nif we believe such an accusation.  Trace a man's career from his cradle\nto his grave and mark how Fortune has treated him.  You will find that\nwhen he is once dead she can for the most part be vindicated from the\ncharge of any but very superficial fickleness.  Her blindness is the\nmerest fable; she can espy her favourites long before they are born.  We\nare as days and have had our parents for our yesterdays, but through all\nthe fair weather of a clear parental sky the eye of Fortune can discern\nthe coming storm, and she laughs as she places her favourites it may be\nin a London alley or those whom she is resolved to ruin in kings'\npalaces.  Seldom does she relent towards those whom she has suckled\nunkindly and seldom does she completely fail a favoured nursling.\n\nWas George Pontifex one of Fortune's favoured nurslings or not?  On the\nwhole I should say that he was not, for he did not consider himself so;\nhe was too religious to consider Fortune a deity at all; he took whatever\nshe gave and never thanked her, being firmly convinced that whatever he\ngot to his own advantage was of his own getting.  And so it was, after\nFortune had made him able to get it.\n\n\"Nos te, nos facimus, Fortuna, deam,\" exclaimed the poet.  \"It is we who\nmake thee, Fortune, a goddess\"; and so it is, after Fortune has made us\nable to make her.  The poet says nothing as to the making of the \"nos.\"\nPerhaps some men are independent of antecedents and surroundings and have\nan initial force within themselves which is in no way due to causation;\nbut this is supposed to be a difficult question and it may be as well to\navoid it.  Let it suffice that George Pontifex did not consider himself\nfortunate, and he who does not consider himself fortunate is unfortunate.\n\nTrue, he was rich, universally respected and of an excellent natural\nconstitution.  If he had eaten and drunk less he would never have known a\nday's indisposition.  Perhaps his main strength lay in the fact that\nthough his capacity was a little above the average, it was not too much\nso.  It is on this rock that so many clever people split.  The successful\nman will see just so much more than his neighbours as they will be able\nto see too when it is shown them, but not enough to puzzle them.  It is\nfar safer to know too little than too much.  People will condemn the one,\nthough they will resent being called upon to exert themselves to follow\nthe other.\n\nThe best example of Mr Pontifex's good sense in matters connected with\nhis business which I can think of at this moment is the revolution which\nhe effected in the style of advertising works published by the firm.  When\nhe first became a partner one of the firm's advertisements ran thus:--\n\n   \"Books proper to be given away at this Season.--\n\n   \"The Pious Country Parishioner, being directions how a Christian may\n   manage every day in the course of his whole life with safety and\n   success; how to spend the Sabbath Day; what books of the Holy\n   Scripture ought to be read first; the whole method of education;\n   collects for the most important virtues that adorn the soul; a\n   discourse on the Lord's Supper; rules to set the soul right in\n   sickness; so that in this treatise are contained all the rules\n   requisite for salvation.  The 8th edition with additions.  Price 10d.\n\n   *** An allowance will be made to those who give them away.\"\n\nBefore he had been many years a partner the advertisement stood as\nfollows:--\n\n   \"The Pious Country Parishioner.  A complete manual of Christian\n   Devotion.  Price 10d.\n\n   A reduction will be made to purchasers for gratuitous distribution.\"\n\nWhat a stride is made in the foregoing towards the modern standard, and\nwhat intelligence is involved in the perception of the unseemliness of\nthe old style, when others did not perceive it!\n\nWhere then was the weak place in George Pontifex's armour?  I suppose in\nthe fact that he had risen too rapidly.  It would almost seem as if a\ntransmitted education of some generations is necessary for the due\nenjoyment of great wealth.  Adversity, if a man is set down to it by\ndegrees, is more supportable with equanimity by most people than any\ngreat prosperity arrived at in a single lifetime.  Nevertheless a certain\nkind of good fortune generally attends self-made men to the last.  It is\ntheir children of the first, or first and second, generation who are in\ngreater danger, for the race can no more repeat its most successful\nperformances suddenly and without its ebbings and flowings of success\nthan the individual can do so, and the more brilliant the success in any\none generation, the greater as a general rule the subsequent exhaustion\nuntil time has been allowed for recovery.  Hence it oftens happens that\nthe grandson of a successful man will be more successful than the son--the\nspirit that actuated the grandfather having lain fallow in the son and\nbeing refreshed by repose so as to be ready for fresh exertion in the\ngrandson.  A very successful man, moreover, has something of the hybrid\nin him; he is a new animal, arising from the coming together of many\nunfamiliar elements and it is well known that the reproduction of\nabnormal growths, whether animal or vegetable, is irregular and not to be\ndepended upon, even when they are not absolutely sterile.\n\nAnd certainly Mr Pontifex's success was exceedingly rapid.  Only a few\nyears after he had become a partner his uncle and aunt both died within a\nfew months of one another.  It was then found that they had made him\ntheir heir.  He was thus not only sole partner in the business but found\nhimself with a fortune of some 30,000 pounds into the bargain, and this\nwas a large sum in those days.  Money came pouring in upon him, and the\nfaster it came the fonder he became of it, though, as he frequently said,\nhe valued it not for its own sake, but only as a means of providing for\nhis dear children.\n\nYet when a man is very fond of his money it is not easy for him at all\ntimes to be very fond of his children also.  The two are like God and\nMammon.  Lord Macaulay has a passage in which he contrasts the pleasures\nwhich a man may derive from books with the inconveniences to which he may\nbe put by his acquaintances.  \"Plato,\" he says, \"is never sullen.\nCervantes is never petulant.  Demosthenes never comes unseasonably.  Dante\nnever stays too long.  No difference of political opinion can alienate\nCicero.  No heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet.\"  I dare say I might\ndiffer from Lord Macaulay in my estimate of some of the writers he has\nnamed, but there can be no disputing his main proposition, namely, that\nwe need have no more trouble from any of them than we have a mind to,\nwhereas our friends are not always so easily disposed of.  George\nPontifex felt this as regards his children and his money.  His money was\nnever naughty; his money never made noise or litter, and did not spill\nthings on the tablecloth at meal times, or leave the door open when it\nwent out.  His dividends did not quarrel among themselves, nor was he\nunder any uneasiness lest his mortgages should become extravagant on\nreaching manhood and run him up debts which sooner or later he should\nhave to pay.  There were tendencies in John which made him very uneasy,\nand Theobald, his second son, was idle and at times far from truthful.\nHis children might, perhaps, have answered, had they known what was in\ntheir father's mind, that he did not knock his money about as he not\ninfrequently knocked his children.  He never dealt hastily or pettishly\nwith his money, and that was perhaps why he and it got on so well\ntogether.\n\nIt must be remembered that at the beginning of the nineteenth century the\nrelations between parents and children were still far from satisfactory.\nThe violent type of father, as described by Fielding, Richardson,\nSmollett and Sheridan, is now hardly more likely to find a place in\nliterature than the original advertisement of Messrs. Fairlie &\nPontifex's \"Pious Country Parishioner,\" but the type was much too\npersistent not to have been drawn from nature closely.  The parents in\nMiss Austen's novels are less like savage wild beasts than those of her\npredecessors, but she evidently looks upon them with suspicion, and an\nuneasy feeling that _le pere de famille est capable de tout_ makes itself\nsufficiently apparent throughout the greater part of her writings.  In\nthe Elizabethan time the relations between parents and children seem on\nthe whole to have been more kindly.  The fathers and the sons are for the\nmost part friends in Shakespeare, nor does the evil appear to have\nreached its full abomination till a long course of Puritanism had\nfamiliarised men's minds with Jewish ideals as those which we should\nendeavour to reproduce in our everyday life.  What precedents did not\nAbraham, Jephthah and Jonadab the son of Rechab offer?  How easy was it\nto quote and follow them in an age when few reasonable men or women\ndoubted that every syllable of the Old Testament was taken down\n_verbatim_ from the mouth of God.  Moreover, Puritanism restricted\nnatural pleasures; it substituted the Jeremiad for the Paean, and it\nforgot that the poor abuses of all times want countenance.\n\nMr Pontifex may have been a little sterner with his children than some of\nhis neighbours, but not much.  He thrashed his boys two or three times a\nweek and some weeks a good deal oftener, but in those days fathers were\nalways thrashing their boys.  It is easy to have juster views when\neveryone else has them, but fortunately or unfortunately results have\nnothing whatever to do with the moral guilt or blamelessness of him who\nbrings them about; they depend solely upon the thing done, whatever it\nmay happen to be.  The moral guilt or blamelessness in like manner has\nnothing to do with the result; it turns upon the question whether a\nsufficient number of reasonable people placed as the actor was placed\nwould have done as the actor has done.  At that time it was universally\nadmitted that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, and St Paul had\nplaced disobedience to parents in very ugly company.  If his children did\nanything which Mr Pontifex disliked they were clearly disobedient to\ntheir father.  In this case there was obviously only one course for a\nsensible man to take.  It consisted in checking the first signs of self-\nwill while his children were too young to offer serious resistance.  If\ntheir wills were \"well broken\" in childhood, to use an expression then\nmuch in vogue, they would acquire habits of obedience which they would\nnot venture to break through till they were over twenty-one years old.\nThen they might please themselves; he should know how to protect himself;\ntill then he and his money were more at their mercy than he liked.\n\nHow little do we know our thoughts--our reflex actions indeed, yes; but\nour reflex reflections!  Man, forsooth, prides himself on his\nconsciousness!  We boast that we differ from the winds and waves and\nfalling stones and plants, which grow they know not why, and from the\nwandering creatures which go up and down after their prey, as we are\npleased to say without the help of reason.  We know so well what we are\ndoing ourselves and why we do it, do we not?  I fancy that there is some\ntruth in the view which is being put forward nowadays, that it is our\nless conscious thoughts and our less conscious actions which mainly mould\nour lives and the lives of those who spring from us.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nMr Pontifex was not the man to trouble himself much about his motives.\nPeople were not so introspective then as we are now; they lived more\naccording to a rule of thumb.  Dr Arnold had not yet sown that crop of\nearnest thinkers which we are now harvesting, and men did not see why\nthey should not have their own way if no evil consequences to themselves\nseemed likely to follow upon their doing so.  Then as now, however, they\nsometimes let themselves in for more evil consequences than they had\nbargained for.\n\nLike other rich men at the beginning of this century he ate and drank a\ngood deal more than was enough to keep him in health.  Even his excellent\nconstitution was not proof against a prolonged course of overfeeding and\nwhat we should now consider overdrinking.  His liver would not\nunfrequently get out of order, and he would come down to breakfast\nlooking yellow about the eyes.  Then the young people knew that they had\nbetter look out.  It is not as a general rule the eating of sour grapes\nthat causes the children's teeth to be set on edge.  Well-to-do parents\nseldom eat many sour grapes; the danger to the children lies in the\nparents eating too many sweet ones.\n\nI grant that at first sight it seems very unjust, that the parents should\nhave the fun and the children be punished for it, but young people should\nremember that for many years they were part and parcel of their parents\nand therefore had a good deal of the fun in the person of their parents.\nIf they have forgotten the fun now, that is no more than people do who\nhave a headache after having been tipsy overnight.  The man with a\nheadache does not pretend to be a different person from the man who got\ndrunk, and claim that it is his self of the preceding night and not his\nself of this morning who should be punished; no more should offspring\ncomplain of the headache which it has earned when in the person of its\nparents, for the continuation of identity, though not so immediately\napparent, is just as real in one case as in the other.  What is really\nhard is when the parents have the fun after the children have been born,\nand the children are punished for this.\n\nOn these, his black days, he would take very gloomy views of things and\nsay to himself that in spite of all his goodness to them his children did\nnot love him.  But who can love any man whose liver is out of order?  How\nbase, he would exclaim to himself, was such ingratitude!  How especially\nhard upon himself, who had been such a model son, and always honoured and\nobeyed his parents though they had not spent one hundredth part of the\nmoney upon him which he had lavished upon his own children.  \"It is\nalways the same story,\" he would say to himself, \"the more young people\nhave the more they want, and the less thanks one gets; I have made a\ngreat mistake; I have been far too lenient with my children; never mind,\nI have done my duty by them, and more; if they fail in theirs to me it is\na matter between God and them.  I, at any rate, am guiltless.  Why, I\nmight have married again and become the father of a second and perhaps\nmore affectionate family, etc., etc.\"  He pitied himself for the\nexpensive education which he was giving his children; he did not see that\nthe education cost the children far more than it cost him, inasmuch as it\ncost them the power of earning their living easily rather than helped\nthem towards it, and ensured their being at the mercy of their father for\nyears after they had come to an age when they should be independent.  A\npublic school education cuts off a boy's retreat; he can no longer become\na labourer or a mechanic, and these are the only people whose tenure of\nindependence is not precarious--with the exception of course of those who\nare born inheritors of money or who are placed young in some safe and\ndeep groove.  Mr Pontifex saw nothing of this; all he saw was that he was\nspending much more money upon his children than the law would have\ncompelled him to do, and what more could you have?  Might he not have\napprenticed both his sons to greengrocers?  Might he not even yet do so\nto-morrow morning if he were so minded?  The possibility of this course\nbeing adopted was a favourite topic with him when he was out of temper;\ntrue, he never did apprentice either of his sons to greengrocers, but his\nboys comparing notes together had sometimes come to the conclusion that\nthey wished he would.\n\nAt other times when not quite well he would have them in for the fun of\nshaking his will at them.  He would in his imagination cut them all out\none after another and leave his money to found almshouses, till at last\nhe was obliged to put them back, so that he might have the pleasure of\ncutting them out again the next time he was in a passion.\n\nOf course if young people allow their conduct to be in any way influenced\nby regard to the wills of living persons they are doing very wrong and\nmust expect to be sufferers in the end, nevertheless the powers of will-\ndangling and will-shaking are so liable to abuse and are continually made\nso great an engine of torture that I would pass a law, if I could, to\nincapacitate any man from making a will for three months from the date of\neach offence in either of the above respects and let the bench of\nmagistrates or judge, before whom he has been convicted, dispose of his\nproperty as they shall think right and reasonable if he dies during the\ntime that his will-making power is suspended.\n\nMr Pontifex would have the boys into the dining-room.  \"My dear John, my\ndear Theobald,\" he would say, \"look at me.  I began life with nothing but\nthe clothes with which my father and mother sent me up to London.  My\nfather gave me ten shillings and my mother five for pocket money and I\nthought them munificent.  I never asked my father for a shilling in the\nwhole course of my life, nor took aught from him beyond the small sum he\nused to allow me monthly till I was in receipt of a salary.  I made my\nown way and I shall expect my sons to do the same.  Pray don't take it\ninto your heads that I am going to wear my life out making money that my\nsons may spend it for me.  If you want money you must make it for\nyourselves as I did, for I give you my word I will not leave a penny to\neither of you unless you show that you deserve it.  Young people seem\nnowadays to expect all kinds of luxuries and indulgences which were never\nheard of when I was a boy.  Why, my father was a common carpenter, and\nhere you are both of you at public schools, costing me ever so many\nhundreds a year, while I at your age was plodding away behind a desk in\nmy Uncle Fairlie's counting house.  What should I not have done if I had\nhad one half of your advantages?  You should become dukes or found new\nempires in undiscovered countries, and even then I doubt whether you\nwould have done proportionately so much as I have done.  No, no, I shall\nsee you through school and college and then, if you please, you will make\nyour own way in the world.\"\n\nIn this manner he would work himself up into such a state of virtuous\nindignation that he would sometimes thrash the boys then and there upon\nsome pretext invented at the moment.\n\nAnd yet, as children went, the young Pontifexes were fortunate; there\nwould be ten families of young people worse off for one better; they ate\nand drank good wholesome food, slept in comfortable beds, had the best\ndoctors to attend them when they were ill and the best education that\ncould be had for money.  The want of fresh air does not seem much to\naffect the happiness of children in a London alley: the greater part of\nthem sing and play as though they were on a moor in Scotland.  So the\nabsence of a genial mental atmosphere is not commonly recognised by\nchildren who have never known it.  Young people have a marvellous faculty\nof either dying or adapting themselves to circumstances.  Even if they\nare unhappy--very unhappy--it is astonishing how easily they can be\nprevented from finding it out, or at any rate from attributing it to any\nother cause than their own sinfulness.\n\nTo parents who wish to lead a quiet life I would say: Tell your children\nthat they are very naughty--much naughtier than most children.  Point to\nthe young people of some acquaintances as models of perfection and\nimpress your own children with a deep sense of their own inferiority.  You\ncarry so many more guns than they do that they cannot fight you.  This is\ncalled moral influence, and it will enable you to bounce them as much as\nyou please.  They think you know and they will not have yet caught you\nlying often enough to suspect that you are not the unworldly and\nscrupulously truthful person which you represent yourself to be; nor yet\nwill they know how great a coward you are, nor how soon you will run\naway, if they fight you with persistency and judgement.  You keep the\ndice and throw them both for your children and yourself.  Load them then,\nfor you can easily manage to stop your children from examining them.  Tell\nthem how singularly indulgent you are; insist on the incalculable benefit\nyou conferred upon them, firstly in bringing them into the world at all,\nbut more particularly in bringing them into it as your own children\nrather than anyone else's.  Say that you have their highest interests at\nstake whenever you are out of temper and wish to make yourself unpleasant\nby way of balm to your soul.  Harp much upon these highest interests.\nFeed them spiritually upon such brimstone and treacle as the late Bishop\nof Winchester's Sunday stories.  You hold all the trump cards, or if you\ndo not you can filch them; if you play them with anything like judgement\nyou will find yourselves heads of happy, united, God-fearing families,\neven as did my old friend Mr Pontifex.  True, your children will probably\nfind out all about it some day, but not until too late to be of much\nservice to them or inconvenience to yourself.\n\nSome satirists have complained of life inasmuch as all the pleasures\nbelong to the fore part of it and we must see them dwindle till we are\nleft, it may be, with the miseries of a decrepit old age.\n\nTo me it seems that youth is like spring, an overpraised\nseason--delightful if it happen to be a favoured one, but in practice\nvery rarely favoured and more remarkable, as a general rule, for biting\neast winds than genial breezes.  Autumn is the mellower season, and what\nwe lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.  Fontenelle at the age of\nninety, being asked what was the happiest time of his life, said he did\nnot know that he had ever been much happier than he then was, but that\nperhaps his best years had been those when he was between fifty-five and\nseventy-five, and Dr Johnson placed the pleasures of old age far higher\nthan those of youth.  True, in old age we live under the shadow of Death,\nwhich, like a sword of Damocles, may descend at any moment, but we have\nso long found life to be an affair of being rather frightened than hurt\nthat we have become like the people who live under Vesuvius, and chance\nit without much misgiving.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nA few words may suffice for the greater number of the young people to\nwhom I have been alluding in the foregoing chapter.  Eliza and Maria, the\ntwo elder girls, were neither exactly pretty nor exactly plain, and were\nin all respects model young ladies, but Alethea was exceedingly pretty\nand of a lively, affectionate disposition, which was in sharp contrast\nwith those of her brothers and sisters.  There was a trace of her\ngrandfather, not only in her face, but in her love of fun, of which her\nfather had none, though not without a certain boisterous and rather\ncoarse quasi-humour which passed for wit with many.\n\nJohn grew up to be a good-looking, gentlemanly fellow, with features a\ntrifle too regular and finely chiselled.  He dressed himself so nicely,\nhad such good address, and stuck so steadily to his books that he became\na favourite with his masters; he had, however, an instinct for diplomacy,\nand was less popular with the boys.  His father, in spite of the lectures\nhe would at times read him, was in a way proud of him as he grew older;\nhe saw in him, moreover, one who would probably develop into a good man\nof business, and in whose hands the prospects of his house would not be\nlikely to decline.  John knew how to humour his father, and was at a\ncomparatively early age admitted to as much of his confidence as it was\nin his nature to bestow on anyone.\n\nHis brother Theobald was no match for him, knew it, and accepted his\nfate.  He was not so good-looking as his brother, nor was his address so\ngood; as a child he had been violently passionate; now, however, he was\nreserved and shy, and, I should say, indolent in mind and body.  He was\nless tidy than John, less well able to assert himself, and less skilful\nin humouring the caprices of his father.  I do not think he could have\nloved anyone heartily, but there was no one in his family circle who did\nnot repress, rather than invite his affection, with the exception of his\nsister Alethea, and she was too quick and lively for his somewhat morose\ntemper.  He was always the scapegoat, and I have sometimes thought he had\ntwo fathers to contend against--his father and his brother John; a third\nand fourth also might almost be added in his sisters Eliza and Maria.\nPerhaps if he had felt his bondage very acutely he would not have put up\nwith it, but he was constitutionally timid, and the strong hand of his\nfather knitted him into the closest outward harmony with his brother and\nsisters.\n\nThe boys were of use to their father in one respect.  I mean that he\nplayed them off against each other.  He kept them but poorly supplied\nwith pocket money, and to Theobald would urge that the claims of his\nelder brother were naturally paramount, while he insisted to John upon\nthe fact that he had a numerous family, and would affirm solemnly that\nhis expenses were so heavy that at his death there would be very little\nto divide.  He did not care whether they compared notes or no, provided\nthey did not do so in his presence.  Theobald did not complain even\nbehind his father's back.  I knew him as intimately as anyone was likely\nto know him as a child, at school, and again at Cambridge, but he very\nrarely mentioned his father's name even while his father was alive, and\nnever once in my hearing afterwards.  At school he was not actively\ndisliked as his brother was, but he was too dull and deficient in animal\nspirits to be popular.\n\nBefore he was well out of his frocks it was settled that he was to be a\nclergyman.  It was seemly that Mr Pontifex, the well-known publisher of\nreligious books, should devote at least one of his sons to the Church;\nthis might tend to bring business, or at any rate to keep it in the firm;\nbesides, Mr Pontifex had more or less interest with bishops and Church\ndignitaries and might hope that some preferment would be offered to his\nson through his influence.  The boy's future destiny was kept well before\nhis eyes from his earliest childhood and was treated as a matter which he\nhad already virtually settled by his acquiescence.  Nevertheless a\ncertain show of freedom was allowed him.  Mr Pontifex would say it was\nonly right to give a boy his option, and was much too equitable to grudge\nhis son whatever benefit he could derive from this.  He had the greatest\nhorror, he would exclaim, of driving any young man into a profession\nwhich he did not like.  Far be it from him to put pressure upon a son of\nhis as regards any profession and much less when so sacred a calling as\nthe ministry was concerned.  He would talk in this way when there were\nvisitors in the house and when his son was in the room.  He spoke so\nwisely and so well that his listening guests considered him a paragon of\nright-mindedness.  He spoke, too, with such emphasis and his rosy gills\nand bald head looked so benevolent that it was difficult not to be\ncarried away by his discourse.  I believe two or three heads of families\nin the neighbourhood gave their sons absolute liberty of choice in the\nmatter of their professions--and am not sure that they had not afterwards\nconsiderable cause to regret having done so.  The visitors, seeing\nTheobald look shy and wholly unmoved by the exhibition of so much\nconsideration for his wishes, would remark to themselves that the boy\nseemed hardly likely to be equal to his father and would set him down as\nan unenthusiastic youth, who ought to have more life in him and be more\nsensible of his advantages than he appeared to be.\n\nNo one believed in the righteousness of the whole transaction more firmly\nthan the boy himself; a sense of being ill at ease kept him silent, but\nit was too profound and too much without break for him to become fully\nalive to it, and come to an understanding with himself.  He feared the\ndark scowl which would come over his father's face upon the slightest\nopposition.  His father's violent threats, or coarse sneers, would not\nhave been taken _au serieux_ by a stronger boy, but Theobald was not a\nstrong boy, and rightly or wrongly, gave his father credit for being\nquite ready to carry his threats into execution.  Opposition had never\ngot him anything he wanted yet, nor indeed had yielding, for the matter\nof that, unless he happened to want exactly what his father wanted for\nhim.  If he had ever entertained thoughts of resistance, he had none now,\nand the power to oppose was so completely lost for want of exercise that\nhardly did the wish remain; there was nothing left save dull acquiescence\nas of an ass crouched between two burdens.  He may have had an\nill-defined sense of ideals that were not his actuals; he might\noccasionally dream of himself as a soldier or a sailor far away in\nforeign lands, or even as a farmer's boy upon the wolds, but there was\nnot enough in him for there to be any chance of his turning his dreams\ninto realities, and he drifted on with his stream, which was a slow, and,\nI am afraid, a muddy one.\n\nI think the Church Catechism has a good deal to do with the unhappy\nrelations which commonly even now exist between parents and children.\nThat work was written too exclusively from the parental point of view;\nthe person who composed it did not get a few children to come in and help\nhim; he was clearly not young himself, nor should I say it was the work\nof one who liked children--in spite of the words \"my good child\" which,\nif I remember rightly, are once put into the mouth of the catechist and,\nafter all, carry a harsh sound with them.  The general impression it\nleaves upon the mind of the young is that their wickedness at birth was\nbut very imperfectly wiped out at baptism, and that the mere fact of\nbeing young at all has something with it that savours more or less\ndistinctly of the nature of sin.\n\nIf a new edition of the work is ever required I should like to introduce\na few words insisting on the duty of seeking all reasonable pleasure and\navoiding all pain that can be honourably avoided.  I should like to see\nchildren taught that they should not say they like things which they do\nnot like, merely because certain other people say they like them, and how\nfoolish it is to say they believe this or that when they understand\nnothing about it.  If it be urged that these additions would make the\nCatechism too long I would curtail the remarks upon our duty towards our\nneighbour and upon the sacraments.  In the place of the paragraph\nbeginning \"I desire my Lord God our Heavenly Father\" I would--but perhaps\nI had better return to Theobald, and leave the recasting of the Catechism\nto abler hands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nMr Pontifex had set his heart on his son's becoming a fellow of a college\nbefore he became a clergyman.  This would provide for him at once and\nwould ensure his getting a living if none of his father's ecclesiastical\nfriends gave him one.  The boy had done just well enough at school to\nrender this possible, so he was sent to one of the smaller colleges at\nCambridge and was at once set to read with the best private tutors that\ncould be found.  A system of examination had been adopted a year or so\nbefore Theobald took his degree which had improved his chances of a\nfellowship, for whatever ability he had was classical rather than\nmathematical, and this system gave more encouragement to classical\nstudies than had been given hitherto.\n\nTheobald had the sense to see that he had a chance of independence if he\nworked hard, and he liked the notion of becoming a fellow.  He therefore\napplied himself, and in the end took a degree which made his getting a\nfellowship in all probability a mere question of time.  For a while Mr\nPontifex senior was really pleased, and told his son he would present him\nwith the works of any standard writer whom he might select.  The young\nman chose the works of Bacon, and Bacon accordingly made his appearance\nin ten nicely bound volumes.  A little inspection, however, showed that\nthe copy was a second hand one.\n\nNow that he had taken his degree the next thing to look forward to was\nordination--about which Theobald had thought little hitherto beyond\nacquiescing in it as something that would come as a matter of course some\nday.  Now, however, it had actually come and was asserting itself as a\nthing which should be only a few months off, and this rather frightened\nhim inasmuch as there would be no way out of it when he was once in it.\nHe did not like the near view of ordination as well as the distant one,\nand even made some feeble efforts to escape, as may be perceived by the\nfollowing correspondence which his son Ernest found among his father's\npapers written on gilt-edged paper, in faded ink and tied neatly round\nwith a piece of tape, but without any note or comment.  I have altered\nnothing.  The letters are as follows:--\n\n   \"My dear Father,--I do not like opening up a question which has been\n   considered settled, but as the time approaches I begin to be very\n   doubtful how far I am fitted to be a clergyman.  Not, I am thankful to\n   say, that I have the faintest doubts about the Church of England, and\n   I could subscribe cordially to every one of the thirty-nine articles\n   which do indeed appear to me to be the _ne plus ultra_ of human\n   wisdom, and Paley, too, leaves no loop-hole for an opponent; but I am\n   sure I should be running counter to your wishes if I were to conceal\n   from you that I do not feel the inward call to be a minister of the\n   gospel that I shall have to say I have felt when the Bishop ordains\n   me.  I try to get this feeling, I pray for it earnestly, and sometimes\n   half think that I have got it, but in a little time it wears off, and\n   though I have no absolute repugnance to being a clergyman and trust\n   that if I am one I shall endeavour to live to the Glory of God and to\n   advance His interests upon earth, yet I feel that something more than\n   this is wanted before I am fully justified in going into the Church.  I\n   am aware that I have been a great expense to you in spite of my\n   scholarships, but you have ever taught me that I should obey my\n   conscience, and my conscience tells me I should do wrong if I became a\n   clergyman.  God may yet give me the spirit for which I assure you I\n   have been and am continually praying, but He may not, and in that case\n   would it not be better for me to try and look out for something else?\n   I know that neither you nor John wish me to go into your business, nor\n   do I understand anything about money matters, but is there nothing\n   else that I can do?  I do not like to ask you to maintain me while I\n   go in for medicine or the bar; but when I get my fellowship, which\n   should not be long first, I will endeavour to cost you nothing\n   further, and I might make a little money by writing or taking pupils.\n   I trust you will not think this letter improper; nothing is further\n   from my wish than to cause you any uneasiness.  I hope you will make\n   allowance for my present feelings which, indeed, spring from nothing\n   but from that respect for my conscience which no one has so often\n   instilled into me as yourself.  Pray let me have a few lines shortly.\n   I hope your cold is better.  With love to Eliza and Maria, I am, your\n   affectionate son,\n\n   \"THEOBALD PONTIFEX.\"\n\n   \"Dear Theobald,--I can enter into your feelings and have no wish to\n   quarrel with your expression of them.  It is quite right and natural\n   that you should feel as you do except as regards one passage, the\n   impropriety of which you will yourself doubtless feel upon reflection,\n   and to which I will not further allude than to say that it has wounded\n   me.  You should not have said 'in spite of my scholarships.'  It was\n   only proper that if you could do anything to assist me in bearing the\n   heavy burden of your education, the money should be, as it was, made\n   over to myself.  Every line in your letter convinces me that you are\n   under the influence of a morbid sensitiveness which is one of the\n   devil's favourite devices for luring people to their destruction.  I\n   have, as you say, been at great expense with your education.  Nothing\n   has been spared by me to give you the advantages, which, as an English\n   gentleman, I was anxious to afford my son, but I am not prepared to\n   see that expense thrown away and to have to begin again from the\n   beginning, merely because you have taken some foolish scruples into\n   your head, which you should resist as no less unjust to yourself than\n   to me.\n\n   \"Don't give way to that restless desire for change which is the bane\n   of so many persons of both sexes at the present day.\n\n   \"Of course you needn't be ordained: nobody will compel you; you are\n   perfectly free; you are twenty-three years of age, and should know\n   your own mind; but why not have known it sooner, instead of never so\n   much as breathing a hint of opposition until I have had all the\n   expense of sending you to the University, which I should never have\n   done unless I had believed you to have made up your mind about taking\n   orders?  I have letters from you in which you express the most perfect\n   willingness to be ordained, and your brother and sisters will bear me\n   out in saying that no pressure of any sort has been put upon you.  You\n   mistake your own mind, and are suffering from a nervous timidity which\n   may be very natural but may not the less be pregnant with serious\n   consequences to yourself.  I am not at all well, and the anxiety\n   occasioned by your letter is naturally preying upon me.  May God guide\n   you to a better judgement.--Your affectionate father, G. PONTIFEX.\"\n\nOn the receipt of this letter Theobald plucked up his spirits.  \"My\nfather,\" he said to himself, \"tells me I need not be ordained if I do not\nlike.  I do not like, and therefore I will not be ordained.  But what was\nthe meaning of the words 'pregnant with serious consequences to\nyourself'?  Did there lurk a threat under these words--though it was\nimpossible to lay hold of it or of them?  Were they not intended to\nproduce all the effect of a threat without being actually threatening?\"\n\nTheobald knew his father well enough to be little likely to misapprehend\nhis meaning, but having ventured so far on the path of opposition, and\nbeing really anxious to get out of being ordained if he could, he\ndetermined to venture farther.  He accordingly wrote the following:\n\n   \"My dear father,--You tell me--and I heartily thank you--that no one\n   will compel me to be ordained.  I knew you would not press ordination\n   upon me if my conscience was seriously opposed to it; I have therefore\n   resolved on giving up the idea, and believe that if you will continue\n   to allow me what you do at present, until I get my fellowship, which\n   should not be long, I will then cease putting you to further expense.\n   I will make up my mind as soon as possible what profession I will\n   adopt, and will let you know at once.--Your affectionate son, THEOBALD\n   PONTIFEX.\"\n\nThe remaining letter, written by return of post, must now be given.  It\nhas the merit of brevity.\n\n   \"Dear Theobald,--I have received yours.  I am at a loss to conceive\n   its motive, but am very clear as to its effect.  You shall not receive\n   a single sixpence from me till you come to your senses.  Should you\n   persist in your folly and wickedness, I am happy to remember that I\n   have yet other children whose conduct I can depend upon to be a source\n   of credit and happiness to me.--Your affectionate but troubled father,\n   G. PONTIFEX.\"\n\nI do not know the immediate sequel to the foregoing correspondence, but\nit all came perfectly right in the end.  Either Theobald's heart failed\nhim, or he interpreted the outward shove which his father gave him, as\nthe inward call for which I have no doubt he prayed with great\nearnestness--for he was a firm believer in the efficacy of prayer.  And\nso am I under certain circumstances.  Tennyson has said that more things\nare wrought by prayer than this world dreams of, but he has wisely\nrefrained from saying whether they are good things or bad things.  It\nmight perhaps be as well if the world were to dream of, or even become\nwide awake to, some of the things that are being wrought by prayer.  But\nthe question is avowedly difficult.  In the end Theobald got his\nfellowship by a stroke of luck very soon after taking his degree, and was\nordained in the autumn of the same year, 1825.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nMr Allaby was rector of Crampsford, a village a few miles from Cambridge.\nHe, too, had taken a good degree, had got a fellowship, and in the course\nof time had accepted a college living of about 400 pounds a year and a\nhouse.  His private income did not exceed 200 pounds a year.  On\nresigning his fellowship he married a woman a good deal younger than\nhimself who bore him eleven children, nine of whom--two sons and seven\ndaughters--were living.  The two eldest daughters had married fairly\nwell, but at the time of which I am now writing there were still five\nunmarried, of ages varying between thirty and twenty-two--and the sons\nwere neither of them yet off their father's hands.  It was plain that if\nanything were to happen to Mr Allaby the family would be left poorly off,\nand this made both Mr and Mrs Allaby as unhappy as it ought to have made\nthem.\n\nReader, did you ever have an income at best none too large, which died\nwith you all except 200 pounds a year?  Did you ever at the same time\nhave two sons who must be started in life somehow, and five daughters\nstill unmarried for whom you would only be too thankful to find\nhusbands--if you knew how to find them?  If morality is that which, on\nthe whole, brings a man peace in his declining years--if, that is to say,\nit is not an utter swindle, can you under these circumstances flatter\nyourself that you have led a moral life?\n\nAnd this, even though your wife has been so good a woman that you have\nnot grown tired of her, and has not fallen into such ill-health as lowers\nyour own health in sympathy; and though your family has grown up\nvigorous, amiable, and blessed with common sense.  I know many old men\nand women who are reputed moral, but who are living with partners whom\nthey have long ceased to love, or who have ugly disagreeable maiden\ndaughters for whom they have never been able to find husbands--daughters\nwhom they loathe and by whom they are loathed in secret, or sons whose\nfolly or extravagance is a perpetual wear and worry to them.  Is it moral\nfor a man to have brought such things upon himself?  Someone should do\nfor morals what that old Pecksniff Bacon has obtained the credit of\nhaving done for science.\n\nBut to return to Mr and Mrs Allaby.  Mrs Allaby talked about having\nmarried two of her daughters as though it had been the easiest thing in\nthe world.  She talked in this way because she heard other mothers do so,\nbut in her heart of hearts she did not know how she had done it, nor\nindeed, if it had been her doing at all.  First there had been a young\nman in connection with whom she had tried to practise certain manoeuvres\nwhich she had rehearsed in imagination over and over again, but which she\nfound impossible to apply in practice.  Then there had been weeks of a\n_wurra wurra_ of hopes and fears and little stratagems which as often as\nnot proved injudicious, and then somehow or other in the end, there lay\nthe young man bound and with an arrow through his heart at her daughter's\nfeet.  It seemed to her to be all a fluke which she could have little or\nno hope of repeating.  She had indeed repeated it once, and might perhaps\nwith good luck repeat it yet once again--but five times over!  It was\nawful: why she would rather have three confinements than go through the\nwear and tear of marrying a single daughter.\n\nNevertheless it had got to be done, and poor Mrs Allaby never looked at a\nyoung man without an eye to his being a future son-in-law.  Papas and\nmammas sometimes ask young men whether their intentions are honourable\ntowards their daughters.  I think young men might occasionally ask papas\nand mammas whether their intentions are honourable before they accept\ninvitations to houses where there are still unmarried daughters.\n\n\"I can't afford a curate, my dear,\" said Mr Allaby to his wife when the\npair were discussing what was next to be done.  \"It will be better to get\nsome young man to come and help me for a time upon a Sunday.  A guinea a\nSunday will do this, and we can chop and change till we get someone who\nsuits.\"  So it was settled that Mr Allaby's health was not so strong as\nit had been, and that he stood in need of help in the performance of his\nSunday duty.\n\nMrs Allaby had a great friend--a certain Mrs Cowey, wife of the\ncelebrated Professor Cowey.  She was what was called a truly spiritually\nminded woman, a trifle portly, with an incipient beard, and an extensive\nconnection among undergraduates, more especially among those who were\ninclined to take part in the great evangelical movement which was then at\nits height.  She gave evening parties once a fortnight at which prayer\nwas part of the entertainment.  She was not only spiritually minded, but,\nas enthusiastic Mrs Allaby used to exclaim, she was a thorough woman of\nthe world at the same time and had such a fund of strong masculine good\nsense.  She too had daughters, but, as she used to say to Mrs Allaby, she\nhad been less fortunate than Mrs Allaby herself, for one by one they had\nmarried and left her so that her old age would have been desolate indeed\nif her Professor had not been spared to her.\n\nMrs Cowey, of course, knew the run of all the bachelor clergy in the\nUniversity, and was the very person to assist Mrs Allaby in finding an\neligible assistant for her husband, so this last named lady drove over\none morning in the November of 1825, by arrangement, to take an early\ndinner with Mrs Cowey and spend the afternoon.  After dinner the two\nladies retired together, and the business of the day began.  How they\nfenced, how they saw through one another, with what loyalty they\npretended not to see through one another, with what gentle dalliance they\nprolonged the conversation discussing the spiritual fitness of this or\nthat deacon, and the other pros and cons connected with him after his\nspiritual fitness had been disposed of, all this must be left to the\nimagination of the reader.  Mrs Cowey had been so accustomed to scheming\non her own account that she would scheme for anyone rather than not\nscheme at all.  Many mothers turned to her in their hour of need and,\nprovided they were spiritually minded, Mrs Cowey never failed to do her\nbest for them; if the marriage of a young Bachelor of Arts was not made\nin Heaven, it was probably made, or at any rate attempted, in Mrs Cowey's\ndrawing-room.  On the present occasion all the deacons of the University\nin whom there lurked any spark of promise were exhaustively discussed,\nand the upshot was that our friend Theobald was declared by Mrs Cowey to\nbe about the best thing she could do that afternoon.\n\n\"I don't know that he's a particularly fascinating young man, my dear,\"\nsaid Mrs Cowey, \"and he's only a second son, but then he's got his\nfellowship, and even the second son of such a man as Mr Pontifex the\npublisher should have something very comfortable.\"\n\n\"Why yes, my dear,\" rejoined Mrs Allaby complacently, \"that's what one\nrather feels.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe interview, like all other good things had to come to an end; the days\nwere short, and Mrs Allaby had a six miles' drive to Crampsford.  When\nshe was muffled up and had taken her seat, Mr Allaby's _factotum_, James,\ncould perceive no change in her appearance, and little knew what a series\nof delightful visions he was driving home along with his mistress.\n\nProfessor Cowey had published works through Theobald's father, and\nTheobald had on this account been taken in tow by Mrs Cowey from the\nbeginning of his University career.  She had had her eye upon him for\nsome time past, and almost as much felt it her duty to get him off her\nlist of young men for whom wives had to be provided, as poor Mrs Allaby\ndid to try and get a husband for one of her daughters.  She now wrote and\nasked him to come and see her, in terms that awakened his curiosity.  When\nhe came she broached the subject of Mr Allaby's failing health, and after\nthe smoothing away of such difficulties as were only Mrs Cowey's due,\nconsidering the interest she had taken, it was allowed to come to pass\nthat Theobald should go to Crampsford for six successive Sundays and take\nthe half of Mr Allaby's duty at half a guinea a Sunday, for Mrs Cowey cut\ndown the usual stipend mercilessly, and Theobald was not strong enough to\nresist.\n\nIgnorant of the plots which were being prepared for his peace of mind and\nwith no idea beyond that of earning his three guineas, and perhaps of\nastonishing the inhabitants of Crampsford by his academic learning,\nTheobald walked over to the Rectory one Sunday morning early in\nDecember--a few weeks only after he had been ordained.  He had taken a\ngreat deal of pains with his sermon, which was on the subject of\ngeology--then coming to the fore as a theological bugbear.  He showed\nthat so far as geology was worth anything at all--and he was too liberal\nentirely to pooh-pooh it--it confirmed the absolutely historical\ncharacter of the Mosaic account of the Creation as given in Genesis.  Any\nphenomena which at first sight appeared to make against this view were\nonly partial phenomena and broke down upon investigation.  Nothing could\nbe in more excellent taste, and when Theobald adjourned to the rectory,\nwhere he was to dine between the services, Mr Allaby complimented him\nwarmly upon his debut, while the ladies of the family could hardly find\nwords with which to express their admiration.\n\nTheobald knew nothing about women.  The only women he had been thrown in\ncontact with were his sisters, two of whom were always correcting him,\nand a few school friends whom these had got their father to ask to\nElmhurst.  These young ladies had either been so shy that they and\nTheobald had never amalgamated, or they had been supposed to be clever\nand had said smart things to him.  He did not say smart things himself\nand did not want other people to say them.  Besides, they talked about\nmusic--and he hated music--or pictures--and he hated pictures--or\nbooks--and except the classics he hated books.  And then sometimes he was\nwanted to dance with them, and he did not know how to dance, and did not\nwant to know.\n\nAt Mrs Cowey's parties again he had seen some young ladies and had been\nintroduced to them.  He had tried to make himself agreeable, but was\nalways left with the impression that he had not been successful.  The\nyoung ladies of Mrs Cowey's set were by no means the most attractive that\nmight have been found in the University, and Theobald may be excused for\nnot losing his heart to the greater number of them, while if for a minute\nor two he was thrown in with one of the prettier and more agreeable girls\nhe was almost immediately cut out by someone less bashful than himself,\nand sneaked off, feeling as far as the fair sex was concerned, like the\nimpotent man at the pool of Bethesda.\n\nWhat a really nice girl might have done with him I cannot tell, but fate\nhad thrown none such in his way except his youngest sister Alethea, whom\nhe might perhaps have liked if she had not been his sister.  The result\nof his experience was that women had never done him any good and he was\nnot accustomed to associate them with any pleasure; if there was a part\nof Hamlet in connection with them it had been so completely cut out in\nthe edition of the play in which he was required to act that he had come\nto disbelieve in its existence.  As for kissing, he had never kissed a\nwoman in his life except his sister--and my own sisters when we were all\nsmall children together.  Over and above these kisses, he had until quite\nlately been required to imprint a solemn flabby kiss night and morning\nupon his father's cheek, and this, to the best of my belief, was the\nextent of Theobald's knowledge in the matter of kissing, at the time of\nwhich I am now writing.  The result of the foregoing was that he had come\nto dislike women, as mysterious beings whose ways were not as his ways,\nnor their thoughts as his thoughts.\n\nWith these antecedents Theobald naturally felt rather bashful on finding\nhimself the admired of five strange young ladies.  I remember when I was\na boy myself I was once asked to take tea at a girls' school where one of\nmy sisters was boarding.  I was then about twelve years old.  Everything\nwent off well during tea-time, for the Lady Principal of the\nestablishment was present.  But there came a time when she went away and\nI was left alone with the girls.  The moment the mistress's back was\nturned the head girl, who was about my own age, came up, pointed her\nfinger at me, made a face and said solemnly, \"A na-a-sty bo-o-y!\"  All\nthe girls followed her in rotation making the same gesture and the same\nreproach upon my being a boy.  It gave me a great scare.  I believe I\ncried, and I know it was a long time before I could again face a girl\nwithout a strong desire to run away.\n\nTheobald felt at first much as I had myself done at the girls' school,\nbut the Miss Allabys did not tell him he was a nasty bo-o-oy.  Their papa\nand mamma were so cordial and they themselves lifted him so deftly over\nconversational stiles that before dinner was over Theobald thought the\nfamily to be a really very charming one, and felt as though he were being\nappreciated in a way to which he had not hitherto been accustomed.\n\nWith dinner his shyness wore off.  He was by no means plain, his academic\nprestige was very fair.  There was nothing about him to lay hold of as\nunconventional or ridiculous; the impression he created upon the young\nladies was quite as favourable as that which they had created upon\nhimself; for they knew not much more about men than he about women.\n\nAs soon as he was gone, the harmony of the establishment was broken by a\nstorm which arose upon the question which of them it should be who should\nbecome Mrs Pontifex.  \"My dears,\" said their father, when he saw that\nthey did not seem likely to settle the matter among themselves, \"Wait\ntill to-morrow, and then play at cards for him.\"  Having said which he\nretired to his study, where he took a nightly glass of whisky and a pipe\nof tobacco.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nThe next morning saw Theobald in his rooms coaching a pupil, and the Miss\nAllabys in the eldest Miss Allaby's bedroom playing at cards with\nTheobald for the stakes.\n\nThe winner was Christina, the second unmarried daughter, then just twenty-\nseven years old and therefore four years older than Theobald.  The\nyounger sisters complained that it was throwing a husband away to let\nChristina try and catch him, for she was so much older that she had no\nchance; but Christina showed fight in a way not usual with her, for she\nwas by nature yielding and good tempered.  Her mother thought it better\nto back her up, so the two dangerous ones were packed off then and there\non visits to friends some way off, and those alone allowed to remain at\nhome whose loyalty could be depended upon.  The brothers did not even\nsuspect what was going on and believed their father's getting assistance\nwas because he really wanted it.\n\nThe sisters who remained at home kept their words and gave Christina all\nthe help they could, for over and above their sense of fair play they\nreflected that the sooner Theobald was landed, the sooner another deacon\nmight be sent for who might be won by themselves.  So quickly was all\nmanaged that the two unreliable sisters were actually out of the house\nbefore Theobald's next visit--which was on the Sunday following his\nfirst.\n\nThis time Theobald felt quite at home in the house of his new friends--for\nso Mrs Allaby insisted that he should call them.  She took, she said,\nsuch a motherly interest in young men, especially in clergymen.  Theobald\nbelieved every word she said, as he had believed his father and all his\nelders from his youth up.  Christina sat next him at dinner and played\nher cards no less judiciously than she had played them in her sister's\nbedroom.  She smiled (and her smile was one of her strong points)\nwhenever he spoke to her; she went through all her little artlessnesses\nand set forth all her little wares in what she believed to be their most\ntaking aspect.  Who can blame her?  Theobald was not the ideal she had\ndreamed of when reading Byron upstairs with her sisters, but he was an\nactual within the bounds of possibility, and after all not a bad actual\nas actuals went.  What else could she do?  Run away?  She dared not.\nMarry beneath her and be considered a disgrace to her family?  She dared\nnot.  Remain at home and become an old maid and be laughed at?  Not if\nshe could help it.  She did the only thing that could reasonably be\nexpected.  She was drowning; Theobald might be only a straw, but she\ncould catch at him and catch at him she accordingly did.\n\nIf the course of true love never runs smooth, the course of true match-\nmaking sometimes does so.  The only ground for complaint in the present\ncase was that it was rather slow.  Theobald fell into the part assigned\nto him more easily than Mrs Cowey and Mrs Allaby had dared to hope.  He\nwas softened by Christina's winning manners: he admired the high moral\ntone of everything she said; her sweetness towards her sisters and her\nfather and mother, her readiness to undertake any small burden which no\none else seemed willing to undertake, her sprightly manners, all were\nfascinating to one who, though unused to woman's society, was still a\nhuman being.  He was flattered by her unobtrusive but obviously sincere\nadmiration for himself; she seemed to see him in a more favourable light,\nand to understand him better than anyone outside of this charming family\nhad ever done.  Instead of snubbing him as his father, brother and\nsisters did, she drew him out, listened attentively to all he chose to\nsay, and evidently wanted him to say still more.  He told a college\nfriend that he knew he was in love now; he really was, for he liked Miss\nAllaby's society much better than that of his sisters.\n\nOver and above the recommendations already enumerated, she had another in\nthe possession of what was supposed to be a very beautiful contralto\nvoice.  Her voice was certainly contralto, for she could not reach higher\nthan D in the treble; its only defect was that it did not go\ncorrespondingly low in the bass: in those days, however, a contralto\nvoice was understood to include even a soprano if the soprano could not\nreach soprano notes, and it was not necessary that it should have the\nquality which we now assign to contralto.  What her voice wanted in range\nand power was made up in the feeling with which she sang.  She had\ntransposed \"Angels ever bright and fair\" into a lower key, so as to make\nit suit her voice, thus proving, as her mamma said, that she had a\nthorough knowledge of the laws of harmony; not only did she do this, but\nat every pause added an embellishment of arpeggios from one end to the\nother of the keyboard, on a principle which her governess had taught her;\nshe thus added life and interest to an air which everyone--so she\nsaid--must feel to be rather heavy in the form in which Handel left it.\nAs for her governess, she indeed had been a rarely accomplished musician:\nshe was a pupil of the famous Dr Clarke of Cambridge, and used to play\nthe overture to _Atalanta_, arranged by Mazzinghi.  Nevertheless, it was\nsome time before Theobald could bring his courage to the sticking point\nof actually proposing.  He made it quite clear that he believed himself\nto be much smitten, but month after month went by, during which there was\nstill so much hope in Theobald that Mr Allaby dared not discover that he\nwas able to do his duty for himself, and was getting impatient at the\nnumber of half-guineas he was disbursing--and yet there was no proposal.\nChristina's mother assured him that she was the best daughter in the\nwhole world, and would be a priceless treasure to the man who married\nher.  Theobald echoed Mrs Allaby's sentiments with warmth, but still,\nthough he visited the Rectory two or three times a week, besides coming\nover on Sundays--he did not propose.  \"She is heart-whole yet, dear Mr\nPontifex,\" said Mrs Allaby, one day, \"at least I believe she is.  It is\nnot for want of admirers--oh! no--she has had her full share of these,\nbut she is too, too difficult to please.  I think, however, she would\nfall before a _great and good_ man.\"  And she looked hard at Theobald,\nwho blushed; but the days went by and still he did not propose.\n\nAnother time Theobald actually took Mrs Cowey into his confidence, and\nthe reader may guess what account of Christina he got from her.  Mrs\nCowey tried the jealousy manoeuvre and hinted at a possible rival.\nTheobald was, or pretended to be, very much alarmed; a little rudimentary\npang of jealousy shot across his bosom and he began to believe with pride\nthat he was not only in love, but desperately in love or he would never\nfeel so jealous.  Nevertheless, day after day still went by and he did\nnot propose.\n\nThe Allabys behaved with great judgement.  They humoured him till his\nretreat was practically cut off, though he still flattered himself that\nit was open.  One day about six months after Theobald had become an\nalmost daily visitor at the Rectory the conversation happened to turn\nupon long engagements.  \"I don't like long engagements, Mr Allaby, do\nyou?\" said Theobald imprudently.  \"No,\" said Mr Allaby in a pointed tone,\n\"nor long courtships,\" and he gave Theobald a look which he could not\npretend to misunderstand.  He went back to Cambridge as fast as he could\ngo, and in dread of the conversation with Mr Allaby which he felt to be\nimpending, composed the following letter which he despatched that same\nafternoon by a private messenger to Crampsford.  The letter was as\nfollows:--\n\n   \"Dearest Miss Christina,--I do not know whether you have guessed the\n   feelings that I have long entertained for you--feelings which I have\n   concealed as much as I could through fear of drawing you into an\n   engagement which, if you enter into it, must be prolonged for a\n   considerable time, but, however this may be, it is out of my power to\n   conceal them longer; I love you, ardently, devotedly, and send these\n   few lines asking you to be my wife, because I dare not trust my tongue\n   to give adequate expression to the magnitude of my affection for you.\n\n   \"I cannot pretend to offer you a heart which has never known either\n   love or disappointment.  I have loved already, and my heart was years\n   in recovering from the grief I felt at seeing her become another's.\n   That, however, is over, and having seen yourself I rejoice over a\n   disappointment which I thought at one time would have been fatal to\n   me.  It has left me a less ardent lover than I should perhaps\n   otherwise have been, but it has increased tenfold my power of\n   appreciating your many charms and my desire that you should become my\n   wife.  Please let me have a few lines of answer by the bearer to let\n   me know whether or not my suit is accepted.  If you accept me I will\n   at once come and talk the matter over with Mr and Mrs Allaby, whom I\n   shall hope one day to be allowed to call father and mother.\n\n   \"I ought to warn you that in the event of your consenting to be my\n   wife it may be years before our union can be consummated, for I cannot\n   marry till a college living is offered me.  If, therefore, you see fit\n   to reject me, I shall be grieved rather than surprised.--Ever most\n   devotedly yours,\n\n   \"THEOBALD PONTIFEX.\"\n\nAnd this was all that his public school and University education had been\nable to do for Theobald!  Nevertheless for his own part he thought his\nletter rather a good one, and congratulated himself in particular upon\nhis cleverness in inventing the story of a previous attachment, behind\nwhich he intended to shelter himself if Christina should complain of any\nlack of fervour in his behaviour to her.\n\nI need not give Christina's answer, which of course was to accept.  Much\nas Theobald feared old Mr Allaby I do not think he would have wrought up\nhis courage to the point of actually proposing but for the fact of the\nengagement being necessarily a long one, during which a dozen things\nmight turn up to break it off.  However much he may have disapproved of\nlong engagements for other people, I doubt whether he had any particular\nobjection to them in his own case.  A pair of lovers are like sunset and\nsunrise: there are such things every day but we very seldom see them.\nTheobald posed as the most ardent lover imaginable, but, to use the\nvulgarism for the moment in fashion, it was all \"side.\"  Christina was in\nlove, as indeed she had been twenty times already.  But then Christina\nwas impressionable and could not even hear the name \"Missolonghi\"\nmentioned without bursting into tears.  When Theobald accidentally left\nhis sermon case behind him one Sunday, she slept with it in her bosom and\nwas forlorn when she had as it were to disgorge it on the following\nSunday; but I do not think Theobald ever took so much as an old\ntoothbrush of Christina's to bed with him.  Why, I knew a young man once\nwho got hold of his mistress's skates and slept with them for a fortnight\nand cried when he had to give them up.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nTheobald's engagement was all very well as far as it went, but there was\nan old gentleman with a bald head and rosy cheeks in a counting-house in\nPaternoster Row who must sooner or later be told of what his son had in\nview, and Theobald's heart fluttered when he asked himself what view this\nold gentleman was likely to take of the situation.  The murder, however,\nhad to come out, and Theobald and his intended, perhaps imprudently,\nresolved on making a clean breast of it at once.  He wrote what he and\nChristina, who helped him to draft the letter, thought to be everything\nthat was filial, and expressed himself as anxious to be married with the\nleast possible delay.  He could not help saying this, as Christina was at\nhis shoulder, and he knew it was safe, for his father might be trusted\nnot to help him.  He wound up by asking his father to use any influence\nthat might be at his command to help him to get a living, inasmuch as it\nmight be years before a college living fell vacant, and he saw no other\nchance of being able to marry, for neither he nor his intended had any\nmoney except Theobald's fellowship, which would, of course, lapse on his\ntaking a wife.\n\nAny step of Theobald's was sure to be objectionable in his father's eyes,\nbut that at three-and-twenty he should want to marry a penniless girl who\nwas four years older than himself, afforded a golden opportunity which\nthe old gentleman--for so I may now call him, as he was at least\nsixty--embraced with characteristic eagerness.\n\n   \"The ineffable folly,\" he wrote, on receiving his son's letter, \"of\n   your fancied passion for Miss Allaby fills me with the gravest\n   apprehensions.  Making every allowance for a lover's blindness, I\n   still have no doubt that the lady herself is a well-conducted and\n   amiable young person, who would not disgrace our family, but were she\n   ten times more desirable as a daughter-in-law than I can allow myself\n   to hope, your joint poverty is an insuperable objection to your\n   marriage.  I have four other children besides yourself, and my\n   expenses do not permit me to save money.  This year they have been\n   especially heavy, indeed I have had to purchase two not inconsiderable\n   pieces of land which happened to come into the market and were\n   necessary to complete a property which I have long wanted to round off\n   in this way.  I gave you an education regardless of expense, which has\n   put you in possession of a comfortable income, at an age when many\n   young men are dependent.  I have thus started you fairly in life, and\n   may claim that you should cease to be a drag upon me further.  Long\n   engagements are proverbially unsatisfactory, and in the present case\n   the prospect seems interminable.  What interest, pray, do you suppose\n   I have that I could get a living for you?  Can I go up and down the\n   country begging people to provide for my son because he has taken it\n   into his head to want to get married without sufficient means?\n\n   \"I do not wish to write unkindly, nothing can be farther from my real\n   feelings towards you, but there is often more kindness in plain\n   speaking than in any amount of soft words which can end in no\n   substantial performance.  Of course, I bear in mind that you are of\n   age, and can therefore please yourself, but if you choose to claim the\n   strict letter of the law, and act without consideration for your\n   father's feelings, you must not be surprised if you one day find that\n   I have claimed a like liberty for myself.--Believe me, your\n   affectionate father, G. PONTIFEX.\"\n\nI found this letter along with those already given and a few more which I\nneed not give, but throughout which the same tone prevails, and in all of\nwhich there is the more or less obvious shake of the will near the end of\nthe letter.  Remembering Theobald's general dumbness concerning his\nfather for the many years I knew him after his father's death, there was\nan eloquence in the preservation of the letters and in their endorsement\n\"Letters from my father,\" which seemed to have with it some faint odour\nof health and nature.\n\nTheobald did not show his father's letter to Christina, nor, indeed, I\nbelieve to anyone.  He was by nature secretive, and had been repressed\ntoo much and too early to be capable of railing or blowing off steam\nwhere his father was concerned.  His sense of wrong was still\ninarticulate, felt as a dull dead weight ever present day by day, and if\nhe woke at night-time still continually present, but he hardly knew what\nit was.  I was about the closest friend he had, and I saw but little of\nhim, for I could not get on with him for long together.  He said I had no\nreverence; whereas I thought that I had plenty of reverence for what\ndeserved to be revered, but that the gods which he deemed golden were in\nreality made of baser metal.  He never, as I have said, complained of his\nfather to me, and his only other friends were, like himself, staid and\nprim, of evangelical tendencies, and deeply imbued with a sense of the\nsinfulness of any act of insubordination to parents--good young men, in\nfact--and one cannot blow off steam to a good young man.\n\nWhen Christina was informed by her lover of his father's opposition, and\nof the time which must probably elapse before they could be married, she\noffered--with how much sincerity I know not--to set him free from his\nengagement; but Theobald declined to be released--\"not at least,\" as he\nsaid, \"at present.\"  Christina and Mrs Allaby knew they could manage him,\nand on this not very satisfactory footing the engagement was continued.\n\nHis engagement and his refusal to be released at once raised Theobald in\nhis own good opinion.  Dull as he was, he had no small share of quiet\nself-approbation.  He admired himself for his University distinction, for\nthe purity of his life (I said of him once that if he had only a better\ntemper he would be as innocent as a new-laid egg) and for his\nunimpeachable integrity in money matters.  He did not despair of\nadvancement in the Church when he had once got a living, and of course it\nwas within the bounds of possibility that he might one day become a\nBishop, and Christina said she felt convinced that this would ultimately\nbe the case.\n\nAs was natural for the daughter and intended wife of a clergyman,\nChristina's thoughts ran much upon religion, and she was resolved that\neven though an exalted position in this world were denied to her and\nTheobald, their virtues should be fully appreciated in the next.  Her\nreligious opinions coincided absolutely with Theobald's own, and many a\nconversation did she have with him about the glory of God, and the\ncompleteness with which they would devote themselves to it, as soon as\nTheobald had got his living and they were married.  So certain was she of\nthe great results which would then ensue that she wondered at times at\nthe blindness shown by Providence towards its own truest interests in not\nkilling off the rectors who stood between Theobald and his living a\nlittle faster.\n\nIn those days people believed with a simple downrightness which I do not\nobserve among educated men and women now.  It had never so much as\ncrossed Theobald's mind to doubt the literal accuracy of any syllable in\nthe Bible.  He had never seen any book in which this was disputed, nor\nmet with anyone who doubted it.  True, there was just a little scare\nabout geology, but there was nothing in it.  If it was said that God made\nthe world in six days, why He did make it in six days, neither in more\nnor less; if it was said that He put Adam to sleep, took out one of his\nribs and made a woman of it, why it was so as a matter of course.  He,\nAdam, went to sleep as it might be himself, Theobald Pontifex, in a\ngarden, as it might be the garden at Crampsford Rectory during the summer\nmonths when it was so pretty, only that it was larger, and had some tame\nwild animals in it.  Then God came up to him, as it might be Mr Allaby or\nhis father, dexterously took out one of his ribs without waking him, and\nmiraculously healed the wound so that no trace of the operation remained.\nFinally, God had taken the rib perhaps into the greenhouse, and had\nturned it into just such another young woman as Christina.  That was how\nit was done; there was neither difficulty nor shadow of difficulty about\nthe matter.  Could not God do anything He liked, and had He not in His\nown inspired Book told us that He had done this?\n\nThis was the average attitude of fairly educated young men and women\ntowards the Mosaic cosmogony fifty, forty, or even twenty years ago.  The\ncombating of infidelity, therefore, offered little scope for enterprising\nyoung clergymen, nor had the Church awakened to the activity which she\nhas since displayed among the poor in our large towns.  These were then\nleft almost without an effort at resistance or co-operation to the\nlabours of those who had succeeded Wesley.  Missionary work indeed in\nheathen countries was being carried on with some energy, but Theobald did\nnot feel any call to be a missionary.  Christina suggested this to him\nmore than once, and assured him of the unspeakable happiness it would be\nto her to be the wife of a missionary, and to share his dangers; she and\nTheobald might even be martyred; of course they would be martyred\nsimultaneously, and martyrdom many years hence as regarded from the\narbour in the Rectory garden was not painful, it would ensure them a\nglorious future in the next world, and at any rate posthumous renown in\nthis--even if they were not miraculously restored to life again--and such\nthings had happened ere now in the case of martyrs.  Theobald, however,\nhad not been kindled by Christina's enthusiasm, so she fell back upon the\nChurch of Rome--an enemy more dangerous, if possible, than paganism\nitself.  A combat with Romanism might even yet win for her and Theobald\nthe crown of martyrdom.  True, the Church of Rome was tolerably quiet\njust then, but it was the calm before the storm, of this she was assured,\nwith a conviction deeper than she could have attained by any argument\nfounded upon mere reason.\n\n\"We, dearest Theobald,\" she exclaimed, \"will be ever faithful.  We will\nstand firm and support one another even in the hour of death itself.  God\nin his mercy may spare us from being burnt alive.  He may or may not do\nso.  Oh Lord\" (and she turned her eyes prayerfully to Heaven), \"spare my\nTheobald, or grant that he may be beheaded.\"\n\n\"My dearest,\" said Theobald gravely, \"do not let us agitate ourselves\nunduly.  If the hour of trial comes we shall be best prepared to meet it\nby having led a quiet unobtrusive life of self-denial and devotion to\nGod's glory.  Such a life let us pray God that it may please Him to\nenable us to pray that we may lead.\"\n\n\"Dearest Theobald,\" exclaimed Christina, drying the tears that had\ngathered in her eyes, \"you are always, always right.  Let us be\nself-denying, pure, upright, truthful in word and deed.\"  She clasped her\nhands and looked up to Heaven as she spoke.\n\n\"Dearest,\" rejoined her lover, \"we have ever hitherto endeavoured to be\nall of these things; we have not been worldly people; let us watch and\npray that we may so continue to the end.\"\n\nThe moon had risen and the arbour was getting damp, so they adjourned\nfurther aspirations for a more convenient season.  At other times\nChristina pictured herself and Theobald as braving the scorn of almost\nevery human being in the achievement of some mighty task which should\nredound to the honour of her Redeemer.  She could face anything for this.\nBut always towards the end of her vision there came a little coronation\nscene high up in the golden regions of the Heavens, and a diadem was set\nupon her head by the Son of Man Himself, amid a host of angels and\narchangels who looked on with envy and admiration--and here even Theobald\nhimself was out of it.  If there could be such a thing as the Mammon of\nRighteousness Christina would have assuredly made friends with it.  Her\npapa and mamma were very estimable people and would in the course of time\nreceive Heavenly Mansions in which they would be exceedingly comfortable;\nso doubtless would her sisters; so perhaps, even might her brothers; but\nfor herself she felt that a higher destiny was preparing, which it was\nher duty never to lose sight of.  The first step towards it would be her\nmarriage with Theobald.  In spite, however, of these flights of religious\nromanticism, Christina was a good-tempered kindly-natured girl enough,\nwho, if she had married a sensible layman--we will say a\nhotel-keeper--would have developed into a good landlady and been\ndeservedly popular with her guests.\n\nSuch was Theobald's engaged life.  Many a little present passed between\nthe pair, and many a small surprise did they prepare pleasantly for one\nanother.  They never quarrelled, and neither of them ever flirted with\nanyone else.  Mrs Allaby and his future sisters-in-law idolised Theobald\nin spite of its being impossible to get another deacon to come and be\nplayed for as long as Theobald was able to help Mr Allaby, which now of\ncourse he did free gratis and for nothing; two of the sisters, however,\ndid manage to find husbands before Christina was actually married, and on\neach occasion Theobald played the part of decoy elephant.  In the end\nonly two out of the seven daughters remained single.\n\nAfter three or four years, old Mr Pontifex became accustomed to his son's\nengagement and looked upon it as among the things which had now a\nprescriptive right to toleration.  In the spring of 1831, more than five\nyears after Theobald had first walked over to Crampsford, one of the best\nlivings in the gift of the College unexpectedly fell vacant, and was for\nvarious reasons declined by the two fellows senior to Theobald, who might\neach have been expected to take it.  The living was then offered to and\nof course accepted by Theobald, being in value not less than 500 pounds a\nyear with a suitable house and garden.  Old Mr Pontifex then came down\nmore handsomely than was expected and settled 10,000 pounds on his son\nand daughter-in-law for life with remainder to such of their issue as\nthey might appoint.  In the month of July, 1831 Theobald and Christina\nbecame man and wife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nA due number of old shoes had been thrown at the carriage in which the\nhappy pair departed from the Rectory, and it had turned the corner at the\nbottom of the village.  It could then be seen for two or three hundred\nyards creeping past a fir coppice, and after this was lost to view.\n\n\"John,\" said Mr Allaby to his man-servant, \"shut the gate;\" and he went\nindoors with a sigh of relief which seemed to say: \"I have done it, and I\nam alive.\"  This was the reaction after a burst of enthusiastic merriment\nduring which the old gentleman had run twenty yards after the carriage to\nfling a slipper at it--which he had duly flung.\n\nBut what were the feelings of Theobald and Christina when the village was\npassed and they were rolling quietly by the fir plantation?  It is at\nthis point that even the stoutest heart must fail, unless it beat in the\nbreast of one who is over head and ears in love.  If a young man is in a\nsmall boat on a choppy sea, along with his affianced bride and both are\nsea-sick, and if the sick swain can forget his own anguish in the\nhappiness of holding the fair one's head when she is at her worst--then\nhe is in love, and his heart will be in no danger of failing him as he\npasses his fir plantation.  Other people, and unfortunately by far the\ngreater number of those who get married must be classed among the \"other\npeople,\" will inevitably go through a quarter or half an hour of greater\nor less badness as the case may be.  Taking numbers into account, I\nshould think more mental suffering had been undergone in the streets\nleading from St George's, Hanover Square, than in the condemned cells of\nNewgate.  There is no time at which what the Italians call _la figlia\ndella Morte_ lays her cold hand upon a man more awfully than during the\nfirst half hour that he is alone with a woman whom he has married but\nnever genuinely loved.\n\nDeath's daughter did not spare Theobald.  He had behaved very well\nhitherto.  When Christina had offered to let him go, he had stuck to his\npost with a magnanimity on which he had plumed himself ever since.  From\nthat time forward he had said to himself: \"I, at any rate, am the very\nsoul of honour; I am not,\" etc., etc.  True, at the moment of magnanimity\nthe actual cash payment, so to speak, was still distant; when his father\ngave formal consent to his marriage things began to look more serious;\nwhen the college living had fallen vacant and been accepted they looked\nmore serious still; but when Christina actually named the day, then\nTheobald's heart fainted within him.\n\nThe engagement had gone on so long that he had got into a groove, and the\nprospect of change was disconcerting.  Christina and he had got on, he\nthought to himself, very nicely for a great number of years; why--why--why\nshould they not continue to go on as they were doing now for the rest of\ntheir lives?  But there was no more chance of escape for him than for the\nsheep which is being driven to the butcher's back premises, and like the\nsheep he felt that there was nothing to be gained by resistance, so he\nmade none.  He behaved, in fact, with decency, and was declared on all\nhands to be one of the happiest men imaginable.\n\nNow, however, to change the metaphor, the drop had actually fallen, and\nthe poor wretch was hanging in mid air along with the creature of his\naffections.  This creature was now thirty-three years old, and looked it:\nshe had been weeping, and her eyes and nose were reddish; if \"I have done\nit and I am alive,\" was written on Mr Allaby's face after he had thrown\nthe shoe, \"I have done it, and I do not see how I can possibly live much\nlonger\" was upon the face of Theobald as he was being driven along by the\nfir Plantation.  This, however, was not apparent at the Rectory.  All\nthat could be seen there was the bobbing up and down of the postilion's\nhead, which just over-topped the hedge by the roadside as he rose in his\nstirrups, and the black and yellow body of the carriage.\n\nFor some time the pair said nothing: what they must have felt during\ntheir first half hour, the reader must guess, for it is beyond my power\nto tell him; at the end of that time, however, Theobald had rummaged up a\nconclusion from some odd corner of his soul to the effect that now he and\nChristina were married the sooner they fell into their future mutual\nrelations the better.  If people who are in a difficulty will only do the\nfirst little reasonable thing which they can clearly recognise as\nreasonable, they will always find the next step more easy both to see and\ntake.  What, then, thought Theobald, was here at this moment the first\nand most obvious matter to be considered, and what would be an equitable\nview of his and Christina's relative positions in respect to it?  Clearly\ntheir first dinner was their first joint entry into the duties and\npleasures of married life.  No less clearly it was Christina's duty to\norder it, and his own to eat it and pay for it.\n\nThe arguments leading to this conclusion, and the conclusion itself,\nflashed upon Theobald about three and a half miles after he had left\nCrampsford on the road to Newmarket.  He had breakfasted early, but his\nusual appetite had failed him.  They had left the vicarage at noon\nwithout staying for the wedding breakfast.  Theobald liked an early\ndinner; it dawned upon him that he was beginning to be hungry; from this\nto the conclusion stated in the preceding paragraph the steps had been\neasy.  After a few minutes' further reflection he broached the matter to\nhis bride, and thus the ice was broken.\n\nMrs Theobald was not prepared for so sudden an assumption of importance.\nHer nerves, never of the strongest, had been strung to their highest\ntension by the event of the morning.  She wanted to escape observation;\nshe was conscious of looking a little older than she quite liked to look\nas a bride who had been married that morning; she feared the landlady,\nthe chamber-maid, the waiter--everybody and everything; her heart beat so\nfast that she could hardly speak, much less go through the ordeal of\nordering dinner in a strange hotel with a strange landlady.  She begged\nand prayed to be let off.  If Theobald would only order dinner this once,\nshe would order it any day and every day in future.\n\nBut the inexorable Theobald was not to be put off with such absurd\nexcuses.  He was master now.  Had not Christina less than two hours ago\npromised solemnly to honour and obey him, and was she turning restive\nover such a trifle as this?  The loving smile departed from his face, and\nwas succeeded by a scowl which that old Turk, his father, might have\nenvied.  \"Stuff and nonsense, my dearest Christina,\" he exclaimed mildly,\nand stamped his foot upon the floor of the carriage.  \"It is a wife's\nduty to order her husband's dinner; you are my wife, and I shall expect\nyou to order mine.\"  For Theobald was nothing if he was not logical.\n\nThe bride began to cry, and said he was unkind; whereon he said nothing,\nbut revolved unutterable things in his heart.  Was this, then, the end of\nhis six years of unflagging devotion?  Was it for this that when\nChristina had offered to let him off, he had stuck to his engagement?  Was\nthis the outcome of her talks about duty and spiritual mindedness--that\nnow upon the very day of her marriage she should fail to see that the\nfirst step in obedience to God lay in obedience to himself?  He would\ndrive back to Crampsford; he would complain to Mr and Mrs Allaby; he\ndidn't mean to have married Christina; he hadn't married her; it was all\na hideous dream; he would--But a voice kept ringing in his ears which\nsaid: \"YOU CAN'T, CAN'T, CAN'T.\"\n\n\"CAN'T I?\" screamed the unhappy creature to himself.\n\n\"No,\" said the remorseless voice, \"YOU CAN'T.  YOU ARE A MARRIED MAN.\"\n\nHe rolled back in his corner of the carriage and for the first time felt\nhow iniquitous were the marriage laws of England.  But he would buy\nMilton's prose works and read his pamphlet on divorce.  He might perhaps\nbe able to get them at Newmarket.\n\nSo the bride sat crying in one corner of the carriage; and the bridegroom\nsulked in the other, and he feared her as only a bridegroom can fear.\n\nPresently, however, a feeble voice was heard from the bride's corner\nsaying:\n\n\"Dearest Theobald--dearest Theobald, forgive me; I have been very, very\nwrong.  Please do not be angry with me.  I will order the--the--\" but the\nword \"dinner\" was checked by rising sobs.\n\nWhen Theobald heard these words a load began to be lifted from his heart,\nbut he only looked towards her, and that not too pleasantly.\n\n\"Please tell me,\" continued the voice, \"what you think you would like,\nand I will tell the landlady when we get to Newmar--\" but another burst\nof sobs checked the completion of the word.\n\nThe load on Theobald's heart grew lighter and lighter.  Was it possible\nthat she might not be going to henpeck him after all?  Besides, had she\nnot diverted his attention from herself to his approaching dinner?\n\nHe swallowed down more of his apprehensions and said, but still gloomily,\n\"I think we might have a roast fowl with bread sauce, new potatoes and\ngreen peas, and then we will see if they could let us have a cherry tart\nand some cream.\"\n\nAfter a few minutes more he drew her towards him, kissed away her tears,\nand assured her that he knew she would be a good wife to him.\n\n\"Dearest Theobald,\" she exclaimed in answer, \"you are an angel.\"\n\nTheobald believed her, and in ten minutes more the happy couple alighted\nat the inn at Newmarket.\n\nBravely did Christina go through her arduous task.  Eagerly did she\nbeseech the landlady, in secret, not to keep her Theobald waiting longer\nthan was absolutely necessary.\n\n\"If you have any soup ready, you know, Mrs Barber, it might save ten\nminutes, for we might have it while the fowl was browning.\"\n\nSee how necessity had nerved her!  But in truth she had a splitting\nheadache, and would have given anything to have been alone.\n\nThe dinner was a success.  A pint of sherry had warmed Theobald's heart,\nand he began to hope that, after all, matters might still go well with\nhim.  He had conquered in the first battle, and this gives great\nprestige.  How easy it had been too!  Why had he never treated his\nsisters in this way?  He would do so next time he saw them; he might in\ntime be able to stand up to his brother John, or even his father.  Thus\ndo we build castles in air when flushed with wine and conquest.\n\nThe end of the honeymoon saw Mrs Theobald the most devotedly obsequious\nwife in all England.  According to the old saying, Theobald had killed\nthe cat at the beginning.  It had been a very little cat, a mere kitten\nin fact, or he might have been afraid to face it, but such as it had been\nhe had challenged it to mortal combat, and had held up its dripping head\ndefiantly before his wife's face.  The rest had been easy.\n\nStrange that one whom I have described hitherto as so timid and easily\nput upon should prove such a Tartar all of a sudden on the day of his\nmarriage.  Perhaps I have passed over his years of courtship too rapidly.\nDuring these he had become a tutor of his college, and had at last been\nJunior Dean.  I never yet knew a man whose sense of his own importance\ndid not become adequately developed after he had held a resident\nfellowship for five or six years.  True--immediately on arriving within a\nten mile radius of his father's house, an enchantment fell upon him, so\nthat his knees waxed weak, his greatness departed, and he again felt\nhimself like an overgrown baby under a perpetual cloud; but then he was\nnot often at Elmhurst, and as soon as he left it the spell was taken off\nagain; once more he became the fellow and tutor of his college, the\nJunior Dean, the betrothed of Christina, the idol of the Allaby\nwomankind.  From all which it may be gathered that if Christina had been\na Barbary hen, and had ruffled her feathers in any show of resistance\nTheobald would not have ventured to swagger with her, but she was not a\nBarbary hen, she was only a common hen, and that too with rather a\nsmaller share of personal bravery than hens generally have.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nBattersby-On-The-Hill was the name of the village of which Theobald was\nnow Rector.  It contained 400 or 500 inhabitants, scattered over a rather\nlarge area, and consisting entirely of farmers and agricultural\nlabourers.  The Rectory was commodious, and placed on the brow of a hill\nwhich gave it a delightful prospect.  There was a fair sprinkling of\nneighbours within visiting range, but with one or two exceptions they\nwere the clergymen and clergymen's families of the surrounding villages.\n\nBy these the Pontifexes were welcomed as great acquisitions to the\nneighbourhood.  Mr Pontifex, they said was so clever; he had been senior\nclassic and senior wrangler; a perfect genius in fact, and yet with so\nmuch sound practical common sense as well.  As son of such a\ndistinguished man as the great Mr Pontifex the publisher he would come\ninto a large property by-and-by.  Was there not an elder brother?  Yes,\nbut there would be so much that Theobald would probably get something\nvery considerable.  Of course they would give dinner parties.  And Mrs\nPontifex, what a charming woman she was; she was certainly not exactly\npretty perhaps, but then she had such a sweet smile and her manner was so\nbright and winning.  She was so devoted too to her husband and her\nhusband to her; they really did come up to one's ideas of what lovers\nused to be in days of old; it was rare to meet with such a pair in these\ndegenerate times; it was quite beautiful, etc., etc.  Such were the\ncomments of the neighbours on the new arrivals.\n\nAs for Theobald's own parishioners, the farmers were civil and the\nlabourers and their wives obsequious.  There was a little dissent, the\nlegacy of a careless predecessor, but as Mrs Theobald said proudly, \"I\nthink Theobald may be trusted to deal with _that_.\"  The church was then\nan interesting specimen of late Norman, with some early English\nadditions.  It was what in these days would be called in a very bad state\nof repair, but forty or fifty years ago few churches were in good repair.\nIf there is one feature more characteristic of the present generation\nthan another it is that it has been a great restorer of churches.\n\nHorace preached church restoration in his ode:--\n\n   Delicta majorum immeritus lues,\n   Romane, donec templa refeceris\n      Aedesque labentes deorum et\n         Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.\n\nNothing went right with Rome for long together after the Augustan age,\nbut whether it was because she did restore the temples or because she did\nnot restore them I know not.  They certainly went all wrong after\nConstantine's time and yet Rome is still a city of some importance.\n\nI may say here that before Theobald had been many years at Battersby he\nfound scope for useful work in the rebuilding of Battersby church, which\nhe carried out at considerable cost, towards which he subscribed\nliberally himself.  He was his own architect, and this saved expense; but\narchitecture was not very well understood about the year 1834, when\nTheobald commenced operations, and the result is not as satisfactory as\nit would have been if he had waited a few years longer.\n\nEvery man's work, whether it be literature or music or pictures or\narchitecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself, and the\nmore he tries to conceal himself the more clearly will his character\nappear in spite of him.  I may very likely be condemning myself, all the\ntime that I am writing this book, for I know that whether I like it or no\nI am portraying myself more surely than I am portraying any of the\ncharacters whom I set before the reader.  I am sorry that it is so, but I\ncannot help it--after which sop to Nemesis I will say that Battersby\nchurch in its amended form has always struck me as a better portrait of\nTheobald than any sculptor or painter short of a great master would be\nable to produce.\n\nI remember staying with Theobald some six or seven months after he was\nmarried, and while the old church was still standing.  I went to church,\nand felt as Naaman must have felt on certain occasions when he had to\naccompany his master on his return after having been cured of his\nleprosy.  I have carried away a more vivid recollection of this and of\nthe people, than of Theobald's sermon.  Even now I can see the men in\nblue smock frocks reaching to their heels, and more than one old woman in\na scarlet cloak; the row of stolid, dull, vacant plough-boys, ungainly in\nbuild, uncomely in face, lifeless, apathetic, a race a good deal more\nlike the pre-revolution French peasant as described by Carlyle than is\npleasant to reflect upon--a race now supplanted by a smarter, comelier\nand more hopeful generation, which has discovered that it too has a right\nto as much happiness as it can get, and with clearer ideas about the best\nmeans of getting it.\n\nThey shamble in one after another, with steaming breath, for it is\nwinter, and loud clattering of hob-nailed boots; they beat the snow from\noff them as they enter, and through the opened door I catch a momentary\nglimpse of a dreary leaden sky and snow-clad tombstones.  Somehow or\nother I find the strain which Handel has wedded to the words \"There the\nploughman near at hand,\" has got into my head and there is no getting it\nout again.  How marvellously old Handel understood these people!\n\nThey bob to Theobald as they passed the reading desk (\"The people\nhereabouts are truly respectful,\" whispered Christina to me, \"they know\ntheir betters.\"), and take their seats in a long row against the wall.\nThe choir clamber up into the gallery with their instruments--a\nvioloncello, a clarinet and a trombone.  I see them and soon I hear them,\nfor there is a hymn before the service, a wild strain, a remnant, if I\nmistake not, of some pre-Reformation litany.  I have heard what I believe\nwas its remote musical progenitor in the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo\nat Venice not five years since; and again I have heard it far away in mid-\nAtlantic upon a grey sea-Sabbath in June, when neither winds nor waves\nare stirring, so that the emigrants gather on deck, and their plaintive\npsalm goes forth upon the silver haze of the sky, and on the wilderness\nof a sea that has sighed till it can sigh no longer.  Or it may be heard\nat some Methodist Camp Meeting upon a Welsh hillside, but in the churches\nit is gone for ever.  If I were a musician I would take it as the subject\nfor the _adagio_ in a Wesleyan symphony.\n\nGone now are the clarinet, the violoncello and the trombone, wild\nminstrelsy as of the doleful creatures in Ezekiel, discordant, but\ninfinitely pathetic.  Gone is that scarebabe stentor, that bellowing bull\nof Bashan the village blacksmith, gone is the melodious carpenter, gone\nthe brawny shepherd with the red hair, who roared more lustily than all,\nuntil they came to the words, \"Shepherds with your flocks abiding,\" when\nmodesty covered him with confusion, and compelled him to be silent, as\nthough his own health were being drunk.  They were doomed and had a\npresentiment of evil, even when first I saw them, but they had still a\nlittle lease of choir life remaining, and they roared out\n\n   [wick-ed hands have pierced and nailed him, pierced and nailed him to\n   a tree.]\n\nbut no description can give a proper idea of the effect.  When I was last\nin Battersby church there was a harmonium played by a sweet-looking girl\nwith a choir of school children around her, and they chanted the\ncanticles to the most correct of chants, and they sang Hymns Ancient and\nModern; the high pews were gone, nay, the very gallery in which the old\nchoir had sung was removed as an accursed thing which might remind the\npeople of the high places, and Theobald was old, and Christina was lying\nunder the yew trees in the churchyard.\n\nBut in the evening later on I saw three very old men come chuckling out\nof a dissenting chapel, and surely enough they were my old friends the\nblacksmith, the carpenter and the shepherd.  There was a look of content\nupon their faces which made me feel certain they had been singing; not\ndoubtless with the old glory of the violoncello, the clarinet and the\ntrombone, but still songs of Sion and no new fangled papistry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nThe hymn had engaged my attention; when it was over I had time to take\nstock of the congregation.  They were chiefly farmers--fat, very well-to-\ndo folk, who had come some of them with their wives and children from\noutlying farms two and three miles away; haters of popery and of anything\nwhich any one might choose to say was popish; good, sensible fellows who\ndetested theory of any kind, whose ideal was the maintenance of the\n_status quo_ with perhaps a loving reminiscence of old war times, and a\nsense of wrong that the weather was not more completely under their\ncontrol, who desired higher prices and cheaper wages, but otherwise were\nmost contented when things were changing least; tolerators, if not\nlovers, of all that was familiar, haters of all that was unfamiliar; they\nwould have been equally horrified at hearing the Christian religion\ndoubted, and at seeing it practised.\n\n\"What can there be in common between Theobald and his parishioners?\" said\nChristina to me, in the course of the evening, when her husband was for a\nfew moments absent.  \"Of course one must not complain, but I assure you\nit grieves me to see a man of Theobald's ability thrown away upon such a\nplace as this.  If we had only been at Gaysbury, where there are the A's,\nthe B's, the C's, and Lord D's place, as you know, quite close, I should\nnot then have felt that we were living in such a desert; but I suppose it\nis for the best,\" she added more cheerfully; \"and then of course the\nBishop will come to us whenever he is in the neighbourhood, and if we\nwere at Gaysbury he might have gone to Lord D's.\"\n\nPerhaps I have now said enough to indicate the kind of place in which\nTheobald's lines were cast, and the sort of woman he had married.  As for\nhis own habits, I see him trudging through muddy lanes and over long\nsweeps of plover-haunted pastures to visit a dying cottager's wife.  He\ntakes her meat and wine from his own table, and that not a little only\nbut liberally.  According to his lights also, he administers what he is\npleased to call spiritual consolation.\n\n\"I am afraid I'm going to Hell, Sir,\" says the sick woman with a whine.\n\"Oh, Sir, save me, save me, don't let me go there.  I couldn't stand it,\nSir, I should die with fear, the very thought of it drives me into a cold\nsweat all over.\"\n\n\"Mrs Thompson,\" says Theobald gravely, \"you must have faith in the\nprecious blood of your Redeemer; it is He alone who can save you.\"\n\n\"But are you sure, Sir,\" says she, looking wistfully at him, \"that He\nwill forgive me--for I've not been a very good woman, indeed I\nhaven't--and if God would only say 'Yes' outright with His mouth when I\nask whether my sins are forgiven me--\"\n\n\"But they _are_ forgiven you, Mrs Thompson,\" says Theobald with some\nsternness, for the same ground has been gone over a good many times\nalready, and he has borne the unhappy woman's misgivings now for a full\nquarter of an hour.  Then he puts a stop to the conversation by repeating\nprayers taken from the \"Visitation of the Sick,\" and overawes the poor\nwretch from expressing further anxiety as to her condition.\n\n\"Can't you tell me, Sir,\" she exclaims piteously, as she sees that he is\npreparing to go away, \"can't you tell me that there is no Day of\nJudgement, and that there is no such place as Hell?  I can do without the\nHeaven, Sir, but I cannot do with the Hell.\"  Theobald is much shocked.\n\n\"Mrs Thompson,\" he rejoins impressively, \"let me implore you to suffer no\ndoubt concerning these two cornerstones of our religion to cross your\nmind at a moment like the present.  If there is one thing more certain\nthan another it is that we shall all appear before the Judgement Seat of\nChrist, and that the wicked will be consumed in a lake of everlasting\nfire.  Doubt this, Mrs Thompson, and you are lost.\"\n\nThe poor woman buries her fevered head in the coverlet in a paroxysm of\nfear which at last finds relief in tears.\n\n\"Mrs Thompson,\" says Theobald, with his hand on the door, \"compose\nyourself, be calm; you must please to take my word for it that at the Day\nof Judgement your sins will be all washed white in the blood of the Lamb,\nMrs Thompson.  Yea,\" he exclaims frantically, \"though they be as scarlet,\nyet shall they be as white as wool,\" and he makes off as fast as he can\nfrom the fetid atmosphere of the cottage to the pure air outside.  Oh,\nhow thankful he is when the interview is over!\n\nHe returns home, conscious that he has done his duty, and administered\nthe comforts of religion to a dying sinner.  His admiring wife awaits him\nat the Rectory, and assures him that never yet was clergyman so devoted\nto the welfare of his flock.  He believes her; he has a natural tendency\nto believe everything that is told him, and who should know the facts of\nthe case better than his wife?  Poor fellow!  He has done his best, but\nwhat does a fish's best come to when the fish is out of water?  He has\nleft meat and wine--that he can do; he will call again and will leave\nmore meat and wine; day after day he trudges over the same plover-haunted\nfields, and listens at the end of his walk to the same agony of\nforebodings, which day after day he silences, but does not remove, till\nat last a merciful weakness renders the sufferer careless of her future,\nand Theobald is satisfied that her mind is now peacefully at rest in\nJesus.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nHe does not like this branch of his profession--indeed he hates it--but\nwill not admit it to himself.  The habit of not admitting things to\nhimself has become a confirmed one with him.  Nevertheless there haunts\nhim an ill defined sense that life would be pleasanter if there were no\nsick sinners, or if they would at any rate face an eternity of torture\nwith more indifference.  He does not feel that he is in his element.  The\nfarmers look as if they were in their element.  They are full-bodied,\nhealthy and contented; but between him and them there is a great gulf\nfixed.  A hard and drawn look begins to settle about the corners of his\nmouth, so that even if he were not in a black coat and white tie a child\nmight know him for a parson.\n\nHe knows that he is doing his duty.  Every day convinces him of this more\nfirmly; but then there is not much duty for him to do.  He is sadly in\nwant of occupation.  He has no taste for any of those field sports which\nwere not considered unbecoming for a clergyman forty years ago.  He does\nnot ride, nor shoot, nor fish, nor course, nor play cricket.  Study, to\ndo him justice, he had never really liked, and what inducement was there\nfor him to study at Battersby?  He reads neither old books nor new ones.\nHe does not interest himself in art or science or politics, but he sets\nhis back up with some promptness if any of them show any development\nunfamiliar to himself.  True, he writes his own sermons, but even his\nwife considers that his _forte_ lies rather in the example of his life\n(which is one long act of self-devotion) than in his utterances from the\npulpit.  After breakfast he retires to his study; he cuts little bits out\nof the Bible and gums them with exquisite neatness by the side of other\nlittle bits; this he calls making a Harmony of the Old and New\nTestaments.  Alongside the extracts he copies in the very perfection of\nhand-writing extracts from Mede (the only man, according to Theobald, who\nreally understood the Book of Revelation), Patrick, and other old\ndivines.  He works steadily at this for half an hour every morning during\nmany years, and the result is doubtless valuable.  After some years have\ngone by he hears his children their lessons, and the daily oft-repeated\nscreams that issue from the study during the lesson hours tell their own\nhorrible story over the house.  He has also taken to collecting a _hortus\nsiccus_, and through the interest of his father was once mentioned in the\nSaturday Magazine as having been the first to find a plant, whose name I\nhave forgotten, in the neighbourhood of Battersby.  This number of the\nSaturday Magazine has been bound in red morocco, and is kept upon the\ndrawing-room table.  He potters about his garden; if he hears a hen\ncackling he runs and tells Christina, and straightway goes hunting for\nthe egg.\n\nWhen the two Miss Allabys came, as they sometimes did, to stay with\nChristina, they said the life led by their sister and brother-in-law was\nan idyll.  Happy indeed was Christina in her choice, for that she had had\na choice was a fiction which soon took root among them--and happy\nTheobald in his Christina.  Somehow or other Christina was always a\nlittle shy of cards when her sisters were staying with her, though at\nother times she enjoyed a game of cribbage or a rubber of whist heartily\nenough, but her sisters knew they would never be asked to Battersby again\nif they were to refer to that little matter, and on the whole it was\nworth their while to be asked to Battersby.  If Theobald's temper was\nrather irritable he did not vent it upon them.\n\nBy nature reserved, if he could have found someone to cook his dinner for\nhim, he would rather have lived in a desert island than not.  In his\nheart of hearts he held with Pope that \"the greatest nuisance to mankind\nis man\" or words to that effect--only that women, with the exception\nperhaps of Christina, were worse.  Yet for all this when visitors called\nhe put a better face on it than anyone who was behind the scenes would\nhave expected.\n\nHe was quick too at introducing the names of any literary celebrities\nwhom he had met at his father's house, and soon established an all-round\nreputation which satisfied even Christina herself.\n\nWho so _integer vitae scelerisque purus_, it was asked, as Mr Pontifex of\nBattersby?  Who so fit to be consulted if any difficulty about parish\nmanagement should arise?  Who such a happy mixture of the sincere\nuninquiring Christian and of the man of the world?  For so people\nactually called him.  They said he was such an admirable man of business.\nCertainly if he had said he would pay a sum of money at a certain time,\nthe money would be forthcoming on the appointed day, and this is saying a\ngood deal for any man.  His constitutional timidity rendered him\nincapable of an attempt to overreach when there was the remotest chance\nof opposition or publicity, and his correct bearing and somewhat stern\nexpression were a great protection to him against being overreached.  He\nnever talked of money, and invariably changed the subject whenever money\nwas introduced.  His expression of unutterable horror at all kinds of\nmeanness was a sufficient guarantee that he was not mean himself.  Besides\nhe had no business transactions save of the most ordinary butcher's book\nand baker's book description.  His tastes--if he had any--were, as we\nhave seen, simple; he had 900 pounds a year and a house; the\nneighbourhood was cheap, and for some time he had no children to be a\ndrag upon him.  Who was not to be envied, and if envied why then\nrespected, if Theobald was not enviable?\n\nYet I imagine that Christina was on the whole happier than her husband.\nShe had not to go and visit sick parishioners, and the management of her\nhouse and the keeping of her accounts afforded as much occupation as she\ndesired.  Her principal duty was, as she well said, to her husband--to\nlove him, honour him, and keep him in a good temper.  To do her justice\nshe fulfilled this duty to the uttermost of her power.  It would have\nbeen better perhaps if she had not so frequently assured her husband that\nhe was the best and wisest of mankind, for no one in his little world\never dreamed of telling him anything else, and it was not long before he\nceased to have any doubt upon the matter.  As for his temper, which had\nbecome very violent at times, she took care to humour it on the slightest\nsign of an approaching outbreak.  She had early found that this was much\nthe easiest plan.  The thunder was seldom for herself.  Long before her\nmarriage even she had studied his little ways, and knew how to add fuel\nto the fire as long as the fire seemed to want it, and then to damp it\njudiciously down, making as little smoke as possible.\n\nIn money matters she was scrupulousness itself.  Theobald made her a\nquarterly allowance for her dress, pocket money and little charities and\npresents.  In these last items she was liberal in proportion to her\nincome; indeed she dressed with great economy and gave away whatever was\nover in presents or charity.  Oh, what a comfort it was to Theobald to\nreflect that he had a wife on whom he could rely never to cost him a\nsixpence of unauthorised expenditure!  Letting alone her absolute\nsubmission, the perfect coincidence of her opinion with his own upon\nevery subject and her constant assurances to him that he was right in\neverything which he took it into his head to say or do, what a tower of\nstrength to him was her exactness in money matters!  As years went by he\nbecame as fond of his wife as it was in his nature to be of any living\nthing, and applauded himself for having stuck to his engagement--a piece\nof virtue of which he was now reaping the reward.  Even when Christina\ndid outrun her quarterly stipend by some thirty shillings or a couple of\npounds, it was always made perfectly clear to Theobald how the deficiency\nhad arisen--there had been an unusually costly evening dress bought which\nwas to last a long time, or somebody's unexpected wedding had\nnecessitated a more handsome present than the quarter's balance would\nquite allow: the excess of expenditure was always repaid in the following\nquarter or quarters even though it were only ten shillings at a time.\n\nI believe, however, that after they had been married some twenty years,\nChristina had somewhat fallen from her original perfection as regards\nmoney.  She had got gradually in arrear during many successive quarters,\ntill she had contracted a chronic loan a sort of domestic national debt,\namounting to between seven and eight pounds.  Theobald at length felt\nthat a remonstrance had become imperative, and took advantage of his\nsilver wedding day to inform Christina that her indebtedness was\ncancelled, and at the same time to beg that she would endeavour\nhenceforth to equalise her expenditure and her income.  She burst into\ntears of love and gratitude, assured him that he was the best and most\ngenerous of men, and never during the remainder of her married life was\nshe a single shilling behind hand.\n\nChristina hated change of all sorts no less cordially than her husband.\nShe and Theobald had nearly everything in this world that they could wish\nfor; why, then, should people desire to introduce all sorts of changes of\nwhich no one could foresee the end?  Religion, she was deeply convinced,\nhad long since attained its final development, nor could it enter into\nthe heart of reasonable man to conceive any faith more perfect than was\ninculcated by the Church of England.  She could imagine no position more\nhonourable than that of a clergyman's wife unless indeed it were a\nbishop's.  Considering his father's influence it was not at all\nimpossible that Theobald might be a bishop some day--and then--then would\noccur to her that one little flaw in the practice of the Church of\nEngland--a flaw not indeed in its doctrine, but in its policy, which she\nbelieved on the whole to be a mistaken one in this respect.  I mean the\nfact that a bishop's wife does not take the rank of her husband.\n\nThis had been the doing of Elizabeth, who had been a bad woman, of\nexceeding doubtful moral character, and at heart a Papist to the last.\nPerhaps people ought to have been above mere considerations of worldly\ndignity, but the world was as it was, and such things carried weight with\nthem, whether they ought to do so or no.  Her influence as plain Mrs\nPontifex, wife, we will say, of the Bishop of Winchester, would no doubt\nbe considerable.  Such a character as hers could not fail to carry weight\nif she were ever in a sufficiently conspicuous sphere for its influence\nto be widely felt; but as Lady Winchester--or the Bishopess--which would\nsound quite nicely--who could doubt that her power for good would be\nenhanced?  And it would be all the nicer because if she had a daughter\nthe daughter would not be a Bishopess unless indeed she were to marry a\nBishop too, which would not be likely.\n\nThese were her thoughts upon her good days; at other times she would, to\ndo her justice, have doubts whether she was in all respects as\nspiritually minded as she ought to be.  She must press on, press on, till\nevery enemy to her salvation was surmounted and Satan himself lay bruised\nunder her feet.  It occurred to her on one of these occasions that she\nmight steal a march over some of her contemporaries if she were to leave\noff eating black puddings, of which whenever they had killed a pig she\nhad hitherto partaken freely; and if she were also careful that no fowls\nwere served at her table which had had their necks wrung, but only such\nas had had their throats cut and been allowed to bleed.  St Paul and the\nChurch of Jerusalem had insisted upon it as necessary that even Gentile\nconverts should abstain from things strangled and from blood, and they\nhad joined this prohibition with that of a vice about the abominable\nnature of which there could be no question; it would be well therefore to\nabstain in future and see whether any noteworthy spiritual result ensued.\nShe did abstain, and was certain that from the day of her resolve she had\nfelt stronger, purer in heart, and in all respects more spiritually\nminded than she had ever felt hitherto.  Theobald did not lay so much\nstress on this as she did, but as she settled what he should have at\ndinner she could take care that he got no strangled fowls; as for black\npuddings, happily, he had seen them made when he was a boy, and had never\ngot over his aversion for them.  She wished the matter were one of more\ngeneral observance than it was; this was just a case in which as Lady\nWinchester she might have been able to do what as plain Mrs Pontifex it\nwas hopeless even to attempt.\n\nAnd thus this worthy couple jogged on from month to month and from year\nto year.  The reader, if he has passed middle life and has a clerical\nconnection, will probably remember scores and scores of rectors and\nrectors' wives who differed in no material respect from Theobald and\nChristina.  Speaking from a recollection and experience extending over\nnearly eighty years from the time when I was myself a child in the\nnursery of a vicarage, I should say I had drawn the better rather than\nthe worse side of the life of an English country parson of some fifty\nyears ago.  I admit, however, that there are no such people to be found\nnowadays.  A more united or, on the whole, happier, couple could not have\nbeen found in England.  One grief only overshadowed the early years of\ntheir married life: I mean the fact that no living children were born to\nthem.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nIn the course of time this sorrow was removed.  At the beginning of the\nfifth year of her married life Christina was safely delivered of a boy.\nThis was on the sixth of September 1835.\n\nWord was immediately sent to old Mr Pontifex, who received the news with\nreal pleasure.  His son John's wife had borne daughters only, and he was\nseriously uneasy lest there should be a failure in the male line of his\ndescendants.  The good news, therefore, was doubly welcome, and caused as\nmuch delight at Elmhurst as dismay in Woburn Square, where the John\nPontifexes were then living.\n\nHere, indeed, this freak of fortune was felt to be all the more cruel on\naccount of the impossibility of resenting it openly; but the delighted\ngrandfather cared nothing for what the John Pontifexes might feel or not\nfeel; he had wanted a grandson and he had got a grandson, and this should\nbe enough for everybody; and, now that Mrs Theobald had taken to good\nways, she might bring him more grandsons, which would be desirable, for\nhe should not feel safe with fewer than three.\n\nHe rang the bell for the butler.\n\n\"Gelstrap,\" he said solemnly, \"I want to go down into the cellar.\"\n\nThen Gelstrap preceded him with a candle, and he went into the inner\nvault where he kept his choicest wines.\n\nHe passed many bins: there was 1803 Port, 1792 Imperial Tokay, 1800\nClaret, 1812 Sherry, these and many others were passed, but it was not\nfor them that the head of the Pontifex family had gone down into his\ninner cellar.  A bin, which had appeared empty until the full light of\nthe candle had been brought to bear upon it, was now found to contain a\nsingle pint bottle.  This was the object of Mr Pontifex's search.\n\nGelstrap had often pondered over this bottle.  It had been placed there\nby Mr Pontifex himself about a dozen years previously, on his return from\na visit to his friend the celebrated traveller Dr Jones--but there was no\ntablet above the bin which might give a clue to the nature of its\ncontents.  On more than one occasion when his master had gone out and\nleft his keys accidentally behind him, as he sometimes did, Gelstrap had\nsubmitted the bottle to all the tests he could venture upon, but it was\nso carefully sealed that wisdom remained quite shut out from that\nentrance at which he would have welcomed her most gladly--and indeed from\nall other entrances, for he could make out nothing at all.\n\nAnd now the mystery was to be solved.  But alas! it seemed as though the\nlast chance of securing even a sip of the contents was to be removed for\never, for Mr Pontifex took the bottle into his own hands and held it up\nto the light after carefully examining the seal.  He smiled and left the\nbin with the bottle in his hands.\n\nThen came a catastrophe.  He stumbled over an empty hamper; there was the\nsound of a fall--a smash of broken glass, and in an instant the cellar\nfloor was covered with the liquid that had been preserved so carefully\nfor so many years.\n\nWith his usual presence of mind Mr Pontifex gasped out a month's warning\nto Gelstrap.  Then he got up, and stamped as Theobald had done when\nChristina had wanted not to order his dinner.\n\n\"It's water from the Jordan,\" he exclaimed furiously, \"which I have been\nsaving for the baptism of my eldest grandson.  Damn you, Gelstrap, how\ndare you be so infernally careless as to leave that hamper littering\nabout the cellar?\"\n\nI wonder the water of the sacred stream did not stand upright as an heap\nupon the cellar floor and rebuke him.  Gelstrap told the other servants\nafterwards that his master's language had made his backbone curdle.\n\nThe moment, however, that he heard the word \"water,\" he saw his way\nagain, and flew to the pantry.  Before his master had well noted his\nabsence he returned with a little sponge and a basin, and had begun\nsopping up the waters of the Jordan as though they had been a common\nslop.\n\n\"I'll filter it, Sir,\" said Gelstrap meekly.  \"It'll come quite clean.\"\n\nMr Pontifex saw hope in this suggestion, which was shortly carried out by\nthe help of a piece of blotting paper and a funnel, under his own eyes.\nEventually it was found that half a pint was saved, and this was held to\nbe sufficient.\n\nThen he made preparations for a visit to Battersby.  He ordered goodly\nhampers of the choicest eatables, he selected a goodly hamper of choice\ndrinkables.  I say choice and not choicest, for although in his first\nexaltation he had selected some of his very best wine, yet on reflection\nhe had felt that there was moderation in all things, and as he was\nparting with his best water from the Jordan, he would only send some of\nhis second best wine.\n\nBefore he went to Battersby he stayed a day or two in London, which he\nnow seldom did, being over seventy years old, and having practically\nretired from business.  The John Pontifexes, who kept a sharp eye on him,\ndiscovered to their dismay that he had had an interview with his\nsolicitors.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nFor the first time in his life Theobald felt that he had done something\nright, and could look forward to meeting his father without alarm.  The\nold gentleman, indeed, had written him a most cordial letter, announcing\nhis intention of standing godfather to the boy--nay, I may as well give\nit in full, as it shows the writer at his best.  It runs:\n\n   \"Dear Theobald,--Your letter gave me very sincere pleasure, the more\n   so because I had made up my mind for the worst; pray accept my most\n   hearty congratulations for my daughter-in-law and for yourself.\n\n   \"I have long preserved a phial of water from the Jordan for the\n   christening of my first grandson, should it please God to grant me\n   one.  It was given me by my old friend Dr Jones.  You will agree with\n   me that though the efficacy of the sacrament does not depend upon the\n   source of the baptismal waters, yet, _ceteris paribus_, there is a\n   sentiment attaching to the waters of the Jordan which should not be\n   despised.  Small matters like this sometimes influence a child's whole\n   future career.\n\n   \"I shall bring my own cook, and have told him to get everything ready\n   for the christening dinner.  Ask as many of your best neighbours as\n   your table will hold.  By the way, I have told Lesueur _not to get a\n   lobster_--you had better drive over yourself and get one from Saltness\n   (for Battersby was only fourteen or fifteen miles from the sea coast);\n   they are better there, at least I think so, than anywhere else in\n   England.\n\n   \"I have put your boy down for something in the event of his attaining\n   the age of twenty-one years.  If your brother John continues to have\n   nothing but girls I may do more later on, but I have many claims upon\n   me, and am not as well off as you may imagine.--Your affectionate\n   father,\n\n   \"G.  PONTIFEX.\"\n\nA few days afterwards the writer of the above letter made his appearance\nin a fly which had brought him from Gildenham to Battersby, a distance of\nfourteen miles.  There was Lesueur, the cook, on the box with the driver,\nand as many hampers as the fly could carry were disposed upon the roof\nand elsewhere.  Next day the John Pontifexes had to come, and Eliza and\nMaria, as well as Alethea, who, by her own special request, was godmother\nto the boy, for Mr Pontifex had decided that they were to form a happy\nfamily party; so come they all must, and be happy they all must, or it\nwould be the worse for them.  Next day the author of all this hubbub was\nactually christened.  Theobald had proposed to call him George after old\nMr Pontifex, but strange to say, Mr Pontifex over-ruled him in favour of\nthe name Ernest.  The word \"earnest\" was just beginning to come into\nfashion, and he thought the possession of such a name might, like his\nhaving been baptised in water from the Jordan, have a permanent effect\nupon the boy's character, and influence him for good during the more\ncritical periods of his life.\n\nI was asked to be his second godfather, and was rejoiced to have an\nopportunity of meeting Alethea, whom I had not seen for some few years,\nbut with whom I had been in constant correspondence.  She and I had\nalways been friends from the time we had played together as children\nonwards.  When the death of her grandfather and grandmother severed her\nconnection with Paleham my intimacy with the Pontifexes was kept up by my\nhaving been at school and college with Theobald, and each time I saw her\nI admired her more and more as the best, kindest, wittiest, most lovable,\nand, to my mind, handsomest woman whom I had ever seen.  None of the\nPontifexes were deficient in good looks; they were a well-grown shapely\nfamily enough, but Alethea was the flower of the flock even as regards\ngood looks, while in respect of all other qualities that make a woman\nlovable, it seemed as though the stock that had been intended for the\nthree daughters, and would have been about sufficient for them, had all\nbeen allotted to herself, her sisters getting none, and she all.\n\nIt is impossible for me to explain how it was that she and I never\nmarried.  We two knew exceedingly well, and that must suffice for the\nreader.  There was the most perfect sympathy and understanding between\nus; we knew that neither of us would marry anyone else.  I had asked her\nto marry me a dozen times over; having said this much I will say no more\nupon a point which is in no way necessary for the development of my\nstory.  For the last few years there had been difficulties in the way of\nour meeting, and I had not seen her, though, as I have said, keeping up a\nclose correspondence with her.  Naturally I was overjoyed to meet her\nagain; she was now just thirty years old, but I thought she looked\nhandsomer than ever.\n\nHer father, of course, was the lion of the party, but seeing that we were\nall meek and quite willing to be eaten, he roared to us rather than at\nus.  It was a fine sight to see him tucking his napkin under his rosy old\ngills, and letting it fall over his capacious waistcoat while the high\nlight from the chandelier danced about the bump of benevolence on his\nbald old head like a star of Bethlehem.\n\nThe soup was real turtle; the old gentleman was evidently well pleased\nand he was beginning to come out.  Gelstrap stood behind his master's\nchair.  I sat next Mrs Theobald on her left hand, and was thus just\nopposite her father-in-law, whom I had every opportunity of observing.\n\nDuring the first ten minutes or so, which were taken up with the soup and\nthe bringing in of the fish, I should probably have thought, if I had not\nlong since made up my mind about him, what a fine old man he was and how\nproud his children should be of him; but suddenly as he was helping\nhimself to lobster sauce, he flushed crimson, a look of extreme vexation\nsuffused his face, and he darted two furtive but fiery glances to the two\nends of the table, one for Theobald and one for Christina.  They, poor\nsimple souls, of course saw that something was exceedingly wrong, and so\ndid I, but I couldn't guess what it was till I heard the old man hiss in\nChristina's ear: \"It was not made with a hen lobster.  What's the use,\"\nhe continued, \"of my calling the boy Ernest, and getting him christened\nin water from the Jordan, if his own father does not know a cock from a\nhen lobster?\"\n\nThis cut me too, for I felt that till that moment I had not so much as\nknown that there were cocks and hens among lobsters, but had vaguely\nthought that in the matter of matrimony they were even as the angels in\nheaven, and grew up almost spontaneously from rocks and sea-weed.\n\nBefore the next course was over Mr Pontifex had recovered his temper, and\nfrom that time to the end of the evening he was at his best.  He told us\nall about the water from the Jordan; how it had been brought by Dr Jones\nalong with some stone jars of water from the Rhine, the Rhone, the Elbe\nand the Danube, and what trouble he had had with them at the Custom\nHouses, and how the intention had been to make punch with waters from all\nthe greatest rivers in Europe; and how he, Mr Pontifex, had saved the\nJordan water from going into the bowl, etc., etc.  \"No, no, no,\" he\ncontinued, \"it wouldn't have done at all, you know; very profane idea; so\nwe each took a pint bottle of it home with us, and the punch was much\nbetter without it.  I had a narrow escape with mine, though, the other\nday; I fell over a hamper in the cellar, when I was getting it up to\nbring to Battersby, and if I had not taken the greatest care the bottle\nwould certainly have been broken, but I saved it.\"  And Gelstrap was\nstanding behind his chair all the time!\n\nNothing more happened to ruffle Mr Pontifex, so we had a delightful\nevening, which has often recurred to me while watching the after career\nof my godson.\n\nI called a day or two afterwards and found Mr Pontifex still at\nBattersby, laid up with one of those attacks of liver and depression to\nwhich he was becoming more and more subject.  I stayed to luncheon.  The\nold gentleman was cross and very difficult; he could eat nothing--had no\nappetite at all.  Christina tried to coax him with a little bit of the\nfleshy part of a mutton chop.  \"How in the name of reason can I be asked\nto eat a mutton chop?\" he exclaimed angrily; \"you forget, my dear\nChristina, that you have to deal with a stomach that is totally\ndisorganised,\" and he pushed the plate from him, pouting and frowning\nlike a naughty old child.  Writing as I do by the light of a later\nknowledge, I suppose I should have seen nothing in this but the world's\ngrowing pains, the disturbance inseparable from transition in human\nthings.  I suppose in reality not a leaf goes yellow in autumn without\nceasing to care about its sap and making the parent tree very\nuncomfortable by long growling and grumbling--but surely nature might\nfind some less irritating way of carrying on business if she would give\nher mind to it.  Why should the generations overlap one another at all?\nWhy cannot we be buried as eggs in neat little cells with ten or twenty\nthousand pounds each wrapped round us in Bank of England notes, and wake\nup, as the sphex wasp does, to find that its papa and mamma have not only\nleft ample provision at its elbow, but have been eaten by sparrows some\nweeks before it began to live consciously on its own account?\n\nAbout a year and a half afterwards the tables were turned on\nBattersby--for Mrs John Pontifex was safely delivered of a boy.  A year\nor so later still, George Pontifex was himself struck down suddenly by a\nfit of paralysis, much as his mother had been, but he did not see the\nyears of his mother.  When his will was opened, it was found that an\noriginal bequest of 20,000 pounds to Theobald himself (over and above the\nsum that had been settled upon him and Christina at the time of his\nmarriage) had been cut down to 17,500 pounds when Mr Pontifex left\n\"something\" to Ernest.  The \"something\" proved to be 2500 pounds, which\nwas to accumulate in the hands of trustees.  The rest of the property\nwent to John Pontifex, except that each of the daughters was left with\nabout 15,000 pounds over and above 5000 pounds a piece which they\ninherited from their mother.\n\nTheobald's father then had told him the truth but not the whole truth.\nNevertheless, what right had Theobald to complain?  Certainly it was\nrather hard to make him think that he and his were to be gainers, and get\nthe honour and glory of the bequest, when all the time the money was\nvirtually being taken out of Theobald's own pocket.  On the other hand\nthe father doubtless argued that he had never told Theobald he was to\nhave anything at all; he had a full right to do what he liked with his\nown money; if Theobald chose to indulge in unwarrantable expectations\nthat was no affair of his; as it was he was providing for him liberally;\nand if he did take 2500 pounds of Theobald's share he was still leaving\nit to Theobald's son, which, of course, was much the same thing in the\nend.\n\nNo one can deny that the testator had strict right upon his side;\nnevertheless the reader will agree with me that Theobald and Christina\nmight not have considered the christening dinner so great a success if\nall the facts had been before them.  Mr Pontifex had during his own\nlifetime set up a monument in Elmhurst Church to the memory of his wife\n(a slab with urns and cherubs like illegitimate children of King George\nthe Fourth, and all the rest of it), and had left space for his own\nepitaph underneath that of his wife.  I do not know whether it was\nwritten by one of his children, or whether they got some friend to write\nit for them.  I do not believe that any satire was intended.  I believe\nthat it was the intention to convey that nothing short of the Day of\nJudgement could give anyone an idea how good a man Mr Pontifex had been,\nbut at first I found it hard to think that it was free from guile.\n\nThe epitaph begins by giving dates of birth and death; then sets out that\nthe deceased was for many years head of the firm of Fairlie and Pontifex,\nand also resident in the parish of Elmhurst.  There is not a syllable of\neither praise or dispraise.  The last lines run as follows:--\n\n   HE NOW LIES AWAITING A JOYFUL RESURRECTION\n   AT THE LAST DAY.\n   WHAT MANNER OF MAN HE WAS\n   THAT DAY WILL DISCOVER.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nThis much, however, we may say in the meantime, that having lived to be\nnearly seventy-three years old and died rich he must have been in very\nfair harmony with his surroundings.  I have heard it said sometimes that\nsuch and such a person's life was a lie: but no man's life can be a very\nbad lie; as long as it continues at all it is at worst nine-tenths of it\ntrue.\n\nMr Pontifex's life not only continued a long time, but was prosperous\nright up to the end.  Is not this enough?  Being in this world is it not\nour most obvious business to make the most of it--to observe what things\ndo _bona fide_ tend to long life and comfort, and to act accordingly?  All\nanimals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoy\nit--and they do enjoy it as much as man and other circumstances will\nallow.  He has spent his life best who has enjoyed it most; God will take\ncare that we do not enjoy it any more than is good for us.  If Mr\nPontifex is to be blamed it is for not having eaten and drunk less and\nthus suffered less from his liver, and lived perhaps a year or two\nlonger.\n\nGoodness is naught unless it tends towards old age and sufficiency of\nmeans.  I speak broadly and _exceptis excipiendis_.  So the psalmist\nsays, \"The righteous shall not lack anything that is good.\"  Either this\nis mere poetical license, or it follows that he who lacks anything that\nis good is not righteous; there is a presumption also that he who has\npassed a long life without lacking anything that is good has himself also\nbeen good enough for practical purposes.\n\nMr Pontifex never lacked anything he much cared about.  True, he might\nhave been happier than he was if he had cared about things which he did\nnot care for, but the gist of this lies in the \"if he had cared.\"  We\nhave all sinned and come short of the glory of making ourselves as\ncomfortable as we easily might have done, but in this particular case Mr\nPontifex did not care, and would not have gained much by getting what he\ndid not want.\n\nThere is no casting of swine's meat before men worse than that which\nwould flatter virtue as though her true origin were not good enough for\nher, but she must have a lineage, deduced as it were by spiritual\nheralds, from some stock with which she has nothing to do.  Virtue's true\nlineage is older and more respectable than any that can be invented for\nher.  She springs from man's experience concerning his own well-being--and\nthis, though not infallible, is still the least fallible thing we have.  A\nsystem which cannot stand without a better foundation than this must have\nsomething so unstable within itself that it will topple over on whatever\npedestal we place it.\n\nThe world has long ago settled that morality and virtue are what bring\nmen peace at the last.  \"Be virtuous,\" says the copy-book, \"and you will\nbe happy.\"  Surely if a reputed virtue fails often in this respect it is\nonly an insidious form of vice, and if a reputed vice brings no very\nserious mischief on a man's later years it is not so bad a vice as it is\nsaid to be.  Unfortunately though we are all of a mind about the main\nopinion that virtue is what tends to happiness, and vice what ends in\nsorrow, we are not so unanimous about details--that is to say as to\nwhether any given course, such, we will say, as smoking, has a tendency\nto happiness or the reverse.\n\nI submit it as the result of my own poor observation, that a good deal of\nunkindness and selfishness on the part of parents towards children is not\ngenerally followed by ill consequences to the parents themselves.  They\nmay cast a gloom over their children's lives for many years without\nhaving to suffer anything that will hurt them.  I should say, then, that\nit shows no great moral obliquity on the part of parents if within\ncertain limits they make their children's lives a burden to them.\n\nGranted that Mr Pontifex's was not a very exalted character, ordinary men\nare not required to have very exalted characters.  It is enough if we are\nof the same moral and mental stature as the \"main\" or \"mean\" part of\nmen--that is to say as the average.\n\nIt is involved in the very essence of things that rich men who die old\nshall have been mean.  The greatest and wisest of mankind will be almost\nalways found to be the meanest--the ones who have kept the \"mean\" best\nbetween excess either of virtue or vice.  They hardly ever have been\nprosperous if they have not done this, and, considering how many miscarry\naltogether, it is no small feather in a man's cap if he has been no worse\nthan his neighbours.  Homer tells us about some one who made it his\nbusiness [Greek text]--always to excel and to stand higher than other\npeople.  What an uncompanionable disagreeable person he must have been!\nHomer's heroes generally came to a bad end, and I doubt not that this\ngentleman, whoever he was, did so sooner or later.\n\nA very high standard, again, involves the possession of rare virtues, and\nrare virtues are like rare plants or animals, things that have not been\nable to hold their own in the world.  A virtue to be serviceable must,\nlike gold, be alloyed with some commoner but more durable metal.\n\nPeople divide off vice and virtue as though they were two things, neither\nof which had with it anything of the other.  This is not so.  There is no\nuseful virtue which has not some alloy of vice, and hardly any vice, if\nany, which carries not with it a little dash of virtue; virtue and vice\nare like life and death, or mind and matter--things which cannot exist\nwithout being qualified by their opposite.  The most absolute life\ncontains death, and the corpse is still in many respects living; so also\nit has been said, \"If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done\namiss,\" which shows that even the highest ideal we can conceive will yet\nadmit so much compromise with vice as shall countenance the poor abuses\nof the time, if they are not too outrageous.  That vice pays homage to\nvirtue is notorious; we call this hypocrisy; there should be a word found\nfor the homage which virtue not unfrequently pays, or at any rate would\nbe wise in paying, to vice.\n\nI grant that some men will find happiness in having what we all feel to\nbe a higher moral standard than others.  If they go in for this, however,\nthey must be content with virtue as her own reward, and not grumble if\nthey find lofty Quixotism an expensive luxury, whose rewards belong to a\nkingdom that is not of this world.  They must not wonder if they cut a\npoor figure in trying to make the most of both worlds.  Disbelieve as we\nmay the details of the accounts which record the growth of the Christian\nreligion, yet a great part of Christian teaching will remain as true as\nthough we accepted the details.  We cannot serve God and Mammon; strait\nis the way and narrow is the gate which leads to what those who live by\nfaith hold to be best worth having, and there is no way of saying this\nbetter than the Bible has done.  It is well there should be some who\nthink thus, as it is well there should be speculators in commerce, who\nwill often burn their fingers--but it is not well that the majority\nshould leave the \"mean\" and beaten path.\n\nFor most men, and most circumstances, pleasure--tangible material\nprosperity in this world--is the safest test of virtue.  Progress has\never been through the pleasures rather than through the extreme sharp\nvirtues, and the most virtuous have leaned to excess rather than to\nasceticism.  To use a commercial metaphor, competition is so keen, and\nthe margin of profits has been cut down so closely that virtue cannot\nafford to throw any _bona fide_ chance away, and must base her action\nrather on the actual moneying out of conduct than on a flattering\nprospectus.  She will not therefore neglect--as some do who are prudent\nand economical enough in other matters--the important factor of our\nchance of escaping detection, or at any rate of our dying first.  A\nreasonable virtue will give this chance its due value, neither more nor\nless.\n\nPleasure, after all, is a safer guide than either right or duty.  For\nhard as it is to know what gives us pleasure, right and duty are often\nstill harder to distinguish and, if we go wrong with them, will lead us\ninto just as sorry a plight as a mistaken opinion concerning pleasure.\nWhen men burn their fingers through following after pleasure they find\nout their mistake and get to see where they have gone wrong more easily\nthan when they have burnt them through following after a fancied duty, or\na fancied idea concerning right virtue.  The devil, in fact, when he\ndresses himself in angel's clothes, can only be detected by experts of\nexceptional skill, and so often does he adopt this disguise that it is\nhardly safe to be seen talking to an angel at all, and prudent people\nwill follow after pleasure as a more homely but more respectable and on\nthe whole much more trustworthy guide.\n\nReturning to Mr Pontifex, over and above his having lived long and\nprosperously, he left numerous offspring, to all of whom he communicated\nnot only his physical and mental characteristics, with no more than the\nusual amount of modification, but also no small share of characteristics\nwhich are less easily transmitted--I mean his pecuniary characteristics.\nIt may be said that he acquired these by sitting still and letting money\nrun, as it were, right up against him, but against how many does not\nmoney run who do not take it when it does, or who, even if they hold it\nfor a little while, cannot so incorporate it with themselves that it\nshall descend through them to their offspring?  Mr Pontifex did this.  He\nkept what he may be said to have made, and money is like a reputation for\nability--more easily made than kept.\n\nTake him, then, for all in all, I am not inclined to be so severe upon\nhim as my father was.  Judge him according to any very lofty standard,\nand he is nowhere.  Judge him according to a fair average standard, and\nthere is not much fault to be found with him.  I have said what I have\nsaid in the foregoing chapter once for all, and shall not break my thread\nto repeat it.  It should go without saying in modification of the verdict\nwhich the reader may be inclined to pass too hastily, not only upon Mr\nGeorge Pontifex, but also upon Theobald and Christina.  And now I will\ncontinue my story.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nThe birth of his son opened Theobald's eyes to a good deal which he had\nbut faintly realised hitherto.  He had had no idea how great a nuisance a\nbaby was.  Babies come into the world so suddenly at the end, and upset\neverything so terribly when they do come: why cannot they steal in upon\nus with less of a shock to the domestic system?  His wife, too, did not\nrecover rapidly from her confinement; she remained an invalid for months;\nhere was another nuisance and an expensive one, which interfered with the\namount which Theobald liked to put by out of his income against, as he\nsaid, a rainy day, or to make provision for his family if he should have\none.  Now he was getting a family, so that it became all the more\nnecessary to put money by, and here was the baby hindering him.  Theorists\nmay say what they like about a man's children being a continuation of his\nown identity, but it will generally be found that those who talk in this\nway have no children of their own.  Practical family men know better.\n\nAbout twelve months after the birth of Ernest there came a second, also a\nboy, who was christened Joseph, and in less than twelve months\nafterwards, a girl, to whom was given the name of Charlotte.  A few\nmonths before this girl was born Christina paid a visit to the John\nPontifexes in London, and, knowing her condition, passed a good deal of\ntime at the Royal Academy exhibition looking at the types of female\nbeauty portrayed by the Academicians, for she had made up her mind that\nthe child this time was to be a girl.  Alethea warned her not to do this,\nbut she persisted, and certainly the child turned out plain, but whether\nthe pictures caused this or no I cannot say.\n\nTheobald had never liked children.  He had always got away from them as\nsoon as he could, and so had they from him; oh, why, he was inclined to\nask himself, could not children be born into the world grown up?  If\nChristina could have given birth to a few full-grown clergymen in\npriest's orders--of moderate views, but inclining rather to\nEvangelicalism, with comfortable livings and in all respects facsimiles\nof Theobald himself--why, there might have been more sense in it; or if\npeople could buy ready-made children at a shop of whatever age and sex\nthey liked, instead of always having to make them at home and to begin at\nthe beginning with them--that might do better, but as it was he did not\nlike it.  He felt as he had felt when he had been required to come and be\nmarried to Christina--that he had been going on for a long time quite\nnicely, and would much rather continue things on their present footing.\nIn the matter of getting married he had been obliged to pretend he liked\nit; but times were changed, and if he did not like a thing now, he could\nfind a hundred unexceptionable ways of making his dislike apparent.\n\nIt might have been better if Theobald in his younger days had kicked more\nagainst his father: the fact that he had not done so encouraged him to\nexpect the most implicit obedience from his own children.  He could trust\nhimself, he said (and so did Christina), to be more lenient than perhaps\nhis father had been to himself; his danger, he said (and so again did\nChristina), would be rather in the direction of being too indulgent; he\nmust be on his guard against this, for no duty could be more important\nthan that of teaching a child to obey its parents in all things.\n\nHe had read not long since of an Eastern traveller, who, while exploring\nsomewhere in the more remote parts of Arabia and Asia Minor, had come\nupon a remarkably hardy, sober, industrious little Christian\ncommunity--all of them in the best of health--who had turned out to be\nthe actual living descendants of Jonadab, the son of Rechab; and two men\nin European costume, indeed, but speaking English with a broken accent,\nand by their colour evidently Oriental, had come begging to Battersby\nsoon afterwards, and represented themselves as belonging to this people;\nthey had said they were collecting funds to promote the conversion of\ntheir fellow tribesmen to the English branch of the Christian religion.\nTrue, they turned out to be impostors, for when he gave them a pound and\nChristina five shillings from her private purse, they went and got drunk\nwith it in the next village but one to Battersby; still, this did not\ninvalidate the story of the Eastern traveller.  Then there were the\nRomans--whose greatness was probably due to the wholesome authority\nexercised by the head of a family over all its members.  Some Romans had\neven killed their children; this was going too far, but then the Romans\nwere not Christians, and knew no better.\n\nThe practical outcome of the foregoing was a conviction in Theobald's\nmind, and if in his, then in Christina's, that it was their duty to begin\ntraining up their children in the way they should go, even from their\nearliest infancy.  The first signs of self-will must be carefully looked\nfor, and plucked up by the roots at once before they had time to grow.\nTheobald picked up this numb serpent of a metaphor and cherished it in\nhis bosom.\n\nBefore Ernest could well crawl he was taught to kneel; before he could\nwell speak he was taught to lisp the Lord's prayer, and the general\nconfession.  How was it possible that these things could be taught too\nearly?  If his attention flagged or his memory failed him, here was an\nill weed which would grow apace, unless it were plucked out immediately,\nand the only way to pluck it out was to whip him, or shut him up in a\ncupboard, or dock him of some of the small pleasures of childhood.  Before\nhe was three years old he could read and, after a fashion, write.  Before\nhe was four he was learning Latin, and could do rule of three sums.\n\nAs for the child himself, he was naturally of an even temper, he doted\nupon his nurse, on kittens and puppies, and on all things that would do\nhim the kindness of allowing him to be fond of them.  He was fond of his\nmother, too, but as regards his father, he has told me in later life he\ncould remember no feeling but fear and shrinking.  Christina did not\nremonstrate with Theobald concerning the severity of the tasks imposed\nupon their boy, nor yet as to the continual whippings that were found\nnecessary at lesson times.  Indeed, when during any absence of Theobald's\nthe lessons were entrusted to her, she found to her sorrow that it was\nthe only thing to do, and she did it no less effectually than Theobald\nhimself, nevertheless she was fond of her boy, which Theobald never was,\nand it was long before she could destroy all affection for herself in the\nmind of her first-born.  But she persevered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nStrange! for she believed she doted upon him, and certainly she loved him\nbetter than either of her other children.  Her version of the matter was\nthat there had never yet been two parents so self-denying and devoted to\nthe highest welfare of their children as Theobald and herself.  For\nErnest, a very great future--she was certain of it--was in store.  This\nmade severity all the more necessary, so that from the first he might\nhave been kept pure from every taint of evil.  She could not allow\nherself the scope for castle building which, we read, was indulged in by\nevery Jewish matron before the appearance of the Messiah, for the Messiah\nhad now come, but there was to be a millennium shortly, certainly not\nlater than 1866, when Ernest would be just about the right age for it,\nand a modern Elias would be wanted to herald its approach.  Heaven would\nbear her witness that she had never shrunk from the idea of martyrdom for\nherself and Theobald, nor would she avoid it for her boy, if his life was\nrequired of her in her Redeemer's service.  Oh, no!  If God told her to\noffer up her first-born, as He had told Abraham, she would take him up to\nPigbury Beacon and plunge the--no, that she could not do, but it would be\nunnecessary--some one else might do that.  It was not for nothing that\nErnest had been baptised in water from the Jordan.  It had not been her\ndoing, nor yet Theobald's.  They had not sought it.  When water from the\nsacred stream was wanted for a sacred infant, the channel had been found\nthrough which it was to flow from far Palestine over land and sea to the\ndoor of the house where the child was lying.  Why, it was a miracle!  It\nwas!  It was!  She saw it all now.  The Jordan had left its bed and\nflowed into her own house.  It was idle to say that this was not a\nmiracle.  No miracle was effected without means of some kind; the\ndifference between the faithful and the unbeliever consisted in the very\nfact that the former could see a miracle where the latter could not.  The\nJews could see no miracle even in the raising of Lazarus and the feeding\nof the five thousand.  The John Pontifexes would see no miracle in this\nmatter of the water from the Jordan.  The essence of a miracle lay not in\nthe fact that means had been dispensed with, but in the adoption of means\nto a great end that had not been available without interference; and no\none would suppose that Dr Jones would have brought the water unless he\nhad been directed.  She would tell this to Theobald, and get him to see\nit in the . . . and yet perhaps it would be better not.  The insight of\nwomen upon matters of this sort was deeper and more unerring than that of\nmen.  It was a woman and not a man who had been filled most completely\nwith the whole fulness of the Deity.  But why had they not treasured up\nthe water after it was used?  It ought never, never to have been thrown\naway, but it had been.  Perhaps, however, this was for the best too--they\nmight have been tempted to set too much store by it, and it might have\nbecome a source of spiritual danger to them--perhaps even of spiritual\npride, the very sin of all others which she most abhorred.  As for the\nchannel through which the Jordan had flowed to Battersby, that mattered\nnot more than the earth through which the river ran in Palestine itself.\nDr Jones was certainly worldly--very worldly; so, she regretted to feel,\nhad been her father-in-law, though in a less degree; spiritual, at heart,\ndoubtless, and becoming more and more spiritual continually as he grew\nolder, still he was tainted with the world, till a very few hours,\nprobably, before his death, whereas she and Theobald had given up all for\nChrist's sake.  _They_ were not worldly.  At least Theobald was not.  She\nhad been, but she was sure she had grown in grace since she had left off\neating things strangled and blood--this was as the washing in Jordan as\nagainst Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.  Her boy should never\ntouch a strangled fowl nor a black pudding--that, at any rate, she could\nsee to.  He should have a coral from the neighbourhood of Joppa--there\nwere coral insects on those coasts, so that the thing could easily be\ndone with a little energy; she would write to Dr Jones about it, etc.  And\nso on for hours together day after day for years.  Truly, Mrs Theobald\nloved her child according to her lights with an exceeding great fondness,\nbut the dreams she had dreamed in sleep were sober realities in\ncomparison with those she indulged in while awake.\n\nWhen Ernest was in his second year, Theobald, as I have already said,\nbegan to teach him to read.  He began to whip him two days after he had\nbegun to teach him.\n\n\"It was painful,\" as he said to Christina, but it was the only thing to\ndo and it was done.  The child was puny, white and sickly, so they sent\ncontinually for the doctor who dosed him with calomel and James's powder.\nAll was done in love, anxiety, timidity, stupidity, and impatience.  They\nwere stupid in little things; and he that is stupid in little will be\nstupid also in much.\n\nPresently old Mr Pontifex died, and then came the revelation of the\nlittle alteration he had made in his will simultaneously with his bequest\nto Ernest.  It was rather hard to bear, especially as there was no way of\nconveying a bit of their minds to the testator now that he could no\nlonger hurt them.  As regards the boy himself anyone must see that the\nbequest would be an unmitigated misfortune to him.  To leave him a small\nindependence was perhaps the greatest injury which one could inflict upon\na young man.  It would cripple his energies, and deaden his desire for\nactive employment.  Many a youth was led into evil courses by the\nknowledge that on arriving at majority he would come into a few\nthousands.  They might surely have been trusted to have their boy's\ninterests at heart, and must be better judges of those interests than he,\nat twenty-one, could be expected to be: besides if Jonadab, the son of\nRechab's father--or perhaps it might be simpler under the circumstances\nto say Rechab at once--if Rechab, then, had left handsome legacies to his\ngrandchildren--why Jonadab might not have found those children so easy to\ndeal with, etc.  \"My dear,\" said Theobald, after having discussed the\nmatter with Christina for the twentieth time, \"my dear, the only thing to\nguide and console us under misfortunes of this kind is to take refuge in\npractical work.  I will go and pay a visit to Mrs Thompson.\"\n\nOn those days Mrs Thompson would be told that her sins were all washed\nwhite, etc., a little sooner and a little more peremptorily than on\nothers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nI used to stay at Battersby for a day or two sometimes, while my godson\nand his brother and sister were children.  I hardly know why I went, for\nTheobald and I grew more and more apart, but one gets into grooves\nsometimes, and the supposed friendship between myself and the Pontifexes\ncontinued to exist, though it was now little more than rudimentary.  My\ngodson pleased me more than either of the other children, but he had not\nmuch of the buoyancy of childhood, and was more like a puny, sallow\nlittle old man than I liked.  The young people, however, were very ready\nto be friendly.\n\nI remember Ernest and his brother hovered round me on the first day of\none of these visits with their hands full of fading flowers, which they\nat length proffered me.  On this I did what I suppose was expected: I\ninquired if there was a shop near where they could buy sweeties.  They\nsaid there was, so I felt in my pockets, but only succeeded in finding\ntwo pence halfpenny in small money.  This I gave them, and the\nyoungsters, aged four and three, toddled off alone.  Ere long they\nreturned, and Ernest said, \"We can't get sweeties for all this money\" (I\nfelt rebuked, but no rebuke was intended); \"we can get sweeties for this\"\n(showing a penny), \"and for this\" (showing another penny), \"but we cannot\nget them for all this,\" and he added the halfpenny to the two pence.  I\nsuppose they had wanted a twopenny cake, or something like that.  I was\namused, and left them to solve the difficulty their own way, being\nanxious to see what they would do.\n\nPresently Ernest said, \"May we give you back this\" (showing the\nhalfpenny) \"and not give you back this and this?\" (showing the pence).  I\nassented, and they gave a sigh of relief and went on their way rejoicing.\nA few more presents of pence and small toys completed the conquest, and\nthey began to take me into their confidence.\n\nThey told me a good deal which I am afraid I ought not to have listened\nto.  They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would most likely\nhave been made a Lord, and that then papa would have been the Honourable\nand Reverend, but that grandpapa was now in heaven singing beautiful\nhymns with grandmamma Allaby to Jesus Christ, who was very fond of them;\nand that when Ernest was ill, his mamma had told him he need not be\nafraid of dying for he would go straight to heaven, if he would only be\nsorry for having done his lessons so badly and vexed his dear papa, and\nif he would promise never, never to vex him any more; and that when he\ngot to heaven grandpapa and grandmamma Allaby would meet him, and he\nwould be always with them, and they would be very good to him and teach\nhim to sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than those\nwhich he was now so fond of, etc., etc.; but he did not wish to die, and\nwas glad when he got better, for there were no kittens in heaven, and he\ndid not think there were cowslips to make cowslip tea with.\n\nTheir mother was plainly disappointed in them.  \"My children are none of\nthem geniuses, Mr Overton,\" she said to me at breakfast one morning.\n\"They have fair abilities, and, thanks to Theobald's tuition, they are\nforward for their years, but they have nothing like genius: genius is a\nthing apart from this, is it not?\"\n\nOf course I said it was \"a thing quite apart from this,\" but if my\nthoughts had been laid bare, they would have appeared as \"Give me my\ncoffee immediately, ma'am, and don't talk nonsense.\"  I have no idea what\ngenius is, but so far as I can form any conception about it, I should say\nit was a stupid word which cannot be too soon abandoned to scientific and\nliterary _claqueurs_.\n\nI do not know exactly what Christina expected, but I should imagine it\nwas something like this: \"My children ought to be all geniuses, because\nthey are mine and Theobald's, and it is naughty of them not to be; but,\nof course, they cannot be so good and clever as Theobald and I were, and\nif they show signs of being so it will be naughty of them.  Happily,\nhowever, they are not this, and yet it is very dreadful that they are\nnot.  As for genius--hoity-toity, indeed--why, a genius should turn\nintellectual summersaults as soon as it is born, and none of my children\nhave yet been able to get into the newspapers.  I will not have children\nof mine give themselves airs--it is enough for them that Theobald and I\nshould do so.\"\n\nShe did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an invisible\ncloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men without being\nsuspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from itself always, and from\nall others for many years, its greatness will ere long shrink to very\nordinary dimensions.  What, then, it may be asked, is the good of being\ngreat?  The answer is that you may understand greatness better in others,\nwhether alive or dead, and choose better company from these and enjoy and\nunderstand that company better when you have chosen it--also that you may\nbe able to give pleasure to the best people and live in the lives of\nthose who are yet unborn.  This, one would think, was substantial gain\nenough for greatness without its wanting to ride rough-shod over us, even\nwhen disguised as humility.\n\nI was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the young\npeople were taught to observe the Sabbath; they might not cut out things,\nnor use their paintbox on a Sunday, and this they thought rather hard,\nbecause their cousins the John Pontifexes might do these things.  Their\ncousins might play with their toy train on Sunday, but though they had\npromised that they would run none but Sunday trains, all traffic had been\nprohibited.  One treat only was allowed them--on Sunday evenings they\nmight choose their own hymns.\n\nIn the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room, and, as an\nespecial treat, were to sing some of their hymns to me, instead of saying\nthem, so that I might hear how nicely they sang.  Ernest was to choose\nthe first hymn, and he chose one about some people who were to come to\nthe sunset tree.  I am no botanist, and do not know what kind of tree a\nsunset tree is, but the words began, \"Come, come, come; come to the\nsunset tree for the day is past and gone.\"  The tune was rather pretty\nand had taken Ernest's fancy, for he was unusually fond of music and had\na sweet little child's voice which he liked using.\n\nHe was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard it \"c\" or \"k,\"\nand, instead of saying \"Come,\" he said \"Tum tum, tum.\"\n\n\"Ernest,\" said Theobald, from the arm-chair in front of the fire, where\nhe was sitting with his hands folded before him, \"don't you think it\nwould be very nice if you were to say 'come' like other people, instead\nof 'tum'?\"\n\n\"I do say tum,\" replied Ernest, meaning that he had said \"come.\"\n\nTheobald was always in a bad temper on Sunday evening.  Whether it is\nthat they are as much bored with the day as their neighbours, or whether\nthey are tired, or whatever the cause may be, clergymen are seldom at\ntheir best on Sunday evening; I had already seen signs that evening that\nmy host was cross, and was a little nervous at hearing Ernest say so\npromptly \"I do say tum,\" when his papa had said he did not say it as he\nshould.\n\nTheobald noticed the fact that he was being contradicted in a moment.  He\ngot up from his arm-chair and went to the piano.\n\n\"No, Ernest, you don't,\" he said, \"you say nothing of the kind, you say\n'tum,' not 'come.'  Now say 'come' after me, as I do.\"\n\n\"Tum,\" said Ernest, at once; \"is that better?\"  I have no doubt he\nthought it was, but it was not.\n\n\"Now, Ernest, you are not taking pains: you are not trying as you ought\nto do.  It is high time you learned to say 'come,' why, Joey can say\n'come,' can't you, Joey?\"\n\n\"Yeth, I can,\" replied Joey, and he said something which was not far off\n\"come.\"\n\n\"There, Ernest, do you hear that?  There's no difficulty about it, nor\nshadow of difficulty.  Now, take your own time, think about it, and say\n'come' after me.\"\n\nThe boy remained silent a few seconds and then said \"tum\" again.\n\nI laughed, but Theobald turned to me impatiently and said, \"Please do not\nlaugh, Overton; it will make the boy think it does not matter, and it\nmatters a great deal;\" then turning to Ernest he said, \"Now, Ernest, I\nwill give you one more chance, and if you don't say 'come,' I shall know\nthat you are self-willed and naughty.\"\n\nHe looked very angry, and a shade came over Ernest's face, like that\nwhich comes upon the face of a puppy when it is being scolded without\nunderstanding why.  The child saw well what was coming now, was\nfrightened, and, of course, said \"tum\" once more.\n\n\"Very well, Ernest,\" said his father, catching him angrily by the\nshoulder.  \"I have done my best to save you, but if you will have it so,\nyou will,\" and he lugged the little wretch, crying by anticipation, out\nof the room.  A few minutes more and we could hear screams coming from\nthe dining-room, across the hall which separated the drawing-room from\nthe dining-room, and knew that poor Ernest was being beaten.\n\n\"I have sent him up to bed,\" said Theobald, as he returned to the drawing-\nroom, \"and now, Christina, I think we will have the servants in to\nprayers,\" and he rang the bell for them, red-handed as he was.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nThe man-servant William came and set the chairs for the maids, and\npresently they filed in.  First Christina's maid, then the cook, then the\nhousemaid, then William, and then the coachman.  I sat opposite them, and\nwatched their faces as Theobald read a chapter from the Bible.  They were\nnice people, but more absolute vacancy I never saw upon the countenances\nof human beings.\n\nTheobald began by reading a few verses from the Old Testament, according\nto some system of his own.  On this occasion the passage came from the\nfifteenth chapter of Numbers: it had no particular bearing that I could\nsee upon anything which was going on just then, but the spirit which\nbreathed throughout the whole seemed to me to be so like that of Theobald\nhimself, that I could understand better after hearing it, how he came to\nthink as he thought, and act as he acted.\n\nThe verses are as follows--\n\n   \"But the soul that doeth aught presumptuously, whether he be born in\n   the land or a stranger, the same reproacheth the Lord; and that soul\n   shall be cut off from among his people.\n\n   \"Because he hath despised the word of the Lord, and hath broken His\n   commandments, that soul shall be utterly cut off; his iniquity shall\n   be upon him.\n\n   \"And while the children of Israel were in the wilderness they found a\n   man that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath day.\n\n   \"And they that found him gathering sticks brought him unto Moses and\n   Aaron, and unto all the congregation.\n\n   \"And they put him in ward because it was not declared what should be\n   done to him.\n\n   \"And the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall be surely put to death;\n   all the congregation shall stone him with stones without the camp.\n\n   \"And all the congregation brought him without the camp, and stoned him\n   with stones, and he died; as the Lord commanded Moses.\n\n   \"And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,\n\n   \"Speak unto the children of Israel, and bid them that they make them\n   fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their generations,\n   and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a ribband of blue.\n\n   \"And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it and\n   remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them, and that ye\n   seek not after your own heart and your own eyes.\n\n   \"That ye may remember and do all my commandments and be holy unto your\n   God.\n\n   \"I am the Lord your God which brought you out of the land of Egypt, to\n   be your God: I am the Lord your God.\"\n\nMy thoughts wandered while Theobald was reading the above, and reverted\nto a little matter which I had observed in the course of the afternoon.\n\nIt happened that some years previously, a swarm of bees had taken up\ntheir abode in the roof of the house under the slates, and had multiplied\nso that the drawing-room was a good deal frequented by these bees during\nthe summer, when the windows were open.  The drawing-room paper was of a\npattern which consisted of bunches of red and white roses, and I saw\nseveral bees at different times fly up to these bunches and try them,\nunder the impression that they were real flowers; having tried one bunch,\nthey tried the next, and the next, and the next, till they reached the\none that was nearest the ceiling, then they went down bunch by bunch as\nthey had ascended, till they were stopped by the back of the sofa; on\nthis they ascended bunch by bunch to the ceiling again; and so on, and so\non till I was tired of watching them.  As I thought of the family prayers\nbeing repeated night and morning, week by week, month by month, and year\nby year, I could nor help thinking how like it was to the way in which\nthe bees went up the wall and down the wall, bunch by bunch, without ever\nsuspecting that so many of the associated ideas could be present, and yet\nthe main idea be wanting hopelessly, and for ever.\n\nWhen Theobald had finished reading we all knelt down and the Carlo Dolci\nand the Sassoferrato looked down upon a sea of upturned backs, as we\nburied our faces in our chairs.  I noted that Theobald prayed that we\nmight be made \"truly honest and conscientious\" in all our dealings, and\nsmiled at the introduction of the \"truly.\"  Then my thoughts ran back to\nthe bees and I reflected that after all it was perhaps as well at any\nrate for Theobald that our prayers were seldom marked by any very\nencouraging degree of response, for if I had thought there was the\nslightest chance of my being heard I should have prayed that some one\nmight ere long treat him as he had treated Ernest.\n\nThen my thoughts wandered on to those calculations which people make\nabout waste of time and how much one can get done if one gives ten\nminutes a day to it, and I was thinking what improper suggestion I could\nmake in connection with this and the time spent on family prayers which\nshould at the same time be just tolerable, when I heard Theobald\nbeginning \"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ\" and in a few seconds the\nceremony was over, and the servants filed out again as they had filed in.\n\nAs soon as they had left the drawing-room, Christina, who was a little\nashamed of the transaction to which I had been a witness, imprudently\nreturned to it, and began to justify it, saying that it cut her to the\nheart, and that it cut Theobald to the heart and a good deal more, but\nthat \"it was the only thing to be done.\"\n\nI received this as coldly as I decently could, and by my silence during\nthe rest of the evening showed that I disapproved of what I had seen.\n\nNext day I was to go back to London, but before I went I said I should\nlike to take some new-laid eggs back with me, so Theobald took me to the\nhouse of a labourer in the village who lived a stone's throw from the\nRectory as being likely to supply me with them.  Ernest, for some reason\nor other, was allowed to come too.  I think the hens had begun to sit,\nbut at any rate eggs were scarce, and the cottager's wife could not find\nme more than seven or eight, which we proceeded to wrap up in separate\npieces of paper so that I might take them to town safely.\n\nThis operation was carried on upon the ground in front of the cottage\ndoor, and while we were in the midst of it the cottager's little boy, a\nlad much about Ernest's age, trod upon one of the eggs that was wrapped\nup in paper and broke it.\n\n\"There now, Jack,\" said his mother, \"see what you've done, you've broken\na nice egg and cost me a penny--Here, Emma,\" she added, calling her\ndaughter, \"take the child away, there's a dear.\"\n\nEmma came at once, and walked off with the youngster, taking him out of\nharm's way.\n\n\"Papa,\" said Ernest, after we had left the house, \"Why didn't Mrs Heaton\nwhip Jack when he trod on the egg?\"\n\nI was spiteful enough to give Theobald a grim smile which said as plainly\nas words could have done that I thought Ernest had hit him rather hard.\n\nTheobald coloured and looked angry.  \"I dare say,\" he said quickly, \"that\nhis mother will whip him now that we are gone.\"\n\nI was not going to have this and said I did not believe it, and so the\nmatter dropped, but Theobald did not forget it and my visits to Battersby\nwere henceforth less frequent.\n\nOn our return to the house we found the postman had arrived and had\nbrought a letter appointing Theobald to a rural deanery which had lately\nfallen vacant by the death of one of the neighbouring clergy who had held\nthe office for many years.  The bishop wrote to Theobald most warmly, and\nassured him that he valued him as among the most hard-working and devoted\nof his parochial clergy.  Christina of course was delighted, and gave me\nto understand that it was only an instalment of the much higher dignities\nwhich were in store for Theobald when his merits were more widely known.\n\nI did not then foresee how closely my godson's life and mine were in\nafter years to be bound up together; if I had, I should doubtless have\nlooked upon him with different eyes and noted much to which I paid no\nattention at the time.  As it was, I was glad to get away from him, for I\ncould do nothing for him, or chose to say that I could not, and the sight\nof so much suffering was painful to me.  A man should not only have his\nown way as far as possible, but he should only consort with things that\nare getting their own way so far that they are at any rate comfortable.\nUnless for short times under exceptional circumstances, he should not\neven see things that have been stunted or starved, much less should he\neat meat that has been vexed by having been over-driven or underfed, or\nafflicted with any disease; nor should he touch vegetables that have not\nbeen well grown.  For all these things cross a man; whatever a man comes\nin contact with in any way forms a cross with him which will leave him\nbetter or worse, and the better things he is crossed with the more likely\nhe is to live long and happily.  All things must be crossed a little or\nthey would cease to live--but holy things, such for example as Giovanni\nBellini's saints, have been crossed with nothing but what is good of its\nkind,\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nThe storm which I have described in the previous chapter was a sample of\nthose that occurred daily for many years.  No matter how clear the sky,\nit was always liable to cloud over now in one quarter now in another, and\nthe thunder and lightning were upon the young people before they knew\nwhere they were.\n\n\"And then, you know,\" said Ernest to me, when I asked him not long since\nto give me more of his childish reminiscences for the benefit of my\nstory, \"we used to learn Mrs Barbauld's hymns; they were in prose, and\nthere was one about the lion which began, 'Come, and I will show you what\nis strong.  The lion is strong; when he raiseth himself from his lair,\nwhen he shaketh his mane, when the voice of his roaring is heard the\ncattle of the field fly, and the beasts of the desert hide themselves,\nfor he is very terrible.'  I used to say this to Joey and Charlotte about\nmy father himself when I got a little older, but they were always\ndidactic, and said it was naughty of me.\n\n\"One great reason why clergymen's households are generally unhappy is\nbecause the clergyman is so much at home or close about the house.  The\ndoctor is out visiting patients half his time: the lawyer and the\nmerchant have offices away from home, but the clergyman has no official\nplace of business which shall ensure his being away from home for many\nhours together at stated times.  Our great days were when my father went\nfor a day's shopping to Gildenham.  We were some miles from this place,\nand commissions used to accumulate on my father's list till he would make\na day of it and go and do the lot.  As soon as his back was turned the\nair felt lighter; as soon as the hall door opened to let him in again,\nthe law with its all-reaching 'touch not, taste not, handle not' was upon\nus again.  The worst of it was that I could never trust Joey and\nCharlotte; they would go a good way with me and then turn back, or even\nthe whole way and then their consciences would compel them to tell papa\nand mamma.  They liked running with the hare up to a certain point, but\ntheir instinct was towards the hounds.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" he continued, \"that the family is a survival of the\nprinciple which is more logically embodied in the compound animal--and\nthe compound animal is a form of life which has been found incompatible\nwith high development.  I would do with the family among mankind what\nnature has done with the compound animal, and confine it to the lower and\nless progressive races.  Certainly there is no inherent love for the\nfamily system on the part of nature herself.  Poll the forms of life and\nyou will find it in a ridiculously small minority.  The fishes know it\nnot, and they get along quite nicely.  The ants and the bees, who far\noutnumber man, sting their fathers to death as a matter of course, and\nare given to the atrocious mutilation of nine-tenths of the offspring\ncommitted to their charge, yet where shall we find communities more\nuniversally respected?  Take the cuckoo again--is there any bird which we\nlike better?\"\n\nI saw he was running off from his own reminiscences and tried to bring\nhim back to them, but it was no use.\n\n\"What a fool,\" he said, \"a man is to remember anything that happened more\nthan a week ago unless it was pleasant, or unless he wants to make some\nuse of it.\n\n\"Sensible people get the greater part of their own dying done during\ntheir own lifetime.  A man at five and thirty should no more regret not\nhaving had a happier childhood than he should regret not having been born\na prince of the blood.  He might be happier if he had been more fortunate\nin childhood, but, for aught he knows, if he had, something else might\nhave happened which might have killed him long ago.  If I had to be born\nagain I would be born at Battersby of the same father and mother as\nbefore, and I would not alter anything that has ever happened to me.\"\n\nThe most amusing incident that I can remember about his childhood was\nthat when he was about seven years old he told me he was going to have a\nnatural child.  I asked him his reasons for thinking this, and he\nexplained that papa and mamma had always told him that nobody had\nchildren till they were married, and as long as he had believed this of\ncourse he had had no idea of having a child, till he was grown up; but\nnot long since he had been reading Mrs Markham's history of England and\nhad come upon the words \"John of Gaunt had several natural children\" he\nhad therefore asked his governess what a natural child was--were not all\nchildren natural?\n\n\"Oh, my dear,\" said she, \"a natural child is a child a person has before\nhe is married.\"  On this it seemed to follow logically that if John of\nGaunt had had children before he was married, he, Ernest Pontifex, might\nhave them also, and he would be obliged to me if I would tell him what he\nhad better do under the circumstances.\n\nI enquired how long ago he had made this discovery.  He said about a\nfortnight, and he did not know where to look for the child, for it might\ncome at any moment.  \"You know,\" he said, \"babies come so suddenly; one\ngoes to bed one night and next morning there is a baby.  Why, it might\ndie of cold if we are not on the look-out for it.  I hope it will be a\nboy.\"\n\n\"And you have told your governess about this?\"\n\n\"Yes, but she puts me off and does not help me: she says it will not come\nfor many years, and she hopes not then.\"\n\n\"Are you quite sure that you have not made any mistake in all this?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; because Mrs Burne, you know, called here a few days ago, and I\nwas sent for to be looked at.  And mamma held me out at arm's length and\nsaid, 'Is he Mr Pontifex's child, Mrs Burne, or is he mine?'  Of course,\nshe couldn't have said this if papa had not had some of the children\nhimself.  I did think the gentleman had all the boys and the lady all the\ngirls; but it can't be like this, or else mamma would not have asked Mrs\nBurne to guess; but then Mrs Burne said, 'Oh, he's Mr Pontifex's child\n_of course_,' and I didn't quite know what she meant by saying 'of\ncourse': it seemed as though I was right in thinking that the husband has\nall the boys and the wife all the girls; I wish you would explain to me\nall about it.\"\n\nThis I could hardly do, so I changed the conversation, after reassuring\nhim as best I could.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nThree or four years after the birth of her daughter, Christina had had\none more child.  She had never been strong since she married, and had a\npresentiment that she should not survive this last confinement.  She\naccordingly wrote the following letter, which was to be given, as she\nendorsed upon it, to her sons when Ernest was sixteen years old.  It\nreached him on his mother's death many years later, for it was the baby\nwho died now, and not Christina.  It was found among papers which she had\nrepeatedly and carefully arranged, with the seal already broken.  This, I\nam afraid, shows that Christina had read it and thought it too creditable\nto be destroyed when the occasion that had called it forth had gone by.\nIt is as follows--\n\n   \"BATTERSBY, March 15th, 1841.\n\n   \"My Two Dear Boys,--When this is put into your hands will you try to\n   bring to mind the mother whom you lost in your childhood, and whom, I\n   fear, you will almost have forgotten?  You, Ernest, will remember her\n   best, for you are past five years old, and the many, many times that\n   she has taught you your prayers and hymns and sums and told you\n   stories, and our happy Sunday evenings will not quite have passed from\n   your mind, and you, Joey, though only four, will perhaps recollect\n   some of these things.  My dear, dear boys, for the sake of that mother\n   who loved you very dearly--and for the sake of your own happiness for\n   ever and ever--attend to and try to remember, and from time to time\n   read over again the last words she can ever speak to you.  When I\n   think about leaving you all, two things press heavily upon me: one,\n   your father's sorrow (for you, my darlings, after missing me a little\n   while, will soon forget your loss), the other, the everlasting welfare\n   of my children.  I know how long and deep the former will be, and I\n   know that he will look to his children to be almost his only earthly\n   comfort.  You know (for I am certain that it will have been so), how\n   he has devoted his life to you and taught you and laboured to lead you\n   to all that is right and good.  Oh, then, be sure that you _are_ his\n   comforts.  Let him find you obedient, affectionate and attentive to\n   his wishes, upright, self-denying and diligent; let him never blush\n   for or grieve over the sins and follies of those who owe him such a\n   debt of gratitude, and whose first duty it is to study his happiness.\n   You have both of you a name which must not be disgraced, a father and\n   a grandfather of whom to show yourselves worthy; your respectability\n   and well-doing in life rest mainly with yourselves, but far, far\n   beyond earthly respectability and well-doing, and compared with which\n   they are as nothing, your eternal happiness rests with yourselves.  You\n   know your duty, but snares and temptations from without beset you, and\n   the nearer you approach to manhood the more strongly will you feel\n   this.  With God's help, with God's word, and with humble hearts you\n   will stand in spite of everything, but should you leave off seeking in\n   earnest for the first, and applying to the second, should you learn to\n   trust in yourselves, or to the advice and example of too many around\n   you, you will, you must fall.  Oh, 'let God be true and every man a\n   liar.'  He says you cannot serve Him and Mammon.  He says that strait\n   is the gate that leads to eternal life.  Many there are who seek to\n   widen it; they will tell you that such and such self-indulgences are\n   but venial offences--that this and that worldly compliance is\n   excusable and even necessary.  The thing _cannot be_; for in a hundred\n   and a hundred places He tells you so--look to your Bibles and seek\n   there whether such counsel is true--and if not, oh, 'halt not between\n   two opinions,' if God is the Lord follow Him; only be strong and of a\n   good courage, and He will never leave you nor forsake you.  Remember,\n   there is not in the Bible one law for the rich, and one for the\n   poor--one for the educated and one for the ignorant.  To _all_ there\n   is but one thing needful.  _All_ are to be living to God and their\n   fellow-creatures, and not to themselves.  _All_ must seek first the\n   Kingdom of God and His righteousness--must _deny themselves_, be pure\n   and chaste and charitable in the fullest and widest sense--all,\n   'forgetting those things that are behind,' must 'press forward towards\n   the mark, for the prize of the high calling of God.'\n\n   \"And now I will add but two things more.  Be true through life to each\n   other, love as only brothers should do, strengthen, warn, encourage\n   one another, and let who will be against you, let each feel that in\n   his brother he has a firm and faithful friend who will be so to the\n   end; and, oh! be kind and watchful over your dear sister; without\n   mother or sisters she will doubly need her brothers' love and\n   tenderness and confidence.  I am certain she will seek them, and will\n   love you and try to make you happy; be sure then that you do not fail\n   her, and remember, that were she to lose her father and remain\n   unmarried, she would doubly need protectors.  To you, then, I\n   especially commend her.  Oh! my three darling children, be true to\n   each other, your Father, and your God.  May He guide and bless you,\n   and grant that in a better and happier world I and mine may meet\n   again.--Your most affectionate mother,\n\n   CHRISTINA PONTIFEX.\"\n\nFrom enquiries I have made, I have satisfied myself that most mothers\nwrite letters like this shortly before their confinements, and that fifty\nper cent. keep them afterwards, as Christina did.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nThe foregoing letter shows how much greater was Christina's anxiety for\nthe eternal than for the temporal welfare of her sons.  One would have\nthought she had sowed enough of such religious wild oats by this time,\nbut she had plenty still to sow.  To me it seems that those who are happy\nin this world are better and more lovable people than those who are not,\nand that thus in the event of a Resurrection and Day of Judgement, they\nwill be the most likely to be deemed worthy of a heavenly mansion.\nPerhaps a dim unconscious perception of this was the reason why Christina\nwas so anxious for Theobald's earthly happiness, or was it merely due to\na conviction that his eternal welfare was so much a matter of course,\nthat it only remained to secure his earthly happiness?  He was to \"find\nhis sons obedient, affectionate, attentive to his wishes, self-denying\nand diligent,\" a goodly string forsooth of all the virtues most\nconvenient to parents; he was never to have to blush for the follies of\nthose \"who owed him such a debt of gratitude,\" and \"whose first duty it\nwas to study his happiness.\"  How like maternal solicitude is this!\nSolicitude for the most part lest the offspring should come to have\nwishes and feelings of its own, which may occasion many difficulties,\nfancied or real.  It is this that is at the bottom of the whole mischief;\nbut whether this last proposition is granted or no, at any rate we\nobserve that Christina had a sufficiently keen appreciation of the duties\nof children towards their parents, and felt the task of fulfilling them\nadequately to be so difficult that she was very doubtful how far Ernest\nand Joey would succeed in mastering it.  It is plain in fact that her\nsupposed parting glance upon them was one of suspicion.  But there was no\nsuspicion of Theobald; that he should have devoted his life to his\nchildren--why this was such a mere platitude, as almost to go without\nsaying.\n\nHow, let me ask, was it possible that a child only a little past five\nyears old, trained in such an atmosphere of prayers and hymns and sums\nand happy Sunday evenings--to say nothing of daily repeated beatings over\nthe said prayers and hymns, etc., about which our authoress is silent--how\nwas it possible that a lad so trained should grow up in any healthy or\nvigorous development, even though in her own way his mother was\nundoubtedly very fond of him, and sometimes told him stories?  Can the\neye of any reader fail to detect the coming wrath of God as about to\ndescend upon the head of him who should be nurtured under the shadow of\nsuch a letter as the foregoing?\n\nI have often thought that the Church of Rome does wisely in not allowing\nher priests to marry.  Certainly it is a matter of common observation in\nEngland that the sons of clergymen are frequently unsatisfactory.  The\nexplanation is very simple, but is so often lost sight of that I may\nperhaps be pardoned for giving it here.\n\nThe clergyman is expected to be a kind of human Sunday.  Things must not\nbe done in him which are venial in the week-day classes.  He is paid for\nthis business of leading a stricter life than other people.  It is his\n_raison d'etre_.  If his parishioners feel that he does this, they\napprove of him, for they look upon him as their own contribution towards\nwhat they deem a holy life.  This is why the clergyman is so often called\na vicar--he being the person whose vicarious goodness is to stand for\nthat of those entrusted to his charge.  But his home is his castle as\nmuch as that of any other Englishman, and with him, as with others,\nunnatural tension in public is followed by exhaustion when tension is no\nlonger necessary.  His children are the most defenceless things he can\nreach, and it is on them in nine cases out of ten that he will relieve\nhis mind.\n\nA clergyman, again, can hardly ever allow himself to look facts fairly in\nthe face.  It is his profession to support one side; it is impossible,\ntherefore, for him to make an unbiassed examination of the other.\n\nWe forget that every clergyman with a living or curacy, is as much a paid\nadvocate as the barrister who is trying to persuade a jury to acquit a\nprisoner.  We should listen to him with the same suspense of judgment,\nthe same full consideration of the arguments of the opposing counsel, as\na judge does when he is trying a case.  Unless we know these, and can\nstate them in a way that our opponents would admit to be a fair\nrepresentation of their views, we have no right to claim that we have\nformed an opinion at all.  The misfortune is that by the law of the land\none side only can be heard.\n\nTheobald and Christina were no exceptions to the general rule.  When they\ncame to Battersby they had every desire to fulfil the duties of their\nposition, and to devote themselves to the honour and glory of God.  But\nit was Theobald's duty to see the honour and glory of God through the\neyes of a Church which had lived three hundred years without finding\nreason to change a single one of its opinions.\n\nI should doubt whether he ever got as far as doubting the wisdom of his\nChurch upon any single matter.  His scent for possible mischief was\ntolerably keen; so was Christina's, and it is likely that if either of\nthem detected in him or herself the first faint symptoms of a want of\nfaith they were nipped no less peremptorily in the bud, than signs of\nself-will in Ernest were--and I should imagine more successfully.  Yet\nTheobald considered himself, and was generally considered to be, and\nindeed perhaps was, an exceptionally truthful person; indeed he was\ngenerally looked upon as an embodiment of all those virtues which make\nthe poor respectable and the rich respected.  In the course of time he\nand his wife became persuaded even to unconsciousness, that no one could\neven dwell under their roof without deep cause for thankfulness.  Their\nchildren, their servants, their parishioners must be fortunate _ipso\nfacto_ that they were theirs.  There was no road to happiness here or\nhereafter, but the road that they had themselves travelled, no good\npeople who did not think as they did upon every subject, and no\nreasonable person who had wants the gratification of which would be\ninconvenient to them--Theobald and Christina.\n\nThis was how it came to pass that their children were white and puny;\nthey were suffering from _home-sickness_.  They were starving, through\nbeing over-crammed with the wrong things.  Nature came down upon them,\nbut she did not come down on Theobald and Christina.  Why should she?\nThey were not leading a starved existence.  There are two classes of\npeople in this world, those who sin, and those who are sinned against; if\na man must belong to either, he had better belong to the first than to\nthe second.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nI will give no more of the details of my hero's earlier years.  Enough\nthat he struggled through them, and at twelve years old knew every page\nof his Latin and Greek Grammars by heart.  He had read the greater part\nof Virgil, Horace and Livy, and I do not know how many Greek plays: he\nwas proficient in arithmetic, knew the first four books of Euclid\nthoroughly, and had a fair knowledge of French.  It was now time he went\nto school, and to school he was accordingly to go, under the famous Dr\nSkinner of Roughborough.\n\nTheobald had known Dr Skinner slightly at Cambridge.  He had been a\nburning and a shining light in every position he had filled from his\nboyhood upwards.  He was a very great genius.  Everyone knew this; they\nsaid, indeed, that he was one of the few people to whom the word genius\ncould be applied without exaggeration.  Had he not taken I don't know how\nmany University Scholarships in his freshman's year?  Had he not been\nafterwards Senior Wrangler, First Chancellor's Medallist and I do not\nknow how many more things besides?  And then, he was such a wonderful\nspeaker; at the Union Debating Club he had been without a rival, and had,\nof course, been president; his moral character,--a point on which so many\ngeniuses were weak--was absolutely irreproachable; foremost of all,\nhowever, among his many great qualities, and perhaps more remarkable even\nthan his genius was what biographers have called \"the simple-minded and\nchild-like earnestness of his character,\" an earnestness which might be\nperceived by the solemnity with which he spoke even about trifles.  It is\nhardly necessary to say he was on the Liberal side in politics.\n\nHis personal appearance was not particularly prepossessing.  He was about\nthe middle height, portly, and had a couple of fierce grey eyes, that\nflashed fire from beneath a pair of great bushy beetling eyebrows and\noverawed all who came near him.  It was in respect of his personal\nappearance, however, that, if he was vulnerable at all, his weak place\nwas to be found.  His hair when he was a young man was red, but after he\nhad taken his degree he had a brain fever which caused him to have his\nhead shaved; when he reappeared, he did so wearing a wig, and one which\nwas a good deal further off red than his own hair had been.  He not only\nhad never discarded his wig, but year by year it had edged itself a\nlittle more and a little more off red, till by the time he was forty,\nthere was not a trace of red remaining, and his wig was brown.\n\nWhen Dr Skinner was a very young man, hardly more than five-and-twenty,\nthe head-mastership of Roughborough Grammar School had fallen vacant, and\nhe had been unhesitatingly appointed.  The result justified the\nselection.  Dr Skinner's pupils distinguished themselves at whichever\nUniversity they went to.  He moulded their minds after the model of his\nown, and stamped an impression upon them which was indelible in after-\nlife; whatever else a Roughborough man might be, he was sure to make\neveryone feel that he was a God-fearing earnest Christian and a Liberal,\nif not a Radical, in politics.  Some boys, of course, were incapable of\nappreciating the beauty and loftiness of Dr Skinner's nature.  Some such\nboys, alas! there will be in every school; upon them Dr Skinner's hand\nwas very properly a heavy one.  His hand was against them, and theirs\nagainst him during the whole time of the connection between them.  They\nnot only disliked him, but they hated all that he more especially\nembodied, and throughout their lives disliked all that reminded them of\nhim.  Such boys, however, were in a minority, the spirit of the place\nbeing decidedly Skinnerian.\n\nI once had the honour of playing a game of chess with this great man.  It\nwas during the Christmas holidays, and I had come down to Roughborough\nfor a few days to see Alethea Pontifex (who was then living there) on\nbusiness.  It was very gracious of him to take notice of me, for if I was\na light of literature at all it was of the very lightest kind.\n\nIt is true that in the intervals of business I had written a good deal,\nbut my works had been almost exclusively for the stage, and for those\ntheatres that devoted themselves to extravaganza and burlesque.  I had\nwritten many pieces of this description, full of puns and comic songs,\nand they had had a fair success, but my best piece had been a treatment\nof English history during the Reformation period, in the course of which\nI had introduced Cranmer, Sir Thomas More, Henry the Eighth, Catherine of\nArragon, and Thomas Cromwell (in his youth better known as the _Malleus\nMonachorum_), and had made them dance a break-down.  I had also\ndramatised \"The Pilgrim's Progress\" for a Christmas Pantomime, and made\nan important scene of Vanity Fair, with Mr Greatheart, Apollyon,\nChristiana, Mercy, and Hopeful as the principal characters.  The\norchestra played music taken from Handel's best known works, but the time\nwas a good deal altered, and altogether the tunes were not exactly as\nHandel left them.  Mr Greatheart was very stout and he had a red nose; he\nwore a capacious waistcoat, and a shirt with a huge frill down the middle\nof the front.  Hopeful was up to as much mischief as I could give him; he\nwore the costume of a young swell of the period, and had a cigar in his\nmouth which was continually going out.\n\nChristiana did not wear much of anything: indeed it was said that the\ndress which the Stage Manager had originally proposed for her had been\nconsidered inadequate even by the Lord Chamberlain, but this is not the\ncase.  With all these delinquencies upon my mind it was natural that I\nshould feel convinced of sin while playing chess (which I hate) with the\ngreat Dr Skinner of Roughborough--the historian of Athens and editor of\nDemosthenes.  Dr Skinner, moreover, was one of those who pride themselves\non being able to set people at their ease at once, and I had been sitting\non the edge of my chair all the evening.  But I have always been very\neasily overawed by a schoolmaster.\n\nThe game had been a long one, and at half-past nine, when supper came in,\nwe had each of us a few pieces remaining.  \"What will you take for\nsupper, Dr Skinner?\" said Mrs Skinner in a silvery voice.\n\nHe made no answer for some time, but at last in a tone of almost\nsuperhuman solemnity, he said, first, \"Nothing,\" and then \"Nothing\nwhatever.\"\n\nBy and by, however, I had a sense come over me as though I were nearer\nthe consummation of all things than I had ever yet been.  The room seemed\nto grow dark, as an expression came over Dr Skinner's face, which showed\nthat he was about to speak.  The expression gathered force, the room grew\ndarker and darker.  \"Stay,\" he at length added, and I felt that here at\nany rate was an end to a suspense which was rapidly becoming unbearable.\n\"Stay--I may presently take a glass of cold water--and a small piece of\nbread and butter.\"\n\nAs he said the word \"butter\" his voice sank to a hardly audible whisper;\nthen there was a sigh as though of relief when the sentence was\nconcluded, and the universe this time was safe.\n\nAnother ten minutes of solemn silence finished the game.  The Doctor rose\nbriskly from his seat and placed himself at the supper table.  \"Mrs\nSkinner,\" he exclaimed jauntily, \"what are those mysterious-looking\nobjects surrounded by potatoes?\"\n\n\"Those are oysters, Dr Skinner.\"\n\n\"Give me some, and give Overton some.\"\n\nAnd so on till he had eaten a good plate of oysters, a scallop shell of\nminced veal nicely browned, some apple tart, and a hunk of bread and\ncheese.  This was the small piece of bread and butter.\n\nThe cloth was now removed and tumblers with teaspoons in them, a lemon or\ntwo and a jug of boiling water were placed upon the table.  Then the\ngreat man unbent.  His face beamed.\n\n\"And what shall it be to drink?\" he exclaimed persuasively.  \"Shall it be\nbrandy and water?  No.  It shall be gin and water.  Gin is the more\nwholesome liquor.\"\n\nSo gin it was, hot and stiff too.\n\nWho can wonder at him or do anything but pity him?  Was he not\nhead-master of Roughborough School?  To whom had he owed money at any\ntime?  Whose ox had he taken, whose ass had he taken, or whom had he\ndefrauded?  What whisper had ever been breathed against his moral\ncharacter?  If he had become rich it was by the most honourable of all\nmeans--his literary attainments; over and above his great works of\nscholarship, his \"Meditations upon the Epistle and Character of St Jude\"\nhad placed him among the most popular of English theologians; it was so\nexhaustive that no one who bought it need ever meditate upon the subject\nagain--indeed it exhausted all who had anything to do with it.  He had\nmade 5000 pounds by this work alone, and would very likely make another\n5000 pounds before he died.  A man who had done all this and wanted a\npiece of bread and butter had a right to announce the fact with some pomp\nand circumstance.  Nor should his words be taken without searching for\nwhat he used to call a \"deeper and more hidden meaning.\"  Those who\nsearched for this even in his lightest utterances would not be without\ntheir reward.  They would find that \"bread and butter\" was Skinnerese for\noyster-patties and apple tart, and \"gin hot\" the true translation of\nwater.\n\nBut independently of their money value, his works had made him a lasting\nname in literature.  So probably Gallio was under the impression that his\nfame would rest upon the treatises on natural history which we gather\nfrom Seneca that he compiled, and which for aught we know may have\ncontained a complete theory of evolution; but the treatises are all gone\nand Gallio has become immortal for the very last reason in the world that\nhe expected, and for the very last reason that would have flattered his\nvanity.  He has become immortal because he cared nothing about the most\nimportant movement with which he was ever brought into connection (I wish\npeople who are in search of immortality would lay the lesson to heart and\nnot make so much noise about important movements), and so, if Dr Skinner\nbecomes immortal, it will probably be for some reason very different from\nthe one which he so fondly imagined.\n\nCould it be expected to enter into the head of such a man as this that in\nreality he was making his money by corrupting youth; that it was his paid\nprofession to make the worse appear the better reason in the eyes of\nthose who were too young and inexperienced to be able to find him out;\nthat he kept out of the sight of those whom he professed to teach\nmaterial points of the argument, for the production of which they had a\nright to rely upon the honour of anyone who made professions of\nsincerity; that he was a passionate half-turkey-cock half-gander of a man\nwhose sallow, bilious face and hobble-gobble voice could scare the timid,\nbut who would take to his heels readily enough if he were met firmly;\nthat his \"Meditations on St Jude,\" such as they were, were cribbed\nwithout acknowledgment, and would have been beneath contempt if so many\npeople did not believe them to have been written honestly?  Mrs Skinner\nmight have perhaps kept him a little more in his proper place if she had\nthought it worth while to try, but she had enough to attend to in looking\nafter her household and seeing that the boys were well fed and, if they\nwere ill, properly looked after--which she took good care they were.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nErnest had heard awful accounts of Dr Skinner's temper, and of the\nbullying which the younger boys at Roughborough had to put up with at the\nhands of the bigger ones.  He had now got about as much as he could\nstand, and felt as though it must go hard with him if his burdens of\nwhatever kind were to be increased.  He did not cry on leaving home, but\nI am afraid he did on being told that he was getting near Roughborough.\nHis father and mother were with him, having posted from home in their own\ncarriage; Roughborough had as yet no railway, and as it was only some\nforty miles from Battersby, this was the easiest way of getting there.\n\nOn seeing him cry, his mother felt flattered and caressed him.  She said\nshe knew he must feel very sad at leaving such a happy home, and going\namong people who, though they would be very good to him, could never,\nnever be as good as his dear papa and she had been; still, she was\nherself, if he only knew it, much more deserving of pity than he was, for\nthe parting was more painful to her than it could possibly be to him,\netc., and Ernest, on being told that his tears were for grief at leaving\nhome, took it all on trust, and did not trouble to investigate the real\ncause of his tears.  As they approached Roughborough he pulled himself\ntogether, and was fairly calm by the time he reached Dr Skinner's.\n\nOn their arrival they had luncheon with the Doctor and his wife, and then\nMrs Skinner took Christina over the bedrooms, and showed her where her\ndear little boy was to sleep.\n\nWhatever men may think about the study of man, women do really believe\nthe noblest study for womankind to be woman, and Christina was too much\nengrossed with Mrs Skinner to pay much attention to anything else; I\ndaresay Mrs Skinner, too, was taking pretty accurate stock of Christina.\nChristina was charmed, as indeed she generally was with any new\nacquaintance, for she found in them (and so must we all) something of the\nnature of a cross; as for Mrs Skinner, I imagine she had seen too many\nChristinas to find much regeneration in the sample now before her; I\nbelieve her private opinion echoed the dictum of a well-known head-master\nwho declared that all parents were fools, but more especially mothers;\nshe was, however, all smiles and sweetness, and Christina devoured these\ngraciously as tributes paid more particularly to herself, and such as no\nother mother would have been at all likely to have won.\n\nIn the meantime Theobald and Ernest were with Dr Skinner in his\nlibrary--the room where new boys were examined and old ones had up for\nrebuke or chastisement.  If the walls of that room could speak, what an\namount of blundering and capricious cruelty would they not bear witness\nto!\n\nLike all houses, Dr Skinner's had its peculiar smell.  In this case the\nprevailing odour was one of Russia leather, but along with it there was a\nsubordinate savour as of a chemist's shop.  This came from a small\nlaboratory in one corner of the room--the possession of which, together\nwith the free chattery and smattery use of such words as \"carbonate,\"\n\"hyposulphite,\" \"phosphate,\" and \"affinity,\" were enough to convince even\nthe most sceptical that Dr Skinner had a profound knowledge of chemistry.\n\nI may say in passing that Dr Skinner had dabbled in a great many other\nthings as well as chemistry.  He was a man of many small knowledges, and\neach of them dangerous.  I remember Alethea Pontifex once said in her\nwicked way to me, that Dr Skinner put her in mind of the Bourbon princes\non their return from exile after the battle of Waterloo, only that he was\ntheir exact converse; for whereas they had learned nothing and forgotten\nnothing, Dr Skinner had learned everything and forgotten everything.  And\nthis puts me in mind of another of her wicked sayings about Dr Skinner.\nShe told me one day that he had the harmlessness of the serpent and the\nwisdom of the dove.\n\nBut to return to Dr Skinner's library; over the chimney-piece there was a\nBishop's half length portrait of Dr Skinner himself, painted by the elder\nPickersgill, whose merit Dr Skinner had been among the first to discern\nand foster.  There were no other pictures in the library, but in the\ndining-room there was a fine collection, which the doctor had got\ntogether with his usual consummate taste.  He added to it largely in\nlater life, and when it came to the hammer at Christie's, as it did not\nlong since, it was found to comprise many of the latest and most matured\nworks of Solomon Hart, O'Neil, Charles Landseer, and more of our recent\nAcademicians than I can at the moment remember.  There were thus brought\ntogether and exhibited at one view many works which had attracted\nattention at the Academy Exhibitions, and as to whose ultimate destiny\nthere had been some curiosity.  The prices realised were disappointing to\nthe executors, but, then, these things are so much a matter of chance.  An\nunscrupulous writer in a well-known weekly paper had written the\ncollection down.  Moreover there had been one or two large sales a short\ntime before Dr Skinner's, so that at this last there was rather a panic,\nand a reaction against the high prices that had ruled lately.\n\nThe table of the library was loaded with books many deep; MSS. of all\nkinds were confusedly mixed up with them,--boys' exercises, probably, and\nexamination papers--but all littering untidily about.  The room in fact\nwas as depressing from its slatternliness as from its atmosphere of\nerudition.  Theobald and Ernest as they entered it, stumbled over a large\nhole in the Turkey carpet, and the dust that rose showed how long it was\nsince it had been taken up and beaten.  This, I should say, was no fault\nof Mrs Skinner's but was due to the Doctor himself, who declared that if\nhis papers were once disturbed it would be the death of him.  Near the\nwindow was a green cage containing a pair of turtle doves, whose\nplaintive cooing added to the melancholy of the place.  The walls were\ncovered with book shelves from floor to ceiling, and on every shelf the\nbooks stood in double rows.  It was horrible.  Prominent among the most\nprominent upon the most prominent shelf were a series of splendidly bound\nvolumes entitled \"Skinner's Works.\"\n\nBoys are sadly apt to rush to conclusions, and Ernest believed that Dr\nSkinner knew all the books in this terrible library, and that he, if he\nwere to be any good, should have to learn them too.  His heart fainted\nwithin him.\n\nHe was told to sit on a chair against the wall and did so, while Dr\nSkinner talked to Theobald upon the topics of the day.  He talked about\nthe Hampden Controversy then raging, and discoursed learnedly about\n\"Praemunire\"; then he talked about the revolution which had just broken\nout in Sicily, and rejoiced that the Pope had refused to allow foreign\ntroops to pass through his dominions in order to crush it.  Dr Skinner\nand the other masters took in the Times among them, and Dr Skinner echoed\nthe _Times_' leaders.  In those days there were no penny papers and\nTheobald only took in the _Spectator_--for he was at that time on the\nWhig side in politics; besides this he used to receive the\n_Ecclesiastical Gazette_ once a month, but he saw no other papers, and\nwas amazed at the ease and fluency with which Dr Skinner ran from subject\nto subject.\n\nThe Pope's action in the matter of the Sicilian revolution naturally led\nthe Doctor to the reforms which his Holiness had introduced into his\ndominions, and he laughed consumedly over the joke which had not long\nsince appeared in _Punch_, to the effect that Pio \"No, No,\" should rather\nhave been named Pio \"Yes, Yes,\" because, as the doctor explained, he\ngranted everything his subjects asked for.  Anything like a pun went\nstraight to Dr Skinner's heart.\n\nThen he went on to the matter of these reforms themselves.  They opened\nup a new era in the history of Christendom, and would have such momentous\nand far-reaching consequences, that they might even lead to a\nreconciliation between the Churches of England and Rome.  Dr Skinner had\nlately published a pamphlet upon this subject, which had shown great\nlearning, and had attacked the Church of Rome in a way which did not\npromise much hope of reconciliation.  He had grounded his attack upon the\nletters A.M.D.G., which he had seen outside a Roman Catholic chapel, and\nwhich of course stood for _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_.  Could anything be\nmore idolatrous?\n\nI am told, by the way, that I must have let my memory play me one of the\ntricks it often does play me, when I said the Doctor proposed _Ad Mariam\nDei Genetricem_ as the full harmonies, so to speak, which should be\nconstructed upon the bass A.M.D.G., for that this is bad Latin, and that\nthe doctor really harmonised the letters thus: _Ave Maria Dei Genetrix_.\nNo doubt the doctor did what was right in the matter of Latinity--I have\nforgotten the little Latin I ever knew, and am not going to look the\nmatter up, but I believe the doctor said _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_, and\nif so we may be sure that _Ad Mariam Dei Genetricem_, is good enough\nLatin at any rate for ecclesiastical purposes.\n\nThe reply of the local priest had not yet appeared, and Dr Skinner was\njubilant, but when the answer appeared, and it was solemnly declared that\nA.M.D.G. stood for nothing more dangerous than _Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam_,\nit was felt that though this subterfuge would not succeed with any\nintelligent Englishman, still it was a pity Dr Skinner had selected this\nparticular point for his attack, for he had to leave his enemy in\npossession of the field.  When people are left in possession of the\nfield, spectators have an awkward habit of thinking that their adversary\ndoes not dare to come to the scratch.\n\nDr Skinner was telling Theobald all about his pamphlet, and I doubt\nwhether this gentleman was much more comfortable than Ernest himself.  He\nwas bored, for in his heart he hated Liberalism, though he was ashamed to\nsay so, and, as I have said, professed to be on the Whig side.  He did\nnot want to be reconciled to the Church of Rome; he wanted to make all\nRoman Catholics turn Protestants, and could never understand why they\nwould not do so; but the Doctor talked in such a truly liberal spirit,\nand shut him up so sharply when he tried to edge in a word or two, that\nhe had to let him have it all his own way, and this was not what he was\naccustomed to.  He was wondering how he could bring it to an end, when a\ndiversion was created by the discovery that Ernest had begun to\ncry--doubtless through an intense but inarticulate sense of a boredom\ngreater than he could bear.  He was evidently in a highly nervous state,\nand a good deal upset by the excitement of the morning, Mrs Skinner\ntherefore, who came in with Christina at this juncture, proposed that he\nshould spend the afternoon with Mrs Jay, the matron, and not be\nintroduced to his young companions until the following morning.  His\nfather and mother now bade him an affectionate farewell, and the lad was\nhanded over to Mrs Jay.\n\nO schoolmasters--if any of you read this book--bear in mind when any\nparticularly timid drivelling urchin is brought by his papa into your\nstudy, and you treat him with the contempt which he deserves, and\nafterwards make his life a burden to him for years--bear in mind that it\nis exactly in the disguise of such a boy as this that your future\nchronicler will appear.  Never see a wretched little heavy-eyed mite\nsitting on the edge of a chair against your study wall without saying to\nyourselves, \"perhaps this boy is he who, if I am not careful, will one\nday tell the world what manner of man I was.\"  If even two or three\nschoolmasters learn this lesson and remember it, the preceding chapters\nwill not have been written in vain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nSoon after his father and mother had left him Ernest dropped asleep over\na book which Mrs Jay had given him, and he did not awake till dusk.  Then\nhe sat down on a stool in front of the fire, which showed pleasantly in\nthe late January twilight, and began to muse.  He felt weak, feeble, ill\nat ease and unable to see his way out of the innumerable troubles that\nwere before him.  Perhaps, he said to himself, he might even die, but\nthis, far from being an end of his troubles, would prove the beginning of\nnew ones; for at the best he would only go to Grandpapa Pontifex and\nGrandmamma Allaby, and though they would perhaps be more easy to get on\nwith than Papa and Mamma, yet they were undoubtedly not so really good,\nand were more worldly; moreover they were grown-up people--especially\nGrandpapa Pontifex, who so far as he could understand had been very much\ngrown-up, and he did not know why, but there was always something that\nkept him from loving any grown-up people very much--except one or two of\nthe servants, who had indeed been as nice as anything that he could\nimagine.  Besides even if he were to die and go to Heaven he supposed he\nshould have to complete his education somewhere.\n\nIn the meantime his father and mother were rolling along the muddy roads,\neach in his or her own corner of the carriage, and each revolving many\nthings which were and were not to come to pass.  Times have changed since\nI last showed them to the reader as sitting together silently in a\ncarriage, but except as regards their mutual relations, they have altered\nsingularly little.  When I was younger I used to think the Prayer Book\nwas wrong in requiring us to say the General Confession twice a week from\nchildhood to old age, without making provision for our not being quite\nsuch great sinners at seventy as we had been at seven; granted that we\nshould go to the wash like table-cloths at least once a week, still I\nused to think a day ought to come when we should want rather less rubbing\nand scrubbing at.  Now that I have grown older myself I have seen that\nthe Church has estimated probabilities better than I had done.\n\nThe pair said not a word to one another, but watched the fading light and\nnaked trees, the brown fields with here and there a melancholy cottage by\nthe road side, and the rain that fell fast upon the carriage windows.  It\nwas a kind of afternoon on which nice people for the most part like to be\nsnug at home, and Theobald was a little snappish at reflecting how many\nmiles he had to post before he could be at his own fireside again.\nHowever there was nothing for it, so the pair sat quietly and watched the\nroadside objects flit by them, and get greyer and grimmer as the light\nfaded.\n\nThough they spoke not to one another, there was one nearer to each of\nthem with whom they could converse freely.  \"I hope,\" said Theobald to\nhimself, \"I hope he'll work--or else that Skinner will make him.  I don't\nlike Skinner, I never did like him, but he is unquestionably a man of\ngenius, and no one turns out so many pupils who succeed at Oxford and\nCambridge, and that is the best test.  I have done my share towards\nstarting him well.  Skinner said he had been well grounded and was very\nforward.  I suppose he will presume upon it now and do nothing, for his\nnature is an idle one.  He is not fond of me, I'm sure he is not.  He\nought to be after all the trouble I have taken with him, but he is\nungrateful and selfish.  It is an unnatural thing for a boy not to be\nfond of his own father.  If he was fond of me I should be fond of him,\nbut I cannot like a son who, I am sure, dislikes me.  He shrinks out of\nmy way whenever he sees me coming near him.  He will not stay five\nminutes in the same room with me if he can help it.  He is deceitful.  He\nwould not want to hide himself away so much if he were not deceitful.\nThat is a bad sign and one which makes me fear he will grow up\nextravagant.  I am sure he will grow up extravagant.  I should have given\nhim more pocket-money if I had not known this--but what is the good of\ngiving him pocket-money?  It is all gone directly.  If he doesn't buy\nsomething with it he gives it away to the first little boy or girl he\nsees who takes his fancy.  He forgets that it's my money he is giving\naway.  I give him money that he may have money and learn to know its\nuses, not that he may go and squander it immediately.  I wish he was not\nso fond of music, it will interfere with his Latin and Greek.  I will\nstop it as much as I can.  Why, when he was translating Livy the other\nday he slipped out Handel's name in mistake for Hannibal's, and his\nmother tells me he knows half the tunes in the 'Messiah' by heart.  What\nshould a boy of his age know about the 'Messiah'?  If I had shown half as\nmany dangerous tendencies when I was a boy, my father would have\napprenticed me to a greengrocer, of that I'm very sure,\" etc., etc.\n\nThen his thoughts turned to Egypt and the tenth plague.  It seemed to him\nthat if the little Egyptians had been anything like Ernest, the plague\nmust have been something very like a blessing in disguise.  If the\nIsraelites were to come to England now he should be greatly tempted not\nto let them go.\n\nMrs Theobald's thoughts ran in a different current.  \"Lord Lonsford's\ngrandson--it's a pity his name is Figgins; however, blood is blood as\nmuch through the female line as the male, indeed, perhaps even more so if\nthe truth were known.  I wonder who Mr Figgins was.  I think Mrs Skinner\nsaid he was dead, however, I must find out all about him.  It would be\ndelightful if young Figgins were to ask Ernest home for the holidays.  Who\nknows but he might meet Lord Lonsford himself, or at any rate some of\nLord Lonsford's other descendants?\"\n\nMeanwhile the boy himself was still sitting moodily before the fire in\nMrs Jay's room.  \"Papa and Mamma,\" he was saying to himself, \"are much\nbetter and cleverer than anyone else, but, I, alas! shall never be either\ngood or clever.\"\n\nMrs Pontifex continued--\n\n\"Perhaps it would be best to get young Figgins on a visit to ourselves\nfirst.  That would be charming.  Theobald would not like it, for he does\nnot like children; I must see how I can manage it, for it would be so\nnice to have young Figgins--or stay!  Ernest shall go and stay with\nFiggins and meet the future Lord Lonsford, who I should think must be\nabout Ernest's age, and then if he and Ernest were to become friends\nErnest might ask him to Battersby, and he might fall in love with\nCharlotte.  I think we have done _most wisely_ in sending Ernest to Dr\nSkinner's.  Dr Skinner's piety is no less remarkable than his genius.  One\ncan tell these things at a glance, and he must have felt it about me no\nless strongly than I about him.  I think he seemed much struck with\nTheobald and myself--indeed, Theobald's intellectual power must impress\nany one, and I was showing, I do believe, to my best advantage.  When I\nsmiled at him and said I left my boy in his hands with the most entire\nconfidence that he would be as well cared for as if he were at my own\nhouse, I am sure he was greatly pleased.  I should not think many of the\nmothers who bring him boys can impress him so favourably, or say such\nnice things to him as I did.  My smile is sweet when I desire to make it\nso.  I never was perhaps exactly pretty, but I was always admitted to be\nfascinating.  Dr Skinner is a very handsome man--too good on the whole I\nshould say for Mrs Skinner.  Theobald says he is not handsome, but men\nare no judges, and he has such a pleasant bright face.  I think my bonnet\nbecame me.  As soon as I get home I will tell Chambers to trim my blue\nand yellow merino with--\" etc., etc.\n\nAll this time the letter which has been given above was lying in\nChristina's private little Japanese cabinet, read and re-read and\napproved of many times over, not to say, if the truth were known,\nrewritten more than once, though dated as in the first instance--and\nthis, too, though Christina was fond enough of a joke in a small way.\n\nErnest, still in Mrs Jay's room mused onward.  \"Grown-up people,\" he said\nto himself, \"when they were ladies and gentlemen, never did naughty\nthings, but he was always doing them.  He had heard that some grown-up\npeople were worldly, which of course was wrong, still this was quite\ndistinct from being naughty, and did not get them punished or scolded.\nHis own Papa and Mamma were not even worldly; they had often explained to\nhim that they were exceptionally unworldly; he well knew that they had\nnever done anything naughty since they had been children, and that even\nas children they had been nearly faultless.  Oh! how different from\nhimself!  When should he learn to love his Papa and Mamma as they had\nloved theirs?  How could he hope ever to grow up to be as good and wise\nas they, or even tolerably good and wise?  Alas! never.  It could not be.\nHe did not love his Papa and Mamma, in spite of all their goodness both\nin themselves and to him.  He hated Papa, and did not like Mamma, and\nthis was what none but a bad and ungrateful boy would do after all that\nhad been done for him.  Besides he did not like Sunday; he did not like\nanything that was really good; his tastes were low and such as he was\nashamed of.  He liked people best if they sometimes swore a little, so\nlong as it was not at him.  As for his Catechism and Bible readings he\nhad no heart in them.  He had never attended to a sermon in his life.\nEven when he had been taken to hear Mr Vaughan at Brighton, who, as\neveryone knew, preached such beautiful sermons for children, he had been\nvery glad when it was all over, nor did he believe he could get through\nchurch at all if it was not for the voluntary upon the organ and the\nhymns and chanting.  The Catechism was awful.  He had never been able to\nunderstand what it was that he desired of his Lord God and Heavenly\nFather, nor had he yet got hold of a single idea in connection with the\nword Sacrament.  His duty towards his neighbour was another bugbear.  It\nseemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying in wait for him\nupon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards him.  Then there\nwas that awful and mysterious word 'business.'  What did it all mean?\nWhat was 'business'?  His Papa was a wonderfully good man of business,\nhis Mamma had often told him so--but he should never be one.  It was\nhopeless, and very awful, for people were continually telling him that he\nwould have to earn his own living.  No doubt, but how--considering how\nstupid, idle, ignorant, self-indulgent, and physically puny he was?  All\ngrown-up people were clever, except servants--and even these were\ncleverer than ever he should be.  Oh, why, why, why, could not people be\nborn into the world as grown-up persons?  Then he thought of Casabianca.\nHe had been examined in that poem by his father not long before.  'When\nonly would he leave his position?  To whom did he call?  Did he get an\nanswer?  Why?  How many times did he call upon his father?  What happened\nto him?  What was the noblest life that perished there?  Do you think so?\nWhy do you think so?'  And all the rest of it.  Of course he thought\nCasabianca's was the noblest life that perished there; there could be no\ntwo opinions about that; it never occurred to him that the moral of the\npoem was that young people cannot begin too soon to exercise discretion\nin the obedience they pay to their Papa and Mamma.  Oh, no! the only\nthought in his mind was that he should never, never have been like\nCasabianca, and that Casabianca would have despised him so much, if he\ncould have known him, that he would not have condescended to speak to\nhim.  There was nobody else in the ship worth reckoning at all: it did\nnot matter how much they were blown up.  Mrs Hemans knew them all and\nthey were a very indifferent lot.  Besides Casabianca was so good-looking\nand came of such a good family.\"\n\nAnd thus his small mind kept wandering on till he could follow it no\nlonger, and again went off into a doze.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nNext morning Theobald and Christina arose feeling a little tired from\ntheir journey, but happy in that best of all happiness, the approbation\nof their consciences.  It would be their boy's fault henceforth if he\nwere not good, and as prosperous as it was at all desirable that he\nshould be.  What more could parents do than they had done?  The answer\n\"Nothing\" will rise as readily to the lips of the reader as to those of\nTheobald and Christina themselves.\n\nA few days later the parents were gratified at receiving the following\nletter from their son--\n\n   \"My Dear Mamma,--I am very well.  Dr Skinner made me do about the\n   horse free and exulting roaming in the wide fields in Latin verse, but\n   as I had done it with Papa I knew how to do it, and it was nearly all\n   right, and he put me in the fourth form under Mr Templer, and I have\n   to begin a new Latin grammar not like the old, but much harder.  I\n   know you wish me to work, and I will try very hard.  With best love to\n   Joey and Charlotte, and to Papa, I remain, your affectionate son,\n   ERNEST.\"\n\nNothing could be nicer or more proper.  It really did seem as though he\nwere inclined to turn over a new leaf.  The boys had all come back, the\nexaminations were over, and the routine of the half year began; Ernest\nfound that his fears about being kicked about and bullied were\nexaggerated.  Nobody did anything very dreadful to him.  He had to run\nerrands between certain hours for the elder boys, and to take his turn at\ngreasing the footballs, and so forth, but there was an excellent spirit\nin the school as regards bullying.\n\nNevertheless, he was far from happy.  Dr Skinner was much too like his\nfather.  True, Ernest was not thrown in with him much yet, but he was\nalways there; there was no knowing at what moment he might not put in an\nappearance, and whenever he did show, it was to storm about something.  He\nwas like the lion in the Bishop of Oxford's Sunday story--always liable\nto rush out from behind some bush and devour some one when he was least\nexpected.  He called Ernest \"an audacious reptile\" and said he wondered\nthe earth did not open and swallow him up because he pronounced Thalia\nwith a short i.  \"And this to me,\" he thundered, \"who never made a false\nquantity in my life.\"  Surely he would have been a much nicer person if\nhe had made false quantities in his youth like other people.  Ernest\ncould not imagine how the boys in Dr Skinner's form continued to live;\nbut yet they did, and even throve, and, strange as it may seem, idolised\nhim, or professed to do so in after life.  To Ernest it seemed like\nliving on the crater of Vesuvius.\n\nHe was himself, as has been said, in Mr Templer's form, who was snappish,\nbut not downright wicked, and was very easy to crib under.  Ernest used\nto wonder how Mr Templer could be so blind, for he supposed Mr Templer\nmust have cribbed when he was at school, and would ask himself whether he\nshould forget his youth when he got old, as Mr Templer had forgotten his.\nHe used to think he never could possibly forget any part of it.\n\nThen there was Mrs Jay, who was sometimes very alarming.  A few days\nafter the half year had commenced, there being some little extra noise in\nthe hall, she rushed in with her spectacles on her forehead and her cap\nstrings flying, and called the boy whom Ernest had selected as his hero\nthe \"rampingest-scampingest-rackety-tackety-tow-row-roaringest boy in the\nwhole school.\"  But she used to say things that Ernest liked.  If the\nDoctor went out to dinner, and there were no prayers, she would come in\nand say, \"Young gentlemen, prayers are excused this evening\"; and, take\nher for all in all, she was a kindly old soul enough.\n\nMost boys soon discover the difference between noise and actual danger,\nbut to others it is so unnatural to menace, unless they mean mischief,\nthat they are long before they leave off taking turkey-cocks and ganders\n_au serieux_.  Ernest was one of the latter sort, and found the\natmosphere of Roughborough so gusty that he was glad to shrink out of\nsight and out of mind whenever he could.  He disliked the games worse\neven than the squalls of the class-room and hall, for he was still\nfeeble, not filling out and attaining his full strength till a much later\nage than most boys.  This was perhaps due to the closeness with which his\nfather had kept him to his books in childhood, but I think in part also\nto a tendency towards lateness in attaining maturity, hereditary in the\nPontifex family, which was one also of unusual longevity.  At thirteen or\nfourteen he was a mere bag of bones, with upper arms about as thick as\nthe wrists of other boys of his age; his little chest was\npigeon-breasted; he appeared to have no strength or stamina whatever, and\nfinding he always went to the wall in physical encounters, whether\nundertaken in jest or earnest, even with boys shorter than himself, the\ntimidity natural to childhood increased upon him to an extent that I am\nafraid amounted to cowardice.  This rendered him even less capable than\nhe might otherwise have been, for as confidence increases power, so want\nof confidence increases impotence.  After he had had the breath knocked\nout of him and been well shinned half a dozen times in scrimmages at\nfootball--scrimmages in which he had become involved sorely against his\nwill--he ceased to see any further fun in football, and shirked that\nnoble game in a way that got him into trouble with the elder boys, who\nwould stand no shirking on the part of the younger ones.\n\nHe was as useless and ill at ease with cricket as with football, nor in\nspite of all his efforts could he ever throw a ball or a stone.  It soon\nbecame plain, therefore, to everyone that Pontifex was a young muff, a\nmollycoddle, not to be tortured, but still not to be rated highly.  He\nwas not however, actively unpopular, for it was seen that he was quite\nsquare _inter pares_, not at all vindictive, easily pleased, perfectly\nfree with whatever little money he had, no greater lover of his school\nwork than of the games, and generally more inclinable to moderate vice\nthan to immoderate virtue.\n\nThese qualities will prevent any boy from sinking very low in the opinion\nof his schoolfellows; but Ernest thought he had fallen lower than he\nprobably had, and hated and despised himself for what he, as much as\nanyone else, believed to be his cowardice.  He did not like the boys whom\nhe thought like himself.  His heroes were strong and vigorous, and the\nless they inclined towards him the more he worshipped them.  All this\nmade him very unhappy, for it never occurred to him that the instinct\nwhich made him keep out of games for which he was ill adapted, was more\nreasonable than the reason which would have driven him into them.\nNevertheless he followed his instinct for the most part, rather than his\nreason.  _Sapiens suam si sapientiam norit_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nWith the masters Ernest was ere long in absolute disgrace.  He had more\nliberty now than he had known heretofore.  The heavy hand and watchful\neye of Theobald were no longer about his path and about his bed and\nspying out all his ways; and punishment by way of copying out lines of\nVirgil was a very different thing from the savage beatings of his father.\nThe copying out in fact was often less trouble than the lesson.  Latin\nand Greek had nothing in them which commended them to his instinct as\nlikely to bring him peace even at the last; still less did they hold out\nany hope of doing so within some more reasonable time.  The deadness\ninherent in these defunct languages themselves had never been\nartificially counteracted by a system of _bona fide_ rewards for\napplication.  There had been any amount of punishments for want of\napplication, but no good comfortable bribes had baited the hook which was\nto allure him to his good.\n\nIndeed, the more pleasant side of learning to do this or that had always\nbeen treated as something with which Ernest had no concern.  We had no\nbusiness with pleasant things at all, at any rate very little business,\nat any rate not he, Ernest.  We were put into this world not for pleasure\nbut duty, and pleasure had in it something more or less sinful in its\nvery essence.  If we were doing anything we liked, we, or at any rate he,\nErnest, should apologise and think he was being very mercifully dealt\nwith, if not at once told to go and do something else.  With what he did\nnot like, however, it was different; the more he disliked a thing the\ngreater the presumption that it was right.  It never occurred to him that\nthe presumption was in favour of the rightness of what was most pleasant,\nand that the onus of proving that it was not right lay with those who\ndisputed its being so.  I have said more than once that he believed in\nhis own depravity; never was there a little mortal more ready to accept\nwithout cavil whatever he was told by those who were in authority over\nhim: he thought, at least, that he believed it, for as yet he knew\nnothing of that other Ernest that dwelt within him, and was so much\nstronger and more real than the Ernest of which he was conscious.  The\ndumb Ernest persuaded with inarticulate feelings too swift and sure to be\ntranslated into such debateable things as words, but practically insisted\nas follows--\n\n   \"Growing is not the easy plain sailing business that it is commonly\n   supposed to be: it is hard work--harder than any but a growing boy can\n   understand; it requires attention, and you are not strong enough to\n   attend to your bodily growth, and to your lessons too.  Besides, Latin\n   and Greek are great humbug; the more people know of them the more\n   odious they generally are; the nice people whom you delight in either\n   never knew any at all or forgot what they had learned as soon as they\n   could; they never turned to the classics after they were no longer\n   forced to read them; therefore they are nonsense, all very well in\n   their own time and country, but out of place here.  Never learn\n   anything until you find you have been made uncomfortable for a good\n   long while by not knowing it; when you find that you have occasion for\n   this or that knowledge, or foresee that you will have occasion for it\n   shortly, the sooner you learn it the better, but till then spend your\n   time in growing bone and muscle; these will be much more useful to you\n   than Latin and Greek, nor will you ever be able to make them if you do\n   not do so now, whereas Latin and Greek can be acquired at any time by\n   those who want them.\n\n   \"You are surrounded on every side by lies which would deceive even the\n   elect, if the elect were not generally so uncommonly wide awake; the\n   self of which you are conscious, your reasoning and reflecting self,\n   will believe these lies and bid you act in accordance with them.  This\n   conscious self of yours, Ernest, is a prig begotten of prigs and\n   trained in priggishness; I will not allow it to shape your actions,\n   though it will doubtless shape your words for many a year to come.\n   Your papa is not here to beat you now; this is a change in the\n   conditions of your existence, and should be followed by changed\n   actions.  Obey me, your true self, and things will go tolerably well\n   with you, but only listen to that outward and visible old husk of\n   yours which is called your father, and I will rend you in pieces even\n   unto the third and fourth generation as one who has hated God; for I,\n   Ernest, am the God who made you.\"\n\nHow shocked Ernest would have been if he could have heard the advice he\nwas receiving; what consternation too there would have been at Battersby;\nbut the matter did not end here, for this same wicked inner self gave him\nbad advice about his pocket money, the choice of his companions and on\nthe whole Ernest was attentive and obedient to its behests, more so than\nTheobald had been.  The consequence was that he learned little, his mind\ngrowing more slowly and his body rather faster than heretofore: and when\nby and by his inner self urged him in directions where he met obstacles\nbeyond his strength to combat, he took--though with passionate\ncompunctions of conscience--the nearest course to the one from which he\nwas debarred which circumstances would allow.\n\nIt may be guessed that Ernest was not the chosen friend of the more\nsedate and well-conducted youths then studying at Roughborough.  Some of\nthe less desirable boys used to go to public-houses and drink more beer\nthan was good for them; Ernest's inner self can hardly have told him to\nally himself to these young gentlemen, but he did so at an early age, and\nwas sometimes made pitiably sick by an amount of beer which would have\nproduced no effect upon a stronger boy.  Ernest's inner self must have\ninterposed at this point and told him that there was not much fun in\nthis, for he dropped the habit ere it had taken firm hold of him, and\nnever resumed it; but he contracted another at the disgracefully early\nage of between thirteen and fourteen which he did not relinquish, though\nto the present day his conscious self keeps dinging it into him that the\nless he smokes the better.\n\nAnd so matters went on till my hero was nearly fourteen years old.  If by\nthat time he was not actually a young blackguard, he belonged to a\ndebateable class between the sub-reputable and the upper disreputable,\nwith perhaps rather more leaning to the latter except so far as vices of\nmeanness were concerned, from which he was fairly free.  I gather this\npartly from what Ernest has told me, and partly from his school bills\nwhich I remember Theobald showed me with much complaining.  There was an\ninstitution at Roughborough called the monthly merit money; the maximum\nsum which a boy of Ernest's age could get was four shillings and\nsixpence; several boys got four shillings and few less than sixpence, but\nErnest never got more than half-a-crown and seldom more than eighteen\npence; his average would, I should think, be about one and nine pence,\nwhich was just too much for him to rank among the downright bad boys, but\ntoo little to put him among the good ones.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nI must now return to Miss Alethea Pontifex, of whom I have said perhaps\ntoo little hitherto, considering how great her influence upon my hero's\ndestiny proved to be.\n\nOn the death of her father, which happened when she was about thirty-two\nyears old, she parted company with her sisters, between whom and herself\nthere had been little sympathy, and came up to London.  She was\ndetermined, so she said, to make the rest of her life as happy as she\ncould, and she had clearer ideas about the best way of setting to work to\ndo this than women, or indeed men, generally have.\n\nHer fortune consisted, as I have said, of 5000 pounds, which had come to\nher by her mother's marriage settlements, and 15,000 pounds left her by\nher father, over both which sums she had now absolute control.  These\nbrought her in about 900 pounds a year, and the money being invested in\nnone but the soundest securities, she had no anxiety about her income.\nShe meant to be rich, so she formed a scheme of expenditure which\ninvolved an annual outlay of about 500 pounds, and determined to put the\nrest by.  \"If I do this,\" she said laughingly, \"I shall probably just\nsucceed in living comfortably within my income.\"  In accordance with this\nscheme she took unfurnished apartments in a house in Gower Street, of\nwhich the lower floors were let out as offices.  John Pontifex tried to\nget her to take a house to herself, but Alethea told him to mind his own\nbusiness so plainly that he had to beat a retreat.  She had never liked\nhim, and from that time dropped him almost entirely.\n\nWithout going much into society she yet became acquainted with most of\nthe men and women who had attained a position in the literary, artistic\nand scientific worlds, and it was singular how highly her opinion was\nvalued in spite of her never having attempted in any way to distinguish\nherself.  She could have written if she had chosen, but she enjoyed\nseeing others write and encouraging them better than taking a more active\npart herself.  Perhaps literary people liked her all the better because\nshe did not write.\n\nI, as she very well knew, had always been devoted to her, and she might\nhave had a score of other admirers if she had liked, but she had\ndiscouraged them all, and railed at matrimony as women seldom do unless\nthey have a comfortable income of their own.  She by no means, however,\nrailed at man as she railed at matrimony, and though living after a\nfashion in which even the most censorious could find nothing to complain\nof, as far as she properly could she defended those of her own sex whom\nthe world condemned most severely.\n\nIn religion she was, I should think, as nearly a freethinker as anyone\ncould be whose mind seldom turned upon the subject.  She went to church,\nbut disliked equally those who aired either religion or irreligion.  I\nremember once hearing her press a late well-known philosopher to write a\nnovel instead of pursuing his attacks upon religion.  The philosopher did\nnot much like this, and dilated upon the importance of showing people the\nfolly of much that they pretended to believe.  She smiled and said\ndemurely, \"Have they not Moses and the prophets?  Let them hear them.\"\nBut she would say a wicked thing quietly on her own account sometimes,\nand called my attention once to a note in her prayer-book which gave\naccount of the walk to Emmaus with the two disciples, and how Christ had\nsaid to them \"O fools and slow of heart to believe ALL that the prophets\nhave spoken\"--the \"all\" being printed in small capitals.\n\nThough scarcely on terms with her brother John, she had kept up closer\nrelations with Theobald and his family, and had paid a few days' visit to\nBattersby once in every two years or so.  Alethea had always tried to\nlike Theobald and join forces with him as much as she could (for they two\nwere the hares of the family, the rest being all hounds), but it was no\nuse.  I believe her chief reason for maintaining relations with her\nbrother was that she might keep an eye on his children and give them a\nlift if they proved nice.\n\nWhen Miss Pontifex had come down to Battersby in old times the children\nhad not been beaten, and their lessons had been made lighter.  She easily\nsaw that they were overworked and unhappy, but she could hardly guess how\nall-reaching was the regime under which they lived.  She knew she could\nnot interfere effectually then, and wisely forbore to make too many\nenquiries.  Her time, if ever it was to come, would be when the children\nwere no longer living under the same roof as their parents.  It ended in\nher making up her mind to have nothing to do with either Joey or\nCharlotte, but to see so much of Ernest as should enable her to form an\nopinion about his disposition and abilities.\n\nHe had now been a year and a half at Roughborough and was nearly fourteen\nyears old, so that his character had begun to shape.  His aunt had not\nseen him for some little time and, thinking that if she was to exploit\nhim she could do so now perhaps better than at any other time, she\nresolved to go down to Roughborough on some pretext which should be good\nenough for Theobald, and to take stock of her nephew under circumstances\nin which she could get him for some few hours to herself.  Accordingly in\nAugust 1849, when Ernest was just entering on his fourth half year a cab\ndrove up to Dr Skinner's door with Miss Pontifex, who asked and obtained\nleave for Ernest to come and dine with her at the Swan Hotel.  She had\nwritten to Ernest to say she was coming and he was of course on the look-\nout for her.  He had not seen her for so long that he was rather shy at\nfirst, but her good nature soon set him at his ease.  She was so strongly\nbiassed in favour of anything young that her heart warmed towards him at\nonce, though his appearance was less prepossessing than she had hoped.\nShe took him to a cake shop and gave him whatever he liked as soon as she\nhad got him off the school premises; and Ernest felt at once that she\ncontrasted favourably even with his aunts the Misses Allaby, who were so\nvery sweet and good.  The Misses Allaby were very poor; sixpence was to\nthem what five shillings was to Alethea.  What chance had they against\none who, if she had a mind, could put by out of her income twice as much\nas they, poor women, could spend?\n\nThe boy had plenty of prattle in him when he was not snubbed, and Alethea\nencouraged him to chatter about whatever came uppermost.  He was always\nready to trust anyone who was kind to him; it took many years to make him\nreasonably wary in this respect--if indeed, as I sometimes doubt, he ever\nwill be as wary as he ought to be--and in a short time he had quite\ndissociated his aunt from his papa and mamma and the rest, with whom his\ninstinct told him he should be on his guard.  Little did he know how\ngreat, as far as he was concerned, were the issues that depended upon his\nbehaviour.  If he had known, he would perhaps have played his part less\nsuccessfully.\n\nHis aunt drew from him more details of his home and school life than his\npapa and mamma would have approved of, but he had no idea that he was\nbeing pumped.  She got out of him all about the happy Sunday evenings,\nand how he and Joey and Charlotte quarrelled sometimes, but she took no\nside and treated everything as though it were a matter of course.  Like\nall the boys, he could mimic Dr Skinner, and when warmed with dinner, and\ntwo glasses of sherry which made him nearly tipsy, he favoured his aunt\nwith samples of the Doctor's manner and spoke of him familiarly as \"Sam.\"\n\n\"Sam,\" he said, \"is an awful old humbug.\"  It was the sherry that brought\nout this piece of swagger, for whatever else he was Dr Skinner was a\nreality to Master Ernest, before which, indeed, he sank into his boots in\nno time.  Alethea smiled and said, \"I must not say anything to that, must\nI?\"  Ernest said, \"I suppose not,\" and was checked.  By-and-by he vented\na number of small second-hand priggishnesses which he had caught up\nbelieving them to be the correct thing, and made it plain that even at\nthat early age Ernest believed in Ernest with a belief which was amusing\nfrom its absurdity.  His aunt judged him charitably as she was sure to\ndo; she knew very well where the priggishness came from, and seeing that\nthe string of his tongue had been loosened sufficiently gave him no more\nsherry.\n\nIt was after dinner, however, that he completed the conquest of his aunt.\nShe then discovered that, like herself, he was passionately fond of\nmusic, and that, too, of the highest class.  He knew, and hummed or\nwhistled to her all sorts of pieces out of the works of the great\nmasters, which a boy of his age could hardly be expected to know, and it\nwas evident that this was purely instinctive, inasmuch as music received\nno kind of encouragement at Roughborough.  There was no boy in the school\nas fond of music as he was.  He picked up his knowledge, he said, from\nthe organist of St Michael's Church who used to practise sometimes on a\nweek-day afternoon.  Ernest had heard the organ booming away as he was\npassing outside the church and had sneaked inside and up into the organ\nloft.  In the course of time the organist became accustomed to him as a\nfamiliar visitant, and the pair became friends.\n\nIt was this which decided Alethea that the boy was worth taking pains\nwith.  \"He likes the best music,\" she thought, \"and he hates Dr Skinner.\nThis is a very fair beginning.\"  When she sent him away at night with a\nsovereign in his pocket (and he had only hoped to get five shillings) she\nfelt as though she had had a good deal more than her money's worth for\nher money.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nNext day Miss Pontifex returned to town, with her thoughts full of her\nnephew and how she could best be of use to him.\n\nIt appeared to her that to do him any real service she must devote\nherself almost entirely to him; she must in fact give up living in\nLondon, at any rate for a long time, and live at Roughborough where she\ncould see him continually.  This was a serious undertaking; she had lived\nin London for the last twelve years, and naturally disliked the prospect\nof a small country town such as Roughborough.  Was it a prudent thing to\nattempt so much?  Must not people take their chances in this world?  Can\nanyone do much for anyone else unless by making a will in his favour and\ndying then and there?  Should not each look after his own happiness, and\nwill not the world be best carried on if everyone minds his own business\nand leaves other people to mind theirs?  Life is not a donkey race in\nwhich everyone is to ride his neighbour's donkey and the last is to win,\nand the psalmist long since formulated a common experience when he\ndeclared that no man may deliver his brother nor make agreement unto God\nfor him, for it cost more to redeem their souls, so that he must let that\nalone for ever.\n\nAll these excellent reasons for letting her nephew alone occurred to her,\nand many more, but against them there pleaded a woman's love for\nchildren, and her desire to find someone among the younger branches of\nher own family to whom she could become warmly attached, and whom she\ncould attach warmly to herself.\n\nOver and above this she wanted someone to leave her money to; she was not\ngoing to leave it to people about whom she knew very little, merely\nbecause they happened to be sons and daughters of brothers and sisters\nwhom she had never liked.  She knew the power and value of money\nexceedingly well, and how many lovable people suffer and die yearly for\nthe want of it; she was little likely to leave it without being satisfied\nthat her legatees were square, lovable, and more or less hard up.  She\nwanted those to have it who would be most likely to use it genially and\nsensibly, and whom it would thus be likely to make most happy; if she\ncould find one such among her nephews and nieces, so much the better; it\nwas worth taking a great deal of pains to see whether she could or could\nnot; but if she failed, she must find an heir who was not related to her\nby blood.\n\n\"Of course,\" she had said to me, more than once, \"I shall make a mess of\nit.  I shall choose some nice-looking, well-dressed screw, with\ngentlemanly manners which will take me in, and he will go and paint\nAcademy pictures, or write for the _Times_, or do something just as\nhorrid the moment the breath is out of my body.\"\n\nAs yet, however, she had made no will at all, and this was one of the few\nthings that troubled her.  I believe she would have left most of her\nmoney to me if I had not stopped her.  My father left me abundantly well\noff, and my mode of life has been always simple, so that I have never\nknown uneasiness about money; moreover I was especially anxious that\nthere should be no occasion given for ill-natured talk; she knew well,\ntherefore, that her leaving her money to me would be of all things the\nmost likely to weaken the ties that existed between us, provided that I\nwas aware of it, but I did not mind her talking about whom she should\nmake her heir, so long as it was well understood that I was not to be the\nperson.\n\nErnest had satisfied her as having enough in him to tempt her strongly to\ntake him up, but it was not till after many days' reflection that she\ngravitated towards actually doing so, with all the break in her daily\nways that this would entail.  At least, she said it took her some days,\nand certainly it appeared to do so, but from the moment she had begun to\nbroach the subject, I had guessed how things were going to end.\n\nIt was now arranged she should take a house at Roughborough, and go and\nlive there for a couple of years.  As a compromise, however, to meet some\nof my objections, it was also arranged that she should keep her rooms in\nGower Street, and come to town for a week once in each month; of course,\nalso, she would leave Roughborough for the greater part of the holidays.\nAfter two years, the thing was to come to an end, unless it proved a\ngreat success.  She should by that time, at any rate, have made up her\nmind what the boy's character was, and would then act as circumstances\nmight determine.\n\nThe pretext she put forward ostensibly was that her doctor said she ought\nto be a year or two in the country after so many years of London life,\nand had recommended Roughborough on account of the purity of its air, and\nits easy access to and from London--for by this time the railway had\nreached it.  She was anxious not to give her brother and sister any right\nto complain, if on seeing more of her nephew she found she could not get\non with him, and she was also anxious not to raise false hopes of any\nkind in the boy's own mind.\n\nHaving settled how everything was to be, she wrote to Theobald and said\nshe meant to take a house in Roughborough from the Michaelmas then\napproaching, and mentioned, as though casually, that one of the\nattractions of the place would be that her nephew was at school there and\nshe should hope to see more of him than she had done hitherto.\n\nTheobald and Christina knew how dearly Alethea loved London, and thought\nit very odd that she should want to go and live at Roughborough, but they\ndid not suspect that she was going there solely on her nephew's account,\nmuch less that she had thought of making Ernest her heir.  If they had\nguessed this, they would have been so jealous that I half believe they\nwould have asked her to go and live somewhere else.  Alethea however, was\ntwo or three years younger than Theobald; she was still some years short\nof fifty, and might very well live to eighty-five or ninety; her money,\ntherefore, was not worth taking much trouble about, and her brother and\nsister-in-law had dismissed it, so to speak, from their minds with costs,\nassuming, however, that if anything did happen to her while they were\nstill alive, the money would, as a matter of course, come to them.\n\nThe prospect of Alethea seeing much of Ernest was a serious matter.\nChristina smelt mischief from afar, as indeed she often did.  Alethea was\nworldly--as worldly, that is to say, as a sister of Theobald's could be.\nIn her letter to Theobald she had said she knew how much of his and\nChristina's thoughts were taken up with anxiety for the boy's welfare.\nAlethea had thought this handsome enough, but Christina had wanted\nsomething better and stronger.  \"How can she know how much we think of\nour darling?\" she had exclaimed, when Theobald showed her his sister's\nletter.  \"I think, my dear, Alethea would understand these things better\nif she had children of her own.\"  The least that would have satisfied\nChristina was to have been told that there never yet had been any parents\ncomparable to Theobald and herself.  She did not feel easy that an\nalliance of some kind would not grow up between aunt and nephew, and\nneither she nor Theobald wanted Ernest to have any allies.  Joey and\nCharlotte were quite as many allies as were good for him.  After all,\nhowever, if Alethea chose to go and live at Roughborough, they could not\nwell stop her, and must make the best of it.\n\nIn a few weeks' time Alethea did choose to go and live at Roughborough.  A\nhouse was found with a field and a nice little garden which suited her\nvery well.  \"At any rate,\" she said to herself, \"I will have fresh eggs\nand flowers.\"  She even considered the question of keeping a cow, but in\nthe end decided not to do so.  She furnished her house throughout anew,\ntaking nothing whatever from her establishment in Gower Street, and by\nMichaelmas--for the house was empty when she took it--she was settled\ncomfortably, and had begun to make herself at home.\n\nOne of Miss Pontifex's first moves was to ask a dozen of the smartest and\nmost gentlemanly boys to breakfast with her.  From her seat in church she\ncould see the faces of the upper-form boys, and soon made up her mind\nwhich of them it would be best to cultivate.  Miss Pontifex, sitting\nopposite the boys in church, and reckoning them up with her keen eyes\nfrom under her veil by all a woman's criteria, came to a truer conclusion\nabout the greater number of those she scrutinized than even Dr Skinner\nhad done.  She fell in love with one boy from seeing him put on his\ngloves.\n\nMiss Pontifex, as I have said, got hold of some of these youngsters\nthrough Ernest, and fed them well.  No boy can resist being fed well by a\ngood-natured and still handsome woman.  Boys are very like nice dogs in\nthis respect--give them a bone and they will like you at once.  Alethea\nemployed every other little artifice which she thought likely to win\ntheir allegiance to herself, and through this their countenance for her\nnephew.  She found the football club in a slight money difficulty and at\nonce gave half a sovereign towards its removal.  The boys had no chance\nagainst her, she shot them down one after another as easily as though\nthey had been roosting pheasants.  Nor did she escape scathless herself,\nfor, as she wrote to me, she quite lost her heart to half a dozen of\nthem.  \"How much nicer they are,\" she said, \"and how much more they know\nthan those who profess to teach them!\"\n\nI believe it has been lately maintained that it is the young and fair who\nare the truly old and truly experienced, inasmuch as it is they who alone\nhave a living memory to guide them; \"the whole charm,\" it has been said,\n\"of youth lies in its advantage over age in respect of experience, and\nwhen this has for some reason failed or been misapplied, the charm is\nbroken.  When we say that we are getting old, we should say rather that\nwe are getting new or young, and are suffering from inexperience; trying\nto do things which we have never done before, and failing worse and\nworse, till in the end we are landed in the utter impotence of death.\"\n\nMiss Pontifex died many a long year before the above passage was written,\nbut she had arrived independently at much the same conclusion.\n\nShe first, therefore, squared the boys.  Dr Skinner was even more easily\ndealt with.  He and Mrs Skinner called, as a matter of course, as soon as\nMiss Pontifex was settled.  She fooled him to the top of his bent, and\nobtained the promise of a MS. copy of one of his minor poems (for Dr\nSkinner had the reputation of being quite one of our most facile and\nelegant minor poets) on the occasion of his first visit.  The other\nmasters and masters' wives were not forgotten.  Alethea laid herself out\nto please, as indeed she did wherever she went, and if any woman lays\nherself out to do this, she generally succeeds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nMiss Pontifex soon found out that Ernest did not like games, but she saw\nalso that he could hardly be expected to like them.  He was perfectly\nwell shaped but unusually devoid of physical strength.  He got a fair\nshare of this in after life, but it came much later with him than with\nother boys, and at the time of which I am writing he was a mere little\nskeleton.  He wanted something to develop his arms and chest without\nknocking him about as much as the school games did.  To supply this want\nby some means which should add also to his pleasure was Alethea's first\nanxiety.  Rowing would have answered every purpose, but unfortunately\nthere was no river at Roughborough.\n\nWhatever it was to be, it must be something which he should like as much\nas other boys liked cricket or football, and he must think the wish for\nit to have come originally from himself; it was not very easy to find\nanything that would do, but ere long it occurred to her that she might\nenlist his love of music on her side, and asked him one day when he was\nspending a half-holiday at her house whether he would like her to buy an\norgan for him to play on.  Of course, the boy said yes; then she told him\nabout her grandfather and the organs he had built.  It had never entered\ninto his head that he could make one, but when he gathered from what his\naunt had said that this was not out of the question, he rose as eagerly\nto the bait as she could have desired, and wanted to begin learning to\nsaw and plane so that he might make the wooden pipes at once.\n\nMiss Pontifex did not see how she could have hit upon anything more\nsuitable, and she liked the idea that he would incidentally get a\nknowledge of carpentering, for she was impressed, perhaps foolishly, with\nthe wisdom of the German custom which gives every boy a handicraft of\nsome sort.\n\nWriting to me on this matter, she said \"Professions are all very well for\nthose who have connection and interest as well as capital, but otherwise\nthey are white elephants.  How many men do not you and I know who have\ntalent, assiduity, excellent good sense, straightforwardness, every\nquality in fact which should command success, and who yet go on from year\nto year waiting and hoping against hope for the work which never comes?\nHow, indeed, is it likely to come unless to those who either are born\nwith interest, or who marry in order to get it?  Ernest's father and\nmother have no interest, and if they had they would not use it.  I\nsuppose they will make him a clergyman, or try to do so--perhaps it is\nthe best thing to do with him, for he could buy a living with the money\nhis grandfather left him, but there is no knowing what the boy will think\nof it when the time comes, and for aught we know he may insist on going\nto the backwoods of America, as so many other young men are doing now.\"  .\n. . But, anyway, he would like making an organ, and this could do him no\nharm, so the sooner he began the better.\n\nAlethea thought it would save trouble in the end if she told her brother\nand sister-in-law of this scheme.  \"I do not suppose,\" she wrote, \"that\nDr Skinner will approve very cordially of my attempt to introduce organ-\nbuilding into the _curriculum_ of Roughborough, but I will see what I can\ndo with him, for I have set my heart on owning an organ built by Ernest's\nown hands, which he may play on as much as he likes while it remains in\nmy house and which I will lend him permanently as soon as he gets one of\nhis own, but which is to be my property for the present, inasmuch as I\nmean to pay for it.\"  This was put in to make it plain to Theobald and\nChristina that they should not be out of pocket in the matter.\n\nIf Alethea had been as poor as the Misses Allaby, the reader may guess\nwhat Ernest's papa and mamma would have said to this proposal; but then,\nif she had been as poor as they, she would never have made it.  They did\nnot like Ernest's getting more and more into his aunt's good books, still\nit was perhaps better that he should do so than that she should be driven\nback upon the John Pontifexes.  The only thing, said Theobald, which made\nhim hesitate, was that the boy might be thrown with low associates later\non if he were to be encouraged in his taste for music--a taste which\nTheobald had always disliked.  He had observed with regret that Ernest\nhad ere now shown rather a hankering after low company, and he might make\nacquaintance with those who would corrupt his innocence.  Christina\nshuddered at this, but when they had aired their scruples sufficiently\nthey felt (and when people begin to \"feel,\" they are invariably going to\ntake what they believe to be the more worldly course) that to oppose\nAlethea's proposal would be injuring their son's prospects more than was\nright, so they consented, but not too graciously.\n\nAfter a time, however, Christina got used to the idea, and then\nconsiderations occurred to her which made her throw herself into it with\ncharacteristic ardour.  If Miss Pontifex had been a railway stock she\nmight have been said to have been buoyant in the Battersby market for\nsome few days; buoyant for long together she could never be, still for a\ntime there really was an upward movement.  Christina's mind wandered to\nthe organ itself; she seemed to have made it with her own hands; there\nwould be no other in England to compare with it for combined sweetness\nand power.  She already heard the famous Dr Walmisley of Cambridge\nmistaking it for a Father Smith.  It would come, no doubt, in reality to\nBattersby Church, which wanted an organ, for it must be all nonsense\nabout Alethea's wishing to keep it, and Ernest would not have a house of\nhis own for ever so many years, and they could never have it at the\nRectory.  Oh, no!  Battersby Church was the only proper place for it.\n\nOf course, they would have a grand opening, and the Bishop would come\ndown, and perhaps young Figgins might be on a visit to them--she must ask\nErnest if young Figgins had yet left Roughborough--he might even persuade\nhis grandfather Lord Lonsford to be present.  Lord Lonsford and the\nBishop and everyone else would then compliment her, and Dr Wesley or Dr\nWalmisley, who should preside (it did not much matter which), would say\nto her, \"My dear Mrs Pontifex, I never yet played upon so remarkable an\ninstrument.\"  Then she would give him one of her very sweetest smiles and\nsay she feared he was flattering her, on which he would rejoin with some\npleasant little trifle about remarkable men (the remarkable man being for\nthe moment Ernest) having invariably had remarkable women for their\nmothers--and so on and so on.  The advantage of doing one's praising for\noneself is that one can lay it on so thick and exactly in the right\nplaces.\n\nTheobald wrote Ernest a short and surly letter _a propos_ of his aunt's\nintentions in this matter.\n\n\"I will not commit myself,\" he said, \"to an opinion whether anything will\ncome of it; this will depend entirely upon your own exertions; you have\nhad singular advantages hitherto, and your kind aunt is showing every\ndesire to befriend you, but you must give greater proof of stability and\nsteadiness of character than you have given yet if this organ matter is\nnot to prove in the end to be only one disappointment the more.\n\n\"I must insist on two things: firstly that this new iron in the fire does\nnot distract your attention from your Latin and Greek\"--(\"They aren't\nmine,\" thought Ernest, \"and never have been\")--\"and secondly, that you\nbring no smell of glue or shavings into the house here, if you make any\npart of the organ during your holidays.\"\n\nErnest was still too young to know how unpleasant a letter he was\nreceiving.  He believed the innuendoes contained in it to be perfectly\njust.  He knew he was sadly deficient in perseverance.  He liked some\nthings for a little while, and then found he did not like them any\nmore--and this was as bad as anything well could be.  His father's letter\ngave him one of his many fits of melancholy over his own worthlessness,\nbut the thought of the organ consoled him, and he felt sure that here at\nany rate was something to which he could apply himself steadily without\ngrowing tired of it.\n\nIt was settled that the organ was not to be begun before the Christmas\nholidays were over, and that till then Ernest should do a little plain\ncarpentering, so as to get to know how to use his tools.  Miss Pontifex\nhad a carpenter's bench set up in an outhouse upon her own premises, and\nmade terms with the most respectable carpenter in Roughborough, by which\none of his men was to come for a couple of hours twice a week and set\nErnest on the right way; then she discovered she wanted this or that\nsimple piece of work done, and gave the boy a commission to do it, paying\nhim handsomely as well as finding him in tools and materials.  She never\ngave him a syllable of good advice, or talked to him about everything's\ndepending upon his own exertions, but she kissed him often, and would\ncome into the workshop and act the part of one who took an interest in\nwhat was being done so cleverly as ere long to become really interested.\n\nWhat boy would not take kindly to almost anything with such assistance?\nAll boys like making things; the exercise of sawing, planing and\nhammering, proved exactly what his aunt had wanted to find--something\nthat should exercise, but not too much, and at the same time amuse him;\nwhen Ernest's sallow face was flushed with his work, and his eyes were\nsparkling with pleasure, he looked quite a different boy from the one his\naunt had taken in hand only a few months earlier.  His inner self never\ntold him that this was humbug, as it did about Latin and Greek.  Making\nstools and drawers was worth living for, and after Christmas there loomed\nthe organ, which was scarcely ever absent from his mind.\n\nHis aunt let him invite his friends, encouraging him to bring those whom\nher quick sense told her were the most desirable.  She smartened him up\nalso in his personal appearance, always without preaching to him.  Indeed\nshe worked wonders during the short time that was allowed her, and if her\nlife had been spared I cannot think that my hero would have come under\nthe shadow of that cloud which cast so heavy a gloom over his younger\nmanhood; but unfortunately for him his gleam of sunshine was too hot and\ntoo brilliant to last, and he had many a storm yet to weather, before he\nbecame fairly happy.  For the present, however, he was supremely so, and\nhis aunt was happy and grateful for his happiness, the improvement she\nsaw in him, and his unrepressed affection for herself.  She became fonder\nof him from day to day in spite of his many faults and almost incredible\nfoolishnesses.  It was perhaps on account of these very things that she\nsaw how much he had need of her; but at any rate, from whatever cause,\nshe became strengthened in her determination to be to him in the place of\nparents, and to find in him a son rather than a nephew.  But still she\nmade no will.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nAll went well for the first part of the following half year.  Miss\nPontifex spent the greater part of her holidays in London, and I also saw\nher at Roughborough, where I spent a few days, staying at the \"Swan.\"  I\nheard all about my godson in whom, however, I took less interest than I\nsaid I did.  I took more interest in the stage at that time than in\nanything else, and as for Ernest, I found him a nuisance for engrossing\nso much of his aunt's attention, and taking her so much from London.  The\norgan was begun, and made fair progress during the first two months of\nthe half year.  Ernest was happier than he had ever been before, and was\nstruggling upwards.  The best boys took more notice of him for his aunt's\nsake, and he consorted less with those who led him into mischief.\n\nBut much as Miss Pontifex had done, she could not all at once undo the\neffect of such surroundings as the boy had had at Battersby.  Much as he\nfeared and disliked his father (though he still knew not how much this\nwas), he had caught much from him; if Theobald had been kinder Ernest\nwould have modelled himself upon him entirely, and ere long would\nprobably have become as thorough a little prig as could have easily been\nfound.\n\nFortunately his temper had come to him from his mother, who, when not\nfrightened, and when there was nothing on the horizon which might cross\nthe slightest whim of her husband, was an amiable, good-natured woman.  If\nit was not such an awful thing to say of anyone, I should say that she\nmeant well.\n\nErnest had also inherited his mother's love of building castles in the\nair, and--so I suppose it must be called--her vanity.  He was very fond\nof showing off, and, provided he could attract attention, cared little\nfrom whom it came, nor what it was for.  He caught up, parrot-like,\nwhatever jargon he heard from his elders, which he thought was the\ncorrect thing, and aired it in season and out of season, as though it\nwere his own.\n\nMiss Pontifex was old enough and wise enough to know that this is the way\nin which even the greatest men as a general rule begin to develop, and\nwas more pleased with his receptiveness and reproductiveness than alarmed\nat the things he caught and reproduced.\n\nShe saw that he was much attached to herself, and trusted to this rather\nthan to anything else.  She saw also that his conceit was not very\nprofound, and that his fits of self-abasement were as extreme as his\nexaltation had been.  His impulsiveness and sanguine trustfulness in\nanyone who smiled pleasantly at him, or indeed was not absolutely unkind\nto him, made her more anxious about him than any other point in his\ncharacter; she saw clearly that he would have to find himself rudely\nundeceived many a time and oft, before he would learn to distinguish\nfriend from foe within reasonable time.  It was her perception of this\nwhich led her to take the action which she was so soon called upon to\ntake.\n\nHer health was for the most part excellent, and she had never had a\nserious illness in her life.  One morning, however, soon after Easter\n1850, she awoke feeling seriously unwell.  For some little time there had\nbeen a talk of fever in the neighbourhood, but in those days the\nprecautions that ought to be taken against the spread of infection were\nnot so well understood as now, and nobody did anything.  In a day or two\nit became plain that Miss Pontifex had got an attack of typhoid fever and\nwas dangerously ill.  On this she sent off a messenger to town, and\ndesired him not to return without her lawyer and myself.\n\nWe arrived on the afternoon of the day on which we had been summoned, and\nfound her still free from delirium: indeed, the cheery way in which she\nreceived us made it difficult to think she could be in danger.  She at\nonce explained her wishes, which had reference, as I expected, to her\nnephew, and repeated the substance of what I have already referred to as\nher main source of uneasiness concerning him.  Then she begged me by our\nlong and close intimacy, by the suddenness of the danger that had fallen\non her and her powerlessness to avert it, to undertake what she said she\nwell knew, if she died, would be an unpleasant and invidious trust.\n\nShe wanted to leave the bulk of her money ostensibly to me, but in\nreality to her nephew, so that I should hold it in trust for him till he\nwas twenty-eight years old, but neither he nor anyone else, except her\nlawyer and myself, was to know anything about it.  She would leave 5000\npounds in other legacies, and 15,000 pounds to Ernest--which by the time\nhe was twenty-eight would have accumulated to, say, 30,000 pounds.  \"Sell\nout the debentures,\" she said, \"where the money now is--and put it into\nMidland Ordinary.\"\n\n\"Let him make his mistakes,\" she said, \"upon the money his grandfather\nleft him.  I am no prophet, but even I can see that it will take that boy\nmany years to see things as his neighbours see them.  He will get no help\nfrom his father and mother, who would never forgive him for his good luck\nif I left him the money outright; I daresay I am wrong, but I think he\nwill have to lose the greater part or all of what he has, before he will\nknow how to keep what he will get from me.\"\n\nSupposing he went bankrupt before he was twenty-eight years old, the\nmoney was to be mine absolutely, but she could trust me, she said, to\nhand it over to Ernest in due time.\n\n\"If,\" she continued, \"I am mistaken, the worst that can happen is that he\nwill come into a larger sum at twenty-eight instead of a smaller sum at,\nsay, twenty-three, for I would never trust him with it earlier, and--if\nhe knows nothing about it he will not be unhappy for the want of it.\"\n\nShe begged me to take 2000 pounds in return for the trouble I should have\nin taking charge of the boy's estate, and as a sign of the testatrix's\nhope that I would now and again look after him while he was still young.\nThe remaining 3000 pounds I was to pay in legacies and annuities to\nfriends and servants.\n\nIn vain both her lawyer and myself remonstrated with her on the unusual\nand hazardous nature of this arrangement.  We told her that sensible\npeople will not take a more sanguine view concerning human nature than\nthe Courts of Chancery do.  We said, in fact, everything that anyone else\nwould say.  She admitted everything, but urged that her time was short,\nthat nothing would induce her to leave her money to her nephew in the\nusual way.  \"It is an unusually foolish will,\" she said, \"but he is an\nunusually foolish boy;\" and she smiled quite merrily at her little sally.\nLike all the rest of her family, she was very stubborn when her mind was\nmade up.  So the thing was done as she wished it.\n\nNo provision was made for either my death or Ernest's--Miss Pontifex had\nsettled it that we were neither of us going to die, and was too ill to go\ninto details; she was so anxious, moreover, to sign her will while still\nable to do so that we had practically no alternative but to do as she\ntold us.  If she recovered we could see things put on a more satisfactory\nfooting, and further discussion would evidently impair her chances of\nrecovery; it seemed then only too likely that it was a case of this will\nor no will at all.\n\nWhen the will was signed I wrote a letter in duplicate, saying that I\nheld all Miss Pontifex had left me in trust for Ernest except as regards\n5000 pounds, but that he was not to come into the bequest, and was to\nknow nothing whatever about it directly or indirectly, till he was twenty-\neight years old, and if he was bankrupt before he came into it the money\nwas to be mine absolutely.  At the foot of each letter Miss Pontifex\nwrote, \"The above was my understanding when I made my will,\" and then\nsigned her name.  The solicitor and his clerk witnessed; I kept one copy\nmyself and handed the other to Miss Pontifex's solicitor.\n\nWhen all this had been done she became more easy in her mind.  She talked\nprincipally about her nephew.  \"Don't scold him,\" she said, \"if he is\nvolatile, and continually takes things up only to throw them down again.\nHow can he find out his strength or weakness otherwise?  A man's\nprofession,\" she said, and here she gave one of her wicked little laughs,\n\"is not like his wife, which he must take once for all, for better for\nworse, without proof beforehand.  Let him go here and there, and learn\nhis truest liking by finding out what, after all, he catches himself\nturning to most habitually--then let him stick to this; but I daresay\nErnest will be forty or five and forty before he settles down.  Then all\nhis previous infidelities will work together to him for good if he is the\nboy I hope he is.\n\n\"Above all,\" she continued, \"do not let him work up to his full strength,\nexcept once or twice in his lifetime; nothing is well done nor worth\ndoing unless, take it all round, it has come pretty easily.  Theobald and\nChristina would give him a pinch of salt and tell him to put it on the\ntails of the seven deadly virtues;\"--here she laughed again in her old\nmanner at once so mocking and so sweet--\"I think if he likes pancakes he\nhad perhaps better eat them on Shrove Tuesday, but this is enough.\"  These\nwere the last coherent words she spoke.  From that time she grew\ncontinually worse, and was never free from delirium till her death--which\ntook place less than a fortnight afterwards, to the inexpressible grief\nof those who knew and loved her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\nLetters had been written to Miss Pontifex's brothers and sisters, and one\nand all came post-haste to Roughborough.  Before they arrived the poor\nlady was already delirious, and for the sake of her own peace at the last\nI am half glad she never recovered consciousness.\n\nI had known these people all their lives, as none can know each other but\nthose who have played together as children; I knew how they had all of\nthem--perhaps Theobald least, but all of them more or less--made her life\na burden to her until the death of her father had made her her own\nmistress, and I was displeased at their coming one after the other to\nRoughborough, and inquiring whether their sister had recovered\nconsciousness sufficiently to be able to see them.  It was known that she\nhad sent for me on being taken ill, and that I remained at Roughborough,\nand I own I was angered by the mingled air of suspicion, defiance and\ninquisitiveness, with which they regarded me.  They would all, except\nTheobald, I believe have cut me downright if they had not believed me to\nknow something they wanted to know themselves, and might have some chance\nof learning from me--for it was plain I had been in some way concerned\nwith the making of their sister's will.  None of them suspected what the\nostensible nature of this would be, but I think they feared Miss Pontifex\nwas about to leave money for public uses.  John said to me in his\nblandest manner that he fancied he remembered to have heard his sister\nsay that she thought of leaving money to found a college for the relief\nof dramatic authors in distress; to this I made no rejoinder, and I have\nno doubt his suspicions were deepened.\n\nWhen the end came, I got Miss Pontifex's solicitor to write and tell her\nbrothers and sisters how she had left her money: they were not\nunnaturally furious, and went each to his or her separate home without\nattending the funeral, and without paying any attention to myself.  This\nwas perhaps the kindest thing they could have done by me, for their\nbehaviour made me so angry that I became almost reconciled to Alethea's\nwill out of pleasure at the anger it had aroused.  But for this I should\nhave felt the will keenly, as having been placed by it in the position\nwhich of all others I had been most anxious to avoid, and as having\nsaddled me with a very heavy responsibility.  Still it was impossible for\nme to escape, and I could only let things take their course.\n\nMiss Pontifex had expressed a wish to be buried at Paleham; in the course\nof the next few days I therefore took the body thither.  I had not been\nto Paleham since the death of my father some six years earlier.  I had\noften wished to go there, but had shrunk from doing so though my sister\nhad been two or three times.  I could not bear to see the house which had\nbeen my home for so many years of my life in the hands of strangers; to\nring ceremoniously at a bell which I had never yet pulled except as a boy\nin jest; to feel that I had nothing to do with a garden in which I had in\nchildhood gathered so many a nosegay, and which had seemed my own for\nmany years after I had reached man's estate; to see the rooms bereft of\nevery familiar feature, and made so unfamiliar in spite of their\nfamiliarity.  Had there been any sufficient reason, I should have taken\nthese things as a matter of course, and should no doubt have found them\nmuch worse in anticipation than in reality, but as there had been no\nspecial reason why I should go to Paleham I had hitherto avoided doing\nso.  Now, however, my going was a necessity, and I confess I never felt\nmore subdued than I did on arriving there with the dead playmate of my\nchildhood.\n\nI found the village more changed than I had expected.  The railway had\ncome there, and a brand new yellow brick station was on the site of old\nMr and Mrs Pontifex's cottage.  Nothing but the carpenter's shop was now\nstanding.  I saw many faces I knew, but even in six years they seemed to\nhave grown wonderfully older.  Some of the very old were dead, and the\nold were getting very old in their stead.  I felt like the changeling in\nthe fairy story who came back after a seven years' sleep.  Everyone\nseemed glad to see me, though I had never given them particular cause to\nbe so, and everyone who remembered old Mr and Mrs Pontifex spoke warmly\nof them and were pleased at their granddaughter's wishing to be laid near\nthem.  Entering the churchyard and standing in the twilight of a gusty\ncloudy evening on the spot close beside old Mrs Pontifex's grave which I\nhad chosen for Alethea's, I thought of the many times that she, who would\nlie there henceforth, and I, who must surely lie one day in some such\nanother place though when and where I knew not, had romped over this very\nspot as childish lovers together.  Next morning I followed her to the\ngrave, and in due course set up a plain upright slab to her memory as\nlike as might be to those over the graves of her grandmother and\ngrandfather.  I gave the dates and places of her birth and death, but\nadded nothing except that this stone was set up by one who had known and\nloved her.  Knowing how fond she had been of music I had been half\ninclined at one time to inscribe a few bars of music, if I could find any\nwhich seemed suitable to her character, but I knew how much she would\nhave disliked anything singular in connection with her tombstone and did\nnot do it.\n\nBefore, however, I had come to this conclusion, I had thought that Ernest\nmight be able to help me to the right thing, and had written to him upon\nthe subject.  The following is the answer I received--\n\n   \"Dear Godpapa,--I send you the best bit I can think of; it is the\n   subject of the last of Handel's six grand fugues and goes thus:--\n\n   [Music score]\n\n   It would do better for a man, especially for an old man who was very\n   sorry for things, than for a woman, but I cannot think of anything\n   better; if you do not like it for Aunt Alethea I shall keep it for\n   myself.--Your affectionate Godson, ERNEST PONTIFEX.\"\n\nWas this the little lad who could get sweeties for two-pence but not for\ntwo-pence-halfpenny?  Dear, dear me, I thought to myself, how these babes\nand sucklings do give us the go-by surely.  Choosing his own epitaph at\nfifteen as for a man who \"had been very sorry for things,\" and such a\nstrain as that--why it might have done for Leonardo da Vinci himself.\nThen I set the boy down as a conceited young jackanapes, which no doubt\nhe was,--but so are a great many other young people of Ernest's age.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\n\nIf Theobald and Christina had not been too well pleased when Miss\nPontifex first took Ernest in hand, they were still less so when the\nconnection between the two was interrupted so prematurely.  They said\nthey had made sure from what their sister had said that she was going to\nmake Ernest her heir.  I do not think she had given them so much as a\nhint to this effect.  Theobald indeed gave Ernest to understand that she\nhad done so in a letter which will be given shortly, but if Theobald\nwanted to make himself disagreeable, a trifle light as air would\nforthwith assume in his imagination whatever form was most convenient to\nhim.  I do not think they had even made up their minds what Alethea was\nto do with her money before they knew of her being at the point of death,\nand as I have said already, if they had thought it likely that Ernest\nwould be made heir over their own heads without their having at any rate\na life interest in the bequest, they would have soon thrown obstacles in\nthe way of further intimacy between aunt and nephew.\n\nThis, however, did not bar their right to feeling aggrieved now that\nneither they nor Ernest had taken anything at all, and they could profess\ndisappointment on their boy's behalf which they would have been too proud\nto admit upon their own.  In fact, it was only amiable of them to be\ndisappointed under these circumstances.\n\nChristina said that the will was simply fraudulent, and was convinced\nthat it could be upset if she and Theobald went the right way to work.\nTheobald, she said, should go before the Lord Chancellor, not in full\ncourt but in chambers, where he could explain the whole matter; or,\nperhaps it would be even better if she were to go herself--and I dare not\ntrust myself to describe the reverie to which this last idea gave rise.  I\nbelieve in the end Theobald died, and the Lord Chancellor (who had become\na widower a few weeks earlier) made her an offer, which, however, she\nfirmly but not ungratefully declined; she should ever, she said, continue\nto think of him as a friend--at this point the cook came in, saying the\nbutcher had called, and what would she please to order.\n\nI think Theobald must have had an idea that there was something behind\nthe bequest to me, but he said nothing about it to Christina.  He was\nangry and felt wronged, because he could not get at Alethea to give her a\npiece of his mind any more than he had been able to get at his father.\n\"It is so mean of people,\" he exclaimed to himself, \"to inflict an injury\nof this sort, and then shirk facing those whom they have injured; let us\nhope that, at any rate, they and I may meet in Heaven.\"  But of this he\nwas doubtful, for when people had done so great a wrong as this, it was\nhardly to be supposed that they would go to Heaven at all--and as for his\nmeeting them in another place, the idea never so much as entered his\nmind.\n\nOne so angry and, of late, so little used to contradiction might be\ntrusted, however, to avenge himself upon someone, and Theobald had long\nsince developed the organ, by means of which he might vent spleen with\nleast risk and greatest satisfaction to himself.  This organ, it may be\nguessed, was nothing else than Ernest; to Ernest therefore he proceeded\nto unburden himself, not personally, but by letter.\n\n\"You ought to know,\" he wrote, \"that your Aunt Alethea had given your\nmother and me to understand that it was her wish to make you her heir--in\nthe event, of course, of your conducting yourself in such a manner as to\ngive her confidence in you; as a matter of fact, however, she has left\nyou nothing, and the whole of her property has gone to your godfather, Mr\nOverton.  Your mother and I are willing to hope that if she had lived\nlonger you would yet have succeeded in winning her good opinion, but it\nis too late to think of this now.\n\n\"The carpentering and organ-building must at once be discontinued.  I\nnever believed in the project, and have seen no reason to alter my\noriginal opinion.  I am not sorry for your own sake, that it is to be at\nan end, nor, I am sure, will you regret it yourself in after years.\n\n\"A few words more as regards your own prospects.  You have, as I believe\nyou know, a small inheritance, which is yours legally under your\ngrandfather's will.  This bequest was made inadvertently, and, I believe,\nentirely through a misunderstanding on the lawyer's part.  The bequest\nwas probably intended not to take effect till after the death of your\nmother and myself; nevertheless, as the will is actually worded, it will\nnow be at your command if you live to be twenty-one years old.  From\nthis, however, large deductions must be made.  There will be legacy duty,\nand I do not know whether I am not entitled to deduct the expenses of\nyour education and maintenance from birth to your coming of age; I shall\nnot in all likelihood insist on this right to the full, if you conduct\nyourself properly, but a considerable sum should certainly be deducted,\nthere will therefore remain very little--say 1000 pounds or 2000 pounds\nat the outside, as what will be actually yours--but the strictest account\nshall be rendered you in due time.\n\n\"This, let me warn you most seriously, is all that you must expect from\nme (even Ernest saw that it was not from Theobald at all) at any rate\ntill after my death, which for aught any of us know may be yet many years\ndistant.  It is not a large sum, but it is sufficient if supplemented by\nsteadiness and earnestness of purpose.  Your mother and I gave you the\nname Ernest, hoping that it would remind you continually of--\" but I\nreally cannot copy more of this effusion.  It was all the same old will-\nshaking game and came practically to this, that Ernest was no good, and\nthat if he went on as he was going on now, he would probably have to go\nabout the streets begging without any shoes or stockings soon after he\nhad left school, or at any rate, college; and that he, Theobald, and\nChristina were almost too good for this world altogether.\n\nAfter he had written this Theobald felt quite good-natured, and sent to\nthe Mrs Thompson of the moment even more soup and wine than her usual not\nilliberal allowance.\n\nErnest was deeply, passionately upset by his father's letter; to think\nthat even his dear aunt, the one person of his relations whom he really\nloved, should have turned against him and thought badly of him after all.\nThis was the unkindest cut of all.  In the hurry of her illness Miss\nPontifex, while thinking only of his welfare, had omitted to make such\nsmall present mention of him as would have made his father's innuendoes\nstingless; and her illness being infectious, she had not seen him after\nits nature was known.  I myself did not know of Theobald's letter, nor\nthink enough about my godson to guess what might easily be his state.  It\nwas not till many years afterwards that I found Theobald's letter in the\npocket of an old portfolio which Ernest had used at school, and in which\nother old letters and school documents were collected which I have used\nin this book.  He had forgotten that he had it, but told me when he saw\nit that he remembered it as the first thing that made him begin to rise\nagainst his father in a rebellion which he recognised as righteous,\nthough he dared not openly avow it.  Not the least serious thing was that\nit would, he feared, be his duty to give up the legacy his grandfather\nhad left him; for if it was his only through a mistake, how could he keep\nit?\n\nDuring the rest of the half year Ernest was listless and unhappy.  He was\nvery fond of some of his schoolfellows, but afraid of those whom he\nbelieved to be better than himself, and prone to idealise everyone into\nbeing his superior except those who were obviously a good deal beneath\nhim.  He held himself much too cheap, and because he was without that\nphysical strength and vigour which he so much coveted, and also because\nhe knew he shirked his lessons, he believed that he was without anything\nwhich could deserve the name of a good quality; he was naturally bad, and\none of those for whom there was no place for repentance, though he sought\nit even with tears.  So he shrank out of sight of those whom in his\nboyish way he idolised, never for a moment suspecting that he might have\ncapacities to the full as high as theirs though of a different kind, and\nfell in more with those who were reputed of the baser sort, with whom he\ncould at any rate be upon equal terms.  Before the end of the half year\nhe had dropped from the estate to which he had been raised during his\naunt's stay at Roughborough, and his old dejection, varied, however, with\nbursts of conceit rivalling those of his mother, resumed its sway over\nhim.  \"Pontifex,\" said Dr Skinner, who had fallen upon him in hall one\nday like a moral landslip, before he had time to escape, \"do you never\nlaugh?  Do you always look so preternaturally grave?\"  The doctor had not\nmeant to be unkind, but the boy turned crimson, and escaped.\n\nThere was one place only where he was happy, and that was in the old\nchurch of St Michael, when his friend the organist was practising.  About\nthis time cheap editions of the great oratorios began to appear, and\nErnest got them all as soon as they were published; he would sometimes\nsell a school-book to a second-hand dealer, and buy a number or two of\nthe \"Messiah,\" or the \"Creation,\" or \"Elijah,\" with the proceeds.  This\nwas simply cheating his papa and mamma, but Ernest was falling low\nagain--or thought he was--and he wanted the music much, and the Sallust,\nor whatever it was, little.  Sometimes the organist would go home,\nleaving his keys with Ernest, so that he could play by himself and lock\nup the organ and the church in time to get back for calling over.  At\nother times, while his friend was playing, he would wander round the\nchurch, looking at the monuments and the old stained glass windows,\nenchanted as regards both ears and eyes, at once.  Once the old rector\ngot hold of him as he was watching a new window being put in, which the\nrector had bought in Germany--the work, it was supposed, of Albert Durer.\nHe questioned Ernest, and finding that he was fond of music, he said in\nhis old trembling voice (for he was over eighty), \"Then you should have\nknown Dr Burney who wrote the history of music.  I knew him exceedingly\nwell when I was a young man.\"  That made Ernest's heart beat, for he knew\nthat Dr Burney, when a boy at school at Chester, used to break bounds\nthat he might watch Handel smoking his pipe in the Exchange coffee\nhouse--and now he was in the presence of one who, if he had not seen\nHandel himself, had at least seen those who had seen him.\n\nThese were oases in his desert, but, as a general rule, the boy looked\nthin and pale, and as though he had a secret which depressed him, which\nno doubt he had, but for which I cannot blame him.  He rose, in spite of\nhimself, higher in the school, but fell ever into deeper and deeper\ndisgrace with the masters, and did not gain in the opinion of those boys\nabout whom he was persuaded that they could assuredly never know what it\nwas to have a secret weighing upon their minds.  This was what Ernest\nfelt so keenly; he did not much care about the boys who liked him, and\nidolised some who kept him as far as possible at a distance, but this is\npretty much the case with all boys everywhere.\n\nAt last things reached a crisis, below which they could not very well go,\nfor at the end of the half year but one after his aunt's death, Ernest\nbrought back a document in his portmanteau, which Theobald stigmatised as\n\"infamous and outrageous.\"  I need hardly say I am alluding to his school\nbill.\n\nThis document was always a source of anxiety to Ernest, for it was gone\ninto with scrupulous care, and he was a good deal cross-examined about\nit.  He would sometimes \"write in\" for articles necessary for his\neducation, such as a portfolio, or a dictionary, and sell the same, as I\nhave explained, in order to eke out his pocket money, probably to buy\neither music or tobacco.  These frauds were sometimes, as Ernest thought,\nin imminent danger of being discovered, and it was a load off his breast\nwhen the cross-examination was safely over.  This time Theobald had made\na great fuss about the extras, but had grudgingly passed them; it was\nanother matter, however, with the character and the moral statistics,\nwith which the bill concluded.\n\nThe page on which these details were to be found was as follows:\n\n   REPORT OF THE CONDUCT AND PROGRESS OF ERNEST PONTIFEX.\n   UPPER FIFTH FORM, HALF YEAR ENDING MIDSUMMER 1851\n\n   Classics--Idle, listless and unimproving.\n   Mathematics \" \" \"\n   Divinity \" \" \"\n   Conduct in house.--Orderly.\n   General Conduct--Not satisfactory, on account of his great\n   unpunctuality and inattention to duties.\n   Monthly merit money 1s. 6d. 6d. 0d. 6d.  Total 2s. 6d.\n   Number of merit marks 2 0 1 1 0 Total 4\n   Number of penal marks 26 20 25 30 25 Total 126\n   Number of extra penals 9 6 10 12 11 Total 48\n   I recommend that his pocket money be made to depend upon his merit\n   money.\n   S. SKINNER, Head-master.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\n\nErnest was thus in disgrace from the beginning of the holidays, but an\nincident soon occurred which led him into delinquencies compared with\nwhich all his previous sins were venial.\n\nAmong the servants at the Rectory was a remarkably pretty girl named\nEllen.  She came from Devonshire, and was the daughter of a fisherman who\nhad been drowned when she was a child.  Her mother set up a small shop in\nthe village where her husband had lived, and just managed to make a\nliving.  Ellen remained with her till she was fourteen, when she first\nwent out to service.  Four years later, when she was about eighteen, but\nso well grown that she might have passed for twenty, she had been\nstrongly recommended to Christina, who was then in want of a housemaid,\nand had now been at Battersby about twelve months.\n\nAs I have said the girl was remarkably pretty; she looked the perfection\nof health and good temper, indeed there was a serene expression upon her\nface which captivated almost all who saw her; she looked as if matters\nhad always gone well with her and were always going to do so, and as if\nno conceivable combination of circumstances could put her for long\ntogether out of temper either with herself or with anyone else.  Her\ncomplexion was clear, but high; her eyes were grey and beautifully\nshaped; her lips were full and restful, with something of an Egyptian\nSphinx-like character about them.  When I learned that she came from\nDevonshire I fancied I saw a strain of far away Egyptian blood in her,\nfor I had heard, though I know not what foundation there was for the\nstory, that the Egyptians made settlements on the coast of Devonshire and\nCornwall long before the Romans conquered Britain.  Her hair was a rich\nbrown, and her figure--of about the middle height--perfect, but erring if\nat all on the side of robustness.  Altogether she was one of those girls\nabout whom one is inclined to wonder how they can remain unmarried a week\nor a day longer.\n\nHer face (as indeed faces generally are, though I grant they lie\nsometimes) was a fair index to her disposition.  She was good nature\nitself, and everyone in the house, not excluding I believe even Theobald\nhimself after a fashion, was fond of her.  As for Christina she took the\nvery warmest interest in her, and used to have her into the dining-room\ntwice a week, and prepare her for confirmation (for by some accident she\nhad never been confirmed) by explaining to her the geography of Palestine\nand the routes taken by St Paul on his various journeys in Asia Minor.\n\nWhen Bishop Treadwell did actually come down to Battersby and hold a\nconfirmation there (Christina had her wish, he slept at Battersby, and\nshe had a grand dinner party for him, and called him \"My lord\" several\ntimes), he was so much struck with her pretty face and modest demeanour\nwhen he laid his hands upon her that he asked Christina about her.  When\nshe replied that Ellen was one of her own servants, the bishop seemed, so\nshe thought or chose to think, quite pleased that so pretty a girl should\nhave found so exceptionally good a situation.\n\nErnest used to get up early during the holidays so that he might play the\npiano before breakfast without disturbing his papa and mamma--or rather,\nperhaps, without being disturbed by them.  Ellen would generally be there\nsweeping the drawing-room floor and dusting while he was playing, and the\nboy, who was ready to make friends with most people, soon became very\nfond of her.  He was not as a general rule sensitive to the charms of the\nfair sex, indeed he had hardly been thrown in with any women except his\nAunts Allaby, and his Aunt Alethea, his mother, his sister Charlotte and\nMrs Jay; sometimes also he had had to take off his hat to the Miss\nSkinners, and had felt as if he should sink into the earth on doing so,\nbut his shyness had worn off with Ellen, and the pair had become fast\nfriends.\n\nPerhaps it was well that Ernest was not at home for very long together,\nbut as yet his affection though hearty was quite Platonic.  He was not\nonly innocent, but deplorably--I might even say guiltily--innocent.  His\npreference was based upon the fact that Ellen never scolded him, but was\nalways smiling and good tempered; besides she used to like to hear him\nplay, and this gave him additional zest in playing.  The morning access\nto the piano was indeed the one distinct advantage which the holidays had\nin Ernest's eyes, for at school he could not get at a piano except quasi-\nsurreptitiously at the shop of Mr Pearsall, the music-seller.\n\nOn returning this midsummer he was shocked to find his favourite looking\npale and ill.  All her good spirits had left her, the roses had fled from\nher cheek, and she seemed on the point of going into a decline.  She said\nshe was unhappy about her mother, whose health was failing, and was\nafraid she was herself not long for this world.  Christina, of course,\nnoticed the change.  \"I have often remarked,\" she said, \"that those very\nfresh-coloured, healthy-looking girls are the first to break up.  I have\ngiven her calomel and James's powders repeatedly, and though she does not\nlike it, I think I must show her to Dr Martin when he next comes here.\"\n\n\"Very well, my dear,\" said Theobald, and so next time Dr Martin came\nEllen was sent for.  Dr Martin soon discovered what would probably have\nbeen apparent to Christina herself if she had been able to conceive of\nsuch an ailment in connection with a servant who lived under the same\nroof as Theobald and herself--the purity of whose married life should\nhave preserved all unmarried people who came near them from any taint of\nmischief.\n\nWhen it was discovered that in three or four months more Ellen would\nbecome a mother, Christina's natural good nature would have prompted her\nto deal as leniently with the case as she could, if she had not been\npanic-stricken lest any mercy on her and Theobald's part should be\nconstrued into toleration, however partial, of so great a sin; hereon she\ndashed off into the conviction that the only thing to do was to pay Ellen\nher wages, and pack her off on the instant bag and baggage out of the\nhouse which purity had more especially and particularly singled out for\nits abiding city.  When she thought of the fearful contamination which\nEllen's continued presence even for a week would occasion, she could not\nhesitate.\n\nThen came the question--horrid thought!--as to who was the partner of\nEllen's guilt?  Was it, could it be, her own son, her darling Ernest?\nErnest was getting a big boy now.  She could excuse any young woman for\ntaking a fancy to him; as for himself, why she was sure he was behind no\nyoung man of his age in appreciation of the charms of a nice-looking\nyoung woman.  So long as he was innocent she did not mind this, but oh,\nif he were guilty!\n\nShe could not bear to think of it, and yet it would be mere cowardice not\nto look such a matter in the face--her hope was in the Lord, and she was\nready to bear cheerfully and make the best of any suffering He might\nthink fit to lay upon her.  That the baby must be either a boy or\ngirl--this much, at any rate, was clear.  No less clear was it that the\nchild, if a boy, would resemble Theobald, and if a girl, herself.\nResemblance, whether of body or mind, generally leaped over a generation.\nThe guilt of the parents must not be shared by the innocent offspring of\nshame--oh! no--and such a child as this would be . . . She was off in one\nof her reveries at once.\n\nThe child was in the act of being consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury\nwhen Theobald came in from a visit in the parish, and was told of the\nshocking discovery.\n\nChristina said nothing about Ernest, and I believe was more than half\nangry when the blame was laid upon other shoulders.  She was easily\nconsoled, however, and fell back on the double reflection, firstly, that\nher son was pure, and secondly, that she was quite sure he would not have\nbeen so had it not been for his religious convictions which had held him\nback--as, of course, it was only to be expected they would.\n\nTheobald agreed that no time must be lost in paying Ellen her wages and\npacking her off.  So this was done, and less than two hours after Dr\nMartin had entered the house Ellen was sitting beside John the coachman,\nwith her face muffled up so that it could not be seen, weeping bitterly\nas she was being driven to the station.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\n\nErnest had been out all the morning, but came in to the yard of the\nRectory from the spinney behind the house just as Ellen's things were\nbeing put into the carriage.  He thought it was Ellen whom he then saw\nget into the carriage, but as her face had been hidden by her\nhandkerchief he had not been able to see plainly who it was, and\ndismissed the idea as improbable.\n\nHe went to the back-kitchen window, at which the cook was standing\npeeling the potatoes for dinner, and found her crying bitterly.  Ernest\nwas much distressed, for he liked the cook, and, of course, wanted to\nknow what all the matter was, who it was that had just gone off in the\npony carriage, and why?  The cook told him it was Ellen, but said that no\nearthly power should make it cross her lips why it was she was going\naway; when, however, Ernest took her _au pied de la lettre_ and asked no\nfurther questions, she told him all about it after extorting the most\nsolemn promises of secrecy.\n\nIt took Ernest some minutes to arrive at the facts of the case, but when\nhe understood them he leaned against the pump, which stood near the back-\nkitchen window, and mingled his tears with the cook's.\n\nThen his blood began to boil within him.  He did not see that after all\nhis father and mother could have done much otherwise than they actually\ndid.  They might perhaps have been less precipitate, and tried to keep\nthe matter a little more quiet, but this would not have been easy, nor\nwould it have mended things very materially.  The bitter fact remains\nthat if a girl does certain things she must do them at her peril, no\nmatter how young and pretty she is nor to what temptation she has\nsuccumbed.  This is the way of the world, and as yet there has been no\nhelp found for it.\n\nErnest could only see what he gathered from the cook, namely, that his\nfavourite, Ellen, was being turned adrift with a matter of three pounds\nin her pocket, to go she knew not where, and to do she knew not what, and\nthat she had said she should hang or drown herself, which the boy\nimplicitly believed she would.\n\nWith greater promptitude than he had shown yet, he reckoned up his money\nand found he had two shillings and threepence at his command; there was\nhis knife which might sell for a shilling, and there was the silver watch\nhis Aunt Alethea had given him shortly before she died.  The carriage had\nbeen gone now a full quarter of an hour, and it must have got some\ndistance ahead, but he would do his best to catch it up, and there were\nshort cuts which would perhaps give him a chance.  He was off at once,\nand from the top of the hill just past the Rectory paddock he could see\nthe carriage, looking very small, on a bit of road which showed perhaps a\nmile and a half in front of him.\n\nOne of the most popular amusements at Roughborough was an institution\ncalled \"the hounds\"--more commonly known elsewhere as \"hare and hounds,\"\nbut in this case the hare was a couple of boys who were called foxes, and\nboys are so particular about correctness of nomenclature where their\nsports are concerned that I dare not say they played \"hare and hounds\";\nthese were \"the hounds,\" and that was all.  Ernest's want of muscular\nstrength did not tell against him here; there was no jostling up against\nboys who, though neither older nor taller than he, were yet more robustly\nbuilt; if it came to mere endurance he was as good as any one else, so\nwhen his carpentering was stopped he had naturally taken to \"the hounds\"\nas his favourite amusement.  His lungs thus exercised had become\ndeveloped, and as a run of six or seven miles across country was not more\nthan he was used to, he did not despair by the help of the short cuts of\novertaking the carriage, or at the worst of catching Ellen at the station\nbefore the train left.  So he ran and ran and ran till his first wind was\ngone and his second came, and he could breathe more easily.  Never with\n\"the hounds\" had he run so fast and with so few breaks as now, but with\nall his efforts and the help of the short cuts he did not catch up the\ncarriage, and would probably not have done so had not John happened to\nturn his head and seen him running and making signs for the carriage to\nstop a quarter of a mile off.  He was now about five miles from home, and\nwas nearly done up.\n\nHe was crimson with his exertion; covered with dust, and with his\ntrousers and coat sleeves a trifle short for him he cut a poor figure\nenough as he thrust on Ellen his watch, his knife, and the little money\nhe had.  The one thing he implored of her was not to do those dreadful\nthings which she threatened--for his sake if for no other reason.\n\nEllen at first would not hear of taking anything from him, but the\ncoachman, who was from the north country, sided with Ernest.  \"Take it,\nmy lass,\" he said kindly, \"take what thou canst get whiles thou canst get\nit; as for Master Ernest here--he has run well after thee; therefore let\nhim give thee what he is minded.\"\n\nEllen did what she was told, and the two parted with many tears, the\ngirl's last words being that she should never forget him, and that they\nshould meet again hereafter, she was sure they should, and then she would\nrepay him.\n\nThen Ernest got into a field by the roadside, flung himself on the grass,\nand waited under the shadow of a hedge till the carriage should pass on\nits return from the station and pick him up, for he was dead beat.\nThoughts which had already occurred to him with some force now came more\nstrongly before him, and he saw that he had got himself into one mess--or\nrather into half-a-dozen messes--the more.\n\nIn the first place he should be late for dinner, and this was one of the\noffences on which Theobald had no mercy.  Also he should have to say\nwhere he had been, and there was a danger of being found out if he did\nnot speak the truth.  Not only this, but sooner or later it must come out\nthat he was no longer possessed of the beautiful watch which his dear\naunt had given him--and what, pray, had he done with it, or how had he\nlost it?  The reader will know very well what he ought to have done.  He\nshould have gone straight home, and if questioned should have said, \"I\nhave been running after the carriage to catch our housemaid Ellen, whom I\nam very fond of; I have given her my watch, my knife and all my pocket\nmoney, so that I have now no pocket money at all and shall probably ask\nyou for some more sooner than I otherwise might have done, and you will\nalso have to buy me a new watch and a knife.\"  But then fancy the\nconsternation which such an announcement would have occasioned!  Fancy\nthe scowl and flashing eyes of the infuriated Theobald!  \"You\nunprincipled young scoundrel,\" he would exclaim, \"do you mean to vilify\nyour own parents by implying that they have dealt harshly by one whose\nprofligacy has disgraced their house?\"\n\nOr he might take it with one of those sallies of sarcastic calm, of which\nhe believed himself to be a master.\n\n\"Very well, Ernest, very well: I shall say nothing; you can please\nyourself; you are not yet twenty-one, but pray act as if you were your\nown master; your poor aunt doubtless gave you the watch that you might\nfling it away upon the first improper character you came across; I think\nI can now understand, however, why she did not leave you her money; and,\nafter all, your godfather may just as well have it as the kind of people\non whom you would lavish it if it were yours.\"\n\nThen his mother would burst into tears and implore him to repent and seek\nthe things belonging to his peace while there was yet time, by falling on\nhis knees to Theobald and assuring him of his unfailing love for him as\nthe kindest and tenderest father in the universe.  Ernest could do all\nthis just as well as they could, and now, as he lay on the grass,\nspeeches, some one or other of which was as certain to come as the sun to\nset, kept running in his head till they confuted the idea of telling the\ntruth by reducing it to an absurdity.  Truth might be heroic, but it was\nnot within the range of practical domestic politics.\n\nHaving settled then that he was to tell a lie, what lie should he tell?\nShould he say he had been robbed?  He had enough imagination to know that\nhe had not enough imagination to carry him out here.  Young as he was,\nhis instinct told him that the best liar is he who makes the smallest\namount of lying go the longest way--who husbands it too carefully to\nwaste it where it can be dispensed with.  The simplest course would be to\nsay that he had lost the watch, and was late for dinner because he had\nbeen looking for it.  He had been out for a long walk--he chose the line\nacross the fields that he had actually taken--and the weather being very\nhot, he had taken off his coat and waistcoat; in carrying them over his\narm his watch, his money, and his knife had dropped out of them.  He had\ngot nearly home when he found out his loss, and had run back as fast as\nhe could, looking along the line he had followed, till at last he had\ngiven it up; seeing the carriage coming back from the station, he had let\nit pick him up and bring him home.\n\nThis covered everything, the running and all; for his face still showed\nthat he must have been running hard; the only question was whether he had\nbeen seen about the Rectory by any but the servants for a couple of hours\nor so before Ellen had gone, and this he was happy to believe was not the\ncase; for he had been out except during his few minutes' interview with\nthe cook.  His father had been out in the parish; his mother had\ncertainly not come across him, and his brother and sister had also been\nout with the governess.  He knew he could depend upon the cook and the\nother servants--the coachman would see to this; on the whole, therefore,\nboth he and the coachman thought the story as proposed by Ernest would\nabout meet the requirements of the case.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\n\nWhen Ernest got home and sneaked in through the back door, he heard his\nfather's voice in its angriest tones, inquiring whether Master Ernest had\nalready returned.  He felt as Jack must have felt in the story of Jack\nand the Bean Stalk, when from the oven in which he was hidden he heard\nthe ogre ask his wife what young children she had got for his supper.\nWith much courage, and, as the event proved, with not less courage than\ndiscretion, he took the bull by the horns, and announced himself at once\nas having just come in after having met with a terrible misfortune.\nLittle by little he told his story, and though Theobald stormed somewhat\nat his \"incredible folly and carelessness,\" he got off better than he\nexpected.  Theobald and Christina had indeed at first been inclined to\nconnect his absence from dinner with Ellen's dismissal, but on finding it\nclear, as Theobald said--everything was always clear with Theobald--that\nErnest had not been in the house all the morning, and could therefore\nhave known nothing of what had happened, he was acquitted on this account\nfor once in a way, without a stain upon his character.  Perhaps Theobald\nwas in a good temper; he may have seen from the paper that morning that\nhis stocks had been rising; it may have been this or twenty other things,\nbut whatever it was, he did not scold so much as Ernest had expected,\nand, seeing the boy look exhausted and believing him to be much grieved\nat the loss of his watch, Theobald actually prescribed a glass of wine\nafter his dinner, which, strange to say, did not choke him, but made him\nsee things more cheerfully than was usual with him.\n\nThat night when he said his prayers, he inserted a few paragraphs to the\neffect that he might not be discovered, and that things might go well\nwith Ellen, but he was anxious and ill at ease.  His guilty conscience\npointed out to him a score of weak places in his story, through any one\nof which detection might even yet easily enter.  Next day and for many\ndays afterwards he fled when no man was pursuing, and trembled each time\nhe heard his father's voice calling for him.  He had already so many\ncauses of anxiety that he could stand little more, and in spite of all\nhis endeavours to look cheerful, even his mother could see that something\nwas preying upon his mind.  Then the idea returned to her that, after\nall, her son might not be innocent in the Ellen matter--and this was so\ninteresting that she felt bound to get as near the truth as she could.\n\n\"Come here, my poor, pale-faced, heavy-eyed boy,\" she said to him one day\nin her kindest manner; \"come and sit down by me, and we will have a\nlittle quiet confidential talk together, will we not?\"\n\nThe boy went mechanically to the sofa.  Whenever his mother wanted what\nshe called a confidential talk with him she always selected the sofa as\nthe most suitable ground on which to open her campaign.  All mothers do\nthis; the sofa is to them what the dining-room is to fathers.  In the\npresent case the sofa was particularly well adapted for a strategic\npurpose, being an old-fashioned one with a high back, mattress, bolsters\nand cushions.  Once safely penned into one of its deep corners, it was\nlike a dentist's chair, not too easy to get out of again.  Here she could\nget at him better to pull him about, if this should seem desirable, or if\nshe thought fit to cry she could bury her head in the sofa cushion and\nabandon herself to an agony of grief which seldom failed of its effect.\nNone of her favourite manoeuvres were so easily adopted in her usual\nseat, the arm-chair on the right hand side of the fireplace, and so well\ndid her son know from his mother's tone that this was going to be a sofa\nconversation that he took his place like a lamb as soon as she began to\nspeak and before she could reach the sofa herself.\n\n\"My dearest boy,\" began his mother, taking hold of his hand and placing\nit within her own, \"promise me never to be afraid either of your dear\npapa or of me; promise me this, my dear, as you love me, promise it to\nme,\" and she kissed him again and again and stroked his hair.  But with\nher other hand she still kept hold of his; she had got him and she meant\nto keep him.\n\nThe lad hung down his head and promised.  What else could he do?\n\n\"You know there is no one, dear, dear Ernest, who loves you so much as\nyour papa and I do; no one who watches so carefully over your interests\nor who is so anxious to enter into all your little joys and troubles as\nwe are; but my dearest boy, it grieves me to think sometimes that you\nhave not that perfect love for and confidence in us which you ought to\nhave.  You know, my darling, that it would be as much our pleasure as our\nduty to watch over the development of your moral and spiritual nature,\nbut alas! you will not let us see your moral and spiritual nature.  At\ntimes we are almost inclined to doubt whether you have a moral and\nspiritual nature at all.  Of your inner life, my dear, we know nothing\nbeyond such scraps as we can glean in spite of you, from little things\nwhich escape you almost before you know that you have said them.\"\n\nThe boy winced at this.  It made him feel hot and uncomfortable all over.\nHe knew well how careful he ought to be, and yet, do what he could, from\ntime to time his forgetfulness of the part betrayed him into unreserve.\nHis mother saw that he winced, and enjoyed the scratch she had given him.\nHad she felt less confident of victory she had better have foregone the\npleasure of touching as it were the eyes at the end of the snail's horns\nin order to enjoy seeing the snail draw them in again--but she knew that\nwhen she had got him well down into the sofa, and held his hand, she had\nthe enemy almost absolutely at her mercy, and could do pretty much what\nshe liked.\n\n\"Papa does not feel,\" she continued, \"that you love him with that fulness\nand unreserve which would prompt you to have no concealment from him, and\nto tell him everything freely and fearlessly as your most loving earthly\nfriend next only to your Heavenly Father.  Perfect love, as we know,\ncasteth out fear: your father loves you perfectly, my darling, but he\ndoes not feel as though you loved him perfectly in return.  If you fear\nhim it is because you do not love him as he deserves, and I know it\nsometimes cuts him to the very heart to think that he has earned from you\na deeper and more willing sympathy than you display towards him.  Oh,\nErnest, Ernest, do not grieve one who is so good and noble-hearted by\nconduct which I can call by no other name than ingratitude.\"\n\nErnest could never stand being spoken to in this way by his mother: for\nhe still believed that she loved him, and that he was fond of her and had\na friend in her--up to a certain point.  But his mother was beginning to\ncome to the end of her tether; she had played the domestic confidence\ntrick upon him times without number already.  Over and over again had she\nwheedled from him all she wanted to know, and afterwards got him into the\nmost horrible scrape by telling the whole to Theobald.  Ernest had\nremonstrated more than once upon these occasions, and had pointed out to\nhis mother how disastrous to him his confidences had been, but Christina\nhad always joined issue with him and showed him in the clearest possible\nmanner that in each case she had been right, and that he could not\nreasonably complain.  Generally it was her conscience that forbade her to\nbe silent, and against this there was no appeal, for we are all bound to\nfollow the dictates of our conscience.  Ernest used to have to recite a\nhymn about conscience.  It was to the effect that if you did not pay\nattention to its voice it would soon leave off speaking.  \"My mamma's\nconscience has not left off speaking,\" said Ernest to one of his chums at\nRoughborough; \"it's always jabbering.\"\n\nWhen a boy has once spoken so disrespectfully as this about his mother's\nconscience it is practically all over between him and her.  Ernest\nthrough sheer force of habit, of the sofa, and of the return of the\nassociated ideas, was still so moved by the siren's voice as to yearn to\nsail towards her, and fling himself into her arms, but it would not do;\nthere were other associated ideas that returned also, and the mangled\nbones of too many murdered confessions were lying whitening round the\nskirts of his mother's dress, to allow him by any possibility to trust\nher further.  So he hung his head and looked sheepish, but kept his own\ncounsel.\n\n\"I see, my dearest,\" continued his mother, \"either that I am mistaken,\nand that there is nothing on your mind, or that you will not unburden\nyourself to me: but oh, Ernest, tell me at least this much; is there\nnothing that you repent of, nothing which makes you unhappy in connection\nwith that miserable girl Ellen?\"\n\nErnest's heart failed him.  \"I am a dead boy now,\" he said to himself.  He\nhad not the faintest conception what his mother was driving at, and\nthought she suspected about the watch; but he held his ground.\n\nI do not believe he was much more of a coward than his neighbours, only\nhe did not know that all sensible people are cowards when they are off\ntheir beat, or when they think they are going to be roughly handled.  I\nbelieve, that if the truth were known, it would be found that even the\nvaliant St Michael himself tried hard to shirk his famous combat with the\ndragon; he pretended not to see all sorts of misconduct on the dragon's\npart; shut his eyes to the eating up of I do not know how many hundreds\nof men, women and children whom he had promised to protect; allowed\nhimself to be publicly insulted a dozen times over without resenting it;\nand in the end when even an angel could stand it no longer he\nshilly-shallied and temporised an unconscionable time before he would fix\nthe day and hour for the encounter.  As for the actual combat it was much\nsuch another _wurra-wurra_ as Mrs Allaby had had with the young man who\nhad in the end married her eldest daughter, till after a time behold,\nthere was the dragon lying dead, while he was himself alive and not very\nseriously hurt after all.\n\n\"I do not know what you mean, mamma,\" exclaimed Ernest anxiously and more\nor less hurriedly.  His mother construed his manner into indignation at\nbeing suspected, and being rather frightened herself she turned tail and\nscuttled off as fast as her tongue could carry her.\n\n\"Oh!\" she said, \"I see by your tone that you are innocent!  Oh! oh! how I\nthank my heavenly Father for this; may He for His dear Son's sake keep\nyou always pure.  Your father, my dear\"--(here she spoke hurriedly but\ngave him a searching look) \"was as pure as a spotless angel when he came\nto me.  Like him, always be self-denying, truly truthful both in word and\ndeed, never forgetful whose son and grandson you are, nor of the name we\ngave you, of the sacred stream in whose waters your sins were washed out\nof you through the blood and blessing of Christ,\" etc.\n\nBut Ernest cut this--I will not say short--but a great deal shorter than\nit would have been if Christina had had her say out, by extricating\nhimself from his mamma's embrace and showing a clean pair of heels.  As\nhe got near the purlieus of the kitchen (where he was more at ease) he\nheard his father calling for his mother, and again his guilty conscience\nrose against him.  \"He has found all out now,\" it cried, \"and he is going\nto tell mamma--this time I am done for.\"  But there was nothing in it;\nhis father only wanted the key of the cellaret.  Then Ernest slunk off\ninto a coppice or spinney behind the Rectory paddock, and consoled\nhimself with a pipe of tobacco.  Here in the wood with the summer sun\nstreaming through the trees and a book and his pipe the boy forgot his\ncares and had an interval of that rest without which I verily believe his\nlife would have been insupportable.\n\nOf course, Ernest was made to look for his lost property, and a reward\nwas offered for it, but it seemed he had wandered a good deal off the\npath, thinking to find a lark's nest, more than once, and looking for a\nwatch and purse on Battersby piewipes was very like looking for a needle\nin a bundle of hay: besides it might have been found and taken by some\ntramp, or by a magpie of which there were many in the neighbourhood, so\nthat after a week or ten days the search was discontinued, and the\nunpleasant fact had to be faced that Ernest must have another watch,\nanother knife, and a small sum of pocket money.\n\nIt was only right, however, that Ernest should pay half the cost of the\nwatch; this should be made easy for him, for it should be deducted from\nhis pocket money in half-yearly instalments extending over two, or even\nit might be three years.  In Ernest's own interests, then, as well as\nthose of his father and mother, it would be well that the watch should\ncost as little as possible, so it was resolved to buy a second-hand one.\nNothing was to be said to Ernest, but it was to be bought, and laid upon\nhis plate as a surprise just before the holidays were over.  Theobald\nwould have to go to the county town in a few days, and could then find\nsome second-hand watch which would answer sufficiently well.  In the\ncourse of time, therefore, Theobald went, furnished with a long list of\nhousehold commissions, among which was the purchase of a watch for\nErnest.\n\nThose, as I have said, were always happy times, when Theobald was away\nfor a whole day certain; the boy was beginning to feel easy in his mind\nas though God had heard his prayers, and he was not going to be found\nout.  Altogether the day had proved an unusually tranquil one, but, alas!\nit was not to close as it had begun; the fickle atmosphere in which he\nlived was never more likely to breed a storm than after such an interval\nof brilliant calm, and when Theobald returned Ernest had only to look in\nhis face to see that a hurricane was approaching.\n\nChristina saw that something had gone very wrong, and was quite\nfrightened lest Theobald should have heard of some serious money loss; he\ndid not, however, at once unbosom himself, but rang the bell and said to\nthe servant, \"Tell Master Ernest I wish to speak to him in the dining-\nroom.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\n\nLong before Ernest reached the dining-room his ill-divining soul had told\nhim that his sin had found him out.  What head of a family ever sends for\nany of its members into the dining-room if his intentions are honourable?\n\nWhen he reached it he found it empty--his father having been called away\nfor a few minutes unexpectedly upon some parish business--and he was left\nin the same kind of suspense as people are in after they have been\nushered into their dentist's ante-room.\n\nOf all the rooms in the house he hated the dining-room worst.  It was\nhere that he had had to do his Latin and Greek lessons with his father.\nIt had a smell of some particular kind of polish or varnish which was\nused in polishing the furniture, and neither I nor Ernest can even now\ncome within range of the smell of this kind of varnish without our hearts\nfailing us.\n\nOver the chimney-piece there was a veritable old master, one of the few\noriginal pictures which Mr George Pontifex had brought from Italy.  It\nwas supposed to be a Salvator Rosa, and had been bought as a great\nbargain.  The subject was Elijah or Elisha (whichever it was) being fed\nby the ravens in the desert.  There were the ravens in the upper right-\nhand corner with bread and meat in their beaks and claws, and there was\nthe prophet in question in the lower left-hand corner looking longingly\nup towards them.  When Ernest was a very small boy it had been a constant\nmatter of regret to him that the food which the ravens carried never\nactually reached the prophet; he did not understand the limitation of the\npainter's art, and wanted the meat and the prophet to be brought into\ndirect contact.  One day, with the help of some steps which had been left\nin the room, he had clambered up to the picture and with a piece of bread\nand butter traced a greasy line right across it from the ravens to\nElisha's mouth, after which he had felt more comfortable.\n\nErnest's mind was drifting back to this youthful escapade when he heard\nhis father's hand on the door, and in another second Theobald entered.\n\n\"Oh, Ernest,\" said he, in an off-hand, rather cheery manner, \"there's a\nlittle matter which I should like you to explain to me, as I have no\ndoubt you very easily can.\"  Thump, thump, thump, went Ernest's heart\nagainst his ribs; but his father's manner was so much nicer than usual\nthat he began to think it might be after all only another false alarm.\n\n\"It had occurred to your mother and myself that we should like to set you\nup with a watch again before you went back to school\" (\"Oh, that's all,\"\nsaid Ernest to himself quite relieved), \"and I have been to-day to look\nout for a second-hand one which should answer every purpose so long as\nyou're at school.\"\n\nTheobald spoke as if watches had half-a-dozen purposes besides\ntime-keeping, but he could hardly open his mouth without using one or\nother of his tags, and \"answering every purpose\" was one of them.\n\nErnest was breaking out into the usual expressions of gratitude, when\nTheobald continued, \"You are interrupting me,\" and Ernest's heart thumped\nagain.\n\n\"You are interrupting me, Ernest.  I have not yet done.\"  Ernest was\ninstantly dumb.\n\n\"I passed several shops with second-hand watches for sale, but I saw none\nof a description and price which pleased me, till at last I was shown one\nwhich had, so the shopman said, been left with him recently for sale, and\nwhich I at once recognised as the one which had been given you by your\nAunt Alethea.  Even if I had failed to recognise it, as perhaps I might\nhave done, I should have identified it directly it reached my hands,\ninasmuch as it had 'E. P., a present from A. P.' engraved upon the\ninside.  I need say no more to show that this was the very watch which\nyou told your mother and me that you had dropped out of your pocket.\"\n\nUp to this time Theobald's manner had been studiously calm, and his words\nhad been uttered slowly, but here he suddenly quickened and flung off the\nmask as he added the words, \"or some such cock and bull story, which your\nmother and I were too truthful to disbelieve.  You can guess what must be\nour feelings now.\"\n\nErnest felt that this last home-thrust was just.  In his less anxious\nmoments he had thought his papa and mamma \"green\" for the readiness with\nwhich they believed him, but he could not deny that their credulity was a\nproof of their habitual truthfulness of mind.  In common justice he must\nown that it was very dreadful for two such truthful people to have a son\nas untruthful as he knew himself to be.\n\n\"Believing that a son of your mother and myself would be incapable of\nfalsehood I at once assumed that some tramp had picked the watch up and\nwas now trying to dispose of it.\"\n\nThis to the best of my belief was not accurate.  Theobald's first\nassumption had been that it was Ernest who was trying to sell the watch,\nand it was an inspiration of the moment to say that his magnanimous mind\nhad at once conceived the idea of a tramp.\n\n\"You may imagine how shocked I was when I discovered that the watch had\nbeen brought for sale by that miserable woman Ellen\"--here Ernest's heart\nhardened a little, and he felt as near an approach to an instinct to turn\nas one so defenceless could be expected to feel; his father quickly\nperceived this and continued, \"who was turned out of this house in\ncircumstances which I will not pollute your ears by more particularly\ndescribing.\n\n\"I put aside the horrid conviction which was beginning to dawn upon me,\nand assumed that in the interval between her dismissal and her leaving\nthis house, she had added theft to her other sin, and having found your\nwatch in your bedroom had purloined it.  It even occurred to me that you\nmight have missed your watch after the woman was gone, and, suspecting\nwho had taken it, had run after the carriage in order to recover it; but\nwhen I told the shopman of my suspicions he assured me that the person\nwho left it with him had declared most solemnly that it had been given\nher by her master's son, whose property it was, and who had a perfect\nright to dispose of it.\n\n\"He told me further that, thinking the circumstances in which the watch\nwas offered for sale somewhat suspicious, he had insisted upon the\nwoman's telling him the whole story of how she came by it, before he\nwould consent to buy it of her.\n\n\"He said that at first--as women of that stamp invariably do--she tried\nprevarication, but on being threatened that she should at once be given\ninto custody if she did not tell the whole truth, she described the way\nin which you had run after the carriage, till as she said you were black\nin the face, and insisted on giving her all your pocket money, your knife\nand your watch.  She added that my coachman John--whom I shall instantly\ndischarge--was witness to the whole transaction.  Now, Ernest, be pleased\nto tell me whether this appalling story is true or false?\"\n\nIt never occurred to Ernest to ask his father why he did not hit a man\nhis own size, or to stop him midway in the story with a remonstrance\nagainst being kicked when he was down.  The boy was too much shocked and\nshaken to be inventive; he could only drift and stammer out that the tale\nwas true.\n\n\"So I feared,\" said Theobald, \"and now, Ernest, be good enough to ring\nthe bell.\"\n\nWhen the bell had been answered, Theobald desired that John should be\nsent for, and when John came Theobald calculated the wages due to him and\ndesired him at once to leave the house.\n\nJohn's manner was quiet and respectful.  He took his dismissal as a\nmatter of course, for Theobald had hinted enough to make him understand\nwhy he was being discharged, but when he saw Ernest sitting pale and awe-\nstruck on the edge of his chair against the dining-room wall, a sudden\nthought seemed to strike him, and turning to Theobald he said in a broad\nnorthern accent which I will not attempt to reproduce:\n\n\"Look here, master, I can guess what all this is about--now before I goes\nI want to have a word with you.\"\n\n\"Ernest,\" said Theobald, \"leave the room.\"\n\n\"No, Master Ernest, you shan't,\" said John, planting himself against the\ndoor.  \"Now, master,\" he continued, \"you may do as you please about me.\nI've been a good servant to you, and I don't mean to say as you've been a\nbad master to me, but I do say that if you bear hardly on Master Ernest\nhere I have those in the village as 'll hear on't and let me know; and if\nI do hear on't I'll come back and break every bone in your skin, so\nthere!\"\n\nJohn's breath came and went quickly, as though he would have been well\nenough pleased to begin the bone-breaking business at once.  Theobald\nturned of an ashen colour--not, as he explained afterwards, at the idle\nthreats of a detected and angry ruffian, but at such atrocious insolence\nfrom one of his own servants.\n\n\"I shall leave Master Ernest, John,\" he rejoined proudly, \"to the\nreproaches of his own conscience.\"  (\"Thank God and thank John,\" thought\nErnest.)  \"As for yourself, I admit that you have been an excellent\nservant until this unfortunate business came on, and I shall have much\npleasure in giving you a character if you want one.  Have you anything\nmore to say?\"\n\n\"No more nor what I have said,\" said John sullenly, \"but what I've said I\nmeans and I'll stick to--character or no character.\"\n\n\"Oh, you need not be afraid about your character, John,\" said Theobald\nkindly, \"and as it is getting late, there can be no occasion for you to\nleave the house before to-morrow morning.\"\n\nTo this there was no reply from John, who retired, packed up his things,\nand left the house at once.\n\nWhen Christina heard what had happened she said she could condone all\nexcept that Theobald should have been subjected to such insolence from\none of his own servants through the misconduct of his son.  Theobald was\nthe bravest man in the whole world, and could easily have collared the\nwretch and turned him out of the room, but how far more dignified, how\nfar nobler had been his reply!  How it would tell in a novel or upon the\nstage, for though the stage as a whole was immoral, yet there were\ndoubtless some plays which were improving spectacles.  She could fancy\nthe whole house hushed with excitement at hearing John's menace, and\nhardly breathing by reason of their interest and expectation of the\ncoming answer.  Then the actor--probably the great and good Mr\nMacready--would say, \"I shall leave Master Ernest, John, to the\nreproaches of his own conscience.\"  Oh, it was sublime!  What a roar of\napplause must follow!  Then she should enter herself, and fling her arms\nabout her husband's neck, and call him her lion-hearted husband.  When\nthe curtain dropped, it would be buzzed about the house that the scene\njust witnessed had been drawn from real life, and had actually occurred\nin the household of the Rev. Theobald Pontifex, who had married a Miss\nAllaby, etc., etc.\n\nAs regards Ernest the suspicions which had already crossed her mind were\ndeepened, but she thought it better to leave the matter where it was.  At\npresent she was in a very strong position.  Ernest's official purity was\nfirmly established, but at the same time he had shown himself so\nsusceptible that she was able to fuse two contradictory impressions\nconcerning him into a single idea, and consider him as a kind of Joseph\nand Don Juan in one.  This was what she had wanted all along, but her\nvanity being gratified by the possession of such a son, there was an end\nof it; the son himself was naught.\n\nNo doubt if John had not interfered, Ernest would have had to expiate his\noffence with ache, penury and imprisonment.  As it was the boy was \"to\nconsider himself\" as undergoing these punishments, and as suffering pangs\nof unavailing remorse inflicted on him by his conscience into the\nbargain; but beyond the fact that Theobald kept him more closely to his\nholiday task, and the continued coldness of his parents, no ostensible\npunishment was meted out to him.  Ernest, however, tells me that he looks\nback upon this as the time when he began to know that he had a cordial\nand active dislike for both his parents, which I suppose means that he\nwas now beginning to be aware that he was reaching man's estate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\n\nAbout a week before he went back to school his father again sent for him\ninto the dining-room, and told him that he should restore him his watch,\nbut that he should deduct the sum he had paid for it--for he had thought\nit better to pay a few shillings rather than dispute the ownership of the\nwatch, seeing that Ernest had undoubtedly given it to Ellen--from his\npocket money, in payments which should extend over two half years.  He\nwould therefore have to go back to Roughborough this half year with only\nfive shillings' pocket money.  If he wanted more he must earn more merit\nmoney.\n\nErnest was not so careful about money as a pattern boy should be.  He did\nnot say to himself, \"Now I have got a sovereign which must last me\nfifteen weeks, therefore I may spend exactly one shilling and fourpence\nin each week\"--and spend exactly one and fourpence in each week\naccordingly.  He ran through his money at about the same rate as other\nboys did, being pretty well cleaned out a few days after he had got back\nto school.  When he had no more money, he got a little into debt, and\nwhen as far in debt as he could see his way to repaying, he went without\nluxuries.  Immediately he got any money he would pay his debts; if there\nwas any over he would spend it; if there was not--and there seldom was--he\nwould begin to go on tick again.\n\nHis finance was always based upon the supposition that he should go back\nto school with 1 pound in his pocket--of which he owed say a matter of\nfifteen shillings.  There would be five shillings for sundry school\nsubscriptions--but when these were paid the weekly allowance of sixpence\ngiven to each boy in hall, his merit money (which this half he was\nresolved should come to a good sum) and renewed credit, would carry him\nthrough the half.\n\nThe sudden failure of 15/- was disastrous to my hero's scheme of finance.\nHis face betrayed his emotions so clearly that Theobald said he was\ndetermined \"to learn the truth at once, and _this time_ without days and\ndays of falsehood\" before he reached it.  The melancholy fact was not\nlong in coming out, namely, that the wretched Ernest added debt to the\nvices of idleness, falsehood and possibly--for it was not\nimpossible--immorality.\n\nHow had he come to get into debt?  Did the other boys do so?  Ernest\nreluctantly admitted that they did.\n\nWith what shops did they get into debt?\n\nThis was asking too much, Ernest said he didn't know!\n\n\"Oh, Ernest, Ernest,\" exclaimed his mother, who was in the room, \"do not\nso soon a second time presume upon the forbearance of the\ntenderest-hearted father in the world.  Give time for one stab to heal\nbefore you wound him with another.\"\n\nThis was all very fine, but what was Ernest to do?  How could he get the\nschool shop-keepers into trouble by owning that they let some of the boys\ngo on tick with them?  There was Mrs Cross, a good old soul, who used to\nsell hot rolls and butter for breakfast, or eggs and toast, or it might\nbe the quarter of a fowl with bread sauce and mashed potatoes for which\nshe would charge 6d.  If she made a farthing out of the sixpence it was\nas much as she did.  When the boys would come trooping into her shop\nafter \"the hounds\" how often had not Ernest heard her say to her servant\ngirls, \"Now then, you wanches, git some cheers.\"  All the boys were fond\nof her, and was he, Ernest, to tell tales about her?  It was horrible.\n\n\"Now look here, Ernest,\" said his father with his blackest scowl, \"I am\ngoing to put a stop to this nonsense once for all.  Either take me fully\ninto your confidence, as a son should take a father, and trust me to deal\nwith this matter as a clergyman and a man of the world--or understand\ndistinctly that I shall take the whole story to Dr Skinner, who, I\nimagine, will take much sterner measures than I should.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ernest, Ernest,\" sobbed Christina, \"be wise in time, and trust those\nwho have already shown you that they know but too well how to be\nforbearing.\"\n\nNo genuine hero of romance should have hesitated for a moment.  Nothing\nshould have cajoled or frightened him into telling tales out of school.\nErnest thought of his ideal boys: they, he well knew, would have let\ntheir tongues be cut out of them before information could have been wrung\nfrom any word of theirs.  But Ernest was not an ideal boy, and he was not\nstrong enough for his surroundings; I doubt how far any boy could\nwithstand the moral pressure which was brought to bear upon him; at any\nrate he could not do so, and after a little more writhing he yielded\nhimself a passive prey to the enemy.  He consoled himself with the\nreflection that his papa had not played the confidence trick on him quite\nas often as his mamma had, and that probably it was better he should tell\nhis father, than that his father should insist on Dr Skinner's making an\ninquiry.  His papa's conscience \"jabbered\" a good deal, but not as much\nas his mamma's.  The little fool forgot that he had not given his father\nas many chances of betraying him as he had given to Christina.\n\nThen it all came out.  He owed this at Mrs Cross's, and this to Mrs\nJones, and this at the \"Swan and Bottle\" public house, to say nothing of\nanother shilling or sixpence or two in other quarters.  Nevertheless,\nTheobald and Christina were not satiated, but rather the more they\ndiscovered the greater grew their appetite for discovery; it was their\nobvious duty to find out everything, for though they might rescue their\nown darling from this hotbed of iniquity without getting to know more\nthan they knew at present, were there not other papas and mammas with\ndarlings whom also they were bound to rescue if it were yet possible?\nWhat boys, then, owed money to these harpies as well as Ernest?\n\nHere, again, there was a feeble show of resistance, but the thumbscrews\nwere instantly applied, and Ernest, demoralised as he already was,\nrecanted and submitted himself to the powers that were.  He told only a\nlittle less than he knew or thought he knew.  He was examined,\nre-examined, cross-examined, sent to the retirement of his own bedroom\nand cross-examined again; the smoking in Mrs Jones' kitchen all came out;\nwhich boys smoked and which did not; which boys owed money and, roughly,\nhow much and where; which boys swore and used bad language.  Theobald was\nresolved that this time Ernest should, as he called it, take him into his\nconfidence without reserve, so the school list which went with Dr\nSkinner's half-yearly bills was brought out, and the most secret\ncharacter of each boy was gone through _seriatim_ by Mr and Mrs Pontifex,\nso far as it was in Ernest's power to give information concerning it, and\nyet Theobald had on the preceding Sunday preached a less feeble sermon\nthan he commonly preached, upon the horrors of the Inquisition.  No\nmatter how awful was the depravity revealed to them, the pair never\nflinched, but probed and probed, till they were on the point of reaching\nsubjects more delicate than they had yet touched upon.  Here Ernest's\nunconscious self took the matter up and made a resistance to which his\nconscious self was unequal, by tumbling him off his chair in a fit of\nfainting.\n\nDr Martin was sent for and pronounced the boy to be seriously unwell; at\nthe same time he prescribed absolute rest and absence from nervous\nexcitement.  So the anxious parents were unwillingly compelled to be\ncontent with what they had got already--being frightened into leading him\na quiet life for the short remainder of the holidays.  They were not\nidle, but Satan can find as much mischief for busy hands as for idle\nones, so he sent a little job in the direction of Battersby which\nTheobald and Christina undertook immediately.  It would be a pity, they\nreasoned, that Ernest should leave Roughborough, now that he had been\nthere three years; it would be difficult to find another school for him,\nand to explain why he had left Roughborough.  Besides, Dr Skinner and\nTheobald were supposed to be old friends, and it would be unpleasant to\noffend him; these were all valid reasons for not removing the boy.  The\nproper thing to do, then, would be to warn Dr Skinner confidentially of\nthe state of his school, and to furnish him with a school list annotated\nwith the remarks extracted from Ernest, which should be appended to the\nname of each boy.\n\nTheobald was the perfection of neatness; while his son was ill upstairs,\nhe copied out the school list so that he could throw his comments into a\ntabular form, which assumed the following shape--only that of course I\nhave changed the names.  One cross in each square was to indicate\noccasional offence; two stood for frequent, and three for habitual\ndelinquency.\n\n          Smoking     Drinking beer    Swearing      Notes\n                      at the \"Swan     and Obscene\n                      and Bottle.\"     Language.\nSmith        O            O              XX          Will smoke\n                                                     next half\nBrown       XXX           O               X\nJones        X            XX              XXX\nRobinson    XX            XX              X\n\nAnd thus through the whole school.\n\nOf course, in justice to Ernest, Dr Skinner would be bound over to\nsecrecy before a word was said to him, but, Ernest being thus protected,\nhe could not be furnished with the facts too completely.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\n\nSo important did Theobald consider this matter that he made a special\njourney to Roughborough before the half year began.  It was a relief to\nhave him out of the house, but though his destination was not mentioned,\nErnest guessed where he had gone.\n\nTo this day he considers his conduct at this crisis to have been one of\nthe most serious laches of his life--one which he can never think of\nwithout shame and indignation.  He says he ought to have run away from\nhome.  But what good could he have done if he had?  He would have been\ncaught, brought back and examined two days later instead of two days\nearlier.  A boy of barely sixteen cannot stand against the moral pressure\nof a father and mother who have always oppressed him any more than he can\ncope physically with a powerful full-grown man.  True, he may allow\nhimself to be killed rather than yield, but this is being so morbidly\nheroic as to come close round again to cowardice; for it is little else\nthan suicide, which is universally condemned as cowardly.\n\nOn the re-assembling of the school it became apparent that something had\ngone wrong.  Dr Skinner called the boys together, and with much pomp\nexcommunicated Mrs Cross and Mrs Jones, by declaring their shops to be\nout of bounds.  The street in which the \"Swan and Bottle\" stood was also\nforbidden.  The vices of drinking and smoking, therefore, were clearly\naimed at, and before prayers Dr Skinner spoke a few impressive words\nabout the abominable sin of using bad language.  Ernest's feelings can be\nimagined.\n\nNext day at the hour when the daily punishments were read out, though\nthere had not yet been time for him to have offended, Ernest Pontifex was\ndeclared to have incurred every punishment which the school provided for\nevil-doers.  He was placed on the idle list for the whole half year, and\non perpetual detentions; his bounds were curtailed; he was to attend\njunior callings-over; in fact he was so hemmed in with punishments upon\nevery side that it was hardly possible for him to go outside the school\ngates.  This unparalleled list of punishments inflicted on the first day\nof the half year, and intended to last till the ensuing Christmas\nholidays, was not connected with any specified offence.  It required no\ngreat penetration therefore, on the part of the boys to connect Ernest\nwith the putting Mrs Cross's and Mrs Jones's shops out of bounds.\n\nGreat indeed was the indignation about Mrs Cross who, it was known,\nremembered Dr Skinner himself as a small boy only just got into jackets,\nand had doubtless let him have many a sausage and mashed potatoes upon\ndeferred payment.  The head boys assembled in conclave to consider what\nsteps should be taken, but hardly had they done so before Ernest knocked\ntimidly at the head-room door and took the bull by the horns by\nexplaining the facts as far as he could bring himself to do so.  He made\na clean breast of everything except about the school list and the remarks\nhe had made about each boy's character.  This infamy was more than he\ncould own to, and he kept his counsel concerning it.  Fortunately he was\nsafe in doing so, for Dr Skinner, pedant and more than pedant though he\nwas, had still just sense enough to turn on Theobald in the matter of the\nschool list.  Whether he resented being told that he did not know the\ncharacters of his own boys, or whether he dreaded a scandal about the\nschool I know not, but when Theobald had handed him the list, over which\nhe had expended so much pains, Dr Skinner had cut him uncommonly short,\nand had then and there, with more suavity than was usual with him,\ncommitted it to the flames before Theobald's own eyes.\n\nErnest got off with the head boys easier than he expected.  It was\nadmitted that the offence, heinous though it was, had been committed\nunder extenuating circumstances; the frankness with which the culprit had\nconfessed all, his evidently unfeigned remorse, and the fury with which\nDr Skinner was pursuing him tended to bring about a reaction in his\nfavour, as though he had been more sinned against than sinning.\n\nAs the half year wore on his spirits gradually revived, and when attacked\nby one of his fits of self-abasement he was in some degree consoled by\nhaving found out that even his father and mother, whom he had supposed so\nimmaculate, were no better than they should be.  About the fifth of\nNovember it was a school custom to meet on a certain common not far from\nRoughborough and burn somebody in effigy, this being the compromise\narrived at in the matter of fireworks and Guy Fawkes festivities.  This\nyear it was decided that Pontifex's governor should be the victim, and\nErnest though a good deal exercised in mind as to what he ought to do, in\nthe end saw no sufficient reason for holding aloof from proceedings\nwhich, as he justly remarked, could not do his father any harm.\n\nIt so happened that the bishop had held a confirmation at the school on\nthe fifth of November.  Dr Skinner had not quite liked the selection of\nthis day, but the bishop was pressed by many engagements, and had been\ncompelled to make the arrangement as it then stood.  Ernest was among\nthose who had to be confirmed, and was deeply impressed with the solemn\nimportance of the ceremony.  When he felt the huge old bishop drawing\ndown upon him as he knelt in chapel he could hardly breathe, and when the\napparition paused before him and laid its hands upon his head he was\nfrightened almost out of his wits.  He felt that he had arrived at one of\nthe great turning points of his life, and that the Ernest of the future\ncould resemble only very faintly the Ernest of the past.\n\nThis happened at about noon, but by the one o'clock dinner-hour the\neffect of the confirmation had worn off, and he saw no reason why he\nshould forego his annual amusement with the bonfire; so he went with the\nothers and was very valiant till the image was actually produced and was\nabout to be burnt; then he felt a little frightened.  It was a poor thing\nenough, made of paper, calico and straw, but they had christened it The\nRev. Theobald Pontifex, and he had a revulsion of feeling as he saw it\nbeing carried towards the bonfire.  Still he held his ground, and in a\nfew minutes when all was over felt none the worse for having assisted at\na ceremony which, after all, was prompted by a boyish love of mischief\nrather than by rancour.\n\nI should say that Ernest had written to his father, and told him of the\nunprecedented way in which he was being treated; he even ventured to\nsuggest that Theobald should interfere for his protection and reminded\nhim how the story had been got out of him, but Theobald had had enough of\nDr Skinner for the present; the burning of the school list had been a\nrebuff which did not encourage him to meddle a second time in the\ninternal economics of Roughborough.  He therefore replied that he must\neither remove Ernest from Roughborough altogether, which would for many\nreasons be undesirable, or trust to the discretion of the head master as\nregards the treatment he might think best for any of his pupils.  Ernest\nsaid no more; he still felt that it was so discreditable to him to have\nallowed any confession to be wrung from him, that he could not press the\npromised amnesty for himself.\n\nIt was during the \"Mother Cross row,\" as it was long styled among the\nboys, that a remarkable phenomenon was witnessed at Roughborough.  I mean\nthat of the head boys under certain conditions doing errands for their\njuniors.  The head boys had no bounds and could go to Mrs Cross's\nwhenever they liked; they actually, therefore, made themselves\ngo-betweens, and would get anything from either Mrs Cross's or Mrs\nJones's for any boy, no matter how low in the school, between the hours\nof a quarter to nine and nine in the morning, and a quarter to six and\nsix in the afternoon.  By degrees, however, the boys grew bolder, and the\nshops, though not openly declared in bounds again, were tacitly allowed\nto be so.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\n\nI may spare the reader more details about my hero's school days.  He\nrose, always in spite of himself, into the Doctor's form, and for the\nlast two years or so of his time was among the praepostors, though he\nnever rose into the upper half of them.  He did little, and I think the\nDoctor rather gave him up as a boy whom he had better leave to himself,\nfor he rarely made him construe, and he used to send in his exercises or\nnot, pretty much as he liked.  His tacit, unconscious obstinacy had in\ntime effected more even than a few bold sallies in the first instance\nwould have done.  To the end of his career his position _inter pares_ was\nwhat it had been at the beginning, namely, among the upper part of the\nless reputable class--whether of seniors or juniors--rather than among\nthe lower part of the more respectable.\n\nOnly once in the whole course of his school life did he get praise from\nDr Skinner for any exercise, and this he has treasured as the best\nexample of guarded approval which he has ever seen.  He had had to write\na copy of Alcaics on \"The dogs of the monks of St Bernard,\" and when the\nexercise was returned to him he found the Doctor had written on it: \"In\nthis copy of Alcaics--which is still excessively bad--I fancy that I can\ndiscern some faint symptoms of improvement.\"  Ernest says that if the\nexercise was any better than usual it must have been by a fluke, for he\nis sure that he always liked dogs, especially St Bernard dogs, far too\nmuch to take any pleasure in writing Alcaics about them.\n\n\"As I look back upon it,\" he said to me but the other day, with a hearty\nlaugh, \"I respect myself more for having never once got the best mark for\nan exercise than I should do if I had got it every time it could be got.\nI am glad nothing could make me do Latin and Greek verses; I am glad\nSkinner could never get any moral influence over me; I am glad I was idle\nat school, and I am glad my father overtasked me as a boy--otherwise,\nlikely enough I should have acquiesced in the swindle, and might have\nwritten as good a copy of Alcaics about the dogs of the monks of St\nBernard as my neighbours, and yet I don't know, for I remember there was\nanother boy, who sent in a Latin copy of some sort, but for his own\npleasure he wrote the following--\n\n   The dogs of the monks of St Bernard go\n   To pick little children out of the snow,\n   And around their necks is the cordial gin\n   Tied with a little bit of bob-bin.\n\nI should like to have written that, and I did try, but I couldn't.  I\ndidn't quite like the last line, and tried to mend it, but I couldn't.\"\n\nI fancied I could see traces of bitterness against the instructors of his\nyouth in Ernest's manner, and said something to this effect.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he replied, still laughing, \"no more than St Anthony felt\ntowards the devils who had tempted him, when he met some of them casually\na hundred or a couple of hundred years afterwards.  Of course he knew\nthey were devils, but that was all right enough; there must be devils.  St\nAnthony probably liked these devils better than most others, and for old\nacquaintance sake showed them as much indulgence as was compatible with\ndecorum.\n\n\"Besides, you know,\" he added, \"St Anthony tempted the devils quite as\nmuch as they tempted him; for his peculiar sanctity was a greater\ntemptation to tempt him than they could stand.  Strictly speaking, it was\nthe devils who were the more to be pitied, for they were led up by St\nAnthony to be tempted and fell, whereas St Anthony did not fall.  I\nbelieve I was a disagreeable and unintelligible boy, and if ever I meet\nSkinner there is no one whom I would shake hands with, or do a good turn\nto more readily.\"\n\nAt home things went on rather better; the Ellen and Mother Cross rows\nsank slowly down upon the horizon, and even at home he had quieter times\nnow that he had become a praepostor.  Nevertheless the watchful eye and\nprotecting hand were still ever over him to guard his comings in and his\ngoings out, and to spy out all his ways.  Is it wonderful that the boy,\nthough always trying to keep up appearances as though he were cheerful\nand contented--and at times actually being so--wore often an anxious,\njaded look when he thought none were looking, which told of an almost\nincessant conflict within?\n\nDoubtless Theobald saw these looks and knew how to interpret them, but it\nwas his profession to know how to shut his eyes to things that were\ninconvenient--no clergyman could keep his benefice for a month if he\ncould not do this; besides he had allowed himself for so many years to\nsay things he ought not to have said, and not to say the things he ought\nto have said, that he was little likely to see anything that he thought\nit more convenient not to see unless he was made to do so.\n\nIt was not much that was wanted.  To make no mysteries where Nature has\nmade none, to bring his conscience under something like reasonable\ncontrol, to give Ernest his head a little more, to ask fewer questions,\nand to give him pocket money with a desire that it should be spent upon\n_menus plaisirs_ . . .\n\n\"Call that not much indeed,\" laughed Ernest, as I read him what I have\njust written.  \"Why it is the whole duty of a father, but it is the\nmystery-making which is the worst evil.  If people would dare to speak to\none another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the\nworld a hundred years hence.\"\n\nTo return, however, to Roughborough.  On the day of his leaving, when he\nwas sent for into the library to be shaken hands with, he was surprised\nto feel that, though assuredly glad to leave, he did not do so with any\nespecial grudge against the Doctor rankling in his breast.  He had come\nto the end of it all, and was still alive, nor, take it all round, more\nseriously amiss than other people.  Dr Skinner received him graciously,\nand was even frolicsome after his own heavy fashion.  Young people are\nalmost always placable, and Ernest felt as he went away that another such\ninterview would not only have wiped off all old scores, but have brought\nhim round into the ranks of the Doctor's admirers and supporters--among\nwhom it is only fair to say that the greater number of the more promising\nboys were found.\n\nJust before saying good-bye the Doctor actually took down a volume from\nthose shelves which had seemed so awful six years previously, and gave it\nto him after having written his name in it, and the words [Greek text],\nwhich I believe means \"with all kind wishes from the donor.\"  The book\nwas one written in Latin by a German--Schomann: \"De comitiis\nAtheniensibus\"--not exactly light and cheerful reading, but Ernest felt\nit was high time he got to understand the Athenian constitution and\nmanner of voting; he had got them up a great many times already, but had\nforgotten them as fast as he had learned them; now, however, that the\nDoctor had given him this book, he would master the subject once for all.\nHow strange it was!  He wanted to remember these things very badly; he\nknew he did, but he could never retain them; in spite of himself they no\nsooner fell upon his mind than they fell off it again, he had such a\ndreadful memory; whereas, if anyone played him a piece of music and told\nhim where it came from, he never forgot that, though he made no effort to\nretain it, and was not even conscious of trying to remember it at all.\nHis mind must be badly formed and he was no good.\n\nHaving still a short time to spare, he got the keys of St Michael's\nchurch and went to have a farewell practice upon the organ, which he\ncould now play fairly well.  He walked up and down the aisle for a while\nin a meditative mood, and then, settling down to the organ, played \"They\nloathed to drink of the river\" about six times over, after which he felt\nmore composed and happier; then, tearing himself away from the instrument\nhe loved so well, he hurried to the station.\n\nAs the train drew out he looked down from a high embankment on to the\nlittle house his aunt had taken, and where it might be said she had died\nthrough her desire to do him a kindness.  There were the two well-known\nbow windows, out of which he had often stepped to run across the lawn\ninto the workshop.  He reproached himself with the little gratitude he\nhad shown towards this kind lady--the only one of his relations whom he\nhad ever felt as though he could have taken into his confidence.  Dearly\nas he loved her memory, he was glad she had not known the scrapes he had\ngot into since she died; perhaps she might not have forgiven them--and\nhow awful that would have been!  But then, if she had lived, perhaps many\nof his ills would have been spared him.  As he mused thus he grew sad\nagain.  Where, where, he asked himself, was it all to end?  Was it to be\nalways sin, shame and sorrow in the future, as it had been in the past,\nand the ever-watchful eye and protecting hand of his father laying\nburdens on him greater than he could bear--or was he, too, some day or\nanother to come to feel that he was fairly well and happy?\n\nThere was a gray mist across the sun, so that the eye could bear its\nlight, and Ernest, while musing as above, was looking right into the\nmiddle of the sun himself, as into the face of one whom he knew and was\nfond of.  At first his face was grave, but kindly, as of a tired man who\nfeels that a long task is over; but in a few seconds the more humorous\nside of his misfortunes presented itself to him, and he smiled half\nreproachfully, half merrily, as thinking how little all that had happened\nto him really mattered, and how small were his hardships as compared with\nthose of most people.  Still looking into the eye of the sun and smiling\ndreamily, he thought how he had helped to burn his father in effigy, and\nhis look grew merrier, till at last he broke out into a laugh.  Exactly\nat this moment the light veil of cloud parted from the sun, and he was\nbrought to _terra firma_ by the breaking forth of the sunshine.  On this\nhe became aware that he was being watched attentively by a\nfellow-traveller opposite to him, an elderly gentleman with a large head\nand iron-grey hair.\n\n\"My young friend,\" said he, good-naturedly, \"you really must not carry on\nconversations with people in the sun, while you are in a public railway\ncarriage.\"\n\nThe old gentleman said not another word, but unfolded his _Times_ and\nbegan to read it.  As for Ernest, he blushed crimson.  The pair did not\nspeak during the rest of the time they were in the carriage, but they\neyed each other from time to time, so that the face of each was impressed\non the recollection of the other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\n\nSome people say that their school days were the happiest of their lives.\nThey may be right, but I always look with suspicion upon those whom I\nhear saying this.  It is hard enough to know whether one is happy or\nunhappy now, and still harder to compare the relative happiness or\nunhappiness of different times of one's life; the utmost that can be said\nis that we are fairly happy so long as we are not distinctly aware of\nbeing miserable.  As I was talking with Ernest one day not so long since\nabout this, he said he was so happy now that he was sure he had never\nbeen happier, and did not wish to be so, but that Cambridge was the first\nplace where he had ever been consciously and continuously happy.\n\nHow can any boy fail to feel an ecstasy of pleasure on first finding\nhimself in rooms which he knows for the next few years are to be his\ncastle?  Here he will not be compelled to turn out of the most\ncomfortable place as soon as he has ensconced himself in it because papa\nor mamma happens to come into the room, and he should give it up to them.\nThe most cosy chair here is for himself, there is no one even to share\nthe room with him, or to interfere with his doing as he likes in\nit--smoking included.  Why, if such a room looked out both back and front\non to a blank dead wall it would still be a paradise, how much more then\nwhen the view is of some quiet grassy court or cloister or garden, as\nfrom the windows of the greater number of rooms at Oxford and Cambridge.\n\nTheobald, as an old fellow and tutor of Emmanuel--at which college he had\nentered Ernest--was able to obtain from the present tutor a certain\npreference in the choice of rooms; Ernest's, therefore, were very\npleasant ones, looking out upon the grassy court that is bounded by the\nFellows' gardens.\n\nTheobald accompanied him to Cambridge, and was at his best while doing\nso.  He liked the jaunt, and even he was not without a certain feeling of\npride in having a full-blown son at the University.  Some of the\nreflected rays of this splendour were allowed to fall upon Ernest\nhimself.  Theobald said he was \"willing to hope\"--this was one of his\ntags--that his son would turn over a new leaf now that he had left\nschool, and for his own part he was \"only too ready\"--this was another\ntag--to let bygones be bygones.\n\nErnest, not yet having his name on the books, was able to dine with his\nfather at the Fellows' table of one of the other colleges on the\ninvitation of an old friend of Theobald's; he there made acquaintance\nwith sundry of the good things of this life, the very names of which were\nnew to him, and felt as he ate them that he was now indeed receiving a\nliberal education.  When at length the time came for him to go to\nEmmanuel, where he was to sleep in his new rooms, his father came with\nhim to the gates and saw him safe into college; a few minutes more and he\nfound himself alone in a room for which he had a latch-key.\n\nFrom this time he dated many days which, if not quite unclouded, were\nupon the whole very happy ones.  I need not however describe them, as the\nlife of a quiet steady-going undergraduate has been told in a score of\nnovels better than I can tell it.  Some of Ernest's schoolfellows came up\nto Cambridge at the same time as himself, and with these he continued on\nfriendly terms during the whole of his college career.  Other\nschoolfellows were only a year or two his seniors; these called on him,\nand he thus made a sufficiently favourable _entree_ into college life.  A\nstraightforwardness of character that was stamped upon his face, a love\nof humour, and a temper which was more easily appeased than ruffled made\nup for some awkwardness and want of _savoir faire_.  He soon became a not\nunpopular member of the best set of his year, and though neither capable\nof becoming, nor aspiring to become, a leader, was admitted by the\nleaders as among their nearer hangers-on.\n\nOf ambition he had at that time not one particle; greatness, or indeed\nsuperiority of any kind, seemed so far off and incomprehensible to him\nthat the idea of connecting it with himself never crossed his mind.  If\nhe could escape the notice of all those with whom he did not feel himself\n_en rapport_, he conceived that he had triumphed sufficiently.  He did\nnot care about taking a good degree, except that it must be good enough\nto keep his father and mother quiet.  He did not dream of being able to\nget a fellowship; if he had, he would have tried hard to do so, for he\nbecame so fond of Cambridge that he could not bear the thought of having\nto leave it; the briefness indeed of the season during which his present\nhappiness was to last was almost the only thing that now seriously\ntroubled him.\n\nHaving less to attend to in the matter of growing, and having got his\nhead more free, he took to reading fairly well--not because he liked it,\nbut because he was told he ought to do so, and his natural instinct, like\nthat of all very young men who are good for anything, was to do as those\nin authority told him.  The intention at Battersby was (for Dr Skinner\nhad said that Ernest could never get a fellowship) that he should take a\nsufficiently good degree to be able to get a tutorship or mastership in\nsome school preparatory to taking orders.  When he was twenty-one years\nold his money was to come into his own hands, and the best thing he could\ndo with it would be to buy the next presentation to a living, the rector\nof which was now old, and live on his mastership or tutorship till the\nliving fell in.  He could buy a very good living for the sum which his\ngrandfather's legacy now amounted to, for Theobald had never had any\nserious intention of making deductions for his son's maintenance and\neducation, and the money had accumulated till it was now about five\nthousand pounds; he had only talked about making deductions in order to\nstimulate the boy to exertion as far as possible, by making him think\nthat this was his only chance of escaping starvation--or perhaps from\npure love of teasing.\n\nWhen Ernest had a living of 600 or 700 pounds a year with a house, and\nnot too many parishioners--why, he might add to his income by taking\npupils, or even keeping a school, and then, say at thirty, he might\nmarry.  It was not easy for Theobald to hit on any much more sensible\nplan.  He could not get Ernest into business, for he had no business\nconnections--besides he did not know what business meant; he had no\ninterest, again, at the Bar; medicine was a profession which subjected\nits students to ordeals and temptations which these fond parents shrank\nfrom on behalf of their boy; he would be thrown among companions and\nfamiliarised with details which might sully him, and though he might\nstand, it was \"only too possible\" that he would fall.  Besides,\nordination was the road which Theobald knew and understood, and indeed\nthe only road about which he knew anything at all, so not unnaturally it\nwas the one he chose for Ernest.\n\nThe foregoing had been instilled into my hero from earliest boyhood, much\nas it had been instilled into Theobald himself, and with the same\nresult--the conviction, namely, that he was certainly to be a clergyman,\nbut that it was a long way off yet, and he supposed it was all right.  As\nfor the duty of reading hard, and taking as good a degree as he could,\nthis was plain enough, so he set himself to work, as I have said,\nsteadily, and to the surprise of everyone as well as himself got a\ncollege scholarship, of no great value, but still a scholarship, in his\nfreshman's term.  It is hardly necessary to say that Theobald stuck to\nthe whole of this money, believing the pocket-money he allowed Ernest to\nbe sufficient for him, and knowing how dangerous it was for young men to\nhave money at command.  I do not suppose it even occurred to him to try\nand remember what he had felt when his father took a like course in\nregard to himself.\n\nErnest's position in this respect was much what it had been at school\nexcept that things were on a larger scale.  His tutor's and cook's bills\nwere paid for him; his father sent him his wine; over and above this he\nhad 50 pounds a year with which to keep himself in clothes and all other\nexpenses; this was about the usual thing at Emmanuel in Ernest's day,\nthough many had much less than this.  Ernest did as he had done at\nschool--he spent what he could, soon after he received his money; he then\nincurred a few modest liabilities, and then lived penuriously till next\nterm, when he would immediately pay his debts, and start new ones to much\nthe same extent as those which he had just got rid of.  When he came into\nhis 5000 pounds and became independent of his father, 15 or 20 pounds\nserved to cover the whole of his unauthorised expenditure.\n\nHe joined the boat club, and was constant in his attendance at the boats.\nHe still smoked, but never took more wine or beer than was good for him,\nexcept perhaps on the occasion of a boating supper, but even then he\nfound the consequences unpleasant, and soon learned how to keep within\nsafe limits.  He attended chapel as often as he was compelled to do so;\nhe communicated two or three times a year, because his tutor told him he\nought to; in fact he set himself to live soberly and cleanly, as I\nimagine all his instincts prompted him to do, and when he fell--as who\nthat is born of woman can help sometimes doing?--it was not till after a\nsharp tussle with a temptation that was more than his flesh and blood\ncould stand; then he was very penitent and would go a fairly long while\nwithout sinning again; and this was how it had always been with him since\nhe had arrived at years of indiscretion.\n\nEven to the end of his career at Cambridge he was not aware that he had\nit in him to do anything, but others had begun to see that he was not\nwanting in ability and sometimes told him so.  He did not believe it;\nindeed he knew very well that if they thought him clever they were being\ntaken in, but it pleased him to have been able to take them in, and he\ntried to do so still further; he was therefore a good deal on the look-\nout for cants that he could catch and apply in season, and might have\ndone himself some mischief thus if he had not been ready to throw over\nany cant as soon as he had come across another more nearly to his fancy;\nhis friends used to say that when he rose he flew like a snipe, darting\nseveral times in various directions before he settled down to a steady\nstraight flight, but when he had once got into this he would keep to it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\n\nWhen he was in his third year a magazine was founded at Cambridge, the\ncontributions to which were exclusively by undergraduates.  Ernest sent\nin an essay upon the Greek Drama, which he has declined to let me\nreproduce here without his being allowed to re-edit it.  I have therefore\nbeen unable to give it in its original form, but when pruned of its\nredundancies (and this is all that has been done to it) it runs as\nfollows--\n\n   \"I shall not attempt within the limits at my disposal to make a\n   _resume_ of the rise and progress of the Greek drama, but will confine\n   myself to considering whether the reputation enjoyed by the three\n   chief Greek tragedians, AEschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, is one\n   that will be permanent, or whether they will one day be held to have\n   been overrated.\n\n   \"Why, I ask myself, do I see much that I can easily admire in Homer,\n   Thucydides, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Aristophanes, Theocritus, parts of\n   Lucretius, Horace's satires and epistles, to say nothing of other\n   ancient writers, and yet find myself at once repelled by even those\n   works of AEschylus, Sophocles and Euripides which are most generally\n   admired.\n\n   \"With the first-named writers I am in the hands of men who feel, if\n   not as I do, still as I can understand their feeling, and as I am\n   interested to see that they should have felt; with the second I have\n   so little sympathy that I cannot understand how anyone can ever have\n   taken any interest in them whatever.  Their highest flights to me are\n   dull, pompous and artificial productions, which, if they were to\n   appear now for the first time, would, I should think, either fall dead\n   or be severely handled by the critics.  I wish to know whether it is I\n   who am in fault in this matter, or whether part of the blame may not\n   rest with the tragedians themselves.\n\n   \"How far I wonder did the Athenians genuinely like these poets, and\n   how far was the applause which was lavished upon them due to fashion\n   or affectation?  How far, in fact, did admiration for the orthodox\n   tragedians take that place among the Athenians which going to church\n   does among ourselves?\n\n   \"This is a venturesome question considering the verdict now generally\n   given for over two thousand years, nor should I have permitted myself\n   to ask it if it had not been suggested to me by one whose reputation\n   stands as high, and has been sanctioned for as long time as those of\n   the tragedians themselves, I mean by Aristophanes.\n\n   \"Numbers, weight of authority, and time, have conspired to place\n   Aristophanes on as high a literary pinnacle as any ancient writer,\n   with the exception perhaps of Homer, but he makes no secret of\n   heartily hating Euripides and Sophocles, and I strongly suspect only\n   praises AEschylus that he may run down the other two with greater\n   impunity.  For after all there is no such difference between AEschylus\n   and his successors as will render the former very good and the latter\n   very bad; and the thrusts at AEschylus which Aristophanes puts into\n   the mouth of Euripides go home too well to have been written by an\n   admirer.\n\n   \"It may be observed that while Euripides accuses AEschylus of being\n   'pomp-bundle-worded,' which I suppose means bombastic and given to\n   rodomontade, AEschylus retorts on Euripides that he is a 'gossip\n   gleaner, a describer of beggars, and a rag-stitcher,' from which it\n   may be inferred that he was truer to the life of his own times than\n   AEschylus was.  It happens, however, that a faithful rendering of\n   contemporary life is the very quality which gives its most permanent\n   interest to any work of fiction, whether in literature or painting,\n   and it is a not unnatural consequence that while only seven plays by\n   AEschylus, and the same number by Sophocles, have come down to us, we\n   have no fewer than nineteen by Euripides.\n\n   \"This, however, is a digression; the question before us is whether\n   Aristophanes really liked AEschylus or only pretended to do so.  It\n   must be remembered that the claims of AEschylus, Sophocles and\n   Euripides, to the foremost place amongst tragedians were held to be as\n   incontrovertible as those of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso and Ariosto to be\n   the greatest of Italian poets, are held among the Italians of to-day.\n   If we can fancy some witty, genial writer, we will say in Florence,\n   finding himself bored by all the poets I have named, we can yet\n   believe he would be unwilling to admit that he disliked them without\n   exception.  He would prefer to think he could see something at any\n   rate in Dante, whom he could idealise more easily, inasmuch as he was\n   more remote; in order to carry his countrymen the farther with him, he\n   would endeavour to meet them more than was consistent with his own\n   instincts.  Without some such palliation as admiration for one, at any\n   rate, of the tragedians, it would be almost as dangerous for\n   Aristophanes to attack them as it would be for an Englishman now to\n   say that he did not think very much of the Elizabethan dramatists.  Yet\n   which of us in his heart likes any of the Elizabethan dramatists\n   except Shakespeare?  Are they in reality anything else than literary\n   Struldbrugs?\n\n   \"I conclude upon the whole that Aristophanes did not like any of the\n   tragedians; yet no one will deny that this keen, witty, outspoken\n   writer was as good a judge of literary value, and as able to see any\n   beauties that the tragic dramas contained as nine-tenths, at any rate,\n   of ourselves.  He had, moreover, the advantage of thoroughly\n   understanding the standpoint from which the tragedians expected their\n   work to be judged, and what was his conclusion?  Briefly it was little\n   else than this, that they were a fraud or something very like it.  For\n   my own part I cordially agree with him.  I am free to confess that\n   with the exception perhaps of some of the Psalms of David I know no\n   writings which seem so little to deserve their reputation.  I do not\n   know that I should particularly mind my sisters reading them, but I\n   will take good care never to read them myself.\"\n\nThis last bit about the Psalms was awful, and there was a great fight\nwith the editor as to whether or no it should be allowed to stand.  Ernest\nhimself was frightened at it, but he had once heard someone say that the\nPsalms were many of them very poor, and on looking at them more closely,\nafter he had been told this, he found that there could hardly be two\nopinions on the subject.  So he caught up the remark and reproduced it as\nhis own, concluding that these psalms had probably never been written by\nDavid at all, but had got in among the others by mistake.\n\nThe essay, perhaps on account of the passage about the Psalms, created\nquite a sensation, and on the whole was well received.  Ernest's friends\npraised it more highly than it deserved, and he was himself very proud of\nit, but he dared not show it at Battersby.  He knew also that he was now\nat the end of his tether; this was his one idea (I feel sure he had\ncaught more than half of it from other people), and now he had not\nanother thing left to write about.  He found himself cursed with a small\nreputation which seemed to him much bigger than it was, and a\nconsciousness that he could never keep it up.  Before many days were over\nhe felt his unfortunate essay to be a white elephant to him, which he\nmust feed by hurrying into all sorts of frantic attempts to cap his\ntriumph, and, as may be imagined, these attempts were failures.\n\nHe did not understand that if he waited and listened and observed,\nanother idea of some kind would probably occur to him some day, and that\nthe development of this would in its turn suggest still further ones.  He\ndid not yet know that the very worst way of getting hold of ideas is to\ngo hunting expressly after them.  The way to get them is to study\nsomething of which one is fond, and to note down whatever crosses one's\nmind in reference to it, either during study or relaxation, in a little\nnote-book kept always in the waistcoat pocket.  Ernest has come to know\nall about this now, but it took him a long time to find it out, for this\nis not the kind of thing that is taught at schools and universities.\n\nNor yet did he know that ideas, no less than the living beings in whose\nminds they arise, must be begotten by parents not very unlike themselves,\nthe most original still differing but slightly from the parents that have\ngiven rise to them.  Life is like a fugue, everything must grow out of\nthe subject and there must be nothing new.  Nor, again, did he see how\nhard it is to say where one idea ends and another begins, nor yet how\nclosely this is paralleled in the difficulty of saying where a life\nbegins or ends, or an action or indeed anything, there being an unity in\nspite of infinite multitude, and an infinite multitude in spite of unity.\nHe thought that ideas came into clever people's heads by a kind of\nspontaneous germination, without parentage in the thoughts of others or\nthe course of observation; for as yet he believed in genius, of which he\nwell knew that he had none, if it was the fine frenzied thing he thought\nit was.\n\nNot very long before this he had come of age, and Theobald had handed him\nover his money, which amounted now to 5000 pounds; it was invested to\nbring in 5 per cent and gave him therefore an income of 250 pounds\na year.  He did not, however, realise the fact (he could realise nothing\nso foreign to his experience) that he was independent of his father till\na long time afterwards; nor did Theobald make any difference in his\nmanner towards him.  So strong was the hold which habit and association\nheld over both father and son, that the one considered he had as good a\nright as ever to dictate, and the other that he had as little right as\never to gainsay.\n\nDuring his last year at Cambridge he overworked himself through this very\nblind deference to his father's wishes, for there was no reason why he\nshould take more than a poll degree except that his father laid such\nstress upon his taking honours.  He became so ill, indeed, that it was\ndoubtful how far he would be able to go in for his degree at all; but he\nmanaged to do so, and when the list came out was found to be placed\nhigher than either he or anyone else expected, being among the first\nthree or four senior optimes, and a few weeks later, in the lower half of\nthe second class of the Classical Tripos.  Ill as he was when he got\nhome, Theobald made him go over all the examination papers with him, and\nin fact reproduce as nearly as possible the replies that he had sent in.\nSo little kick had he in him, and so deep was the groove into which he\nhad got, that while at home he spent several hours a day in continuing\nhis classical and mathematical studies as though he had not yet taken his\ndegree.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\n\nErnest returned to Cambridge for the May term of 1858, on the plea of\nreading for ordination, with which he was now face to face, and much\nnearer than he liked.  Up to this time, though not religiously inclined,\nhe had never doubted the truth of anything that had been told him about\nChristianity.  He had never seen anyone who doubted, nor read anything\nthat raised a suspicion in his mind as to the historical character of the\nmiracles recorded in the Old and New Testaments.\n\nIt must be remembered that the year 1858 was the last of a term during\nwhich the peace of the Church of England was singularly unbroken.  Between\n1844, when \"Vestiges of Creation\" appeared, and 1859, when \"Essays and\nReviews\" marked the commencement of that storm which raged until many\nyears afterwards, there was not a single book published in England that\ncaused serious commotion within the bosom of the Church.  Perhaps\nBuckle's \"History of Civilisation\" and Mill's \"Liberty\" were the most\nalarming, but they neither of them reached the substratum of the reading\npublic, and Ernest and his friends were ignorant of their very existence.\nThe Evangelical movement, with the exception to which I shall revert\npresently, had become almost a matter of ancient history.  Tractarianism\nhad subsided into a tenth day's wonder; it was at work, but it was not\nnoisy.  The \"Vestiges\" were forgotten before Ernest went up to Cambridge;\nthe Catholic aggression scare had lost its terrors; Ritualism was still\nunknown by the general provincial public, and the Gorham and Hampden\ncontroversies were defunct some years since; Dissent was not spreading;\nthe Crimean war was the one engrossing subject, to be followed by the\nIndian Mutiny and the Franco-Austrian war.  These great events turned\nmen's minds from speculative subjects, and there was no enemy to the\nfaith which could arouse even a languid interest.  At no time probably\nsince the beginning of the century could an ordinary observer have\ndetected less sign of coming disturbance than at that of which I am\nwriting.\n\nI need hardly say that the calm was only on the surface.  Older men, who\nknew more than undergraduates were likely to do, must have seen that the\nwave of scepticism which had already broken over Germany was setting\ntowards our own shores, nor was it long, indeed, before it reached them.\nErnest had hardly been ordained before three works in quick succession\narrested the attention even of those who paid least heed to theological\ncontroversy.  I mean \"Essays and Reviews,\" Charles Darwin's \"Origin of\nSpecies,\" and Bishop Colenso's \"Criticisms on the Pentateuch.\"\n\nThis, however, is a digression; I must revert to the one phase of\nspiritual activity which had any life in it during the time Ernest was at\nCambridge, that is to say, to the remains of the Evangelical awakening of\nmore than a generation earlier, which was connected with the name of\nSimeon.\n\nThere were still a good many Simeonites, or as they were more briefly\ncalled \"Sims,\" in Ernest's time.  Every college contained some of them,\nbut their headquarters were at Caius, whither they were attracted by Mr\nClayton who was at that time senior tutor, and among the sizars of St\nJohn's.\n\nBehind the then chapel of this last-named college, there was a\n\"labyrinth\" (this was the name it bore) of dingy, tumble-down rooms,\ntenanted exclusively by the poorest undergraduates, who were dependent\nupon sizarships and scholarships for the means of taking their degrees.\nTo many, even at St John's, the existence and whereabouts of the\nlabyrinth in which the sizars chiefly lived was unknown; some men in\nErnest's time, who had rooms in the first court, had never found their\nway through the sinuous passage which led to it.\n\nIn the labyrinth there dwelt men of all ages, from mere lads to\ngrey-haired old men who had entered late in life.  They were rarely seen\nexcept in hall or chapel or at lecture, where their manners of feeding,\npraying and studying, were considered alike objectionable; no one knew\nwhence they came, whither they went, nor what they did, for they never\nshowed at cricket or the boats; they were a gloomy, seedy-looking\n_conferie_, who had as little to glory in in clothes and manners as in\nthe flesh itself.\n\nErnest and his friends used to consider themselves marvels of economy for\ngetting on with so little money, but the greater number of dwellers in\nthe labyrinth would have considered one-half of their expenditure to be\nan exceeding measure of affluence, and so doubtless any domestic tyranny\nwhich had been experienced by Ernest was a small thing to what the\naverage Johnian sizar had had to put up with.\n\nA few would at once emerge on its being found after their first\nexamination that they were likely to be ornaments to the college; these\nwould win valuable scholarships that enabled them to live in some degree\nof comfort, and would amalgamate with the more studious of those who were\nin a better social position, but even these, with few exceptions, were\nlong in shaking off the uncouthness they brought with them to the\nUniversity, nor would their origin cease to be easily recognisable till\nthey had become dons and tutors.  I have seen some of these men attain\nhigh position in the world of politics or science, and yet still retain a\nlook of labyrinth and Johnian sizarship.\n\nUnprepossessing then, in feature, gait and manners, unkempt and\nill-dressed beyond what can be easily described, these poor fellows\nformed a class apart, whose thoughts and ways were not as the thoughts\nand ways of Ernest and his friends, and it was among them that Simeonism\nchiefly flourished.\n\nDestined most of them for the Church (for in those days \"holy orders\"\nwere seldom heard of), the Simeonites held themselves to have received a\nvery loud call to the ministry, and were ready to pinch themselves for\nyears so as to prepare for it by the necessary theological courses.  To\nmost of them the fact of becoming clergymen would be the _entree_ into a\nsocial position from which they were at present kept out by barriers they\nwell knew to be impassable; ordination, therefore, opened fields for\nambition which made it the central point in their thoughts, rather than\nas with Ernest, something which he supposed would have to be done some\nday, but about which, as about dying, he hoped there was no need to\ntrouble himself as yet.\n\nBy way of preparing themselves more completely they would have meetings\nin one another's rooms for tea and prayer and other spiritual exercises.\nPlacing themselves under the guidance of a few well-known tutors they\nwould teach in Sunday Schools, and be instant, in season and out of\nseason, in imparting spiritual instruction to all whom they could\npersuade to listen to them.\n\nBut the soil of the more prosperous undergraduates was not suitable for\nthe seed they tried to sow.  The small pieties with which they larded\ntheir discourse, if chance threw them into the company of one whom they\nconsidered worldly, caused nothing but aversion in the minds of those for\nwhom they were intended.  When they distributed tracts, dropping them by\nnight into good men's letter boxes while they were asleep, their tracts\ngot burnt, or met with even worse contumely; they were themselves also\ntreated with the ridicule which they reflected proudly had been the lot\nof true followers of Christ in all ages.  Often at their prayer meetings\nwas the passage of St Paul referred to in which he bids his Corinthian\nconverts note concerning themselves that they were for the most part\nneither well-bred nor intellectual people.  They reflected with pride\nthat they too had nothing to be proud of in these respects, and like St\nPaul, gloried in the fact that in the flesh they had not much to glory.\n\nErnest had several Johnian friends, and came thus to hear about the\nSimeonites and to see some of them, who were pointed out to him as they\npassed through the courts.  They had a repellent attraction for him; he\ndisliked them, but he could not bring himself to leave them alone.  On\none occasion he had gone so far as to parody one of the tracts they had\nsent round in the night, and to get a copy dropped into each of the\nleading Simeonites' boxes.  The subject he had taken was \"Personal\nCleanliness.\"  Cleanliness, he said, was next to godliness; he wished to\nknow on which side it was to stand, and concluded by exhorting Simeonites\nto a freer use of the tub.  I cannot commend my hero's humour in this\nmatter; his tract was not brilliant, but I mention the fact as showing\nthat at this time he was something of a Saul and took pleasure in\npersecuting the elect, not, as I have said, that he had any hankering\nafter scepticism, but because, like the farmers in his father's village,\nthough he would not stand seeing the Christian religion made light of, he\nwas not going to see it taken seriously.  Ernest's friends thought his\ndislike for Simeonites was due to his being the son of a clergyman who,\nit was known, bullied him; it is more likely, however, that it rose from\nan unconscious sympathy with them, which, as in St Paul's case, in the\nend drew him into the ranks of those whom he had most despised and hated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\n\nOnce, recently, when he was down at home after taking his degree, his\nmother had had a short conversation with him about his becoming a\nclergyman, set on thereto by Theobald, who shrank from the subject\nhimself.  This time it was during a turn taken in the garden, and not on\nthe sofa--which was reserved for supreme occasions.\n\n\"You know, my dearest boy,\" she said to him, \"that papa\" (she always\ncalled Theobald \"papa\" when talking to Ernest) \"is so anxious you should\nnot go into the Church blindly, and without fully realising the\ndifficulties of a clergyman's position.  He has considered all of them\nhimself, and has been shown how small they are, when they are faced\nboldly, but he wishes you, too, to feel them as strongly and completely\nas possible before committing yourself to irrevocable vows, so that you\nmay never, never have to regret the step you will have taken.\"\n\nThis was the first time Ernest had heard that there were any\ndifficulties, and he not unnaturally enquired in a vague way after their\nnature.\n\n\"That, my dear boy,\" rejoined Christina, \"is a question which I am not\nfitted to enter upon either by nature or education.  I might easily\nunsettle your mind without being able to settle it again.  Oh, no!  Such\nquestions are far better avoided by women, and, I should have thought, by\nmen, but papa wished me to speak to you upon the subject, so that there\nmight be no mistake hereafter, and I have done so.  Now, therefore, you\nknow all.\"\n\nThe conversation ended here, so far as this subject was concerned, and\nErnest thought he did know all.  His mother would not have told him he\nknew all--not about a matter of that sort--unless he actually did know\nit; well, it did not come to very much; he supposed there were some\ndifficulties, but his father, who at any rate was an excellent scholar\nand a learned man, was probably quite right here, and he need not trouble\nhimself more about them.  So little impression did the conversation make\non him, that it was not till long afterwards that, happening to remember\nit, he saw what a piece of sleight of hand had been practised upon him.\nTheobald and Christina, however, were satisfied that they had done their\nduty by opening their son's eyes to the difficulties of assenting to all\na clergyman must assent to.  This was enough; it was a matter for\nrejoicing that, though they had been put so fully and candidly before\nhim, he did not find them serious.  It was not in vain that they had\nprayed for so many years to be made \"_truly_ honest and conscientious.\"\n\n\"And now, my dear,\" resumed Christina, after having disposed of all the\ndifficulties that might stand in the way of Ernest's becoming a\nclergyman, \"there is another matter on which I should like to have a talk\nwith you.  It is about your sister Charlotte.  You know how clever she\nis, and what a dear, kind sister she has been and always will be to\nyourself and Joey.  I wish, my dearest Ernest, that I saw more chance of\nher finding a suitable husband than I do at Battersby, and I sometimes\nthink you might do more than you do to help her.\"\n\nErnest began to chafe at this, for he had heard it so often, but he said\nnothing.\n\n\"You know, my dear, a brother can do so much for his sister if he lays\nhimself out to do it.  A mother can do very little--indeed, it is hardly\na mother's place to seek out young men; it is a brother's place to find a\nsuitable partner for his sister; all that I can do is to try to make\nBattersby as attractive as possible to any of your friends whom you may\ninvite.  And in that,\" she added, with a little toss of her head, \"I do\nnot think I have been deficient hitherto.\"\n\nErnest said he had already at different times asked several of his\nfriends.\n\n\"Yes, my dear, but you must admit that they were none of them exactly the\nkind of young man whom Charlotte could be expected to take a fancy to.\nIndeed, I must own to having been a little disappointed that you should\nhave yourself chosen any of these as your intimate friends.\"\n\nErnest winced again.\n\n\"You never brought down Figgins when you were at Roughborough; now I\nshould have thought Figgins would have been just the kind of boy whom you\nmight have asked to come and see us.\"\n\nFiggins had been gone through times out of number already.  Ernest had\nhardly known him, and Figgins, being nearly three years older than\nErnest, had left long before he did.  Besides he had not been a nice boy,\nand had made himself unpleasant to Ernest in many ways.\n\n\"Now,\" continued his mother, \"there's Towneley.  I have heard you speak\nof Towneley as having rowed with you in a boat at Cambridge.  I wish, my\ndear, you would cultivate your acquaintance with Towneley, and ask him to\npay us a visit.  The name has an aristocratic sound, and I think I have\nheard you say he is an eldest son.\"\n\nErnest flushed at the sound of Towneley's name.\n\nWhat had really happened in respect of Ernest's friends was briefly this.\nHis mother liked to get hold of the names of the boys and especially of\nany who were at all intimate with her son; the more she heard, the more\nshe wanted to know; there was no gorging her to satiety; she was like a\nravenous young cuckoo being fed upon a grass plot by a water wag-tail,\nshe would swallow all that Ernest could bring her, and yet be as hungry\nas before.  And she always went to Ernest for her meals rather than to\nJoey, for Joey was either more stupid or more impenetrable--at any rate\nshe could pump Ernest much the better of the two.\n\nFrom time to time an actual live boy had been thrown to her, either by\nbeing caught and brought to Battersby, or by being asked to meet her if\nat any time she came to Roughborough.  She had generally made herself\nagreeable, or fairly agreeable, as long as the boy was present, but as\nsoon as she got Ernest to herself again she changed her note.  Into\nwhatever form she might throw her criticisms it came always in the end to\nthis, that his friend was no good, that Ernest was not much better, and\nthat he should have brought her someone else, for this one would not do\nat all.\n\nThe more intimate the boy had been or was supposed to be with Ernest the\nmore he was declared to be naught, till in the end he had hit upon the\nplan of saying, concerning any boy whom he particularly liked, that he\nwas not one of his especial chums, and that indeed he hardly knew why he\nhad asked him; but he found he only fell on Scylla in trying to avoid\nCharybdis, for though the boy was declared to be more successful it was\nErnest who was naught for not thinking more highly of him.\n\nWhen she had once got hold of a name she never forgot it.  \"And how is So-\nand-so?\" she would exclaim, mentioning some former friend of Ernest's\nwith whom he had either now quarrelled, or who had long since proved to\nbe a mere comet and no fixed star at all.  How Ernest wished he had never\nmentioned So-and-so's name, and vowed to himself that he would never talk\nabout his friends in future, but in a few hours he would forget and would\nprattle away as imprudently as ever; then his mother would pounce\nnoiselessly on his remarks as a barn-owl pounces upon a mouse, and would\nbring them up in a pellet six months afterwards when they were no longer\nin harmony with their surroundings.\n\nThen there was Theobald.  If a boy or college friend had been invited to\nBattersby, Theobald would lay himself out at first to be agreeable.  He\ncould do this well enough when he liked, and as regards the outside world\nhe generally did like.  His clerical neighbours, and indeed all his\nneighbours, respected him yearly more and more, and would have given\nErnest sufficient cause to regret his imprudence if he had dared to hint\nthat he had anything, however little, to complain of.  Theobald's mind\nworked in this way: \"Now, I know Ernest has told this boy what a\ndisagreeable person I am, and I will just show him that I am not\ndisagreeable at all, but a good old fellow, a jolly old boy, in fact a\nregular old brick, and that it is Ernest who is in fault all through.\"\n\nSo he would behave very nicely to the boy at first, and the boy would be\ndelighted with him, and side with him against Ernest.  Of course if\nErnest had got the boy to come to Battersby he wanted him to enjoy his\nvisit, and was therefore pleased that Theobald should behave so well, but\nat the same time he stood so much in need of moral support that it was\npainful to him to see one of his own familiar friends go over to the\nenemy's camp.  For no matter how well we may know a thing--how clearly we\nmay see a certain patch of colour, for example, as red, it shakes us and\nknocks us about to find another see it, or be more than half inclined to\nsee it, as green.\n\nTheobald had generally begun to get a little impatient before the end of\nthe visit, but the impression formed during the earlier part was the one\nwhich the visitor had carried away with him.  Theobald never discussed\nany of the boys with Ernest.  It was Christina who did this.  Theobald\nlet them come, because Christina in a quiet, persistent way insisted on\nit; when they did come he behaved, as I have said, civilly, but he did\nnot like it, whereas Christina did like it very much; she would have had\nhalf Roughborough and half Cambridge to come and stay at Battersby if she\ncould have managed it, and if it would not have cost so much money: she\nliked their coming, so that she might make a new acquaintance, and she\nliked tearing them to pieces and flinging the bits over Ernest as soon as\nshe had had enough of them.\n\nThe worst of it was that she had so often proved to be right.  Boys and\nyoung men are violent in their affections, but they are seldom very\nconstant; it is not till they get older that they really know the kind of\nfriend they want; in their earlier essays young men are simply learning\nto judge character.  Ernest had been no exception to the general rule.\nHis swans had one after the other proved to be more or less geese even in\nhis own estimation, and he was beginning almost to think that his mother\nwas a better judge of character than he was; but I think it may be\nassumed with some certainty that if Ernest had brought her a real young\nswan she would have declared it to be the ugliest and worst goose of all\nthat she had yet seen.\n\nAt first he had not suspected that his friends were wanted with a view to\nCharlotte; it was understood that Charlotte and they might perhaps take a\nfancy for one another; and that would be so very nice, would it not?  But\nhe did not see that there was any deliberate malice in the arrangement.\nNow, however, that he had awoke to what it all meant, he was less\ninclined to bring any friend of his to Battersby.  It seemed to his silly\nyoung mind almost dishonest to ask your friend to come and see you when\nall you really meant was \"Please, marry my sister.\"  It was like trying\nto obtain money under false pretences.  If he had been fond of Charlotte\nit might have been another matter, but he thought her one of the most\ndisagreeable young women in the whole circle of his acquaintance.\n\nShe was supposed to be very clever.  All young ladies are either very\npretty or very clever or very sweet; they may take their choice as to\nwhich category they will go in for, but go in for one of the three they\nmust.  It was hopeless to try and pass Charlotte off as either pretty or\nsweet.  So she became clever as the only remaining alternative.  Ernest\nnever knew what particular branch of study it was in which she showed her\ntalent, for she could neither play nor sing nor draw, but so astute are\nwomen that his mother and Charlotte really did persuade him into thinking\nthat she, Charlotte, had something more akin to true genius than any\nother member of the family.  Not one, however, of all the friends whom\nErnest had been inveigled into trying to inveigle had shown the least\nsign of being so far struck with Charlotte's commanding powers, as to\nwish to make them his own, and this may have had something to do with the\nrapidity and completeness with which Christina had dismissed them one\nafter another and had wanted a new one.\n\nAnd now she wanted Towneley.  Ernest had seen this coming and had tried\nto avoid it, for he knew how impossible it was for him to ask Towneley,\neven if he had wished to do so.\n\nTowneley belonged to one of the most exclusive sets in Cambridge, and was\nperhaps the most popular man among the whole number of undergraduates.  He\nwas big and very handsome--as it seemed to Ernest the handsomest man whom\nhe ever had seen or ever could see, for it was impossible to imagine a\nmore lively and agreeable countenance.  He was good at cricket and\nboating, very good-natured, singularly free from conceit, not clever but\nvery sensible, and, lastly, his father and mother had been drowned by the\noverturning of a boat when he was only two years old and had left him as\ntheir only child and heir to one of the finest estates in the South of\nEngland.  Fortune every now and then does things handsomely by a man all\nround; Towneley was one of those to whom she had taken a fancy, and the\nuniversal verdict in this case was that she had chosen wisely.\n\nErnest had seen Towneley as every one else in the University (except, of\ncourse, dons) had seen him, for he was a man of mark, and being very\nsusceptible he had liked Towneley even more than most people did, but at\nthe same time it never so much as entered his head that he should come to\nknow him.  He liked looking at him if he got a chance, and was very much\nashamed of himself for doing so, but there the matter ended.\n\nBy a strange accident, however, during Ernest's last year, when the names\nof the crews for the scratch fours were drawn he had found himself\ncoxswain of a crew, among whom was none other than his especial hero\nTowneley; the three others were ordinary mortals, but they could row\nfairly well, and the crew on the whole was rather a good one.\n\nErnest was frightened out of his wits.  When, however, the two met, he\nfound Towneley no less remarkable for his entire want of anything like\n\"side,\" and for his power of setting those whom he came across at their\nease, than he was for outward accomplishments; the only difference he\nfound between Towneley and other people was that he was so very much\neasier to get on with.  Of course Ernest worshipped him more and more.\n\nThe scratch fours being ended the connection between the two came to an\nend, but Towneley never passed Ernest thenceforward without a nod and a\nfew good-natured words.  In an evil moment he had mentioned Towneley's\nname at Battersby, and now what was the result?  Here was his mother\nplaguing him to ask Towneley to come down to Battersby and marry\nCharlotte.  Why, if he had thought there was the remotest chance of\nTowneley's marrying Charlotte he would have gone down on his knees to him\nand told him what an odious young woman she was, and implored him to save\nhimself while there was yet time.\n\nBut Ernest had not prayed to be made \"truly honest and conscientious\" for\nas many years as Christina had.  He tried to conceal what he felt and\nthought as well as he could, and led the conversation back to the\ndifficulties which a clergyman might feel to stand in the way of his\nbeing ordained--not because he had any misgivings, but as a diversion.\nHis mother, however, thought she had settled all that, and he got no more\nout of her.  Soon afterwards he found the means of escaping, and was not\nslow to avail himself of them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\n\nOn his return to Cambridge in the May term of 1858, Ernest and a few\nother friends who were also intended for orders came to the conclusion\nthat they must now take a more serious view of their position.  They\ntherefore attended chapel more regularly than hitherto, and held evening\nmeetings of a somewhat furtive character, at which they would study the\nNew Testament.  They even began to commit the Epistles of St Paul to\nmemory in the original Greek.  They got up Beveridge on the Thirty-nine\nArticles, and Pearson on the Creed; in their hours of recreation they\nread More's \"Mystery of Godliness,\" which Ernest thought was charming,\nand Taylor's \"Holy Living and Dying,\" which also impressed him deeply,\nthrough what he thought was the splendour of its language.  They handed\nthemselves over to the guidance of Dean Alford's notes on the Greek\nTestament, which made Ernest better understand what was meant by\n\"difficulties,\" but also made him feel how shallow and impotent were the\nconclusions arrived at by German neologians, with whose works, being\ninnocent of German, he was not otherwise acquainted.  Some of the friends\nwho joined him in these pursuits were Johnians, and the meetings were\noften held within the walls of St John's.\n\nI do not know how tidings of these furtive gatherings had reached the\nSimeonites, but they must have come round to them in some way, for they\nhad not been continued many weeks before a circular was sent to each of\nthe young men who attended them, informing them that the Rev. Gideon\nHawke, a well-known London Evangelical preacher, whose sermons were then\nmuch talked of, was about to visit his young friend Badcock of St John's,\nand would be glad to say a few words to any who might wish to hear them,\nin Badcock's rooms on a certain evening in May.\n\nBadcock was one of the most notorious of all the Simeonites.  Not only\nwas he ugly, dirty, ill-dressed, bumptious, and in every way\nobjectionable, but he was deformed and waddled when he walked so that he\nhad won a nick-name which I can only reproduce by calling it \"Here's my\nback, and there's my back,\" because the lower parts of his back\nemphasised themselves demonstratively as though about to fly off in\ndifferent directions like the two extreme notes in the chord of the\naugmented sixth, with every step he took.  It may be guessed, therefore,\nthat the receipt of the circular had for a moment an almost paralysing\neffect on those to whom it was addressed, owing to the astonishment which\nit occasioned them.  It certainly was a daring surprise, but like so many\ndeformed people, Badcock was forward and hard to check; he was a pushing\nfellow to whom the present was just the opportunity he wanted for\ncarrying war into the enemy's quarters.\n\nErnest and his friends consulted.  Moved by the feeling that as they were\nnow preparing to be clergymen they ought not to stand so stiffly on\nsocial dignity as heretofore, and also perhaps by the desire to have a\ngood private view of a preacher who was then much upon the lips of men,\nthey decided to accept the invitation.  When the appointed time came they\nwent with some confusion and self-abasement to the rooms of this man, on\nwhom they had looked down hitherto as from an immeasurable height, and\nwith whom nothing would have made them believe a few weeks earlier that\nthey could ever come to be on speaking terms.\n\nMr Hawke was a very different-looking person from Badcock.  He was\nremarkably handsome, or rather would have been but for the thinness of\nhis lips, and a look of too great firmness and inflexibility.  His\nfeatures were a good deal like those of Leonardo da Vinci; moreover he\nwas kempt, looked in vigorous health, and was of a ruddy countenance.  He\nwas extremely courteous in his manner, and paid a good deal of attention\nto Badcock, of whom he seemed to think highly.  Altogether our young\nfriends were taken aback, and inclined to think smaller beer of\nthemselves and larger of Badcock than was agreeable to the old Adam who\nwas still alive within them.  A few well-known \"Sims\" from St John's and\nother colleges were present, but not enough to swamp the Ernest set, as\nfor the sake of brevity, I will call them.\n\nAfter a preliminary conversation in which there was nothing to offend,\nthe business of the evening began by Mr Hawke's standing up at one end of\nthe table, and saying \"Let us pray.\"  The Ernest set did not like this,\nbut they could not help themselves, so they knelt down and repeated the\nLord's Prayer and a few others after Mr Hawke, who delivered them\nremarkably well.  Then, when all had sat down, Mr Hawke addressed them,\nspeaking without notes and taking for his text the words, \"Saul, Saul,\nwhy persecutest thou me?\"  Whether owing to Mr Hawke's manner, which was\nimpressive, or to his well-known reputation for ability, or whether from\nthe fact that each one of the Ernest set knew that he had been more or\nless a persecutor of the \"Sims\" and yet felt instinctively that the\n\"Sims\" were after all much more like the early Christians than he was\nhimself--at any rate the text, familiar though it was, went home to the\nconsciences of Ernest and his friends as it had never yet done.  If Mr\nHawke had stopped here he would have almost said enough; as he scanned\nthe faces turned towards him, and saw the impression he had made, he was\nperhaps minded to bring his sermon to an end before beginning it, but if\nso, he reconsidered himself and proceeded as follows.  I give the sermon\nin full, for it is a typical one, and will explain a state of mind which\nin another generation or two will seem to stand sadly in need of\nexplanation.\n\n\"My young friends,\" said Mr Hawke, \"I am persuaded there is not one of\nyou here who doubts the existence of a Personal God.  If there were, it\nis to him assuredly that I should first address myself.  Should I be\nmistaken in my belief that all here assembled accept the existence of a\nGod who is present amongst us though we see him not, and whose eye is\nupon our most secret thoughts, let me implore the doubter to confer with\nme in private before we part; I will then put before him considerations\nthrough which God has been mercifully pleased to reveal himself to me, so\nfar as man can understand him, and which I have found bring peace to the\nminds of others who have doubted.\n\n\"I assume also that there is none who doubts but that this God, after\nwhose likeness we have been made, did in the course of time have pity\nupon man's blindness, and assume our nature, taking flesh and coming down\nand dwelling among us as a man indistinguishable physically from\nourselves.  He who made the sun, moon and stars, the world and all that\ntherein is, came down from Heaven in the person of his Son, with the\nexpress purpose of leading a scorned life, and dying the most cruel,\nshameful death which fiendish ingenuity has invented.\n\n\"While on earth he worked many miracles.  He gave sight to the blind,\nraised the dead to life, fed thousands with a few loaves and fishes, and\nwas seen to walk upon the waves, but at the end of his appointed time he\ndied, as was foredetermined, upon the cross, and was buried by a few\nfaithful friends.  Those, however, who had put him to death set a jealous\nwatch over his tomb.\n\n\"There is no one, I feel sure, in this room who doubts any part of the\nforegoing, but if there is, let me again pray him to confer with me in\nprivate, and I doubt not that by the blessing of God his doubts will\ncease.\n\n\"The next day but one after our Lord was buried, the tomb being still\njealously guarded by enemies, an angel was seen descending from Heaven\nwith glittering raiment and a countenance that shone like fire.  This\nglorious being rolled away the stone from the grave, and our Lord himself\ncame forth, risen from the dead.\n\n\"My young friends, this is no fanciful story like those of the ancient\ndeities, but a matter of plain history as certain as that you and I are\nnow here together.  If there is one fact better vouched for than another\nin the whole range of certainties it is the Resurrection of Jesus Christ;\nnor is it less well assured that a few weeks after he had risen from the\ndead, our Lord was seen by many hundreds of men and women to rise amid a\nhost of angels into the air upon a heavenward journey till the clouds\ncovered him and concealed him from the sight of men.\n\n\"It may be said that the truth of these statements has been denied, but\nwhat, let me ask you, has become of the questioners?  Where are they now?\nDo we see them or hear of them?  Have they been able to hold what little\nground they made during the supineness of the last century?  Is there one\nof your fathers or mothers or friends who does not see through them?  Is\nthere a single teacher or preacher in this great University who has not\nexamined what these men had to say, and found it naught?  Did you ever\nmeet one of them, or do you find any of their books securing the\nrespectful attention of those competent to judge concerning them?  I\nthink not; and I think also you know as well as I do why it is that they\nhave sunk back into the abyss from which they for a time emerged: it is\nbecause after the most careful and patient examination by the ablest and\nmost judicial minds of many countries, their arguments were found so\nuntenable that they themselves renounced them.  They fled from the field\nrouted, dismayed, and suing for peace; nor have they again come to the\nfront in any civilised country.\n\n\"You know these things.  Why, then, do I insist upon them?  My dear young\nfriends, your own consciousness will have made the answer to each one of\nyou already; it is because, though you know so well that these things did\nverily and indeed happen, you know also that you have not realised them\nto yourselves as it was your duty to do, nor heeded their momentous,\nawful import.\n\n\"And now let me go further.  You all know that you will one day come to\ndie, or if not to die--for there are not wanting signs which make me hope\nthat the Lord may come again, while some of us now present are alive--yet\nto be changed; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised\nincorruptible, for this corruption must put on incorruption, and this\nmortal put on immortality, and the saying shall be brought to pass that\nis written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'\n\n\"Do you, or do you not believe that you will one day stand before the\nJudgement Seat of Christ?  Do you, or do you not believe that you will\nhave to give an account for every idle word that you have ever spoken?  Do\nyou, or do you not believe that you are called to live, not according to\nthe will of man, but according to the will of that Christ who came down\nfrom Heaven out of love for you, who suffered and died for you, who calls\nyou to him, and yearns towards you that you may take heed even in this\nyour day--but who, if you heed not, will also one day judge you, and with\nwhom there is no variableness nor shadow of turning?\n\n\"My dear young friends, strait is the gate, and narrow is the way which\nleadeth to Eternal Life, and few there be that find it.  Few, few, few,\nfor he who will not give up ALL for Christ's sake, has given up nothing.\n\n\"If you would live in the friendship of this world, if indeed you are not\nprepared to give up everything you most fondly cherish, should the Lord\nrequire it of you, then, I say, put the idea of Christ deliberately on\none side at once.  Spit upon him, buffet him, crucify him anew, do\nanything you like so long as you secure the friendship of this world\nwhile it is still in your power to do so; the pleasures of this brief\nlife may not be worth paying for by the torments of eternity, but they\nare something while they last.  If, on the other hand, you would live in\nthe friendship of God, and be among the number of those for whom Christ\nhas not died in vain; if, in a word, you value your eternal welfare, then\ngive up the friendship of this world; of a surety you must make your\nchoice between God and Mammon, for you cannot serve both.\n\n\"I put these considerations before you, if so homely a term may be\npardoned, as a plain matter of business.  There is nothing low or\nunworthy in this, as some lately have pretended, for all nature shows us\nthat there is nothing more acceptable to God than an enlightened view of\nour own self-interest; never let anyone delude you here; it is a simple\nquestion of fact; did certain things happen or did they not?  If they did\nhappen, is it reasonable to suppose that you will make yourselves and\nothers more happy by one course of conduct or by another?\n\n\"And now let me ask you what answer you have made to this question\nhitherto?  Whose friendship have you chosen?  If, knowing what you know,\nyou have not yet begun to act according to the immensity of the knowledge\nthat is in you, then he who builds his house and lays up his treasure on\nthe edge of a crater of molten lava is a sane, sensible person in\ncomparison with yourselves.  I say this as no figure of speech or bugbear\nwith which to frighten you, but as an unvarnished unexaggerated statement\nwhich will be no more disputed by yourselves than by me.\"\n\nAnd now Mr Hawke, who up to this time had spoken with singular quietness,\nchanged his manner to one of greater warmth and continued--\n\n\"Oh! my young friends turn, turn, turn, now while it is called to-day--now\nfrom this hour, from this instant; stay not even to gird up your loins;\nlook not behind you for a second, but fly into the bosom of that Christ\nwho is to be found of all who seek him, and from that fearful wrath of\nGod which lieth in wait for those who know not the things belonging to\ntheir peace.  For the Son of Man cometh as a thief in the night, and\nthere is not one of us can tell but what this day his soul may be\nrequired of him.  If there is even one here who has heeded me,\"--and he\nlet his eye fall for an instant upon almost all his hearers, but\nespecially on the Ernest set--\"I shall know that it was not for nothing\nthat I felt the call of the Lord, and heard as I thought a voice by night\nthat bade me come hither quickly, for there was a chosen vessel who had\nneed of me.\"\n\nHere Mr Hawke ended rather abruptly; his earnest manner, striking\ncountenance and excellent delivery had produced an effect greater than\nthe actual words I have given can convey to the reader; the virtue lay in\nthe man more than in what he said; as for the last few mysterious words\nabout his having heard a voice by night, their effect was magical; there\nwas not one who did not look down to the ground, nor who in his heart did\nnot half believe that he was the chosen vessel on whose especial behalf\nGod had sent Mr Hawke to Cambridge.  Even if this were not so, each one\nof them felt that he was now for the first time in the actual presence of\none who had had a direct communication from the Almighty, and they were\nthus suddenly brought a hundredfold nearer to the New Testament miracles.\nThey were amazed, not to say scared, and as though by tacit consent they\ngathered together, thanked Mr Hawke for his sermon, said good-night in a\nhumble deferential manner to Badcock and the other Simeonites, and left\nthe room together.  They had heard nothing but what they had been hearing\nall their lives; how was it, then, that they were so dumbfoundered by it?\nI suppose partly because they had lately begun to think more seriously,\nand were in a fit state to be impressed, partly from the greater\ndirectness with which each felt himself addressed, through the sermon\nbeing delivered in a room, and partly to the logical consistency, freedom\nfrom exaggeration, and profound air of conviction with which Mr Hawke had\nspoken.  His simplicity and obvious earnestness had impressed them even\nbefore he had alluded to his special mission, but this clenched\neverything, and the words \"Lord, is it I?\" were upon the hearts of each\nas they walked pensively home through moonlit courts and cloisters.\n\nI do not know what passed among the Simeonites after the Ernest set had\nleft them, but they would have been more than mortal if they had not been\na good deal elated with the results of the evening.  Why, one of Ernest's\nfriends was in the University eleven, and he had actually been in\nBadcock's rooms and had slunk off on saying good-night as meekly as any\nof them.  It was no small thing to have scored a success like this.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\n\nErnest felt now that the turning point of his life had come.  He would\ngive up all for Christ--even his tobacco.\n\nSo he gathered together his pipes and pouches, and locked them up in his\nportmanteau under his bed where they should be out of sight, and as much\nout of mind as possible.  He did not burn them, because someone might\ncome in who wanted to smoke, and though he might abridge his own liberty,\nyet, as smoking was not a sin, there was no reason why he should be hard\non other people.\n\nAfter breakfast he left his rooms to call on a man named Dawson, who had\nbeen one of Mr Hawke's hearers on the preceding evening, and who was\nreading for ordination at the forthcoming Ember Weeks, now only four\nmonths distant.  This man had been always of a rather serious turn of\nmind--a little too much so for Ernest's taste; but times had changed, and\nDawson's undoubted sincerity seemed to render him a fitting counsellor\nfor Ernest at the present time.  As he was going through the first court\nof John's on his way to Dawson's rooms, he met Badcock, and greeted him\nwith some deference.  His advance was received with one of those ecstatic\ngleams which shone occasionally upon the face of Badcock, and which, if\nErnest had known more, would have reminded him of Robespierre.  As it\nwas, he saw it and unconsciously recognised the unrest and\nself-seekingness of the man, but could not yet formulate them; he\ndisliked Badcock more than ever, but as he was going to profit by the\nspiritual benefits which he had put in his way, he was bound to be civil\nto him, and civil he therefore was.\n\nBadcock told him that Mr Hawke had returned to town immediately his\ndiscourse was over, but that before doing so he had enquired particularly\nwho Ernest and two or three others were.  I believe each one of Ernest's\nfriends was given to understand that he had been more or less\nparticularly enquired after.  Ernest's vanity--for he was his mother's\nson--was tickled at this; the idea again presented itself to him that he\nmight be the one for whose benefit Mr Hawke had been sent.  There was\nsomething, too, in Badcock's manner which conveyed the idea that he could\nsay more if he chose, but had been enjoined to silence.\n\nOn reaching Dawson's rooms, he found his friend in raptures over the\ndiscourse of the preceding evening.  Hardly less delighted was he with\nthe effect it had produced on Ernest.  He had always known, he said, that\nErnest would come round; he had been sure of it, but he had hardly\nexpected the conversion to be so sudden.  Ernest said no more had he, but\nnow that he saw his duty so clearly he would get ordained as soon as\npossible, and take a curacy, even though the doing so would make him have\nto go down from Cambridge earlier, which would be a great grief to him.\nDawson applauded this determination, and it was arranged that as Ernest\nwas still more or less of a weak brother, Dawson should take him, so to\nspeak, in spiritual tow for a while, and strengthen and confirm his\nfaith.\n\nAn offensive and defensive alliance therefore was struck up between this\npair (who were in reality singularly ill assorted), and Ernest set to\nwork to master the books on which the Bishop would examine him.  Others\ngradually joined them till they formed a small set or church (for these\nare the same things), and the effect of Mr Hawke's sermon instead of\nwearing off in a few days, as might have been expected, became more and\nmore marked, so much so that it was necessary for Ernest's friends to\nhold him back rather than urge him on, for he seemed likely to develop--as\nindeed he did for a time--into a religious enthusiast.\n\nIn one matter only, did he openly backslide.  He had, as I said above,\nlocked up his pipes and tobacco, so that he might not be tempted to use\nthem.  All day long on the day after Mr Hawke's sermon he let them lie in\nhis portmanteau bravely; but this was not very difficult, as he had for\nsome time given up smoking till after hall.  After hall this day he did\nnot smoke till chapel time, and then went to chapel in self-defence.  When\nhe returned he determined to look at the matter from a common sense point\nof view.  On this he saw that, provided tobacco did not injure his\nhealth--and he really could not see that it did--it stood much on the\nsame footing as tea or coffee.\n\nTobacco had nowhere been forbidden in the Bible, but then it had not yet\nbeen discovered, and had probably only escaped proscription for this\nreason.  We can conceive of St Paul or even our Lord Himself as drinking\na cup of tea, but we cannot imagine either of them as smoking a cigarette\nor a churchwarden.  Ernest could not deny this, and admitted that Paul\nwould almost certainly have condemned tobacco in good round terms if he\nhad known of its existence.  Was it not then taking rather a mean\nadvantage of the Apostle to stand on his not having actually forbidden\nit?  On the other hand, it was possible that God knew Paul would have\nforbidden smoking, and had purposely arranged the discovery of tobacco\nfor a period at which Paul should be no longer living.  This might seem\nrather hard on Paul, considering all he had done for Christianity, but it\nwould be made up to him in other ways.\n\nThese reflections satisfied Ernest that on the whole he had better smoke,\nso he sneaked to his portmanteau and brought out his pipes and tobacco\nagain.  There should be moderation he felt in all things, even in virtue;\nso for that night he smoked immoderately.  It was a pity, however, that\nhe had bragged to Dawson about giving up smoking.  The pipes had better\nbe kept in a cupboard for a week or two, till in other and easier\nrespects Ernest should have proved his steadfastness.  Then they might\nsteal out again little by little--and so they did.\n\nErnest now wrote home a letter couched in a vein different from his\nordinary ones.  His letters were usually all common form and padding, for\nas I have already explained, if he wrote about anything that really\ninterested him, his mother always wanted to know more and more about\nit--every fresh answer being as the lopping off of a hydra's head and\ngiving birth to half a dozen or more new questions--but in the end it\ncame invariably to the same result, namely, that he ought to have done\nsomething else, or ought not to go on doing as he proposed.  Now,\nhowever, there was a new departure, and for the thousandth time he\nconcluded that he was about to take a course of which his father and\nmother would approve, and in which they would be interested, so that at\nlast he and they might get on more sympathetically than heretofore.  He\ntherefore wrote a gushing impulsive letter, which afforded much amusement\nto myself as I read it, but which is too long for reproduction.  One\npassage ran: \"I am now going towards Christ; the greater number of my\ncollege friends are, I fear, going away from Him; we must pray for them\nthat they may find the peace that is in Christ even as I have myself\nfound it.\"  Ernest covered his face with his hands for shame as he read\nthis extract from the bundle of letters he had put into my hands--they\nhad been returned to him by his father on his mother's death, his mother\nhaving carefully preserved them.\n\n\"Shall I cut it out?\" said I, \"I will if you like.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" he answered, \"and if good-natured friends have kept more\nrecords of my follies, pick out any plums that may amuse the reader, and\nlet him have his laugh over them.\"  But fancy what effect a letter like\nthis--so unled up to--must have produced at Battersby!  Even Christina\nrefrained from ecstasy over her son's having discovered the power of\nChrist's word, while Theobald was frightened out of his wits.  It was\nwell his son was not going to have any doubts or difficulties, and that\nhe would be ordained without making a fuss over it, but he smelt mischief\nin this sudden conversion of one who had never yet shown any inclination\ntowards religion.  He hated people who did not know where to stop.  Ernest\nwas always so _outre_ and strange; there was never any knowing what he\nwould do next, except that it would be something unusual and silly.  If\nhe was to get the bit between his teeth after he had got ordained and\nbought his living, he would play more pranks than ever he, Theobald, had\ndone.  The fact, doubtless, of his being ordained and having bought a\nliving would go a long way to steady him, and if he married, his wife\nmust see to the rest; this was his only chance and, to do justice to his\nsagacity, Theobald in his heart did not think very highly of it.\n\nWhen Ernest came down to Battersby in June, he imprudently tried to open\nup a more unreserved communication with his father than was his wont.  The\nfirst of Ernest's snipe-like flights on being flushed by Mr Hawke's\nsermon was in the direction of ultra-evangelicalism.  Theobald himself\nhad been much more Low than High Church.  This was the normal development\nof the country clergyman during the first years of his clerical life,\nbetween, we will say, the years 1825 to 1850; but he was not prepared for\nthe almost contempt with which Ernest now regarded the doctrines of\nbaptismal regeneration and priestly absolution (Hoity toity, indeed, what\nbusiness had he with such questions?), nor for his desire to find some\nmeans of reconciling Methodism and the Church.  Theobald hated the Church\nof Rome, but he hated dissenters too, for he found them as a general rule\ntroublesome people to deal with; he always found people who did not agree\nwith him troublesome to deal with: besides, they set up for knowing as\nmuch as he did; nevertheless if he had been let alone he would have\nleaned towards them rather than towards the High Church party.  The\nneighbouring clergy, however, would not let him alone.  One by one they\nhad come under the influence, directly or indirectly, of the Oxford\nmovement which had begun twenty years earlier.  It was surprising how\nmany practices he now tolerated which in his youth he would have\nconsidered Popish; he knew very well therefore which way things were\ngoing in Church matters, and saw that as usual Ernest was setting himself\nthe other way.  The opportunity for telling his son that he was a fool\nwas too favourable not to be embraced, and Theobald was not slow to\nembrace it.  Ernest was annoyed and surprised, for had not his father and\nmother been wanting him to be more religious all his life?  Now that he\nhad become so they were still not satisfied.  He said to himself that a\nprophet was not without honour save in his own country, but he had been\nlately--or rather until lately--getting into an odious habit of turning\nproverbs upside down, and it occurred to him that a country is sometimes\nnot without honour save for its own prophet.  Then he laughed, and for\nthe rest of the day felt more as he used to feel before he had heard Mr\nHawke's sermon.\n\nHe returned to Cambridge for the Long Vacation of 1858--none too soon,\nfor he had to go in for the Voluntary Theological Examination, which\nbishops were now beginning to insist upon.  He imagined all the time he\nwas reading that he was storing himself with the knowledge that would\nbest fit him for the work he had taken in hand.  In truth, he was\ncramming for a pass.  In due time he did pass--creditably, and was\nordained Deacon with half-a-dozen others of his friends in the autumn of\n1858.  He was then just twenty-three years old.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI\n\n\nErnest had been ordained to a curacy in one of the central parts of\nLondon.  He hardly knew anything of London yet, but his instincts drew\nhim thither.  The day after he was ordained he entered upon his\nduties--feeling much as his father had done when he found himself boxed\nup in the carriage with Christina on the morning of his marriage.  Before\nthe first three days were over, he became aware that the light of the\nhappiness which he had known during his four years at Cambridge had been\nextinguished, and he was appalled by the irrevocable nature of the step\nwhich he now felt that he had taken much too hurriedly.\n\nThe most charitable excuse that I can make for the vagaries which it will\nnow be my duty to chronicle is that the shock of change consequent upon\nhis becoming suddenly religious, being ordained and leaving Cambridge,\nhad been too much for my hero, and had for the time thrown him off an\nequilibrium which was yet little supported by experience, and therefore\nas a matter of course unstable.\n\nEveryone has a mass of bad work in him which he will have to work off and\nget rid of before he can do better--and indeed, the more lasting a man's\nultimate good work is, the more sure he is to pass through a time, and\nperhaps a very long one, in which there seems very little hope for him at\nall.  We must all sow our spiritual wild oats.  The fault I feel\npersonally disposed to find with my godson is not that he had wild oats\nto sow, but that they were such an exceedingly tame and uninteresting\ncrop.  The sense of humour and tendency to think for himself, of which\ntill a few months previously he had been showing fair promise, were\nnipped as though by a late frost, while his earlier habit of taking on\ntrust everything that was told him by those in authority, and following\neverything out to the bitter end, no matter how preposterous, returned\nwith redoubled strength.  I suppose this was what might have been\nexpected from anyone placed as Ernest now was, especially when his\nantecedents are remembered, but it surprised and disappointed some of his\ncooler-headed Cambridge friends who had begun to think well of his\nability.  To himself it seemed that religion was incompatible with half\nmeasures, or even with compromise.  Circumstances had led to his being\nordained; for the moment he was sorry they had, but he had done it and\nmust go through with it.  He therefore set himself to find out what was\nexpected of him, and to act accordingly.\n\nHis rector was a moderate High Churchman of no very pronounced views--an\nelderly man who had had too many curates not to have long since found out\nthat the connection between rector and curate, like that between employer\nand employed in every other walk of life, was a mere matter of business.\nHe had now two curates, of whom Ernest was the junior; the senior curate\nwas named Pryer, and when this gentleman made advances, as he presently\ndid, Ernest in his forlorn state was delighted to meet them.\n\nPryer was about twenty-eight years old.  He had been at Eton and at\nOxford.  He was tall, and passed generally for good-looking; I only saw\nhim once for about five minutes, and then thought him odious both in\nmanners and appearance.  Perhaps it was because he caught me up in a way\nI did not like.  I had quoted Shakespeare for lack of something better to\nfill up a sentence--and had said that one touch of nature made the whole\nworld kin.  \"Ah,\" said Pryer, in a bold, brazen way which displeased me,\n\"but one touch of the unnatural makes it more kindred still,\" and he gave\nme a look as though he thought me an old bore and did not care two straws\nwhether I was shocked or not.  Naturally enough, after this I did not\nlike him.\n\nThis, however, is anticipating, for it was not till Ernest had been three\nor four months in London that I happened to meet his fellow-curate, and I\nmust deal here rather with the effect he produced upon my godson than\nupon myself.  Besides being what was generally considered good-looking,\nhe was faultless in his get-up, and altogether the kind of man whom\nErnest was sure to be afraid of and yet be taken in by.  The style of his\ndress was very High Church, and his acquaintances were exclusively of the\nextreme High Church party, but he kept his views a good deal in the\nbackground in his rector's presence, and that gentleman, though he looked\naskance on some of Pryer's friends, had no such ground of complaint\nagainst him as to make him sever the connection.  Pryer, too, was popular\nin the pulpit, and, take him all round, it was probable that many worse\ncurates would be found for one better.  When Pryer called on my hero, as\nsoon as the two were alone together, he eyed him all over with a quick\npenetrating glance and seemed not dissatisfied with the result--for I\nmust say here that Ernest had improved in personal appearance under the\nmore genial treatment he had received at Cambridge.  Pryer, in fact,\napproved of him sufficiently to treat him civilly, and Ernest was\nimmediately won by anyone who did this.  It was not long before he\ndiscovered that the High Church party, and even Rome itself, had more to\nsay for themselves than he had thought.  This was his first snipe-like\nchange of flight.\n\nPryer introduced him to several of his friends.  They were all of them\nyoung clergymen, belonging as I have said to the highest of the High\nChurch school, but Ernest was surprised to find how much they resembled\nother people when among themselves.  This was a shock to him; it was ere\nlong a still greater one to find that certain thoughts which he had\nwarred against as fatal to his soul, and which he had imagined he should\nlose once for all on ordination, were still as troublesome to him as they\nhad been; he also saw plainly enough that the young gentlemen who formed\nthe circle of Pryer's friends were in much the same unhappy predicament\nas himself.\n\nThis was deplorable.  The only way out of it that Ernest could see was\nthat he should get married at once.  But then he did not know any one\nwhom he wanted to marry.  He did not know any woman, in fact, whom he\nwould not rather die than marry.  It had been one of Theobald's and\nChristina's main objects to keep him out of the way of women, and they\nhad so far succeeded that women had become to him mysterious, inscrutable\nobjects to be tolerated when it was impossible to avoid them, but never\nto be sought out or encouraged.  As for any man loving, or even being at\nall fond of any woman, he supposed it was so, but he believed the greater\nnumber of those who professed such sentiments were liars.  Now, however,\nit was clear that he had hoped against hope too long, and that the only\nthing to do was to go and ask the first woman who would listen to him to\ncome and be married to him as soon as possible.\n\nHe broached this to Pryer, and was surprised to find that this gentleman,\nthough attentive to such members of his flock as were young and\ngood-looking, was strongly in favour of the celibacy of the clergy, as\nindeed were the other demure young clerics to whom Pryer had introduced\nErnest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII\n\n\n\"You know, my dear Pontifex,\" said Pryer to him, some few weeks after\nErnest had become acquainted with him, when the two were taking a\nconstitutional one day in Kensington Gardens, \"You know, my dear\nPontifex, it is all very well to quarrel with Rome, but Rome has reduced\nthe treatment of the human soul to a science, while our own Church,\nthough so much purer in many respects, has no organised system either of\ndiagnosis or pathology--I mean, of course, spiritual diagnosis and\nspiritual pathology.  Our Church does not prescribe remedies upon any\nsettled system, and, what is still worse, even when her physicians have\naccording to their lights ascertained the disease and pointed out the\nremedy, she has no discipline which will ensure its being actually\napplied.  If our patients do not choose to do as we tell them, we cannot\nmake them.  Perhaps really under all the circumstances this is as well,\nfor we are spiritually mere horse doctors as compared with the Roman\npriesthood, nor can we hope to make much headway against the sin and\nmisery that surround us, till we return in some respects to the practice\nof our forefathers and of the greater part of Christendom.\"\n\nErnest asked in what respects it was that his friend desired a return to\nthe practice of our forefathers.\n\n\"Why, my dear fellow, can you really be ignorant?  It is just this,\neither the priest is indeed a spiritual guide, as being able to show\npeople how they ought to live better than they can find out for\nthemselves, or he is nothing at all--he has no _raison d'etre_.  If the\npriest is not as much a healer and director of men's souls as a physician\nis of their bodies, what is he?  The history of all ages has shown--and\nsurely you must know this as well as I do--that as men cannot cure the\nbodies of their patients if they have not been properly trained in\nhospitals under skilled teachers, so neither can souls be cured of their\nmore hidden ailments without the help of men who are skilled in\nsoul-craft--or in other words, of priests.  What do one half of our\nformularies and rubrics mean if not this?  How in the name of all that is\nreasonable can we find out the exact nature of a spiritual malady, unless\nwe have had experience of other similar cases?  How can we get this\nwithout express training?  At present we have to begin all experiments\nfor ourselves, without profiting by the organised experience of our\npredecessors, inasmuch as that experience is never organised and\nco-ordinated at all.  At the outset, therefore, each one of us must ruin\nmany souls which could be saved by knowledge of a few elementary\nprinciples.\"\n\nErnest was very much impressed.\n\n\"As for men curing themselves,\" continued Pryer, \"they can no more cure\ntheir own souls than they can cure their own bodies, or manage their own\nlaw affairs.  In these two last cases they see the folly of meddling with\ntheir own cases clearly enough, and go to a professional adviser as a\nmatter of course; surely a man's soul is at once a more difficult and\nintricate matter to treat, and at the same time it is more important to\nhim that it should be treated rightly than that either his body or his\nmoney should be so.  What are we to think of the practice of a Church\nwhich encourages people to rely on unprofessional advice in matters\naffecting their eternal welfare, when they would not think of\njeopardising their worldly affairs by such insane conduct?\"\n\nErnest could see no weak place in this.  These ideas had crossed his own\nmind vaguely before now, but he had never laid hold of them or set them\nin an orderly manner before himself.  Nor was he quick at detecting false\nanalogies and the misuse of metaphors; in fact he was a mere child in the\nhands of his fellow curate.\n\n\"And what,\" resumed Pryer, \"does all this point to?  Firstly, to the duty\nof confession--the outcry against which is absurd as an outcry would be\nagainst dissection as part of the training of medical students.  Granted\nthese young men must see and do a great deal we do not ourselves like\neven to think of, but they should adopt some other profession unless they\nare prepared for this; they may even get inoculated with poison from a\ndead body and lose their lives, but they must stand their chance.  So if\nwe aspire to be priests in deed as well as name, we must familiarise\nourselves with the minutest and most repulsive details of all kinds of\nsin, so that we may recognise it in all its stages.  Some of us must\ndoubtlessly perish spiritually in such investigations.  We cannot help\nit; all science must have its martyrs, and none of these will deserve\nbetter of humanity than those who have fallen in the pursuit of spiritual\npathology.\"\n\nErnest grew more and more interested, but in the meekness of his soul\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"I do not desire this martyrdom for myself,\" continued the other, \"on the\ncontrary I will avoid it to the very utmost of my power, but if it be\nGod's will that I should fall while studying what I believe most\ncalculated to advance his glory--then, I say, not my will, oh Lord, but\nthine be done.\"\n\nThis was too much even for Ernest.  \"I heard of an Irish-woman once,\" he\nsaid, with a smile, \"who said she was a martyr to the drink.\"\n\n\"And so she was,\" rejoined Pryer with warmth; and he went on to show that\nthis good woman was an experimentalist whose experiment, though\ndisastrous in its effects upon herself, was pregnant with instruction to\nother people.  She was thus a true martyr or witness to the frightful\nconsequences of intemperance, to the saving, doubtless, of many who but\nfor her martyrdom would have taken to drinking.  She was one of a forlorn\nhope whose failure to take a certain position went to the proving it to\nbe impregnable and therefore to the abandonment of all attempt to take\nit.  This was almost as great a gain to mankind as the actual taking of\nthe position would have been.\n\n\"Besides,\" he added more hurriedly, \"the limits of vice and virtue are\nwretchedly ill-defined.  Half the vices which the world condemns most\nloudly have seeds of good in them and require moderate use rather than\ntotal abstinence.\"\n\nErnest asked timidly for an instance.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Pryer, \"I will give you no instance, but I will give you a\nformula that shall embrace all instances.  It is this, that no practice\nis entirely vicious which has not been extinguished among the comeliest,\nmost vigorous, and most cultivated races of mankind in spite of centuries\nof endeavour to extirpate it.  If a vice in spite of such efforts can\nstill hold its own among the most polished nations, it must be founded on\nsome immutable truth or fact in human nature, and must have some\ncompensatory advantage which we cannot afford altogether to dispense\nwith.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Ernest timidly, \"is not this virtually doing away with all\ndistinction between right and wrong, and leaving people without any moral\nguide whatever?\"\n\n\"Not the people,\" was the answer: \"it must be our care to be guides to\nthese, for they are and always will be incapable of guiding themselves\nsufficiently.  We should tell them what they must do, and in an ideal\nstate of things should be able to enforce their doing it: perhaps when we\nare better instructed the ideal state may come about; nothing will so\nadvance it as greater knowledge of spiritual pathology on our own part.\nFor this, three things are necessary; firstly, absolute freedom in\nexperiment for us the clergy; secondly, absolute knowledge of what the\nlaity think and do, and of what thoughts and actions result in what\nspiritual conditions; and thirdly, a compacter organisation among\nourselves.\n\n\"If we are to do any good we must be a closely united body, and must be\nsharply divided from the laity.  Also we must be free from those ties\nwhich a wife and children involve.  I can hardly express the horror with\nwhich I am filled by seeing English priests living in what I can only\ndesignate as 'open matrimony.'  It is deplorable.  The priest must be\nabsolutely sexless--if not in practice, yet at any rate in theory,\nabsolutely--and that too, by a theory so universally accepted that none\nshall venture to dispute it.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Ernest, \"has not the Bible already told people what they\nought and ought not to do, and is it not enough for us to insist on what\ncan be found here, and let the rest alone?\"\n\n\"If you begin with the Bible,\" was the rejoinder, \"you are three parts\ngone on the road to infidelity, and will go the other part before you\nknow where you are.  The Bible is not without its value to us the clergy,\nbut for the laity it is a stumbling-block which cannot be taken out of\ntheir way too soon or too completely.  Of course, I mean on the\nsupposition that they read it, which, happily, they seldom do.  If people\nread the Bible as the ordinary British churchman or churchwoman reads it,\nit is harmless enough; but if they read it with any care--which we should\nassume they will if we give it them at all--it is fatal to them.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Ernest, more and more astonished, but more and\nmore feeling that he was at least in the hands of a man who had definite\nideas.\n\n\"Your question shows me that you have never read your Bible.  A more\nunreliable book was never put upon paper.  Take my advice and don't read\nit, not till you are a few years older, and may do so safely.\"\n\n\"But surely you believe the Bible when it tells you of such things as\nthat Christ died and rose from the dead?  Surely you believe this?\" said\nErnest, quite prepared to be told that Pryer believed nothing of the\nkind.\n\n\"I do not believe it, I know it.\"\n\n\"But how--if the testimony of the Bible fails?\"\n\n\"On that of the living voice of the Church, which I know to be infallible\nand to be informed of Christ himself.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII\n\n\nThe foregoing conversation and others like it made a deep impression upon\nmy hero.  If next day he had taken a walk with Mr Hawke, and heard what\nhe had to say on the other side, he would have been just as much struck,\nand as ready to fling off what Pryer had told him, as he now was to throw\naside all he had ever heard from anyone except Pryer; but there was no Mr\nHawke at hand, so Pryer had everything his own way.\n\nEmbryo minds, like embryo bodies, pass through a number of strange\nmetamorphoses before they adopt their final shape.  It is no more to be\nwondered at that one who is going to turn out a Roman Catholic, should\nhave passed through the stages of being first a Methodist, and then a\nfree thinker, than that a man should at some former time have been a mere\ncell, and later on an invertebrate animal.  Ernest, however, could not be\nexpected to know this; embryos never do.  Embryos think with each stage\nof their development that they have now reached the only condition which\nreally suits them.  This, they say, must certainly be their last,\ninasmuch as its close will be so great a shock that nothing can survive\nit.  Every change is a shock; every shock is a _pro tanto_ death.  What\nwe call death is only a shock great enough to destroy our power to\nrecognise a past and a present as resembling one another.  It is the\nmaking us consider the points of difference between our present and our\npast greater than the points of resemblance, so that we can no longer\ncall the former of these two in any proper sense a continuation of the\nsecond, but find it less trouble to think of it as something that we\nchoose to call new.\n\nBut, to let this pass, it was clear that spiritual pathology (I confess\nthat I do not know myself what spiritual pathology means--but Pryer and\nErnest doubtless did) was the great desideratum of the age.  It seemed to\nErnest that he had made this discovery himself and been familiar with it\nall his life, that he had never known, in fact, of anything else.  He\nwrote long letters to his college friends expounding his views as though\nhe had been one of the Apostolic fathers.  As for the Old Testament\nwriters, he had no patience with them.  \"Do oblige me,\" I find him\nwriting to one friend, \"by reading the prophet Zechariah, and giving me\nyour candid opinion upon him.  He is poor stuff, full of Yankee bounce;\nit is sickening to live in an age when such balderdash can be gravely\nadmired whether as poetry or prophecy.\"  This was because Pryer had set\nhim against Zechariah.  I do not know what Zechariah had done; I should\nthink myself that Zechariah was a very good prophet; perhaps it was\nbecause he was a Bible writer, and not a very prominent one, that Pryer\nselected him as one through whom to disparage the Bible in comparison\nwith the Church.\n\nTo his friend Dawson I find him saying a little later on: \"Pryer and I\ncontinue our walks, working out each other's thoughts.  At first he used\nto do all the thinking, but I think I am pretty well abreast of him now,\nand rather chuckle at seeing that he is already beginning to modify some\nof the views he held most strongly when I first knew him.\n\n\"Then I think he was on the high road to Rome; now, however, he seems to\nbe a good deal struck with a suggestion of mine in which you, too,\nperhaps may be interested.  You see we must infuse new life into the\nChurch somehow; we are not holding our own against either Rome or\ninfidelity.\"  (I may say in passing that I do not believe Ernest had as\nyet ever seen an infidel--not to speak to.)  \"I proposed, therefore, a\nfew days back to Pryer--and he fell in eagerly with the proposal as soon\nas he saw that I had the means of carrying it out--that we should set on\nfoot a spiritual movement somewhat analogous to the Young England\nmovement of twenty years ago, the aim of which shall be at once to outbid\nRome on the one hand, and scepticism on the other.  For this purpose I\nsee nothing better than the foundation of an institution or college for\nplacing the nature and treatment of sin on a more scientific basis than\nit rests at present.  We want--to borrow a useful term of Pryer's--a\nCollege of Spiritual Pathology where young men\" (I suppose Ernest thought\nhe was no longer young by this time) \"may study the nature and treatment\nof the sins of the soul as medical students study those of the bodies of\ntheir patients.  Such a college, as you will probably admit, will\napproach both Rome on the one hand, and science on the other--Rome, as\ngiving the priesthood more skill, and therefore as paving the way for\ntheir obtaining greater power, and science, by recognising that even free\nthought has a certain kind of value in spiritual enquiries.  To this\npurpose Pryer and I have resolved to devote ourselves henceforth heart\nand soul.\n\n\"Of course, my ideas are still unshaped, and all will depend upon the men\nby whom the college is first worked.  I am not yet a priest, but Pryer\nis, and if I were to start the College, Pryer might take charge of it for\na time and I work under him nominally as his subordinate.  Pryer himself\nsuggested this.  Is it not generous of him?\n\n\"The worst of it is that we have not enough money; I have, it is true,\n5000 pounds, but we want at least 10,000 pounds, so Pryer says, before we\ncan start; when we are fairly under weigh I might live at the college and\ndraw a salary from the foundation, so that it is all one, or nearly so,\nwhether I invest my money in this way or in buying a living; besides I\nwant very little; it is certain that I shall never marry; no clergyman\nshould think of this, and an unmarried man can live on next to nothing.\nStill I do not see my way to as much money as I want, and Pryer suggests\nthat as we can hardly earn more now we must get it by a judicious series\nof investments.  Pryer knows several people who make quite a handsome\nincome out of very little or, indeed, I may say, nothing at all, by\nbuying things at a place they call the Stock Exchange; I don't know much\nabout it yet, but Pryer says I should soon learn; he thinks, indeed, that\nI have shown rather a talent in this direction, and under proper auspices\nshould make a very good man of business.  Others, of course, and not I,\nmust decide this; but a man can do anything if he gives his mind to it,\nand though I should not care about having more money for my own sake, I\ncare about it very much when I think of the good I could do with it by\nsaving souls from such horrible torture hereafter.  Why, if the thing\nsucceeds, and I really cannot see what is to hinder it, it is hardly\npossible to exaggerate its importance, nor the proportions which it may\nultimately assume,\" etc., etc.\n\nAgain I asked Ernest whether he minded my printing this.  He winced, but\nsaid \"No, not if it helps you to tell your story: but don't you think it\nis too long?\"\n\nI said it would let the reader see for himself how things were going in\nhalf the time that it would take me to explain them to him.\n\n\"Very well then, keep it by all means.\"\n\nI continue turning over my file of Ernest's letters and find as follows--\n\n   \"Thanks for your last, in answer to which I send you a rough copy of a\n   letter I sent to the _Times_ a day or two back.  They did not insert\n   it, but it embodies pretty fully my ideas on the parochial visitation\n   question, and Pryer fully approves of the letter.  Think it carefully\n   over and send it back to me when read, for it is so exactly my present\n   creed that I cannot afford to lose it.\n\n   \"I should very much like to have a _viva voce_ discussion on these\n   matters: I can only see for certain that we have suffered a dreadful\n   loss in being no longer able to excommunicate.  We should\n   excommunicate rich and poor alike, and pretty freely too.  If this\n   power were restored to us we could, I think, soon put a stop to by far\n   the greater part of the sin and misery with which we are surrounded.\"\n\nThese letters were written only a few weeks after Ernest had been\nordained, but they are nothing to others that he wrote a little later on.\n\nIn his eagerness to regenerate the Church of England (and through this\nthe universe) by the means which Pryer had suggested to him, it occurred\nto him to try to familiarise himself with the habits and thoughts of the\npoor by going and living among them.  I think he got this notion from\nKingsley's \"Alton Locke,\" which, High Churchman though he for the nonce\nwas, he had devoured as he had devoured Stanley's Life of Arnold,\nDickens's novels, and whatever other literary garbage of the day was most\nlikely to do him harm; at any rate he actually put his scheme into\npractice, and took lodgings in Ashpit Place, a small street in the\nneighbourhood of Drury Lane Theatre, in a house of which the landlady was\nthe widow of a cabman.\n\nThis lady occupied the whole ground floor.  In the front kitchen there\nwas a tinker.  The back kitchen was let to a bellows-mender.  On the\nfirst floor came Ernest, with his two rooms which he furnished\ncomfortably, for one must draw the line somewhere.  The two upper floors\nwere parcelled out among four different sets of lodgers: there was a\ntailor named Holt, a drunken fellow who used to beat his wife at night\ntill her screams woke the house; above him there was another tailor with\na wife but no children; these people were Wesleyans, given to drink but\nnot noisy.  The two back rooms were held by single ladies, who it seemed\nto Ernest must be respectably connected, for well-dressed gentlemanly-\nlooking young men used to go up and down stairs past Ernest's rooms to\ncall at any rate on Miss Snow--Ernest had heard her door slam after they\nhad passed.  He thought, too, that some of them went up to Miss\nMaitland's.  Mrs Jupp, the landlady, told Ernest that these were brothers\nand cousins of Miss Snow's, and that she was herself looking out for a\nsituation as a governess, but at present had an engagement as an actress\nat the Drury Lane Theatre.  Ernest asked whether Miss Maitland in the top\nback was also looking out for a situation, and was told she was wanting\nan engagement as a milliner.  He believed whatever Mrs Jupp told him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV\n\n\nThis move on Ernest's part was variously commented upon by his friends,\nthe general opinion being that it was just like Pontifex, who was sure to\ndo something unusual wherever he went, but that on the whole the idea was\ncommendable.  Christina could not restrain herself when on sounding her\nclerical neighbours she found them inclined to applaud her son for\nconduct which they idealised into something much more self-denying than\nit really was.  She did not quite like his living in such an\nunaristocratic neighbourhood; but what he was doing would probably get\ninto the newspapers, and then great people would take notice of him.\nBesides, it would be very cheap; down among these poor people he could\nlive for next to nothing, and might put by a great deal of his income.  As\nfor temptations, there could be few or none in such a place as that.  This\nargument about cheapness was the one with which she most successfully met\nTheobald, who grumbled more _suo_ that he had no sympathy with his son's\nextravagance and conceit.  When Christina pointed out to him that it\nwould be cheap he replied that there was something in that.\n\nOn Ernest himself the effect was to confirm the good opinion of himself\nwhich had been growing upon him ever since he had begun to read for\norders, and to make him flatter himself that he was among the few who\nwere ready to give up _all_ for Christ.  Ere long he began to conceive of\nhimself as a man with a mission and a great future.  His lightest and\nmost hastily formed opinions began to be of momentous importance to him,\nand he inflicted them, as I have already shown, on his old friends, week\nby week becoming more and more _entete_ with himself and his own\ncrotchets.  I should like well enough to draw a veil over this part of my\nhero's career, but cannot do so without marring my story.\n\nIn the spring of 1859 I find him writing--\n\n   \"I cannot call the visible Church Christian till its fruits are\n   Christian, that is until the fruits of the members of the Church of\n   England are in conformity, or something like conformity, with her\n   teaching.  I cordially agree with the teaching of the Church of\n   England in most respects, but she says one thing and does another, and\n   until excommunication--yes, and wholesale excommunication--be resorted\n   to, I cannot call her a Christian institution.  I should begin with\n   our Rector, and if I found it necessary to follow him up by\n   excommunicating the Bishop, I should not flinch even from this.\n\n   \"The present London Rectors are hopeless people to deal with.  My own\n   is one of the best of them, but the moment Pryer and I show signs of\n   wanting to attack an evil in a way not recognised by routine, or of\n   remedying anything about which no outcry has been made, we are met\n   with, 'I cannot think what you mean by all this disturbance; nobody\n   else among the clergy sees these things, and I have no wish to be the\n   first to begin turning everything topsy-turvy.'  And then people call\n   him a sensible man.  I have no patience with them.  However, we know\n   what we want, and, as I wrote to Dawson the other day, have a scheme\n   on foot which will, I think, fairly meet the requirements of the case.\n   But we want more money, and my first move towards getting this has not\n   turned out quite so satisfactorily as Pryer and I had hoped; we shall,\n   however, I doubt not, retrieve it shortly.\"\n\nWhen Ernest came to London he intended doing a good deal of\nhouse-to-house visiting, but Pryer had talked him out of this even before\nhe settled down in his new and strangely-chosen apartments.  The line he\nnow took was that if people wanted Christ, they must prove their want by\ntaking some little trouble, and the trouble required of them was that\nthey should come and seek him, Ernest, out; there he was in the midst of\nthem ready to teach; if people did not choose to come to him it was no\nfault of his.\n\n\"My great business here,\" he writes again to Dawson, \"is to observe.  I\nam not doing much in parish work beyond my share of the daily services.  I\nhave a man's Bible Class, and a boy's Bible Class, and a good many young\nmen and boys to whom I give instruction one way or another; then there\nare the Sunday School children, with whom I fill my room on a Sunday\nevening as full as it will hold, and let them sing hymns and chants.  They\nlike this.  I do a great deal of reading--chiefly of books which Pryer\nand I think most likely to help; we find nothing comparable to the\nJesuits.  Pryer is a thorough gentleman, and an admirable man of\nbusiness--no less observant of the things of this world, in fact, than of\nthe things above; by a brilliant coup he has retrieved, or nearly so, a\nrather serious loss which threatened to delay indefinitely the execution\nof our great scheme.  He and I daily gather fresh principles.  I believe\ngreat things are before me, and am strong in the hope of being able by\nand by to effect much.\n\n\"As for you I bid you God speed.  Be bold but logical, speculative but\ncautious, daringly courageous, but properly circumspect withal,\" etc.,\netc.\n\nI think this may do for the present.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV\n\n\nI had called on Ernest as a matter of course when he first came to\nLondon, but had not seen him.  I had been out when he returned my call,\nso that he had been in town for some weeks before I actually saw him,\nwhich I did not very long after he had taken possession of his new rooms.\nI liked his face, but except for the common bond of music, in respect of\nwhich our tastes were singularly alike, I should hardly have known how to\nget on with him.  To do him justice he did not air any of his schemes to\nme until I had drawn him out concerning them.  I, to borrow the words of\nErnest's landlady, Mrs Jupp, \"am not a very regular church-goer\"--I\ndiscovered upon cross-examination that Mrs Jupp had been to church once\nwhen she was churched for her son Tom some five and twenty years since,\nbut never either before or afterwards; not even, I fear, to be married,\nfor though she called herself \"Mrs\" she wore no wedding ring, and spoke\nof the person who should have been Mr Jupp as \"my poor dear boy's\nfather,\" not as \"my husband.\"  But to return.  I was vexed at Ernest's\nhaving been ordained.  I was not ordained myself and I did not like my\nfriends to be ordained, nor did I like having to be on my best behaviour\nand to look as if butter would not melt in my mouth, and all for a boy\nwhom I remembered when he knew yesterday and to-morrow and Tuesday, but\nnot a day of the week more--not even Sunday itself--and when he said he\ndid not like the kitten because it had pins in its toes.\n\nI looked at him and thought of his aunt Alethea, and how fast the money\nshe had left him was accumulating; and it was all to go to this young\nman, who would use it probably in the very last ways with which Miss\nPontifex would have sympathised.  I was annoyed.  \"She always said,\" I\nthought to myself, \"that she should make a mess of it, but I did not\nthink she would have made as great a mess of it as this.\"  Then I thought\nthat perhaps if his aunt had lived he would not have been like this.\n\nErnest behaved quite nicely to me and I own that the fault was mine if\nthe conversation drew towards dangerous subjects.  I was the aggressor,\npresuming I suppose upon my age and long acquaintance with him, as giving\nme a right to make myself unpleasant in a quiet way.\n\nThen he came out, and the exasperating part of it was that up to a\ncertain point he was so very right.  Grant him his premises and his\nconclusions were sound enough, nor could I, seeing that he was already\nordained, join issue with him about his premises as I should certainly\nhave done if I had had a chance of doing so before he had taken orders.\nThe result was that I had to beat a retreat and went away not in the best\nof humours.  I believe the truth was that I liked Ernest, and was vexed\nat his being a clergyman, and at a clergyman having so much money coming\nto him.\n\nI talked a little with Mrs Jupp on my way out.  She and I had reckoned\none another up at first sight as being neither of us \"very regular church-\ngoers,\" and the strings of her tongue had been loosened.  She said Ernest\nwould die.  He was much too good for the world and he looked so sad \"just\nlike young Watkins of the 'Crown' over the way who died a month ago, and\nhis poor dear skin was white as alablaster; least-ways they say he shot\nhisself.  They took him from the Mortimer, I met them just as I was going\nwith my Rose to get a pint o' four ale, and she had her arm in splints.\nShe told her sister she wanted to go to Perry's to get some wool, instead\no' which it was only a stall to get me a pint o' ale, bless her heart;\nthere's nobody else would do that much for poor old Jupp, and it's a\nhorrid lie to say she is gay; not but what I like a gay woman, I do: I'd\nrather give a gay woman half-a-crown than stand a modest woman a pot o'\nbeer, but I don't want to go associating with bad girls for all that.  So\nthey took him from the Mortimer; they wouldn't let him go home no more;\nand he done it that artful you know.  His wife was in the country living\nwith her mother, and she always spoke respectful o' my Rose.  Poor dear,\nI hope his soul is in Heaven.  Well Sir, would you believe it, there's\nthat in Mr Pontifex's face which is just like young Watkins; he looks\nthat worrited and scrunched up at times, but it's never for the same\nreason, for he don't know nothing at all, no more than a unborn babe, no\nhe don't; why there's not a monkey going about London with an Italian\norgan grinder but knows more than Mr Pontifex do.  He don't know--well I\nsuppose--\"\n\nHere a child came in on an errand from some neighbour and interrupted\nher, or I can form no idea where or when she would have ended her\ndiscourse.  I seized the opportunity to run away, but not before I had\ngiven her five shillings and made her write down my address, for I was a\nlittle frightened by what she said.  I told her if she thought her lodger\ngrew worse, she was to come and let me know.\n\nWeeks went by and I did not see her again.  Having done as much as I had,\nI felt absolved from doing more, and let Ernest alone as thinking that he\nand I should only bore one another.\n\nHe had now been ordained a little over four months, but these months had\nnot brought happiness or satisfaction with them.  He had lived in a\nclergyman's house all his life, and might have been expected perhaps to\nhave known pretty much what being a clergyman was like, and so he did--a\ncountry clergyman; he had formed an ideal, however, as regards what a\ntown clergyman could do, and was trying in a feeble tentative way to\nrealise it, but somehow or other it always managed to escape him.\n\nHe lived among the poor, but he did not find that he got to know them.\nThe idea that they would come to him proved to be a mistaken one.  He did\nindeed visit a few tame pets whom his rector desired him to look after.\nThere was an old man and his wife who lived next door but one to Ernest\nhimself; then there was a plumber of the name of Chesterfield; an aged\nlady of the name of Gover, blind and bed-ridden, who munched and munched\nher feeble old toothless jaws as Ernest spoke or read to her, but who\ncould do little more; a Mr Brookes, a rag and bottle merchant in\nBirdsey's Rents in the last stage of dropsy, and perhaps half a dozen or\nso others.  What did it all come to, when he did go to see them?  The\nplumber wanted to be flattered, and liked fooling a gentleman into\nwasting his time by scratching his ears for him.  Mrs Gover, poor old\nwoman, wanted money; she was very good and meek, and when Ernest got her\na shilling from Lady Anne Jones's bequest, she said it was \"small but\nseasonable,\" and munched and munched in gratitude.  Ernest sometimes gave\nher a little money himself, but not, as he says now, half what he ought\nto have given.\n\nWhat could he do else that would have been of the smallest use to her?\nNothing indeed; but giving occasional half-crowns to Mrs Gover was not\nregenerating the universe, and Ernest wanted nothing short of this.  The\nworld was all out of joint, and instead of feeling it to be a cursed\nspite that he was born to set it right, he thought he was just the kind\nof person that was wanted for the job, and was eager to set to work, only\nhe did not exactly know how to begin, for the beginning he had made with\nMr Chesterfield and Mrs Gover did not promise great developments.\n\nThen poor Mr Brookes--he suffered very much, terribly indeed; he was not\nin want of money; he wanted to die and couldn't, just as we sometimes\nwant to go to sleep and cannot.  He had been a serious-minded man, and\ndeath frightened him as it must frighten anyone who believes that all his\nmost secret thoughts will be shortly exposed in public.  When I read\nErnest the description of how his father used to visit Mrs Thompson at\nBattersby, he coloured and said--\"that's just what I used to say to Mr\nBrookes.\"  Ernest felt that his visits, so far from comforting Mr\nBrookes, made him fear death more and more, but how could he help it?\n\nEven Pryer, who had been curate a couple of years, did not know\npersonally more than a couple of hundred people in the parish at the\noutside, and it was only at the houses of very few of these that he ever\nvisited, but then Pryer had such a strong objection on principle to house\nvisitations.  What a drop in the sea were those with whom he and Pryer\nwere brought into direct communication in comparison with those whom he\nmust reach and move if he were to produce much effect of any kind, one\nway or the other.  Why there were between fifteen and twenty thousand\npoor in the parish, of whom but the merest fraction ever attended a place\nof worship.  Some few went to dissenting chapels, a few were Roman\nCatholics; by far the greater number, however, were practically infidels,\nif not actively hostile, at any rate indifferent to religion, while many\nwere avowed Atheists--admirers of Tom Paine, of whom he now heard for the\nfirst time; but he never met and conversed with any of these.\n\nWas he really doing everything that could be expected of him?  It was all\nvery well to say that he was doing as much as other young clergymen did;\nthat was not the kind of answer which Jesus Christ was likely to accept;\nwhy, the Pharisees themselves in all probability did as much as the other\nPharisees did.  What he should do was to go into the highways and byways,\nand compel people to come in.  Was he doing this?   Or were not they\nrather compelling him to keep out--outside their doors at any rate?  He\nbegan to have an uneasy feeling as though ere long, unless he kept a\nsharp look out, he should drift into being a sham.\n\nTrue, all would be changed as soon as he could endow the College for\nSpiritual Pathology; matters, however, had not gone too well with \"the\nthings that people bought in the place that was called the Stock\nExchange.\"  In order to get on faster, it had been arranged that Ernest\nshould buy more of these things than he could pay for, with the idea that\nin a few weeks, or even days, they would be much higher in value, and he\ncould sell them at a tremendous profit; but, unfortunately, instead of\ngetting higher, they had fallen immediately after Ernest had bought, and\nobstinately refused to get up again; so, after a few settlements, he had\ngot frightened, for he read an article in some newspaper, which said they\nwould go ever so much lower, and, contrary to Pryer's advice, he insisted\non selling--at a loss of something like 500 pounds.  He had hardly sold\nwhen up went the shares again, and he saw how foolish he had been, and\nhow wise Pryer was, for if Pryer's advice had been followed, he would\nhave made 500 pounds, instead of losing it.  However, he told himself he\nmust live and learn.\n\nThen Pryer made a mistake.  They had bought some shares, and the shares\nwent up delightfully for about a fortnight.  This was a happy time\nindeed, for by the end of a fortnight, the lost 500 pounds had been\nrecovered, and three or four hundred pounds had been cleared into the\nbargain.  All the feverish anxiety of that miserable six weeks, when the\n500 pounds was being lost, was now being repaid with interest.  Ernest\nwanted to sell and make sure of the profit, but Pryer would not hear of\nit; they would go ever so much higher yet, and he showed Ernest an\narticle in some newspaper which proved that what he said was reasonable,\nand they did go up a little--but only a very little, for then they went\ndown, down, and Ernest saw first his clear profit of three or four\nhundred pounds go, and then the 500 pounds loss, which he thought he had\nrecovered, slipped away by falls of a half and one at a time, and then he\nlost 200 pounds more.  Then a newspaper said that these shares were the\ngreatest rubbish that had ever been imposed upon the English public, and\nErnest could stand it no longer, so he sold out, again this time against\nPryer's advice, so that when they went up, as they shortly did, Pryer\nscored off Ernest a second time.\n\nErnest was not used to vicissitudes of this kind, and they made him so\nanxious that his health was affected.  It was arranged therefore that he\nhad better know nothing of what was being done.  Pryer was a much better\nman of business than he was, and would see to it all.  This relieved\nErnest of a good deal of trouble, and was better after all for the\ninvestments themselves; for, as Pryer justly said, a man must not have a\nfaint heart if he hopes to succeed in buying and selling upon the Stock\nExchange, and seeing Ernest nervous made Pryer nervous too--at least, he\nsaid it did.  So the money drifted more and more into Pryer's hands.  As\nfor Pryer himself, he had nothing but his curacy and a small allowance\nfrom his father.\n\nSome of Ernest's old friends got an inkling from his letters of what he\nwas doing, and did their utmost to dissuade him, but he was as infatuated\nas a young lover of two and twenty.  Finding that these friends\ndisapproved, he dropped away from them, and they, being bored with his\negotism and high-flown ideas, were not sorry to let him do so.  Of\ncourse, he said nothing about his speculations--indeed, he hardly knew\nthat anything done in so good a cause could be called speculation.  At\nBattersby, when his father urged him to look out for a next presentation,\nand even brought one or two promising ones under his notice, he made\nobjections and excuses, though always promising to do as his father\ndesired very shortly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI\n\n\nBy and by a subtle, indefinable _malaise_ began to take possession of\nhim.  I once saw a very young foal trying to eat some most objectionable\nrefuse, and unable to make up its mind whether it was good or no.  Clearly\nit wanted to be told.  If its mother had seen what it was doing she would\nhave set it right in a moment, and as soon as ever it had been told that\nwhat it was eating was filth, the foal would have recognised it and never\nhave wanted to be told again; but the foal could not settle the matter\nfor itself, or make up its mind whether it liked what it was trying to\neat or no, without assistance from without.  I suppose it would have come\nto do so by and by, but it was wasting time and trouble, which a single\nlook from its mother would have saved, just as wort will in time ferment\nof itself, but will ferment much more quickly if a little yeast be added\nto it.  In the matter of knowing what gives us pleasure we are all like\nwort, and if unaided from without can only ferment slowly and toilsomely.\n\nMy unhappy hero about this time was very much like the foal, or rather he\nfelt much what the foal would have felt if its mother and all the other\ngrown-up horses in the field had vowed that what it was eating was the\nmost excellent and nutritious food to be found anywhere.  He was so\nanxious to do what was right, and so ready to believe that every one knew\nbetter than himself, that he never ventured to admit to himself that he\nmight be all the while on a hopelessly wrong tack.  It did not occur to\nhim that there might be a blunder anywhere, much less did it occur to him\nto try and find out where the blunder was.  Nevertheless he became daily\nmore full of _malaise_, and daily, only he knew it not, more ripe for an\nexplosion should a spark fall upon him.\n\nOne thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general vagueness, and\nto this he instinctively turned as trying to seize it--I mean, the fact\nthat he was saving very few souls, whereas there were thousands and\nthousands being lost hourly all around him which a little energy such as\nMr Hawke's might save.  Day after day went by, and what was he doing?\nStanding on professional _etiquette_, and praying that his shares might\ngo up and down as he wanted them, so that they might give him money\nenough to enable him to regenerate the universe.  But in the meantime the\npeople were dying.  How many souls would not be doomed to endless ages of\nthe most frightful torments that the mind could think of, before he could\nbring his spiritual pathology engine to bear upon them?  Why might he not\nstand and preach as he saw the Dissenters doing sometimes in Lincoln's\nInn Fields and other thoroughfares?  He could say all that Mr Hawke had\nsaid.  Mr Hawke was a very poor creature in Ernest's eyes now, for he was\na Low Churchman, but we should not be above learning from any one, and\nsurely he could affect his hearers as powerfully as Mr Hawke had affected\nhim if he only had the courage to set to work.  The people whom he saw\npreaching in the squares sometimes drew large audiences.  He could at any\nrate preach better than they.\n\nErnest broached this to Pryer, who treated it as something too outrageous\nto be even thought of.  Nothing, he said, could more tend to lower the\ndignity of the clergy and bring the Church into contempt.  His manner was\nbrusque, and even rude.\n\nErnest ventured a little mild dissent; he admitted it was not usual, but\nsomething at any rate must be done, and that quickly.  This was how\nWesley and Whitfield had begun that great movement which had kindled\nreligious life in the minds of hundreds of thousands.  This was no time\nto be standing on dignity.  It was just because Wesley and Whitfield had\ndone what the Church would not that they had won men to follow them whom\nthe Church had now lost.\n\nPryer eyed Ernest searchingly, and after a pause said, \"I don't know what\nto make of you, Pontifex; you are at once so very right and so very\nwrong.  I agree with you heartily that something should be done, but it\nmust not be done in a way which experience has shown leads to nothing but\nfanaticism and dissent.  Do you approve of these Wesleyans?  Do you hold\nyour ordination vows so cheaply as to think that it does not matter\nwhether the services of the Church are performed in her churches and with\nall due ceremony or not?  If you do--then, frankly, you had no business\nto be ordained; if you do not, then remember that one of the first duties\nof a young deacon is obedience to authority.  Neither the Catholic\nChurch, nor yet the Church of England allows her clergy to preach in the\nstreets of cities where there is no lack of churches.\"\n\nErnest felt the force of this, and Pryer saw that he wavered.\n\n\"We are living,\" he continued more genially, \"in an age of transition,\nand in a country which, though it has gained much by the Reformation,\ndoes not perceive how much it has also lost.  You cannot and must not\nhawk Christ about in the streets as though you were in a heathen country\nwhose inhabitants had never heard of him.  The people here in London have\nhad ample warning.  Every church they pass is a protest to them against\ntheir lives, and a call to them to repent.  Every church-bell they hear\nis a witness against them, everyone of those whom they meet on Sundays\ngoing to or coming from church is a warning voice from God.  If these\ncountless influences produce no effect upon them, neither will the few\ntransient words which they would hear from you.  You are like Dives, and\nthink that if one rose from the dead they would hear him.  Perhaps they\nmight; but then you cannot pretend that you have risen from the dead.\"\n\nThough the last few words were spoken laughingly, there was a sub-sneer\nabout them which made Ernest wince; but he was quite subdued, and so the\nconversation ended.  It left Ernest, however, not for the first time,\nconsciously dissatisfied with Pryer, and inclined to set his friend's\nopinion on one side--not openly, but quietly, and without telling Pryer\nanything about it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII\n\n\nHe had hardly parted from Pryer before there occurred another incident\nwhich strengthened his discontent.  He had fallen, as I have shown, among\na gang of spiritual thieves or coiners, who passed the basest metal upon\nhim without his finding it out, so childish and inexperienced was he in\nthe ways of anything but those back eddies of the world, schools and\nuniversities.  Among the bad threepenny pieces which had been passed off\nupon him, and which he kept for small hourly disbursement, was a remark\nthat poor people were much nicer than the richer and better educated.\nErnest now said that he always travelled third class not because it was\ncheaper, but because the people whom he met in third class carriages were\nso much pleasanter and better behaved.  As for the young men who attended\nErnest's evening classes, they were pronounced to be more intelligent and\nbetter ordered generally than the average run of Oxford and Cambridge\nmen.  Our foolish young friend having heard Pryer talk to this effect,\ncaught up all he said and reproduced it _more suo_.\n\nOne evening, however, about this time, whom should he see coming along a\nsmall street not far from his own but, of all persons in the world,\nTowneley, looking as full of life and good spirits as ever, and if\npossible even handsomer than he had been at Cambridge.  Much as Ernest\nliked him he found himself shrinking from speaking to him, and was\nendeavouring to pass him without doing so when Towneley saw him and\nstopped him at once, being pleased to see an old Cambridge face.  He\nseemed for the moment a little confused at being seen in such a\nneighbourhood, but recovered himself so soon that Ernest hardly noticed\nit, and then plunged into a few kindly remarks about old times.  Ernest\nfelt that he quailed as he saw Towneley's eye wander to his white necktie\nand saw that he was being reckoned up, and rather disapprovingly reckoned\nup, as a parson.  It was the merest passing shade upon Towneley's face,\nbut Ernest had felt it.\n\nTowneley said a few words of common form to Ernest about his profession\nas being what he thought would be most likely to interest him, and\nErnest, still confused and shy, gave him for lack of something better to\nsay his little threepenny-bit about poor people being so very nice.\nTowneley took this for what it was worth and nodded assent, whereon\nErnest imprudently went further and said \"Don't you like poor people very\nmuch yourself?\"\n\nTowneley gave his face a comical but good-natured screw, and said\nquietly, but slowly and decidedly, \"No, no, no,\" and escaped.\n\nIt was all over with Ernest from that moment.  As usual he did not know\nit, but he had entered none the less upon another reaction.  Towneley had\njust taken Ernest's threepenny-bit into his hands, looked at it and\nreturned it to him as a bad one.  Why did he see in a moment that it was\na bad one now, though he had been unable to see it when he had taken it\nfrom Pryer?  Of course some poor people were very nice, and always would\nbe so, but as though scales had fallen suddenly from his eyes he saw that\nno one was nicer for being poor, and that between the upper and lower\nclasses there was a gulf which amounted practically to an impassable\nbarrier.\n\nThat evening he reflected a good deal.  If Towneley was right, and Ernest\nfelt that the \"No\" had applied not to the remark about poor people only,\nbut to the whole scheme and scope of his own recently adopted ideas, he\nand Pryer must surely be on a wrong track.  Towneley had not argued with\nhim; he had said one word only, and that one of the shortest in the\nlanguage, but Ernest was in a fit state for inoculation, and the minute\nparticle of virus set about working immediately.\n\nWhich did he now think was most likely to have taken the juster view of\nlife and things, and whom would it be best to imitate, Towneley or Pryer?\nHis heart returned answer to itself without a moment's hesitation.  The\nfaces of men like Towneley were open and kindly; they looked as if at\nease themselves, and as though they would set all who had to do with them\nat ease as far as might be.  The faces of Pryer and his friends were not\nlike this.  Why had he felt tacitly rebuked as soon as he had met\nTowneley?  Was he not a Christian?  Certainly; he believed in the Church\nof England as a matter of course.  Then how could he be himself wrong in\ntrying to act up to the faith that he and Towneley held in common?  He\nwas trying to lead a quiet, unobtrusive life of self-devotion, whereas\nTowneley was not, so far as he could see, trying to do anything of the\nkind; he was only trying to get on comfortably in the world, and to look\nand be as nice as possible.  And he was nice, and Ernest knew that such\nmen as himself and Pryer were not nice, and his old dejection came over\nhim.\n\nThen came an even worse reflection; how if he had fallen among material\nthieves as well as spiritual ones?  He knew very little of how his money\nwas going on; he had put it all now into Pryer's hands, and though Pryer\ngave him cash to spend whenever he wanted it, he seemed impatient of\nbeing questioned as to what was being done with the principal.  It was\npart of the understanding, he said, that that was to be left to him, and\nErnest had better stick to this, or he, Pryer, would throw up the College\nof Spiritual Pathology altogether; and so Ernest was cowed into\nacquiescence, or cajoled, according to the humour in which Pryer saw him\nto be.  Ernest thought that further questions would look as if he doubted\nPryer's word, and also that he had gone too far to be able to recede in\ndecency or honour.  This, however, he felt was riding out to meet trouble\nunnecessarily.  Pryer had been a little impatient, but he was a gentleman\nand an admirable man of business, so his money would doubtless come back\nto him all right some day.\n\nErnest comforted himself as regards this last source of anxiety, but as\nregards the other, he began to feel as though, if he was to be saved, a\ngood Samaritan must hurry up from somewhere--he knew not whence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII\n\n\nNext day he felt stronger again.  He had been listening to the voice of\nthe evil one on the night before, and would parley no more with such\nthoughts.  He had chosen his profession, and his duty was to persevere\nwith it.  If he was unhappy it was probably because he was not giving up\nall for Christ.  Let him see whether he could not do more than he was\ndoing now, and then perhaps a light would be shed upon his path.\n\nIt was all very well to have made the discovery that he didn't very much\nlike poor people, but he had got to put up with them, for it was among\nthem that his work must lie.  Such men as Towneley were very kind and\nconsiderate, but he knew well enough it was only on condition that he did\nnot preach to them.  He could manage the poor better, and, let Pryer\nsneer as he liked, he was resolved to go more among them, and try the\neffect of bringing Christ to them if they would not come and seek Christ\nof themselves.  He would begin with his own house.\n\nWho then should he take first?  Surely he could not do better than begin\nwith the tailor who lived immediately over his head.  This would be\ndesirable, not only because he was the one who seemed to stand most in\nneed of conversion, but also because, if he were once converted, he would\nno longer beat his wife at two o'clock in the morning, and the house\nwould be much pleasanter in consequence.  He would therefore go upstairs\nat once, and have a quiet talk with this man.\n\nBefore doing so, he thought it would be well if he were to draw up\nsomething like a plan of a campaign; he therefore reflected over some\npretty conversations which would do very nicely if Mr Holt would be kind\nenough to make the answers proposed for him in their proper places.  But\nthe man was a great hulking fellow, of a savage temper, and Ernest was\nforced to admit that unforeseen developments might arise to disconcert\nhim.  They say it takes nine tailors to make a man, but Ernest felt that\nit would take at least nine Ernests to make a Mr Holt.  How if, as soon\nas Ernest came in, the tailor were to become violent and abusive?  What\ncould he do?  Mr Holt was in his own lodgings, and had a right to be\nundisturbed.  A legal right, yes, but had he a moral right?  Ernest\nthought not, considering his mode of life.  But put this on one side; if\nthe man were to be violent, what should he do?  Paul had fought with wild\nbeasts at Ephesus--that must indeed have been awful--but perhaps they\nwere not very wild wild beasts; a rabbit and a canary are wild beasts;\nbut, formidable or not as wild beasts go, they would, nevertheless stand\nno chance against St Paul, for he was inspired; the miracle would have\nbeen if the wild beasts escaped, not that St Paul should have done so;\nbut, however all this might be, Ernest felt that he dared not begin to\nconvert Mr Holt by fighting him.  Why, when he had heard Mrs Holt\nscreaming \"murder,\" he had cowered under the bed clothes and waited,\nexpecting to hear the blood dripping through the ceiling on to his own\nfloor.  His imagination translated every sound into a pat, pat, pat, and\nonce or twice he thought he had felt it dropping on to his counterpane,\nbut he had never gone upstairs to try and rescue poor Mrs Holt.  Happily\nit had proved next morning that Mrs Holt was in her usual health.\n\nErnest was in despair about hitting on any good way of opening up\nspiritual communication with his neighbour, when it occurred to him that\nhe had better perhaps begin by going upstairs, and knocking very gently\nat Mr Holt's door.  He would then resign himself to the guidance of the\nHoly Spirit, and act as the occasion, which, I suppose, was another name\nfor the Holy Spirit, suggested.  Triply armed with this reflection, he\nmounted the stairs quite jauntily, and was about to knock when he heard\nHolt's voice inside swearing savagely at his wife.  This made him pause\nto think whether after all the moment was an auspicious one, and while he\nwas thus pausing, Mr Holt, who had heard that someone was on the stairs,\nopened the door and put his head out.  When he saw Ernest, he made an\nunpleasant, not to say offensive movement, which might or might not have\nbeen directed at Ernest and looked altogether so ugly that my hero had an\ninstantaneous and unequivocal revelation from the Holy Spirit to the\neffect that he should continue his journey upstairs at once, as though he\nhad never intended arresting it at Mr Holt's room, and begin by\nconverting Mr and Mrs Baxter, the Methodists in the top floor front.  So\nthis was what he did.\n\nThese good people received him with open arms, and were quite ready to\ntalk.  He was beginning to convert them from Methodism to the Church of\nEngland, when all at once he found himself embarrassed by discovering\nthat he did not know what he was to convert them from.  He knew the\nChurch of England, or thought he did, but he knew nothing of Methodism\nbeyond its name.  When he found that, according to Mr Baxter, the\nWesleyans had a vigorous system of Church discipline (which worked\nadmirably in practice) it appeared to him that John Wesley had\nanticipated the spiritual engine which he and Pryer were preparing, and\nwhen he left the room he was aware that he had caught more of a spiritual\nTartar than he had expected.  But he must certainly explain to Pryer that\nthe Wesleyans had a system of Church discipline.  This was very\nimportant.\n\nMr Baxter advised Ernest on no account to meddle with Mr Holt, and Ernest\nwas much relieved at the advice.  If an opportunity arose of touching the\nman's heart, he would take it; he would pat the children on the head when\nhe saw them on the stairs, and ingratiate himself with them as far as he\ndared; they were sturdy youngsters, and Ernest was afraid even of them,\nfor they were ready with their tongues, and knew much for their ages.\nErnest felt that it would indeed be almost better for him that a\nmillstone should be hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than\nthat he should offend one of the little Holts.  However, he would try not\nto offend them; perhaps an occasional penny or two might square them.\nThis was as much as he could do, for he saw that the attempt to be\ninstant out of season, as well as in season, would, St Paul's injunction\nnotwithstanding, end in failure.\n\nMrs Baxter gave a very bad account of Miss Emily Snow, who lodged in the\nsecond floor back next to Mr Holt.  Her story was quite different from\nthat of Mrs Jupp the landlady.  She would doubtless be only too glad to\nreceive Ernest's ministrations or those of any other gentleman, but she\nwas no governess, she was in the ballet at Drury Lane, and besides this,\nshe was a very bad young woman, and if Mrs Baxter was landlady would not\nbe allowed to stay in the house a single hour, not she indeed.\n\nMiss Maitland in the next room to Mrs Baxter's own was a quiet and\nrespectable young woman to all appearance; Mrs Baxter had never known of\nany goings on in that quarter, but, bless you, still waters run deep, and\nthese girls were all alike, one as bad as the other.  She was out at all\nkinds of hours, and when you knew that you knew all.\n\nErnest did not pay much heed to these aspersions of Mrs Baxter's.  Mrs\nJupp had got round the greater number of his many blind sides, and had\nwarned him not to believe Mrs Baxter, whose lip she said was something\nawful.\n\nErnest had heard that women were always jealous of one another, and\ncertainly these young women were more attractive than Mrs Baxter was, so\njealousy was probably at the bottom of it.  If they were maligned there\ncould be no objection to his making their acquaintance; if not maligned\nthey had all the more need of his ministrations.  He would reclaim them\nat once.\n\nHe told Mrs Jupp of his intention.  Mrs Jupp at first tried to dissuade\nhim, but seeing him resolute, suggested that she should herself see Miss\nSnow first, so as to prepare her and prevent her from being alarmed by\nhis visit.  She was not at home now, but in the course of the next day,\nit should be arranged.  In the meantime he had better try Mr Shaw, the\ntinker, in the front kitchen.  Mrs Baxter had told Ernest that Mr Shaw\nwas from the North Country, and an avowed freethinker; he would probably,\nshe said, rather like a visit, but she did not think Ernest would stand\nmuch chance of making a convert of him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX\n\n\nBefore going down into the kitchen to convert the tinker Ernest ran\nhurriedly over his analysis of Paley's evidences, and put into his pocket\na copy of Archbishop Whateley's \"Historic Doubts.\"  Then he descended the\ndark rotten old stairs and knocked at the tinker's door.  Mr Shaw was\nvery civil; he said he was rather throng just now, but if Ernest did not\nmind the sound of hammering he should be very glad of a talk with him.\nOur hero, assenting to this, ere long led the conversation to Whateley's\n\"Historic Doubts\"--a work which, as the reader may know, pretends to show\nthat there never was any such person as Napoleon Buonaparte, and thus\nsatirises the arguments of those who have attacked the Christian\nmiracles.\n\nMr Shaw said he knew \"Historic Doubts\" very well.\n\n\"And what you think of it?\" said Ernest, who regarded the pamphlet as a\nmasterpiece of wit and cogency.\n\n\"If you really want to know,\" said Mr Shaw, with a sly twinkle, \"I think\nthat he who was so willing and able to prove that what was was not, would\nbe equally able and willing to make a case for thinking that what was not\nwas, if it suited his purpose.\"  Ernest was very much taken aback.  How\nwas it that all the clever people of Cambridge had never put him up to\nthis simple rejoinder?  The answer is easy: they did not develop it for\nthe same reason that a hen had never developed webbed feet--that is to\nsay, because they did not want to do so; but this was before the days of\nEvolution, and Ernest could not as yet know anything of the great\nprinciple that underlies it.\n\n\"You see,\" continued Mr Shaw, \"these writers all get their living by\nwriting in a certain way, and the more they write in that way, the more\nthey are likely to get on.  You should not call them dishonest for this\nany more than a judge should call a barrister dishonest for earning his\nliving by defending one in whose innocence he does not seriously believe;\nbut you should hear the barrister on the other side before you decide\nupon the case.\"\n\nThis was another facer.  Ernest could only stammer that he had\nendeavoured to examine these questions as carefully as he could.\n\n\"You think you have,\" said Mr Shaw; \"you Oxford and Cambridge gentlemen\nthink you have examined everything.  I have examined very little myself\nexcept the bottoms of old kettles and saucepans, but if you will answer\nme a few questions, I will tell you whether or no you have examined much\nmore than I have.\"\n\nErnest expressed his readiness to be questioned.\n\n\"Then,\" said the tinker, \"give me the story of the Resurrection of Jesus\nChrist as told in St John's gospel.\"\n\nI am sorry to say that Ernest mixed up the four accounts in a deplorable\nmanner; he even made the angel come down and roll away the stone and sit\nupon it.  He was covered with confusion when the tinker first told him\nwithout the book of some of his many inaccuracies, and then verified his\ncriticisms by referring to the New Testament itself.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mr Shaw good naturedly, \"I am an old man and you are a young\none, so perhaps you'll not mind my giving you a piece of advice.  I like\nyou, for I believe you mean well, but you've been real bad brought up,\nand I don't think you have ever had so much as a chance yet.  You know\nnothing of our side of the question, and I have just shown you that you\ndo not know much more of your own, but I think you will make a kind of\nCarlyle sort of a man some day.  Now go upstairs and read the accounts of\nthe Resurrection correctly without mixing them up, and have a clear idea\nof what it is that each writer tells us, then if you feel inclined to pay\nme another visit I shall be glad to see you, for I shall know you have\nmade a good beginning and mean business.  Till then, Sir, I must wish you\na very good morning.\"\n\nErnest retreated abashed.  An hour sufficed him to perform the task\nenjoined upon him by Mr Shaw; and at the end of that hour the \"No, no,\nno,\" which still sounded in his ears as he heard it from Towneley, came\nringing up more loudly still from the very pages of the Bible itself, and\nin respect of the most important of all the events which are recorded in\nit.  Surely Ernest's first day's attempt at more promiscuous visiting,\nand at carrying out his principles more thoroughly, had not been\nunfruitful.  But he must go and have a talk with Pryer.  He therefore got\nhis lunch and went to Pryer's lodgings.  Pryer not being at home, he\nlounged to the British Museum Reading Room, then recently opened, sent\nfor the \"Vestiges of Creation,\" which he had never yet seen, and spent\nthe rest of the afternoon in reading it.\n\nErnest did not see Pryer on the day of his conversation with Mr Shaw, but\nhe did so next morning and found him in a good temper, which of late he\nhad rarely been.  Sometimes, indeed, he had behaved to Ernest in a way\nwhich did not bode well for the harmony with which the College of\nSpiritual Pathology would work when it had once been founded.  It almost\nseemed as though he were trying to get a complete moral ascendency over\nhim, so as to make him a creature of his own.\n\nHe did not think it possible that he could go too far, and indeed, when I\nreflect upon my hero's folly and inexperience, there is much to be said\nin excuse for the conclusion which Pryer came to.\n\nAs a matter of fact, however, it was not so.  Ernest's faith in Pryer had\nbeen too great to be shaken down all in a moment, but it had been\nweakened lately more than once.  Ernest had fought hard against allowing\nhimself to see this, nevertheless any third person who knew the pair\nwould have been able to see that the connection between the two might end\nat any moment, for when the time for one of Ernest's snipe-like changes\nof flight came, he was quick in making it; the time, however, was not yet\ncome, and the intimacy between the two was apparently all that it had\never been.  It was only that horrid money business (so said Ernest to\nhimself) that caused any unpleasantness between them, and no doubt Pryer\nwas right, and he, Ernest, much too nervous.  However, that might stand\nover for the present.\n\nIn like manner, though he had received a shock by reason of his\nconversation with Mr Shaw, and by looking at the \"Vestiges,\" he was as\nyet too much stunned to realise the change which was coming over him.  In\neach case the momentum of old habits carried him forward in the old\ndirection.  He therefore called on Pryer, and spent an hour and more with\nhim.\n\nHe did not say that he had been visiting among his neighbours; this to\nPryer would have been like a red rag to a bull.  He only talked in much\nhis usual vein about the proposed College, the lamentable want of\ninterest in spiritual things which was characteristic of modern society,\nand other kindred matters; he concluded by saying that for the present he\nfeared Pryer was indeed right, and that nothing could be done.\n\n\"As regards the laity,\" said Pryer, \"nothing; not until we have a\ndiscipline which we can enforce with pains and penalties.  How can a\nsheep dog work a flock of sheep unless he can bite occasionally as well\nas bark?  But as regards ourselves we can do much.\"\n\nPryer's manner was strange throughout the conversation, as though he were\nthinking all the time of something else.  His eyes wandered curiously\nover Ernest, as Ernest had often noticed them wander before: the words\nwere about Church discipline, but somehow or other the discipline part of\nthe story had a knack of dropping out after having been again and again\nemphatically declared to apply to the laity and not to the clergy: once\nindeed Pryer had pettishly exclaimed: \"Oh, bother the College of\nSpiritual Pathology.\"  As regards the clergy, glimpses of a pretty large\ncloven hoof kept peeping out from under the saintly robe of Pryer's\nconversation, to the effect, that so long as they were theoretically\nperfect, practical peccadilloes--or even peccadaccios, if there is such a\nword, were of less importance.  He was restless, as though wanting to\napproach a subject which he did not quite venture to touch upon, and kept\nharping (he did this about every third day) on the wretched lack of\ndefinition concerning the limits of vice and virtue, and the way in which\nhalf the vices wanted regulating rather than prohibiting.  He dwelt also\non the advantages of complete unreserve, and hinted that there were\nmysteries into which Ernest had not yet been initiated, but which would\nenlighten him when he got to know them, as he would be allowed to do when\nhis friends saw that he was strong enough.\n\nPryer had often been like this before, but never so nearly, as it seemed\nto Ernest, coming to a point--though what the point was he could not\nfully understand.  His inquietude was communicating itself to Ernest, who\nwould probably ere long have come to know as much as Pryer could tell\nhim, but the conversation was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a\nvisitor.  We shall never know how it would have ended, for this was the\nvery last time that Ernest ever saw Pryer.  Perhaps Pryer was going to\nbreak to him some bad news about his speculations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX\n\n\nErnest now went home and occupied himself till luncheon with studying\nDean Alford's notes upon the various Evangelistic records of the\nResurrection, doing as Mr Shaw had told him, and trying to find out not\nthat they were all accurate, but whether they were all accurate or no.  He\ndid not care which result he should arrive at, but he was resolved that\nhe would reach one or the other.  When he had finished Dean Alford's\nnotes he found them come to this, namely, that no one yet had succeeded\nin bringing the four accounts into tolerable harmony with each other, and\nthat the Dean, seeing no chance of succeeding better than his\npredecessors had done, recommended that the whole story should be taken\non trust--and this Ernest was not prepared to do.\n\nHe got his luncheon, went out for a long walk, and returned to dinner at\nhalf past six.  While Mrs Jupp was getting him his dinner--a steak and a\npint of stout--she told him that Miss Snow would be very happy to see him\nin about an hour's time.  This disconcerted him, for his mind was too\nunsettled for him to wish to convert anyone just then.  He reflected a\nlittle, and found that, in spite of the sudden shock to his opinions, he\nwas being irresistibly drawn to pay the visit as though nothing had\nhappened.  It would not look well for him not to go, for he was known to\nbe in the house.  He ought not to be in too great a hurry to change his\nopinions on such a matter as the evidence for Christ's Resurrection all\nof a sudden--besides he need not talk to Miss Snow about this subject to-\nday--there were other things he might talk about.  What other things?\nErnest felt his heart beat fast and fiercely, and an inward monitor\nwarned him that he was thinking of anything rather than of Miss Snow's\nsoul.\n\nWhat should he do?  Fly, fly, fly--it was the only safety.  But would\nChrist have fled?  Even though Christ had not died and risen from the\ndead there could be no question that He was the model whose example we\nwere bound to follow.  Christ would not have fled from Miss Snow; he was\nsure of that, for He went about more especially with prostitutes and\ndisreputable people.  Now, as then, it was the business of the true\nChristian to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance.  It would\nbe inconvenient to him to change his lodgings, and he could not ask Mrs\nJupp to turn Miss Snow and Miss Maitland out of the house.  Where was he\nto draw the line?  Who would be just good enough to live in the same\nhouse with him, and who just not good enough?\n\nBesides, where were these poor girls to go?  Was he to drive them from\nhouse to house till they had no place to lie in?  It was absurd; his duty\nwas clear: he would go and see Miss Snow at once, and try if he could not\ninduce her to change her present mode of life; if he found temptation\nbecoming too strong for him he would fly then--so he went upstairs with\nhis Bible under his arm, and a consuming fire in his heart.\n\nHe found Miss Snow looking very pretty in a neatly, not to say demurely,\nfurnished room.  I think she had bought an illuminated text or two, and\npinned it up over her fireplace that morning.  Ernest was very much\npleased with her, and mechanically placed his Bible upon the table.  He\nhad just opened a timid conversation and was deep in blushes, when a\nhurried step came bounding up the stairs as though of one over whom the\nforce of gravity had little power, and a man burst into the room saying,\n\"I'm come before my time.\"  It was Towneley.\n\nHis face dropped as he caught sight of Ernest.  \"What, you here,\nPontifex!  Well, upon my word!\"\n\nI cannot describe the hurried explanations that passed quickly between\nthe three--enough that in less than a minute Ernest, blushing more\nscarlet than ever, slunk off, Bible and all, deeply humiliated as he\ncontrasted himself and Towneley.  Before he had reached the bottom of the\nstaircase leading to his own room he heard Towneley's hearty laugh\nthrough Miss Snow's door, and cursed the hour that he was born.\n\nThen it flashed upon him that if he could not see Miss Snow he could at\nany rate see Miss Maitland.  He knew well enough what he wanted now, and\nas for the Bible, he pushed it from him to the other end of his table.  It\nfell over on to the floor, and he kicked it into a corner.  It was the\nBible given him at his christening by his affectionate aunt, Elizabeth\nAllaby.  True, he knew very little of Miss Maitland, but ignorant young\nfools in Ernest's state do not reflect or reason closely.  Mrs Baxter had\nsaid that Miss Maitland and Miss Snow were birds of a feather, and Mrs\nBaxter probably knew better than that old liar, Mrs Jupp.  Shakespeare\nsays:\n\n   O Opportunity, thy guilt is great\n   'Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason:\n   Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get;\n   Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season;\n   'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason;\n   And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,\n   Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.\n\nIf the guilt of opportunity is great, how much greater is the guilt of\nthat which is believed to be opportunity, but in reality is no\nopportunity at all.  If the better part of valour is discretion, how much\nmore is not discretion the better part of vice\n\nAbout ten minutes after we last saw Ernest, a scared, insulted girl,\nflushed and trembling, was seen hurrying from Mrs Jupp's house as fast as\nher agitated state would let her, and in another ten minutes two\npolicemen were seen also coming out of Mrs Jupp's, between whom there\nshambled rather than walked our unhappy friend Ernest, with staring eyes,\nghastly pale, and with despair branded upon every line of his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI\n\n\nPryer had done well to warn Ernest against promiscuous house to house\nvisitation.  He had not gone outside Mrs Jupp's street door, and yet what\nhad been the result?\n\nMr Holt had put him in bodily fear; Mr and Mrs Baxter had nearly made a\nMethodist of him; Mr Shaw had undermined his faith in the Resurrection;\nMiss Snow's charms had ruined--or would have done so but for an\naccident--his moral character.  As for Miss Maitland, he had done his\nbest to ruin hers, and had damaged himself gravely and irretrievably in\nconsequence.  The only lodger who had done him no harm was the bellows'\nmender, whom he had not visited.\n\nOther young clergymen, much greater fools in many respects than he, would\nnot have got into these scrapes.  He seemed to have developed an aptitude\nfor mischief almost from the day of his having been ordained.  He could\nhardly preach without making some horrid _faux pas_.  He preached one\nSunday morning when the Bishop was at his Rector's church, and made his\nsermon turn upon the question what kind of little cake it was that the\nwidow of Zarephath had intended making when Elijah found her gathering a\nfew sticks.  He demonstrated that it was a seed cake.  The sermon was\nreally very amusing, and more than once he saw a smile pass over the sea\nof faces underneath him.  The Bishop was very angry, and gave my hero a\nsevere reprimand in the vestry after service was over; the only excuse he\ncould make was that he was preaching _ex tempore_, had not thought of\nthis particular point till he was actually in the pulpit, and had then\nbeen carried away by it.\n\nAnother time he preached upon the barren fig-tree, and described the\nhopes of the owner as he watched the delicate blossom unfold, and give\npromise of such beautiful fruit in autumn.  Next day he received a letter\nfrom a botanical member of his congregation who explained to him that\nthis could hardly have been, inasmuch as the fig produces its fruit first\nand blossoms inside the fruit, or so nearly so that no flower is\nperceptible to an ordinary observer.  This last, however, was an accident\nwhich might have happened to any one but a scientist or an inspired\nwriter.\n\nThe only excuse I can make for him is that he was very young--not yet\nfour and twenty--and that in mind as in body, like most of those who in\nthe end come to think for themselves, he was a slow grower.  By far the\ngreater part, moreover, of his education had been an attempt, not so much\nto keep him in blinkers as to gouge his eyes out altogether.\n\nBut to return to my story.  It transpired afterwards that Miss Maitland\nhad had no intention of giving Ernest in charge when she ran out of Mrs\nJupp's house.  She was running away because she was frightened, but\nalmost the first person whom she ran against had happened to be a\npoliceman of a serious turn of mind, who wished to gain a reputation for\nactivity.  He stopped her, questioned her, frightened her still more, and\nit was he rather than Miss Maitland, who insisted on giving my hero in\ncharge to himself and another constable.\n\nTowneley was still in Mrs Jupp's house when the policeman came.  He had\nheard a disturbance, and going down to Ernest's room while Miss Maitland\nwas out of doors, had found him lying, as it were, stunned at the foot of\nthe moral precipice over which he had that moment fallen.  He saw the\nwhole thing at a glance, but before he could take action, the policemen\ncame in and action became impossible.\n\nHe asked Ernest who were his friends in London.  Ernest at first wanted\nnot to say, but Towneley soon gave him to understand that he must do as\nhe was bid, and selected myself from the few whom he had named.  \"Writes\nfor the stage, does he?\" said Towneley.  \"Does he write comedy?\"  Ernest\nthought Towneley meant that I ought to write tragedy, and said he was\nafraid I wrote burlesque.  \"Oh, come, come,\" said Towneley, \"that will do\nfamously.  I will go and see him at once.\"  But on second thoughts he\ndetermined to stay with Ernest and go with him to the police court.  So\nhe sent Mrs Jupp for me.  Mrs Jupp hurried so fast to fetch me, that in\nspite of the weather's being still cold she was \"giving out,\" as she\nexpressed it, in streams.  The poor old wretch would have taken a cab,\nbut she had no money and did not like to ask Towneley to give her some.  I\nsaw that something very serious had happened, but was not prepared for\nanything so deplorable as what Mrs Jupp actually told me.  As for Mrs\nJupp, she said her heart had been jumping out of its socket and back\nagain ever since.\n\nI got her into a cab with me, and we went off to the police station.  She\ntalked without ceasing.\n\n\"And if the neighbours do say cruel things about me, I'm sure it ain't no\nthanks to _him_ if they're true.  Mr Pontifex never took a bit o' notice\nof me no more than if I had been his sister.  Oh, it's enough to make\nanyone's back bone curdle.  Then I thought perhaps my Rose might get on\nbetter with him, so I set her to dust him and clean him as though I were\nbusy, and gave her such a beautiful clean new pinny, but he never took no\nnotice of her no more than he did of me, and she didn't want no\ncompliment neither, she wouldn't have taken not a shilling from him,\nthough he had offered it, but he didn't seem to know anything at all.  I\ncan't make out what the young men are a-coming to; I wish the horn may\nblow for me and the worms take me this very night, if it's not enough to\nmake a woman stand before God and strike the one half on 'em silly to see\nthe way they goes on, and many an honest girl has to go home night after\nnight without so much as a fourpenny bit and paying three and sixpence a\nweek rent, and not a shelf nor cupboard in the place and a dead wall in\nfront of the window.\n\n\"It's not Mr Pontifex,\" she continued, \"that's so bad, he's good at\nheart.  He never says nothing unkind.  And then there's his dear eyes--but\nwhen I speak about that to my Rose she calls me an old fool and says I\nought to be poleaxed.  It's that Pryer as I can't abide.  Oh he!  He\nlikes to wound a woman's feelings he do, and to chuck anything in her\nface, he do--he likes to wind a woman up and to wound her down.\"  (Mrs\nJupp pronounced \"wound\" as though it rhymed to \"sound.\")  \"It's a\ngentleman's place to soothe a woman, but he, he'd like to tear her hair\nout by handfuls.  Why, he told me to my face that I was a-getting old;\nold indeed! there's not a woman in London knows my age except Mrs Davis\ndown in the Old Kent Road, and beyond a haricot vein in one of my legs\nI'm as young as ever I was.  Old indeed!  There's many a good tune played\non an old fiddle.  I hate his nasty insinuendos.\"\n\nEven if I had wanted to stop her, I could not have done so.  She said a\ngreat deal more than I have given above.  I have left out much because I\ncould not remember it, but still more because it was really impossible\nfor me to print it.\n\nWhen we got to the police station I found Towneley and Ernest already\nthere.  The charge was one of assault, but not aggravated by serious\nviolence.  Even so, however, it was lamentable enough, and we both saw\nthat our young friend would have to pay dearly for his inexperience.  We\ntried to bail him out for the night, but the Inspector would not accept\nbail, so we were forced to leave him.\n\nTowneley then went back to Mrs Jupp's to see if he could find Miss\nMaitland and arrange matters with her.  She was not there, but he traced\nher to the house of her father, who lived at Camberwell.  The father was\nfurious and would not hear of any intercession on Towneley's part.  He\nwas a Dissenter, and glad to make the most of any scandal against a\nclergyman; Towneley, therefore, was obliged to return unsuccessful.\n\nNext morning, Towneley--who regarded Ernest as a drowning man, who must\nbe picked out of the water somehow or other if possible, irrespective of\nthe way in which he got into it--called on me, and we put the matter into\nthe hands of one of the best known attorneys of the day.  I was greatly\npleased with Towneley, and thought it due to him to tell him what I had\ntold no one else.  I mean that Ernest would come into his aunt's money in\na few years' time, and would therefore then be rich.\n\nTowneley was doing all he could before this, but I knew that the\nknowledge I had imparted to him would make him feel as though Ernest was\nmore one of his own class, and had therefore a greater claim upon his\ngood offices.  As for Ernest himself, his gratitude was greater than\ncould be expressed in words.  I have heard him say that he can call to\nmind many moments, each one of which might well pass for the happiest of\nhis life, but that this night stands clearly out as the most painful that\nhe ever passed, yet so kind and considerate was Towneley that it was\nquite bearable.\n\nBut with all the best wishes in the world neither Towneley nor I could do\nmuch to help beyond giving our moral support.  Our attorney told us that\nthe magistrate before whom Ernest would appear was very severe on cases\nof this description, and that the fact of his being a clergyman would\ntell against him.  \"Ask for no remand,\" he said, \"and make no defence.  We\nwill call Mr Pontifex's rector and you two gentlemen as witnesses for\nprevious good character.  These will be enough.  Let us then make a\nprofound apology and beg the magistrate to deal with the case summarily\ninstead of sending it for trial.  If you can get this, believe me, your\nyoung friend will be better out of it than he has any right to expect.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII\n\n\nThis advice, besides being obviously sensible, would end in saving Ernest\nboth time and suspense of mind, so we had no hesitation in adopting it.\nThe case was called on about eleven o'clock, but we got it adjourned till\nthree, so as to give time for Ernest to set his affairs as straight as he\ncould, and to execute a power of attorney enabling me to act for him as I\nshould think fit while he was in prison.\n\nThen all came out about Pryer and the College of Spiritual Pathology.\nErnest had even greater difficulty in making a clean breast of this than\nhe had had in telling us about Miss Maitland, but he told us all, and the\nupshot was that he had actually handed over to Pryer every halfpenny that\nhe then possessed with no other security than Pryer's I.O.U.'s for the\namount.  Ernest, though still declining to believe that Pryer could be\nguilty of dishonourable conduct, was becoming alive to the folly of what\nhe had been doing; he still made sure, however, of recovering, at any\nrate, the greater part of his property as soon as Pryer should have had\ntime to sell.  Towneley and I were of a different opinion, but we did not\nsay what we thought.\n\nIt was dreary work waiting all the morning amid such unfamiliar and\ndepressing surroundings.  I thought how the Psalmist had exclaimed with\nquiet irony, \"One day in thy courts is better than a thousand,\" and I\nthought that I could utter a very similar sentiment in respect of the\nCourts in which Towneley and I were compelled to loiter.  At last, about\nthree o'clock the case was called on, and we went round to the part of\nthe court which is reserved for the general public, while Ernest was\ntaken into the prisoner's dock.  As soon as he had collected himself\nsufficiently he recognised the magistrate as the old gentleman who had\nspoken to him in the train on the day he was leaving school, and saw, or\nthought he saw, to his great grief, that he too was recognised.\n\nMr Ottery, for this was our attorney's name, took the line he had\nproposed.  He called no other witnesses than the rector, Towneley and\nmyself, and threw himself on the mercy of the magistrate.  When he had\nconcluded, the magistrate spoke as follows: \"Ernest Pontifex, yours is\none of the most painful cases that I have ever had to deal with.  You\nhave been singularly favoured in your parentage and education.  You have\nhad before you the example of blameless parents, who doubtless instilled\ninto you from childhood the enormity of the offence which by your own\nconfession you have committed.  You were sent to one of the best public\nschools in England.  It is not likely that in the healthy atmosphere of\nsuch a school as Roughborough you can have come across contaminating\ninfluences; you were probably, I may say certainly, impressed at school\nwith the heinousness of any attempt to depart from the strictest chastity\nuntil such time as you had entered into a state of matrimony.  At\nCambridge you were shielded from impurity by every obstacle which\nvirtuous and vigilant authorities could devise, and even had the\nobstacles been fewer, your parents probably took care that your means\nshould not admit of your throwing money away upon abandoned characters.\nAt night proctors patrolled the street and dogged your steps if you tried\nto go into any haunt where the presence of vice was suspected.  By day\nthe females who were admitted within the college walls were selected\nmainly on the score of age and ugliness.  It is hard to see what more can\nbe done for any young man than this.  For the last four or five months\nyou have been a clergyman, and if a single impure thought had still\nremained within your mind, ordination should have removed it:\nnevertheless, not only does it appear that your mind is as impure as\nthough none of the influences to which I have referred had been brought\nto bear upon it, but it seems as though their only result had been\nthis--that you have not even the common sense to be able to distinguish\nbetween a respectable girl and a prostitute.\n\n\"If I were to take a strict view of my duty I should commit you for\ntrial, but in consideration of this being your first offence, I shall\ndeal leniently with you and sentence you to imprisonment with hard labour\nfor six calendar months.\"\n\nTowneley and I both thought there was a touch of irony in the\nmagistrate's speech, and that he could have given a lighter sentence if\nhe would, but that was neither here nor there.  We obtained leave to see\nErnest for a few minutes before he was removed to Coldbath Fields, where\nhe was to serve his term, and found him so thankful to have been\nsummarily dealt with that he hardly seemed to care about the miserable\nplight in which he was to pass the next six months.  When he came out, he\nsaid, he would take what remained of his money, go off to America or\nAustralia and never be heard of more.\n\nWe left him full of this resolve, I, to write to Theobald, and also to\ninstruct my solicitor to get Ernest's money out of Pryer's hands, and\nTowneley to see the reporters and keep the case out of the newspapers.  He\nwas successful as regards all the higher-class papers.  There was only\none journal, and that of the lowest class, which was incorruptible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII\n\n\nI saw my solicitor at once, but when I tried to write to Theobald, I\nfound it better to say I would run down and see him.  I therefore\nproposed this, asking him to meet me at the station, and hinting that I\nmust bring bad news about his son.  I knew he would not get my letter\nmore than a couple of hours before I should see him, and thought the\nshort interval of suspense might break the shock of what I had to say.\n\nNever do I remember to have halted more between two opinions than on my\njourney to Battersby upon this unhappy errand.  When I thought of the\nlittle sallow-faced lad whom I had remembered years before, of the long\nand savage cruelty with which he had been treated in childhood--cruelty\nnone the less real for having been due to ignorance and stupidity rather\nthan to deliberate malice; of the atmosphere of lying and self-laudatory\nhallucination in which he had been brought up; of the readiness the boy\nhad shown to love anything that would be good enough to let him, and of\nhow affection for his parents, unless I am much mistaken, had only died\nin him because it had been killed anew, again and again and again, each\ntime that it had tried to spring.  When I thought of all this I felt as\nthough, if the matter had rested with me, I would have sentenced Theobald\nand Christina to mental suffering even more severe than that which was\nabout to fall upon them.  But on the other hand, when I thought of\nTheobald's own childhood, of that dreadful old George Pontifex his\nfather, of John and Mrs John, and of his two sisters, when again I\nthought of Christina's long years of hope deferred that maketh the heart\nsick, before she was married, of the life she must have led at\nCrampsford, and of the surroundings in the midst of which she and her\nhusband both lived at Battersby, I felt as though the wonder was that\nmisfortunes so persistent had not been followed by even graver\nretribution.\n\nPoor people!  They had tried to keep their ignorance of the world from\nthemselves by calling it the pursuit of heavenly things, and then\nshutting their eyes to anything that might give them trouble.  A son\nhaving been born to them they had shut his eyes also as far as was\npracticable.  Who could blame them?  They had chapter and verse for\neverything they had either done or left undone; there is no better\nthumbed precedent than that for being a clergyman and a clergyman's wife.\nIn what respect had they differed from their neighbours?  How did their\nhousehold differ from that of any other clergyman of the better sort from\none end of England to the other?  Why then should it have been upon them,\nof all people in the world, that this tower of Siloam had fallen?\n\nSurely it was the tower of Siloam that was naught rather than those who\nstood under it; it was the system rather than the people that was at\nfault.  If Theobald and his wife had but known more of the world and of\nthe things that are therein, they would have done little harm to anyone.\nSelfish they would have always been, but not more so than may very well\nbe pardoned, and not more than other people would be.  As it was, the\ncase was hopeless; it would be no use their even entering into their\nmothers' wombs and being born again.  They must not only be born again\nbut they must be born again each one of them of a new father and of a new\nmother and of a different line of ancestry for many generations before\ntheir minds could become supple enough to learn anew.  The only thing to\ndo with them was to humour them and make the best of them till they\ndied--and be thankful when they did so.\n\nTheobald got my letter as I had expected, and met me at the station\nnearest to Battersby.  As I walked back with him towards his own house I\nbroke the news to him as gently as I could.  I pretended that the whole\nthing was in great measure a mistake, and that though Ernest no doubt had\nhad intentions which he ought to have resisted, he had not meant going\nanything like the length which Miss Maitland supposed.  I said we had\nfelt how much appearances were against him, and had not dared to set up\nthis defence before the magistrate, though we had no doubt about its\nbeing the true one.\n\nTheobald acted with a readier and acuter moral sense than I had given him\ncredit for.\n\n\"I will have nothing more to do with him,\" he exclaimed promptly, \"I will\nnever see his face again; do not let him write either to me or to his\nmother; we know of no such person.  Tell him you have seen me, and that\nfrom this day forward I shall put him out of my mind as though he had\nnever been born.  I have been a good father to him, and his mother\nidolised him; selfishness and ingratitude have been the only return we\nhave ever had from him; my hope henceforth must be in my remaining\nchildren.\"\n\nI told him how Ernest's fellow curate had got hold of his money, and\nhinted that he might very likely be penniless, or nearly so, on leaving\nprison.  Theobald did not seem displeased at this, but added soon\nafterwards: \"If this proves to be the case, tell him from me that I will\ngive him a hundred pounds if he will tell me through you when he will\nhave it paid, but tell him not to write and thank me, and say that if he\nattempts to open up direct communication either with his mother or\nmyself, he shall not have a penny of the money.\"\n\nKnowing what I knew, and having determined on violating Miss Pontifex's\ninstructions should the occasion arise, I did not think Ernest would be\nany the worse for a complete estrangement from his family, so I\nacquiesced more readily in what Theobald had proposed than that gentleman\nmay have expected.\n\nThinking it better that I should not see Christina, I left Theobald near\nBattersby and walked back to the station.  On my way I was pleased to\nreflect that Ernest's father was less of a fool than I had taken him to\nbe, and had the greater hopes, therefore, that his son's blunders might\nbe due to postnatal, rather than congenital misfortunes.  Accidents which\nhappen to a man before he is born, in the persons of his ancestors, will,\nif he remembers them at all, leave an indelible impression on him; they\nwill have moulded his character so that, do what he will, it is hardly\npossible for him to escape their consequences.  If a man is to enter into\nthe Kingdom of Heaven, he must do so, not only as a little child, but as\na little embryo, or rather as a little zoosperm--and not only this, but\nas one that has come of zoosperms which have entered into the Kingdom of\nHeaven before him for many generations.  Accidents which occur for the\nfirst time, and belong to the period since a man's last birth, are not,\nas a general rule, so permanent in their effects, though of course they\nmay sometimes be so.  At any rate, I was not displeased at the view which\nErnest's father took of the situation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV\n\n\nAfter Ernest had been sentenced, he was taken back to the cells to wait\nfor the van which should take him to Coldbath Fields, where he was to\nserve his term.\n\nHe was still too stunned and dazed by the suddenness with which events\nhad happened during the last twenty-four hours to be able to realise his\nposition.  A great chasm had opened between his past and future;\nnevertheless he breathed, his pulse beat, he could think and speak.  It\nseemed to him that he ought to be prostrated by the blow that had fallen\non him, but he was not prostrated; he had suffered from many smaller\nlaches far more acutely.  It was not until he thought of the pain his\ndisgrace would inflict on his father and mother that he felt how readily\nhe would have given up all he had, rather than have fallen into his\npresent plight.  It would break his mother's heart.  It must, he knew it\nwould--and it was he who had done this.\n\nHe had had a headache coming on all the forenoon, but as he thought of\nhis father and mother, his pulse quickened, and the pain in his head\nsuddenly became intense.  He could hardly walk to the van, and he found\nits motion insupportable.  On reaching the prison he was too ill to walk\nwithout assistance across the hall to the corridor or gallery where\nprisoners are marshalled on their arrival.  The prison warder, seeing at\nonce that he was a clergyman, did not suppose he was shamming, as he\nmight have done in the case of an old gaol-bird; he therefore sent for\nthe doctor.  When this gentleman arrived, Ernest was declared to be\nsuffering from an incipient attack of brain fever, and was taken away to\nthe infirmary.  Here he hovered for the next two months between life and\ndeath, never in full possession of his reason and often delirious, but at\nlast, contrary to the expectation of both doctor and nurse, he began\nslowly to recover.\n\nIt is said that those who have been nearly drowned, find the return to\nconsciousness much more painful than the loss of it had been, and so it\nwas with my hero.  As he lay helpless and feeble, it seemed to him a\nrefinement of cruelty that he had not died once for all during his\ndelirium.  He thought he should still most likely recover only to sink a\nlittle later on from shame and sorrow; nevertheless from day to day he\nmended, though so slowly that he could hardly realise it to himself.  One\nafternoon, however, about three weeks after he had regained\nconsciousness, the nurse who tended him, and who had been very kind to\nhim, made some little rallying sally which amused him; he laughed, and as\nhe did so, she clapped her hands and told him he would be a man again.\nThe spark of hope was kindled, and again he wished to live.  Almost from\nthat moment his thoughts began to turn less to the horrors of the past,\nand more to the best way of meeting the future.\n\nHis worst pain was on behalf of his father and mother, and how he should\nagain face them.  It still seemed to him that the best thing both for him\nand them would be that he should sever himself from them completely, take\nwhatever money he could recover from Pryer, and go to some place in the\nuttermost parts of the earth, where he should never meet anyone who had\nknown him at school or college, and start afresh.  Or perhaps he might go\nto the gold fields in California or Australia, of which such wonderful\naccounts were then heard; there he might even make his fortune, and\nreturn as an old man many years hence, unknown to everyone, and if so, he\nwould live at Cambridge.  As he built these castles in the air, the spark\nof life became a flame, and he longed for health, and for the freedom\nwhich, now that so much of his sentence had expired, was not after all\nvery far distant.\n\nThen things began to shape themselves more definitely.  Whatever happened\nhe would be a clergyman no longer.  It would have been practically\nimpossible for him to have found another curacy, even if he had been so\nminded, but he was not so minded.  He hated the life he had been leading\never since he had begun to read for orders; he could not argue about it,\nbut simply he loathed it and would have no more of it.  As he dwelt on\nthe prospect of becoming a layman again, however disgraced, he rejoiced\nat what had befallen him, and found a blessing in this very imprisonment\nwhich had at first seemed such an unspeakable misfortune.\n\nPerhaps the shock of so great a change in his surroundings had\naccelerated changes in his opinions, just as the cocoons of silkworms,\nwhen sent in baskets by rail, hatch before their time through the novelty\nof heat and jolting.  But however this may be, his belief in the stories\nconcerning the Death, Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus Christ, and\nhence his faith in all the other Christian miracles, had dropped off him\nonce and for ever.  The investigation he had made in consequence of Mr\nShaw's rebuke, hurried though it was, had left a deep impression upon\nhim, and now he was well enough to read he made the New Testament his\nchief study, going through it in the spirit which Mr Shaw had desired of\nhim, that is to say as one who wished neither to believe nor disbelieve,\nbut cared only about finding out whether he ought to believe or no.  The\nmore he read in this spirit the more the balance seemed to lie in favour\nof unbelief, till, in the end, all further doubt became impossible, and\nhe saw plainly enough that, whatever else might be true, the story that\nChrist had died, come to life again, and been carried from earth through\nclouds into the heavens could not now be accepted by unbiassed people.  It\nwas well he had found it out so soon.  In one way or another it was sure\nto meet him sooner or later.  He would probably have seen it years ago if\nhe had not been hoodwinked by people who were paid for hoodwinking him.\nWhat should he have done, he asked himself, if he had not made his\npresent discovery till years later when he was more deeply committed to\nthe life of a clergyman?  Should he have had the courage to face it, or\nwould he not more probably have evolved some excellent reason for\ncontinuing to think as he had thought hitherto?  Should he have had the\ncourage to break away even from his present curacy?\n\nHe thought not, and knew not whether to be more thankful for having been\nshown his error or for having been caught up and twisted round so that he\ncould hardly err farther, almost at the very moment of his having\ndiscovered it.  The price he had had to pay for this boon was light as\ncompared with the boon itself.  What is too heavy a price to pay for\nhaving duty made at once clear and easy of fulfilment instead of very\ndifficult?  He was sorry for his father and mother, and he was sorry for\nMiss Maitland, but he was no longer sorry for himself.\n\nIt puzzled him, however, that he should not have known how much he had\nhated being a clergyman till now.  He knew that he did not particularly\nlike it, but if anyone had asked him whether he actually hated it, he\nwould have answered no.  I suppose people almost always want something\nexternal to themselves, to reveal to them their own likes and dislikes.\nOur most assured likings have for the most part been arrived at neither\nby introspection nor by any process of conscious reasoning, but by the\nbounding forth of the heart to welcome the gospel proclaimed to it by\nanother.  We hear some say that such and such a thing is thus or thus,\nand in a moment the train that has been laid within us, but whose\npresence we knew not, flashes into consciousness and perception.\n\nOnly a year ago he had bounded forth to welcome Mr Hawke's sermon; since\nthen he had bounded after a College of Spiritual Pathology; now he was in\nfull cry after rationalism pure and simple; how could he be sure that his\npresent state of mind would be more lasting than his previous ones?  He\ncould not be certain, but he felt as though he were now on firmer ground\nthan he had ever been before, and no matter how fleeting his present\nopinions might prove to be, he could not but act according to them till\nhe saw reason to change them.  How impossible, he reflected, it would\nhave been for him to do this, if he had remained surrounded by people\nlike his father and mother, or Pryer and Pryer's friends, and his rector.\nHe had been observing, reflecting, and assimilating all these months with\nno more consciousness of mental growth than a school-boy has of growth of\nbody, but should he have been able to admit his growth to himself, and to\nact up to his increased strength if he had remained in constant close\nconnection with people who assured him solemnly that he was under a\nhallucination?  The combination against him was greater than his unaided\nstrength could have broken through, and he felt doubtful how far any\nshock less severe than the one from which he was suffering would have\nsufficed to free him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXV\n\n\nAs he lay on his bed day after day slowly recovering he woke up to the\nfact which most men arrive at sooner or later, I mean that very few care\ntwo straws about truth, or have any confidence that it is righter and\nbetter to believe what is true than what is untrue, even though belief in\nthe untruth may seem at first sight most expedient.  Yet it is only these\nfew who can be said to believe anything at all; the rest are simply\nunbelievers in disguise.  Perhaps, after all, these last are right.  They\nhave numbers and prosperity on their side.  They have all which the\nrationalist appeals to as his tests of right and wrong.  Right, according\nto him, is what seems right to the majority of sensible, well-to-do\npeople; we know of no safer criterion than this, but what does the\ndecision thus arrived at involve?  Simply this, that a conspiracy of\nsilence about things whose truth would be immediately apparent to\ndisinterested enquirers is not only tolerable but righteous on the part\nof those who profess to be and take money for being _par excellence_\nguardians and teachers of truth.\n\nErnest saw no logical escape from this conclusion.  He saw that belief on\nthe part of the early Christians in the miraculous nature of Christ's\nResurrection was explicable, without any supposition of miracle.  The\nexplanation lay under the eyes of anyone who chose to take a moderate\ndegree of trouble; it had been put before the world again and again, and\nthere had been no serious attempt to refute it.  How was it that Dean\nAlford for example who had made the New Testament his speciality, could\nnot or would not see what was so obvious to Ernest himself?  Could it be\nfor any other reason than that he did not want to see it, and if so was\nhe not a traitor to the cause of truth?  Yes, but was he not also a\nrespectable and successful man, and were not the vast majority of\nrespectable and successful men, such for example, as all the bishops and\narchbishops, doing exactly as Dean Alford did, and did not this make\ntheir action right, no matter though it had been cannibalism or\ninfanticide, or even habitual untruthfulness of mind?\n\nMonstrous, odious falsehood!  Ernest's feeble pulse quickened and his\npale face flushed as this hateful view of life presented itself to him in\nall its logical consistency.  It was not the fact of most men being liars\nthat shocked him--that was all right enough; but even the momentary doubt\nwhether the few who were not liars ought not to become liars too.  There\nwas no hope left if this were so; if this were so, let him die, the\nsooner the better.  \"Lord,\" he exclaimed inwardly, \"I don't believe one\nword of it.  Strengthen Thou and confirm my disbelief.\"  It seemed to him\nthat he could never henceforth see a bishop going to consecration without\nsaying to himself: \"There, but for the grace of God, went Ernest\nPontifex.\"  It was no doing of his.  He could not boast; if he had lived\nin the time of Christ he might himself have been an early Christian, or\neven an Apostle for aught he knew.  On the whole he felt that he had much\nto be thankful for.\n\nThe conclusion, then, that it might be better to believe error than truth\nshould be ordered out of court at once, no matter by how clear a logic it\nhad been arrived at; but what was the alternative?  It was this, that our\ncriterion of truth--i.e. that truth is what commends itself to the great\nmajority of sensible and successful people--is not infallible.  The rule\nis sound, and covers by far the greater number of cases, but it has its\nexceptions.\n\nHe asked himself, what were they?  Ah! that was a difficult matter; there\nwere so many, and the rules which governed them were sometimes so subtle,\nthat mistakes always had and always would be made; it was just this that\nmade it impossible to reduce life to an exact science.  There was a rough\nand ready rule-of-thumb test of truth, and a number of rules as regards\nexceptions which could be mastered without much trouble, yet there was a\nresidue of cases in which decision was difficult--so difficult that a man\nhad better follow his instinct than attempt to decide them by any process\nof reasoning.\n\nInstinct then is the ultimate court of appeal.  And what is instinct?  It\nis a mode of faith in the evidence of things not actually seen.  And so\nmy hero returned almost to the point from which he had started\noriginally, namely that the just shall live by faith.\n\nAnd this is what the just--that is to say reasonable people--do as\nregards those daily affairs of life which most concern them.  They settle\nsmaller matters by the exercise of their own deliberation.  More\nimportant ones, such as the cure of their own bodies and the bodies of\nthose whom they love, the investment of their money, the extrication of\ntheir affairs from any serious mess--these things they generally entrust\nto others of whose capacity they know little save from general report;\nthey act therefore on the strength of faith, not of knowledge.  So the\nEnglish nation entrusts the welfare of its fleet and naval defences to a\nFirst Lord of the Admiralty, who, not being a sailor can know nothing\nabout these matters except by acts of faith.  There can be no doubt about\nfaith and not reason being the _ultima ratio_.\n\nEven Euclid, who has laid himself as little open to the charge of\ncredulity as any writer who ever lived, cannot get beyond this.  He has\nno demonstrable first premise.  He requires postulates and axioms which\ntranscend demonstration, and without which he can do nothing.  His\nsuperstructure indeed is demonstration, but his ground is faith.  Nor\nagain can he get further than telling a man he is a fool if he persists\nin differing from him.  He says \"which is absurd,\" and declines to\ndiscuss the matter further.  Faith and authority, therefore, prove to be\nas necessary for him as for anyone else.  \"By faith in what, then,\" asked\nErnest of himself, \"shall a just man endeavour to live at this present\ntime?\"  He answered to himself, \"At any rate not by faith in the\nsupernatural element of the Christian religion.\"\n\nAnd how should he best persuade his fellow-countrymen to leave off\nbelieving in this supernatural element?  Looking at the matter from a\npractical point of view he thought the Archbishop of Canterbury afforded\nthe most promising key to the situation.  It lay between him and the\nPope.  The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice the\nArchbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well.  If he could only\nmanage to sprinkle a pinch of salt, as it were, on the Archbishop's tail,\nhe might convert the whole Church of England to free thought by a _coup\nde main_.  There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop--an\nArchbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment for\nassault--would not be able to withstand.  When brought face to face with\nthe facts, as he, Ernest, could arrange them; his Grace would have no\nresource but to admit them; being an honourable man he would at once\nresign his Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct in\nEngland within a few months' time.  This, at any rate, was how things\nought to be.  But all the time Ernest had no confidence in the\nArchbishop's not hopping off just as the pinch was about to fall on him,\nand this seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of it.  If\nthis was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious\nuse of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from an\nambuscade.\n\nTo do him justice it was not himself that he greatly cared about.  He\nknew he had been humbugged, and he knew also that the greater part of the\nills which had afflicted him were due, indirectly, in chief measure to\nthe influence of Christian teaching; still, if the mischief had ended\nwith himself, he should have thought little about it, but there was his\nsister, and his brother Joey, and the hundreds and thousands of young\npeople throughout England whose lives were being blighted through the\nlies told them by people whose business it was to know better, but who\nscamped their work and shirked difficulties instead of facing them.  It\nwas this which made him think it worth while to be angry, and to consider\nwhether he could not at least do something towards saving others from\nsuch years of waste and misery as he had had to pass himself.  If there\nwas no truth in the miraculous accounts of Christ's Death and\nResurrection, the whole of the religion founded upon the historic truth\nof those events tumbled to the ground.  \"My,\" he exclaimed, with all the\narrogance of youth, \"they put a gipsy or fortune-teller into prison for\ngetting money out of silly people who think they have supernatural power;\nwhy should they not put a clergyman in prison for pretending that he can\nabsolve sins, or turn bread and wine into the flesh and blood of One who\ndied two thousand years ago?  What,\" he asked himself, \"could be more\npure 'hanky-panky' than that a bishop should lay his hands upon a young\nman and pretend to convey to him the spiritual power to work this\nmiracle?  It was all very well to talk about toleration; toleration, like\neverything else, had its limits; besides, if it was to include the bishop\nlet it include the fortune-teller too.\"  He would explain all this to the\nArchbishop of Canterbury by and by, but as he could not get hold of him\njust now, it occurred to him that he might experimentalise advantageously\nupon the viler soul of the prison chaplain.  It was only those who took\nthe first and most obvious step in their power who ever did great things\nin the end, so one day, when Mr Hughes--for this was the chaplain's\nname--was talking with him, Ernest introduced the question of Christian\nevidences, and tried to raise a discussion upon them.  Mr Hughes had been\nvery kind to him, but he was more than twice my hero's age, and had long\ntaken the measure of such objections as Ernest tried to put before him.  I\ndo not suppose he believed in the actual objective truth of the stories\nabout Christ's Resurrection and Ascension any more than Ernest did, but\nhe knew that this was a small matter, and that the real issue lay much\ndeeper than this.\n\nMr Hughes was a man who had been in authority for many years, and he\nbrushed Ernest on one side as if he had been a fly.  He did it so well\nthat my hero never ventured to tackle him again, and confined his\nconversation with him for the future to such matters as what he had\nbetter do when he got out of prison; and here Mr Hughes was ever ready to\nlisten to him with sympathy and kindness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVI\n\n\nErnest was now so far convalescent as to be able to sit up for the\ngreater part of the day.  He had been three months in prison, and, though\nnot strong enough to leave the infirmary, was beyond all fear of a\nrelapse.  He was talking one day with Mr Hughes about his future, and\nagain expressed his intention of emigrating to Australia or New Zealand\nwith the money he should recover from Pryer.  Whenever he spoke of this\nhe noticed that Mr Hughes looked grave and was silent: he had thought\nthat perhaps the chaplain wanted him to return to his profession, and\ndisapproved of his evident anxiety to turn to something else; now,\nhowever, he asked Mr Hughes point blank why it was that he disapproved of\nhis idea of emigrating.\n\nMr Hughes endeavoured to evade him, but Ernest was not to be put off.\nThere was something in the chaplain's manner which suggested that he knew\nmore than Ernest did, but did not like to say it.  This alarmed him so\nmuch that he begged him not to keep him in suspense; after a little\nhesitation Mr Hughes, thinking him now strong enough to stand it, broke\nthe news as gently as he could that the whole of Ernest's money had\ndisappeared.\n\nThe day after my return from Battersby I called on my solicitor, and was\ntold that he had written to Pryer, requiring him to refund the monies for\nwhich he had given his I.O.U.'s.  Pryer replied that he had given orders\nto his broker to close his operations, which unfortunately had resulted\nso far in heavy loss, and that the balance should be paid to my solicitor\non the following settling day, then about a week distant.  When the time\ncame, we heard nothing from Pryer, and going to his lodgings found that\nhe had left with his few effects on the very day after he had heard from\nus, and had not been seen since.\n\nI had heard from Ernest the name of the broker who had been employed, and\nwent at once to see him.  He told me Pryer had closed all his accounts\nfor cash on the day that Ernest had been sentenced, and had received 2315\npounds, which was all that remained of Ernest's original 5000 pounds.\nWith this he had decamped, nor had we enough clue as to his whereabouts\nto be able to take any steps to recover the money.  There was in fact\nnothing to be done but to consider the whole as lost.  I may say here\nthat neither I nor Ernest ever heard of Pryer again, nor have any idea\nwhat became of him.\n\nThis placed me in a difficult position.  I knew, of course, that in a few\nyears Ernest would have many times over as much money as he had lost, but\nI knew also that he did not know this, and feared that the supposed loss\nof all he had in the world might be more than he could stand when coupled\nwith his other misfortunes.\n\nThe prison authorities had found Theobald's address from a letter in\nErnest's pocket, and had communicated with him more than once concerning\nhis son's illness, but Theobald had not written to me, and I supposed my\ngodson to be in good health.  He would be just twenty-four years old when\nhe left prison, and if I followed out his aunt's instructions, would have\nto battle with fortune for another four years as well as he could.  The\nquestion before me was whether it was right to let him run so much risk,\nor whether I should not to some extent transgress my instructions--which\nthere was nothing to prevent my doing if I thought Miss Pontifex would\nhave wished it--and let him have the same sum that he would have\nrecovered from Pryer.\n\nIf my godson had been an older man, and more fixed in any definite\ngroove, this is what I should have done, but he was still very young, and\nmore than commonly unformed for his age.  If, again, I had known of his\nillness I should not have dared to lay any heavier burden on his back\nthan he had to bear already; but not being uneasy about his health, I\nthought a few years of roughing it and of experience concerning the\nimportance of not playing tricks with money would do him no harm.  So I\ndecided to keep a sharp eye upon him as soon as he came out of prison,\nand to let him splash about in deep water as best he could till I saw\nwhether he was able to swim, or was about to sink.  In the first case I\nwould let him go on swimming till he was nearly eight-and-twenty, when I\nwould prepare him gradually for the good fortune that awaited him; in the\nsecond I would hurry up to the rescue.  So I wrote to say that Pryer had\nabsconded, and that he could have 100 pounds from his father when he came\nout of prison.  I then waited to see what effect these tidings would\nhave, not expecting to receive an answer for three months, for I had been\ntold on enquiry that no letter could be received by a prisoner till after\nhe had been three months in gaol.  I also wrote to Theobald and told him\nof Pryer's disappearance.\n\nAs a matter of fact, when my letter arrived the governor of the gaol read\nit, and in a case of such importance would have relaxed the rules if\nErnest's state had allowed it; his illness prevented this, and the\ngovernor left it to the chaplain and the doctor to break the news to him\nwhen they thought him strong enough to bear it, which was now the case.\nIn the meantime I received a formal official document saying that my\nletter had been received and would be communicated to the prisoner in due\ncourse; I believe it was simply through a mistake on the part of a clerk\nthat I was not informed of Ernest's illness, but I heard nothing of it\ntill I saw him by his own desire a few days after the chaplin had broken\nto him the substance of what I had written.\n\nErnest was terribly shocked when he heard of the loss of his money, but\nhis ignorance of the world prevented him from seeing the full extent of\nthe mischief.  He had never been in serious want of money yet, and did\nnot know what it meant.  In reality, money losses are the hardest to bear\nof any by those who are old enough to comprehend them.\n\nA man can stand being told that he must submit to a severe surgical\noperation, or that he has some disease which will shortly kill him, or\nthat he will be a cripple or blind for the rest of his life; dreadful as\nsuch tidings must be, we do not find that they unnerve the greater number\nof mankind; most men, indeed, go coolly enough even to be hanged, but the\nstrongest quail before financial ruin, and the better men they are, the\nmore complete, as a general rule, is their prostration.  Suicide is a\ncommon consequence of money losses; it is rarely sought as a means of\nescape from bodily suffering.  If we feel that we have a competence at\nour backs, so that we can die warm and quietly in our beds, with no need\nto worry about expense, we live our lives out to the dregs, no matter how\nexcruciating our torments.  Job probably felt the loss of his flocks and\nherds more than that of his wife and family, for he could enjoy his\nflocks and herds without his family, but not his family--not for long--if\nhe had lost all his money.  Loss of money indeed is not only the worst\npain in itself, but it is the parent of all others.  Let a man have been\nbrought up to a moderate competence, and have no specially; then let his\nmoney be suddenly taken from him, and how long is his health likely to\nsurvive the change in all his little ways which loss of money will\nentail?  How long again is the esteem and sympathy of friends likely to\nsurvive ruin?  People may be very sorry for us, but their attitude\ntowards us hitherto has been based upon the supposition that we were\nsituated thus or thus in money matters; when this breaks down there must\nbe a restatement of the social problem so far as we are concerned; we\nhave been obtaining esteem under false pretences.  Granted, then, that\nthe three most serious losses which a man can suffer are those affecting\nmoney, health and reputation.  Loss of money is far the worst, then comes\nill-health, and then loss of reputation; loss of reputation is a bad\nthird, for, if a man keeps health and money unimpaired, it will be\ngenerally found that his loss of reputation is due to breaches of parvenu\nconventions only, and not to violations of those older, better\nestablished canons whose authority is unquestionable.  In this case a man\nmay grow a new reputation as easily as a lobster grows a new claw, or, if\nhe have health and money, may thrive in great peace of mind without any\nreputation at all.  The only chance for a man who has lost his money is\nthat he shall still be young enough to stand uprooting and transplanting\nwithout more than temporary derangement, and this I believed my godson\nstill to be.\n\nBy the prison rules he might receive and send a letter after he had been\nin gaol three months, and might also receive one visit from a friend.\nWhen he received my letter, he at once asked me to come and see him,\nwhich of course I did.  I found him very much changed, and still so\nfeeble, that the exertion of coming from the infirmary to the cell in\nwhich I was allowed to see him, and the agitation of seeing me were too\nmuch for him.  At first he quite broke down, and I was so pained at the\nstate in which I found him, that I was on the point of breaking my\ninstructions then and there.  I contented myself, however, for the time,\nwith assuring him that I would help him as soon as he came out of prison,\nand that, when he had made up his mind what he would do, he was to come\nto me for what money might be necessary, if he could not get it from his\nfather.  To make it easier for him I told him that his aunt, on her death-\nbed, had desired me to do something of this sort should an emergency\narise, so that he would only be taking what his aunt had left him.\n\n\"Then,\" said he, \"I will not take the 100 pounds from my father, and I\nwill never see him or my mother again.\"\n\nI said: \"Take the 100 pounds, Ernest, and as much more as you can get,\nand then do not see them again if you do not like.\"\n\nThis Ernest would not do.  If he took money from them, he could not cut\nthem, and he wanted to cut them.  I thought my godson would get on a\ngreat deal better if he would only have the firmness to do as he\nproposed, as regards breaking completely with his father and mother, and\nsaid so.  \"Then don't you like them?\" said he, with a look of surprise.\n\n\"Like them!\" said I, \"I think they're horrid.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the kindest thing of all you have done for me,\" he exclaimed,\n\"I thought all--all middle-aged people liked my father and mother.\"\n\nHe had been about to call me old, but I was only fifty-seven, and was not\ngoing to have this, so I made a face when I saw him hesitating, which\ndrove him into \"middle-aged.\"\n\n\"If you like it,\" said I, \"I will say all your family are horrid except\nyourself and your aunt Alethea.  The greater part of every family is\nalways odious; if there are one or two good ones in a very large family,\nit is as much as can be expected.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" he replied, gratefully, \"I think I can now stand almost\nanything.  I will come and see you as soon as I come out of gaol.  Good-\nbye.\"  For the warder had told us that the time allowed for our interview\nwas at an end.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVII\n\n\nAs soon as Ernest found that he had no money to look to upon leaving\nprison he saw that his dreams about emigrating and farming must come to\nan end, for he knew that he was incapable of working at the plough or\nwith the axe for long together himself.  And now it seemed he should have\nno money to pay any one else for doing so.  It was this that resolved him\nto part once and for all with his parents.  If he had been going abroad\nhe could have kept up relations with them, for they would have been too\nfar off to interfere with him.\n\nHe knew his father and mother would object to being cut; they would wish\nto appear kind and forgiving; they would also dislike having no further\npower to plague him; but he knew also very well that so long as he and\nthey ran in harness together they would be always pulling one way and he\nanother.  He wanted to drop the gentleman and go down into the ranks,\nbeginning on the lowest rung of the ladder, where no one would know of\nhis disgrace or mind it if he did know; his father and mother on the\nother hand would wish him to clutch on to the fag-end of gentility at a\nstarvation salary and with no prospect of advancement.  Ernest had seen\nenough in Ashpit Place to know that a tailor, if he did not drink and\nattended to his business, could earn more money than a clerk or a curate,\nwhile much less expense by way of show was required of him.  The tailor\nalso had more liberty, and a better chance of rising.  Ernest resolved at\nonce, as he had fallen so far, to fall still lower--promptly, gracefully\nand with the idea of rising again, rather than cling to the skirts of a\nrespectability which would permit him to exist on sufferance only, and\nmake him pay an utterly extortionate price for an article which he could\ndo better without.\n\nHe arrived at this result more quickly than he might otherwise have done\nthrough remembering something he had once heard his aunt say about\n\"kissing the soil.\"  This had impressed him and stuck by him perhaps by\nreason of its brevity; when later on he came to know the story of\nHercules and Antaeus, he found it one of the very few ancient fables\nwhich had a hold over him--his chiefest debt to classical literature.  His\naunt had wanted him to learn carpentering, as a means of kissing the soil\nshould his Hercules ever throw him.  It was too late for this now--or he\nthought it was--but the mode of carrying out his aunt's idea was a\ndetail; there were a hundred ways of kissing the soil besides becoming a\ncarpenter.\n\nHe had told me this during our interview, and I had encouraged him to the\nutmost of my power.  He showed so much more good sense than I had given\nhim credit for that I became comparatively easy about him, and determined\nto let him play his own game, being always, however, ready to hand in\ncase things went too far wrong.  It was not simply because he disliked\nhis father and mother that he wanted to have no more to do with them; if\nit had been only this he would have put up with them; but a warning voice\nwithin told him distinctly enough that if he was clean cut away from them\nhe might still have a chance of success, whereas if they had anything\nwhatever to do with him, or even knew where he was, they would hamper him\nand in the end ruin him.  Absolute independence he believed to be his\nonly chance of very life itself.\n\nOver and above this--if this were not enough--Ernest had a faith in his\nown destiny such as most young men, I suppose, feel, but the grounds of\nwhich were not apparent to any one but himself.  Rightly or wrongly, in a\nquiet way he believed he possessed a strength which, if he were only free\nto use it in his own way, might do great things some day.  He did not\nknow when, nor where, nor how his opportunity was to come, but he never\ndoubted that it would come in spite of all that had happened, and above\nall else he cherished the hope that he might know how to seize it if it\ncame, for whatever it was it would be something that no one else could do\nso well as he could.  People said there were no dragons and giants for\nadventurous men to fight with nowadays; it was beginning to dawn upon him\nthat there were just as many now as at any past time.\n\nMonstrous as such a faith may seem in one who was qualifying himself for\na high mission by a term of imprisonment, he could no more help it than\nhe could help breathing; it was innate in him, and it was even more with\na view to this than for other reasons that he wished to sever the\nconnection between himself and his parents; for he knew that if ever the\nday came in which it should appear that before him too there was a race\nset in which it might be an honour to have run among the foremost, his\nfather and mother would be the first to let him and hinder him in running\nit.  They had been the first to say that he ought to run such a race;\nthey would also be the first to trip him up if he took them at their\nword, and then afterwards upbraid him for not having won.  Achievement of\nany kind would be impossible for him unless he was free from those who\nwould be for ever dragging him back into the conventional.  The\nconventional had been tried already and had been found wanting.\n\nHe had an opportunity now, if he chose to take it, of escaping once for\nall from those who at once tormented him and would hold him earthward\nshould a chance of soaring open before him.  He should never have had it\nbut for his imprisonment; but for this the force of habit and routine\nwould have been too strong for him; he should hardly have had it if he\nhad not lost all his money; the gap would not have been so wide but that\nhe might have been inclined to throw a plank across it.  He rejoiced now,\ntherefore, over his loss of money as well as over his imprisonment, which\nhad made it more easy for him to follow his truest and most lasting\ninterests.\n\nAt times he wavered, when he thought of how his mother, who in her way,\nas he thought, had loved him, would weep and think sadly over him, or how\nperhaps she might even fall ill and die, and how the blame would rest\nwith him.  At these times his resolution was near breaking, but when he\nfound I applauded his design, the voice within, which bade him see his\nfather's and mother's faces no more, grew louder and more persistent.  If\nhe could not cut himself adrift from those who he knew would hamper him,\nwhen so small an effort was wanted, his dream of a destiny was idle; what\nwas the prospect of a hundred pounds from his father in comparison with\njeopardy to this?  He still felt deeply the pain his disgrace had\ninflicted upon his father and mother, but he was getting stronger, and\nreflected that as he had run his chance with them for parents, so they\nmust run theirs with him for a son.\n\nHe had nearly settled down to this conclusion when he received a letter\nfrom his father which made his decision final.  If the prison rules had\nbeen interpreted strictly, he would not have been allowed to have this\nletter for another three months, as he had already heard from me, but the\ngovernor took a lenient view, and considered the letter from me to be a\nbusiness communication hardly coming under the category of a letter from\nfriends.  Theobald's letter therefore was given to his son.  It ran as\nfollows:--\n\n   \"My dear Ernest, My object in writing is not to upbraid you with the\n   disgrace and shame you have inflicted upon your mother and myself, to\n   say nothing of your brother Joey, and your sister.  Suffer of course\n   we must, but we know to whom to look in our affliction, and are filled\n   with anxiety rather on your behalf than our own.  Your mother is\n   wonderful.  She is pretty well in health, and desires me to send you\n   her love.\n\n   \"Have you considered your prospects on leaving prison?  I understand\n   from Mr Overton that you have lost the legacy which your grandfather\n   left you, together with all the interest that accrued during your\n   minority, in the course of speculation upon the Stock Exchange!  If\n   you have indeed been guilty of such appalling folly it is difficult to\n   see what you can turn your hand to, and I suppose you will try to find\n   a clerkship in an office.  Your salary will doubtless be low at first,\n   but you have made your bed and must not complain if you have to lie\n   upon it.  If you take pains to please your employers they will not be\n   backward in promoting you.\n\n   \"When I first heard from Mr Overton of the unspeakable calamity which\n   had befallen your mother and myself, I had resolved not to see you\n   again.  I am unwilling, however, to have recourse to a measure which\n   would deprive you of your last connecting link with respectable\n   people.  Your mother and I will see you as soon as you come out of\n   prison; not at Battersby--we do not wish you to come down here at\n   present--but somewhere else, probably in London.  You need not shrink\n   from seeing us; we shall not reproach you.  We will then decide about\n   your future.\n\n   \"At present our impression is that you will find a fairer start\n   probably in Australia or New Zealand than here, and I am prepared to\n   find you 75 or even if necessary so far as 100 pounds to pay your\n   passage money.  Once in the colony you must be dependent upon your own\n   exertions.\n\n   \"May Heaven prosper them and you, and restore you to us years hence a\n   respected member of society.--Your affectionate father, T. PONTIFEX.\"\n\nThen there was a postscript in Christina's writing.\n\n   \"My darling, darling boy, pray with me daily and hourly that we may\n   yet again become a happy, united, God-fearing family as we were before\n   this horrible pain fell upon us.--Your sorrowing but ever loving\n   mother, C. P.\"\n\nThis letter did not produce the effect on Ernest that it would have done\nbefore his imprisonment began.  His father and mother thought they could\ntake him up as they had left him off.  They forgot the rapidity with\nwhich development follows misfortune, if the sufferer is young and of a\nsound temperament.  Ernest made no reply to his father's letter, but his\ndesire for a total break developed into something like a passion.  \"There\nare orphanages,\" he exclaimed to himself, \"for children who have lost\ntheir parents--oh! why, why, why, are there no harbours of refuge for\ngrown men who have not yet lost them?\"  And he brooded over the bliss of\nMelchisedek who had been born an orphan, without father, without mother,\nand without descent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXVIII\n\n\nWhen I think over all that Ernest told me about his prison meditations,\nand the conclusions he was drawn to, it occurs to me that in reality he\nwas wanting to do the very last thing which it would have entered into\nhis head to think of wanting.  I mean that he was trying to give up\nfather and mother for Christ's sake.  He would have said he was giving\nthem up because he thought they hindered him in the pursuit of his truest\nand most lasting happiness.  Granted, but what is this if it is not\nChrist?  What is Christ if He is not this?  He who takes the highest and\nmost self-respecting view of his own welfare which it is in his power to\nconceive, and adheres to it in spite of conventionality, is a Christian\nwhether he knows it and calls himself one, or whether he does not.  A\nrose is not the less a rose because it does not know its own name.\n\nWhat if circumstances had made his duty more easy for him than it would\nbe to most men?  That was his luck, as much as it is other people's luck\nto have other duties made easy for them by accident of birth.  Surely if\npeople are born rich or handsome they have a right to their good fortune.\nSome I know, will say that one man has no right to be born with a better\nconstitution than another; others again will say that luck is the only\nrighteous object of human veneration.  Both, I daresay, can make out a\nvery good case, but whichever may be right surely Ernest had as much\nright to the good luck of finding a duty made easier as he had had to the\nbad fortune of falling into the scrape which had got him into prison.  A\nman is not to be sneered at for having a trump card in his hand; he is\nonly to be sneered at if he plays his trump card badly.\n\nIndeed, I question whether it is ever much harder for anyone to give up\nfather and mother for Christ's sake than it was for Ernest.  The\nrelations between the parties will have almost always been severely\nstrained before it comes to this.  I doubt whether anyone was ever yet\nrequired to give up those to whom he was tenderly attached for a mere\nmatter of conscience: he will have ceased to be tenderly attached to them\nlong before he is called upon to break with them; for differences of\nopinion concerning any matter of vital importance spring from differences\nof constitution, and these will already have led to so much other\ndisagreement that the \"giving up\" when it comes, is like giving up an\naching but very loose and hollow tooth.  It is the loss of those whom we\nare not required to give up for Christ's sake which is really painful to\nus.  Then there is a wrench in earnest.  Happily, no matter how light the\ntask that is demanded from us, it is enough if we do it; we reap our\nreward, much as though it were a Herculean labour.\n\nBut to return, the conclusion Ernest came to was that he would be a\ntailor.  He talked the matter over with the chaplain, who told him there\nwas no reason why he should not be able to earn his six or seven\nshillings a day by the time he came out of prison, if he chose to learn\nthe trade during the remainder of his term--not quite three months; the\ndoctor said he was strong enough for this, and that it was about the only\nthing he was as yet fit for; so he left the infirmary sooner than he\nwould otherwise have done and entered the tailor's shop, overjoyed at the\nthoughts of seeing his way again, and confident of rising some day if he\ncould only get a firm foothold to start from.\n\nEveryone whom he had to do with saw that he did not belong to what are\ncalled the criminal classes, and finding him eager to learn and to save\ntrouble always treated him kindly and almost respectfully.  He did not\nfind the work irksome: it was far more pleasant than making Latin and\nGreek verses at Roughborough; he felt that he would rather be here in\nprison than at Roughborough again--yes, or even at Cambridge itself.  The\nonly trouble he was ever in danger of getting into was through exchanging\nwords or looks with the more decent-looking of his fellow-prisoners.  This\nwas forbidden, but he never missed a chance of breaking the rules in this\nrespect.\n\nAny man of his ability who was at the same time anxious to learn would of\ncourse make rapid progress, and before he left prison the warder said he\nwas as good a tailor with his three months' apprenticeship as many a man\nwas with twelve.  Ernest had never before been so much praised by any of\nhis teachers.  Each day as he grew stronger in health and more accustomed\nto his surroundings he saw some fresh advantage in his position, an\nadvantage which he had not aimed at, but which had come almost in spite\nof himself, and he marvelled at his own good fortune, which had ordered\nthings so greatly better for him than he could have ordered them for\nhimself.\n\nHis having lived six months in Ashpit Place was a case in point.  Things\nwere possible to him which to others like him would be impossible.  If\nsuch a man as Towneley were told he must live henceforth in a house like\nthose in Ashpit Place it would be more than he could stand.  Ernest could\nnot have stood it himself if he had gone to live there of compulsion\nthrough want of money.  It was only because he had felt himself able to\nrun away at any minute that he had not wanted to do so; now, however,\nthat he had become familiar with life in Ashpit Place he no longer minded\nit, and could live gladly in lower parts of London than that so long as\nhe could pay his way.  It was from no prudence or forethought that he had\nserved this apprenticeship to life among the poor.  He had been trying in\na feeble way to be thorough in his work: he had not been thorough, the\nwhole thing had been a _fiasco_; but he had made a little puny effort in\nthe direction of being genuine, and behold, in his hour of need it had\nbeen returned to him with a reward far richer than he had deserved.  He\ncould not have faced becoming one of the very poor unless he had had such\na bridge to conduct him over to them as he had found unwittingly in\nAshpit Place.  True, there had been drawbacks in the particular house he\nhad chosen, but he need not live in a house where there was a Mr Holt and\nhe should no longer be tied to the profession which he so much hated; if\nthere were neither screams nor scripture readings he could be happy in a\ngarret at three shillings a week, such as Miss Maitland lived in.\n\nAs he thought further he remembered that all things work together for\ngood to them that love God; was it possible, he asked himself, that he\ntoo, however imperfectly, had been trying to love him?  He dared not\nanswer Yes, but he would try hard that it should be so.  Then there came\ninto his mind that noble air of Handel's: \"Great God, who yet but darkly\nknown,\" and he felt it as he had never felt it before.  He had lost his\nfaith in Christianity, but his faith in something--he knew not what, but\nthat there was a something as yet but darkly known which made right right\nand wrong wrong--his faith in this grew stronger and stronger daily.\n\nAgain there crossed his mind thoughts of the power which he felt to be in\nhim, and of how and where it was to find its vent.  The same instinct\nwhich had led him to live among the poor because it was the nearest thing\nto him which he could lay hold of with any clearness came to his\nassistance here too.  He thought of the Australian gold and how those who\nlived among it had never seen it though it abounded all around them:\n\"There is gold everywhere,\" he exclaimed inwardly, \"to those who look for\nit.\"  Might not his opportunity be close upon him if he looked carefully\nenough at his immediate surroundings?  What was his position?  He had\nlost all.  Could he not turn his having lost all into an opportunity?\nMight he not, if he too sought the strength of the Lord, find, like St\nPaul, that it was perfected in weakness?\n\nHe had nothing more to lose; money, friends, character, all were gone for\na very long time if not for ever; but there was something else also that\nhad taken its flight along with these.  I mean the fear of that which man\ncould do unto him.  _Cantabil vacuus_.  Who could hurt him more than he\nhad been hurt already?  Let him but be able to earn his bread, and he\nknew of nothing which he dared not venture if it would make the world a\nhappier place for those who were young and loveable.  Herein he found so\nmuch comfort that he almost wished he had lost his reputation even more\ncompletely--for he saw that it was like a man's life which may be found\nof them that lose it and lost of them that would find it.  He should not\nhave had the courage to give up all for Christ's sake, but now Christ had\nmercifully taken all, and lo! it seemed as though all were found.\n\nAs the days went slowly by he came to see that Christianity and the\ndenial of Christianity after all met as much as any other extremes do; it\nwas a fight about names--not about things; practically the Church of\nRome, the Church of England, and the freethinker have the same ideal\nstandard and meet in the gentleman; for he is the most perfect saint who\nis the most perfect gentleman.  Then he saw also that it matters little\nwhat profession, whether of religion or irreligion, a man may make,\nprovided only he follows it out with charitable inconsistency, and\nwithout insisting on it to the bitter end.  It is in the\nuncompromisingness with which dogma is held and not in the dogma or want\nof dogma that the danger lies.  This was the crowning point of the\nedifice; when he had got here he no longer wished to molest even the\nPope.  The Archbishop of Canterbury might have hopped about all round him\nand even picked crumbs out of his hand without running risk of getting a\nsly sprinkle of salt.  That wary prelate himself might perhaps have been\nof a different opinion, but the robins and thrushes that hop about our\nlawns are not more needlessly distrustful of the hand that throws them\nout crumbs of bread in winter, than the Archbishop would have been of my\nhero.\n\nPerhaps he was helped to arrive at the foregoing conclusion by an event\nwhich almost thrust inconsistency upon him.  A few days after he had left\nthe infirmary the chaplain came to his cell and told him that the\nprisoner who played the organ in chapel had just finished his sentence\nand was leaving the prison; he therefore offered the post to Ernest, who\nhe already knew played the organ.  Ernest was at first in doubt whether\nit would be right for him to assist at religious services more than he\nwas actually compelled to do, but the pleasure of playing the organ, and\nthe privileges which the post involved, made him see excellent reasons\nfor not riding consistency to death.  Having, then, once introduced an\nelement of inconsistency into his system, he was far too consistent not\nto be inconsistent consistently, and he lapsed ere long into an amiable\nindifferentism which to outward appearance differed but little from the\nindifferentism from which Mr Hawke had aroused him.\n\nBy becoming organist he was saved from the treadmill, for which the\ndoctor had said he was unfit as yet, but which he would probably have\nbeen put to in due course as soon as he was stronger.  He might have\nescaped the tailor's shop altogether and done only the comparatively\nlight work of attending to the chaplain's rooms if he had liked, but he\nwanted to learn as much tailoring as he could, and did not therefore take\nadvantage of this offer; he was allowed, however, two hours a day in the\nafternoon for practice.  From that moment his prison life ceased to be\nmonotonous, and the remaining two months of his sentence slipped by\nalmost as rapidly as they would have done if he had been free.  What with\nmusic, books, learning his trade, and conversation with the chaplain, who\nwas just the kindly, sensible person that Ernest wanted in order to\nsteady him a little, the days went by so pleasantly that when the time\ncame for him to leave prison, he did so, or thought he did so, not\nwithout regret.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIX\n\n\nIn coming to the conclusion that he would sever the connection between\nhimself and his family once for all Ernest had reckoned without his\nfamily.  Theobald wanted to be rid of his son, it is true, in so far as\nhe wished him to be no nearer at any rate than the Antipodes; but he had\nno idea of entirely breaking with him.  He knew his son well enough to\nhave a pretty shrewd idea that this was what Ernest would wish himself,\nand perhaps as much for this reason as for any other he was determined to\nkeep up the connection, provided it did not involve Ernest's coming to\nBattersby nor any recurring outlay.\n\nWhen the time approached for him to leave prison, his father and mother\nconsulted as to what course they should adopt.\n\n\"We must never leave him to himself,\" said Theobald impressively; \"we can\nneither of us wish that.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! no! dearest Theobald,\" exclaimed Christina.  \"Whoever else\ndeserts him, and however distant he may be from us, he must still feel\nthat he has parents whose hearts beat with affection for him no matter\nhow cruelly he has pained them.\"\n\n\"He has been his own worst enemy,\" said Theobald.  \"He has never loved us\nas we deserved, and now he will be withheld by false shame from wishing\nto see us.  He will avoid us if he can.\"\n\n\"Then we must go to him ourselves,\" said Christina, \"whether he likes it\nor not we must be at his side to support him as he enters again upon the\nworld.\"\n\n\"If we do not want him to give us the slip we must catch him as he leaves\nprison.\"\n\n\"We will, we will; our faces shall be the first to gladden his eyes as he\ncomes out, and our voices the first to exhort him to return to the paths\nof virtue.\"\n\n\"I think,\" said Theobald, \"if he sees us in the street he will turn round\nand run away from us.  He is intensely selfish.\"\n\n\"Then we must get leave to go inside the prison, and see him before he\ngets outside.\"\n\nAfter a good deal of discussion this was the plan they decided on\nadopting, and having so decided, Theobald wrote to the governor of the\ngaol asking whether he could be admitted inside the gaol to receive\nErnest when his sentence had expired.  He received answer in the\naffirmative, and the pair left Battersby the day before Ernest was to\ncome out of prison.\n\nErnest had not reckoned on this, and was rather surprised on being told a\nfew minutes before nine that he was to go into the receiving room before\nhe left the prison as there were visitors waiting to see him.  His heart\nfell, for he guessed who they were, but he screwed up his courage and\nhastened to the receiving room.  There, sure enough, standing at the end\nof the table nearest the door were the two people whom he regarded as the\nmost dangerous enemies he had in all the world--his father and mother.\n\nHe could not fly, but he knew that if he wavered he was lost.\n\nHis mother was crying, but she sprang forward to meet him and clasped him\nin her arms.  \"Oh, my boy, my boy,\" she sobbed, and she could say no\nmore.\n\nErnest was as white as a sheet.  His heart beat so that he could hardly\nbreathe.  He let his mother embrace him, and then withdrawing himself\nstood silently before her with the tears falling from his eyes.\n\nAt first he could not speak.  For a minute or so the silence on all sides\nwas complete.  Then, gathering strength, he said in a low voice:\n\n\"Mother,\" (it was the first time he had called her anything but \"mamma\"?)\n\"we must part.\"  On this, turning to the warder, he said: \"I believe I am\nfree to leave the prison if I wish to do so.  You cannot compel me to\nremain here longer.  Please take me to the gates.\"\n\nTheobald stepped forward.  \"Ernest, you must not, shall not, leave us in\nthis way.\"\n\n\"Do not speak to me,\" said Ernest, his eyes flashing with a fire that was\nunwonted in them.  Another warder then came up and took Theobald aside,\nwhile the first conducted Ernest to the gates.\n\n\"Tell them,\" said Ernest, \"from me that they must think of me as one\ndead, for I am dead to them.  Say that my greatest pain is the thought of\nthe disgrace I have inflicted upon them, and that above all things else I\nwill study to avoid paining them hereafter; but say also that if they\nwrite to me I will return their letters unopened, and that if they come\nand see me I will protect myself in whatever way I can.\"\n\nBy this time he was at the prison gate, and in another moment was at\nliberty.  After he had got a few steps out he turned his face to the\nprison wall, leant against it for support, and wept as though his heart\nwould break.\n\nGiving up father and mother for Christ's sake was not such an easy matter\nafter all.  If a man has been possessed by devils for long enough they\nwill rend him as they leave him, however imperatively they may have been\ncast out.  Ernest did not stay long where he was, for he feared each\nmoment that his father and mother would come out.  He pulled himself\ntogether and turned into the labyrinth of small streets which opened out\nin front of him.\n\nHe had crossed his Rubicon--not perhaps very heroically or dramatically,\nbut then it is only in dramas that people act dramatically.  At any rate,\nby hook or by crook, he had scrambled over, and was out upon the other\nside.  Already he thought of much which he would gladly have said, and\nblamed his want of presence of mind; but, after all, it mattered very\nlittle.  Inclined though he was to make very great allowances for his\nfather and mother, he was indignant at their having thrust themselves\nupon him without warning at a moment when the excitement of leaving\nprison was already as much as he was fit for.  It was a mean advantage to\nhave taken over him, but he was glad they had taken it, for it made him\nrealise more fully than ever that his one chance lay in separating\nhimself completely from them.\n\nThe morning was grey, and the first signs of winter fog were beginning to\nshow themselves, for it was now the 30th of September.  Ernest wore the\nclothes in which he had entered prison, and was therefore dressed as a\nclergyman.  No one who looked at him would have seen any difference\nbetween his present appearance and his appearance six months previously;\nindeed, as he walked slowly through the dingy crowded lane called Eyre\nStreet Hill (which he well knew, for he had clerical friends in that\nneighbourhood), the months he had passed in prison seemed to drop out of\nhis life, and so powerfully did association carry him away that, finding\nhimself in his old dress and in his old surroundings, he felt dragged\nback into his old self--as though his six months of prison life had been\na dream from which he was now waking to take things up as he had left\nthem.  This was the effect of unchanged surroundings upon the unchanged\npart of him.  But there was a changed part, and the effect of unchanged\nsurroundings upon this was to make everything seem almost as strange as\nthough he had never had any life but his prison one, and was now born\ninto a new world.\n\nAll our lives long, every day and every hour, we are engaged in the\nprocess of accommodating our changed and unchanged selves to changed and\nunchanged surroundings; living, in fact, in nothing else than this\nprocess of accommodation; when we fail in it a little we are stupid, when\nwe fail flagrantly we are mad, when we suspend it temporarily we sleep,\nwhen we give up the attempt altogether we die.  In quiet, uneventful\nlives the changes internal and external are so small that there is little\nor no strain in the process of fusion and accommodation; in other lives\nthere is great strain, but there is also great fusing and accommodating\npower; in others great strain with little accommodating power.  A life\nwill be successful or not according as the power of accommodation is\nequal to or unequal to the strain of fusing and adjusting internal and\nexternal changes.\n\nThe trouble is that in the end we shall be driven to admit the unity of\nthe universe so completely as to be compelled to deny that there is\neither an external or an internal, but must see everything both as\nexternal and internal at one and the same time, subject and\nobject--external and internal--being unified as much as everything else.\nThis will knock our whole system over, but then every system has got to\nbe knocked over by something.\n\nMuch the best way out of this difficulty is to go in for separation\nbetween internal and external--subject and object--when we find this\nconvenient, and unity between the same when we find unity convenient.\nThis is illogical, but extremes are alone logical, and they are always\nabsurd, the mean is alone practicable and it is always illogical.  It is\nfaith and not logic which is the supreme arbiter.  They say all roads\nlead to Rome, and all philosophies that I have ever seen lead ultimately\neither to some gross absurdity, or else to the conclusion already more\nthan once insisted on in these pages, that the just shall live by faith,\nthat is to say that sensible people will get through life by rule of\nthumb as they may interpret it most conveniently without asking too many\nquestions for conscience sake.  Take any fact, and reason upon it to the\nbitter end, and it will ere long lead to this as the only refuge from\nsome palpable folly.\n\nBut to return to my story.  When Ernest got to the top of the street and\nlooked back, he saw the grimy, sullen walls of his prison filling up the\nend of it.  He paused for a minute or two.  \"There,\" he said to himself,\n\"I was hemmed in by bolts which I could see and touch; here I am barred\nby others which are none the less real--poverty and ignorance of the\nworld.  It was no part of my business to try to break the material bolts\nof iron and escape from prison, but now that I am free I must surely seek\nto break these others.\"\n\nHe had read somewhere of a prisoner who had made his escape by cutting up\nhis bedstead with an iron spoon.  He admired and marvelled at the man's\nmind, but could not even try to imitate him; in the presence of\nimmaterial barriers, however, he was not so easily daunted, and felt as\nthough, even if the bed were iron and the spoon a wooden one, he could\nfind some means of making the wood cut the iron sooner or later.\n\nHe turned his back upon Eyre Street Hill and walked down Leather Lane\ninto Holborn.  Each step he took, each face or object that he knew,\nhelped at once to link him on to the life he had led before his\nimprisonment, and at the same time to make him feel how completely that\nimprisonment had cut his life into two parts, the one of which could bear\nno resemblance to the other.\n\nHe passed down Fetter Lane into Fleet Street and so to the Temple, to\nwhich I had just returned from my summer holiday.  It was about half past\nnine, and I was having my breakfast, when I heard a timid knock at the\ndoor and opened it to find Ernest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXX\n\n\nI had begun to like him on the night Towneley had sent for me, and on the\nfollowing day I thought he had shaped well.  I had liked him also during\nour interview in prison, and wanted to see more of him, so that I might\nmake up my mind about him.  I had lived long enough to know that some men\nwho do great things in the end are not very wise when they are young;\nknowing that he would leave prison on the 30th, I had expected him, and,\nas I had a spare bedroom, pressed him to stay with me, till he could make\nup his mind what he would do.\n\nBeing so much older than he was, I anticipated no trouble in getting my\nown way, but he would not hear of it.  The utmost he would assent to was\nthat he should be my guest till he could find a room for himself, which\nhe would set about doing at once.\n\nHe was still much agitated, but grew better as he ate a breakfast, not of\nprison fare and in a comfortable room.  It pleased me to see the delight\nhe took in all about him; the fireplace with a fire in it; the easy\nchairs, the _Times_, my cat, the red geraniums in the window, to say\nnothing of coffee, bread and butter, sausages, marmalade, etc.  Everything\nwas pregnant with the most exquisite pleasure to him.  The plane trees\nwere full of leaf still; he kept rising from the breakfast table to\nadmire them; never till now, he said, had he known what the enjoyment of\nthese things really was.  He ate, looked, laughed and cried by turns,\nwith an emotion which I can neither forget nor describe.\n\nHe told me how his father and mother had lain in wait for him, as he was\nabout to leave prison.  I was furious, and applauded him heartily for\nwhat he had done.  He was very grateful to me for this.  Other people, he\nsaid, would tell him he ought to think of his father and mother rather\nthan of himself, and it was such a comfort to find someone who saw things\nas he saw them himself.  Even if I had differed from him I should not\nhave said so, but I was of his opinion, and was almost as much obliged to\nhim for seeing things as I saw them, as he to me for doing the same kind\noffice by himself.  Cordially as I disliked Theobald and Christina, I was\nin such a hopeless minority in the opinion I had formed concerning them\nthat it was pleasant to find someone who agreed with me.\n\nThen there came an awful moment for both of us.\n\nA knock, as of a visitor and not a postman, was heard at my door.\n\n\"Goodness gracious,\" I exclaimed, \"why didn't we sport the oak?  Perhaps\nit is your father.  But surely he would hardly come at this time of day!\nGo at once into my bedroom.\"\n\nI went to the door, and, sure enough, there were both Theobald and\nChristina.  I could not refuse to let them in and was obliged to listen\nto their version of the story, which agreed substantially with Ernest's.\nChristina cried bitterly--Theobald stormed.  After about ten minutes,\nduring which I assured them that I had not the faintest conception where\ntheir son was, I dismissed them both.  I saw they looked suspiciously\nupon the manifest signs that someone was breakfasting with me, and parted\nfrom me more or less defiantly, but I got rid of them, and poor Ernest\ncame out again, looking white, frightened and upset.  He had heard\nvoices, but no more, and did not feel sure that the enemy might not be\ngaining over me.  We sported the oak now, and before long he began to\nrecover.\n\nAfter breakfast, we discussed the situation.  I had taken away his\nwardrobe and books from Mrs Jupp's, but had left his furniture, pictures\nand piano, giving Mrs Jupp the use of these, so that she might let her\nroom furnished, in lieu of charge for taking care of the furniture.  As\nsoon as Ernest heard that his wardrobe was at hand, he got out a suit of\nclothes he had had before he had been ordained, and put it on at once,\nmuch, as I thought, to the improvement of his personal appearance.\n\nThen we went into the subject of his finances.  He had had ten pounds\nfrom Pryer only a day or two before he was apprehended, of which between\nseven and eight were in his purse when he entered the prison.  This money\nwas restored to him on leaving.  He had always paid cash for whatever he\nbought, so that there was nothing to be deducted for debts.  Besides\nthis, he had his clothes, books and furniture.  He could, as I have said,\nhave had 100 pounds from his father if he had chosen to emigrate, but\nthis both Ernest and I (for he brought me round to his opinion) agreed it\nwould be better to decline.  This was all he knew of as belonging to him.\n\nHe said he proposed at once taking an unfurnished top back attic in as\nquiet a house as he could find, say at three or four shillings a week,\nand looking out for work as a tailor.  I did not think it much mattered\nwhat he began with, for I felt pretty sure he would ere long find his way\nto something that suited him, if he could get a start with anything at\nall.  The difficulty was how to get him started.  It was not enough that\nhe should be able to cut out and make clothes--that he should have the\norgans, so to speak, of a tailor; he must be put into a tailor's shop and\nguided for a little while by someone who knew how and where to help him.\n\nThe rest of the day he spent in looking for a room, which he soon found,\nand in familiarising himself with liberty.  In the evening I took him to\nthe Olympic, where Robson was then acting in a burlesque on Macbeth, Mrs\nKeeley, if I remember rightly, taking the part of Lady Macbeth.  In the\nscene before the murder, Macbeth had said he could not kill Duncan when\nhe saw his boots upon the landing.  Lady Macbeth put a stop to her\nhusband's hesitation by whipping him up under her arm, and carrying him\noff the stage, kicking and screaming.  Ernest laughed till he cried.\n\"What rot Shakespeare is after this,\" he exclaimed, involuntarily.  I\nremembered his essay on the Greek tragedians, and was more I _epris_ with\nhim than ever.\n\nNext day he set about looking for employment, and I did not see him till\nabout five o'clock, when he came and said that he had had no success.  The\nsame thing happened the next day and the day after that.  Wherever he\nwent he was invariably refused and often ordered point blank out of the\nshop; I could see by the expression of his face, though he said nothing,\nthat he was getting frightened, and began to think I should have to come\nto the rescue.  He said he had made a great many enquiries and had always\nbeen told the same story.  He found that it was easy to keep on in an old\nline, but very hard to strike out into a new one.\n\nHe talked to the fishmonger in Leather Lane, where he went to buy a\nbloater for his tea, casually as though from curiosity and without any\ninterested motive.  \"Sell,\" said the master of the shop, \"Why nobody\nwouldn't believe what can be sold by penn'orths and twopenn'orths if you\ngo the right way to work.  Look at whelks, for instance.  Last Saturday\nnight me and my little Emma here, we sold 7 pounds worth of whelks\nbetween eight and half past eleven o'clock--and almost all in penn'orths\nand twopenn'orths--a few, hap'orths, but not many.  It was the steam that\ndid it.  We kept a-boiling of 'em hot and hot, and whenever the steam\ncame strong up from the cellar on to the pavement, the people bought, but\nwhenever the steam went down they left off buying; so we boiled them over\nand over again till they was all sold.  That's just where it is; if you\nknow your business you can sell, if you don't you'll soon make a mess of\nit.  Why, but for the steam, I should not have sold 10s. worth of whelks\nall the night through.\"\n\nThis, and many another yarn of kindred substance which he heard from\nother people determined Ernest more than ever to stake on tailoring as\nthe one trade about which he knew anything at all, nevertheless, here\nwere three or four days gone by and employment seemed as far off as ever.\n\nI now did what I ought to have done before, that is to say, I called on\nmy own tailor whom I had dealt with for over a quarter of a century and\nasked his advice.  He declared Ernest's plan to be hopeless.  \"If,\" said\nMr Larkins, for this was my tailor's name, \"he had begun at fourteen, it\nmight have done, but no man of twenty-four could stand being turned to\nwork into a workshop full of tailors; he would not get on with the men,\nnor the men with him; you could not expect him to be 'hail fellow, well\nmet' with them, and you could not expect his fellow-workmen to like him\nif he was not.  A man must have sunk low through drink or natural taste\nfor low company, before he could get on with those who have had such a\ndifferent training from his own.\"\n\nMr Larkins said a great deal more and wound up by taking me to see the\nplace where his own men worked.  \"This is a paradise,\" he said, \"compared\nto most workshops.  What gentleman could stand this air, think you, for a\nfortnight?\"\n\nI was glad enough to get out of the hot, fetid atmosphere in five\nminutes, and saw that there was no brick of Ernest's prison to be\nloosened by going and working among tailors in a workshop.\n\nMr Larkins wound up by saying that even if my _protege_ were a much\nbetter workman than he probably was, no master would give him employment,\nfor fear of creating a bother among the men.\n\nI left, feeling that I ought to have thought of all this myself, and was\nmore than ever perplexed as to whether I had not better let my young\nfriend have a few thousand pounds and send him out to the colonies, when,\non my return home at about five o'clock, I found him waiting for me,\nradiant, and declaring that he had found all he wanted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXI\n\n\nIt seems he had been patrolling the streets for the last three or four\nnights--I suppose in search of something to do--at any rate knowing\nbetter what he wanted to get than how to get it.  Nevertheless, what he\nwanted was in reality so easily to be found that it took a highly\neducated scholar like himself to be unable to find it.  But, however this\nmay be, he had been scared, and now saw lions where there were none, and\nwas shocked and frightened, and night after night his courage had failed\nhim and he had returned to his lodgings in Laystall Street without\naccomplishing his errand.  He had not taken me into his confidence upon\nthis matter, and I had not enquired what he did with himself in the\nevenings.  At last he had concluded that, however painful it might be to\nhim, he would call on Mrs Jupp, who he thought would be able to help him\nif anyone could.  He had been walking moodily from seven till about nine,\nand now resolved to go straight to Ashpit Place and make a mother\nconfessor of Mrs Jupp without more delay.\n\nOf all tasks that could be performed by mortal woman there was none which\nMrs Jupp would have liked better than the one Ernest was thinking of\nimposing upon her; nor do I know that in his scared and broken-down state\nhe could have done much better than he now proposed.  Miss Jupp would\nhave made it very easy for him to open his grief to her; indeed, she\nwould have coaxed it all out of him before he knew where he was; but the\nfates were against Mrs Jupp, and the meeting between my hero and his\nformer landlady was postponed _sine die_, for his determination had\nhardly been formed and he had not gone more than a hundred yards in the\ndirection of Mrs Jupp's house, when a woman accosted him.\n\nHe was turning from her, as he had turned from so many others, when she\nstarted back with a movement that aroused his curiosity.  He had hardly\nseen her face, but being determined to catch sight of it, followed her as\nshe hurried away, and passed her; then turning round he saw that she was\nnone other than Ellen, the housemaid who had been dismissed by his mother\neight years previously.\n\nHe ought to have assigned Ellen's unwillingness to see him to its true\ncause, but a guilty conscience made him think she had heard of his\ndisgrace and was turning away from him in contempt.  Brave as had been\nhis resolutions about facing the world, this was more than he was\nprepared for; \"What! you too shun me, Ellen?\" he exclaimed.\n\nThe girl was crying bitterly and did not understand him.  \"Oh, Master\nErnest,\" she sobbed, \"let me go; you are too good for the likes of me to\nspeak to now.\"\n\n\"Why, Ellen,\" said he, \"what nonsense you talk; you haven't been in\nprison, have you?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, no, not so bad as that,\" she exclaimed passionately.\n\n\"Well, I have,\" said Ernest, with a forced laugh, \"I came out three or\nfour days ago after six months with hard labour.\"\n\nEllen did not believe him, but she looked at him with a \"Lor'! Master\nErnest,\" and dried her eyes at once.  The ice was broken between them,\nfor as a matter of fact Ellen had been in prison several times, and\nthough she did not believe Ernest, his merely saying he had been in\nprison made her feel more at ease with him.  For her there were two\nclasses of people, those who had been in prison and those who had not.\nThe first she looked upon as fellow-creatures and more or less\nChristians, the second, with few exceptions, she regarded with suspicion,\nnot wholly unmingled with contempt.\n\nThen Ernest told her what had happened to him during the last six months,\nand by-and-by she believed him.\n\n\"Master Ernest,\" said she, after they had talked for a quarter of an hour\nor so, \"There's a place over the way where they sell tripe and onions.  I\nknow you was always very fond of tripe and onions, let's go over and have\nsome, and we can talk better there.\"\n\nSo the pair crossed the street and entered the tripe shop; Ernest ordered\nsupper.\n\n\"And how is your pore dear mamma, and your dear papa, Master Ernest,\"\nsaid Ellen, who had now recovered herself and was quite at home with my\nhero.  \"Oh, dear, dear me,\" she said, \"I did love your pa; he was a good\ngentleman, he was, and your ma too; it would do anyone good to live with\nher, I'm sure.\"\n\nErnest was surprised and hardly knew what to say.  He had expected to\nfind Ellen indignant at the way she had been treated, and inclined to lay\nthe blame of her having fallen to her present state at his father's and\nmother's door.  It was not so.  Her only recollection of Battersby was as\nof a place where she had had plenty to eat and drink, not too much hard\nwork, and where she had not been scolded.  When she heard that Ernest had\nquarrelled with his father and mother she assumed as a matter of course\nthat the fault must lie entirely with Ernest.\n\n\"Oh, your pore, pore ma!\" said Ellen.  \"She was always so very fond of\nyou, Master Ernest: you was always her favourite; I can't abear to think\nof anything between you and her.  To think now of the way she used to\nhave me into the dining-room and teach me my catechism, that she did!  Oh,\nMaster Ernest, you really must go and make it all up with her; indeed you\nmust.\"\n\nErnest felt rueful, but he had resisted so valiantly already that the\ndevil might have saved himself the trouble of trying to get at him\nthrough Ellen in the matter of his father and mother.  He changed the\nsubject, and the pair warmed to one another as they had their tripe and\npots of beer.  Of all people in the world Ellen was perhaps the one to\nwhom Ernest could have spoken most freely at this juncture.  He told her\nwhat he thought he could have told to no one else.\n\n\"You know, Ellen,\" he concluded, \"I had learnt as a boy things that I\nought not to have learnt, and had never had a chance of that which would\nhave set me straight.\"\n\n\"Gentlefolks is always like that,\" said Ellen musingly.\n\n\"I believe you are right, but I am no longer a gentleman, Ellen, and I\ndon't see why I should be 'like that' any longer, my dear.  I want you to\nhelp me to be like something else as soon as possible.\"\n\n\"Lor'! Master Ernest, whatever can you be meaning?\"\n\nThe pair soon afterwards left the eating-house and walked up Fetter Lane\ntogether.\n\nEllen had had hard times since she had left Battersby, but they had left\nlittle trace upon her.\n\nErnest saw only the fresh-looking smiling face, the dimpled cheek, the\nclear blue eyes and lovely sphinx-like lips which he had remembered as a\nboy.  At nineteen she had looked older than she was, now she looked much\nyounger; indeed she looked hardly older than when Ernest had last seen\nher, and it would have taken a man of much greater experience than he\npossessed to suspect how completely she had fallen from her first estate.\nIt never occurred to him that the poor condition of her wardrobe was due\nto her passion for ardent spirits, and that first and last she had served\nfive or six times as much time in gaol as he had.  He ascribed the\npoverty of her attire to the attempts to keep herself respectable, which\nEllen during supper had more than once alluded to.  He had been charmed\nwith the way in which she had declared that a pint of beer would make her\ntipsy, and had only allowed herself to be forced into drinking the whole\nafter a good deal of remonstrance.  To him she appeared a very angel\ndropped from the sky, and all the more easy to get on with for being a\nfallen one.\n\nAs he walked up Fetter Lane with her towards Laystall Street, he thought\nof the wonderful goodness of God towards him in throwing in his way the\nvery person of all others whom he was most glad to see, and whom, of all\nothers, in spite of her living so near him, he might have never fallen in\nwith but for a happy accident.\n\nWhen people get it into their heads that they are being specially\nfavoured by the Almighty, they had better as a general rule mind their\np's and q's, and when they think they see the devil's drift with more\nspecial clearness, let them remember that he has had much more experience\nthan they have, and is probably meditating mischief.\n\nAlready during supper the thought that in Ellen at last he had found a\nwoman whom he could love well enough to wish to live with and marry had\nflitted across his mind, and the more they had chatted the more reasons\nkept suggesting themselves for thinking that what might be folly in\nordinary cases would not be folly in his.\n\nHe must marry someone; that was already settled.  He could not marry a\nlady; that was absurd.  He must marry a poor woman.  Yes, but a fallen\none?  Was he not fallen himself?  Ellen would fall no more.  He had only\nto look at her to be sure of this.  He could not live with her in sin,\nnot for more than the shortest time that could elapse before their\nmarriage; he no longer believed in the supernatural element of\nChristianity, but the Christian morality at any rate was indisputable.\nBesides, they might have children, and a stigma would rest upon them.\nWhom had he to consult but himself now?  His father and mother never need\nknow, and even if they did, they should be thankful to see him married to\nany woman who would make him happy as Ellen would.  As for not being able\nto afford marriage, how did poor people do?  Did not a good wife rather\nhelp matters than not?  Where one could live two could do so, and if\nEllen was three or four years older than he was--well, what was that?\n\nHave you, gentle reader, ever loved at first sight?  When you fell in\nlove at first sight, how long, let me ask, did it take you to become\nready to fling every other consideration to the winds except that of\nobtaining possession of the loved one?  Or rather, how long would it have\ntaken you if you had had no father or mother, nothing to lose in the way\nof money, position, friends, professional advancement, or what not, and\nif the object of your affections was as free from all these _impedimenta_\nas you were yourself?\n\nIf you were a young John Stuart Mill, perhaps it would have taken you\nsome time, but suppose your nature was Quixotic, impulsive, altruistic,\nguileless; suppose you were a hungry man starving for something to love\nand lean upon, for one whose burdens you might bear, and who might help\nyou to bear yours.  Suppose you were down on your luck, still stunned by\na horrible shock, and this bright vista of a happy future floated\nsuddenly before you, how long under these circumstances do you think you\nwould reflect before you would decide on embracing what chance had thrown\nin your way?\n\nIt did not take my hero long, for before he got past the ham and beef\nshop near the top of Fetter Lane, he had told Ellen that she must come\nhome with him and live with him till they could get married, which they\nwould do upon the first day that the law allowed.\n\nI think the devil must have chuckled and made tolerably sure of his game\nthis time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXII\n\n\nErnest told Ellen of his difficulty about finding employment.\n\n\"But what do you think of going into a shop for, my dear,\" said Ellen.\n\"Why not take a little shop yourself?\"\n\nErnest asked how much this would cost.  Ellen told him that he might take\na house in some small street, say near the \"Elephant and Castle,\" for\n17s. or 18s. a week, and let off the two top floors for 10s., keeping the\nback parlour and shop for themselves.  If he could raise five or six\npounds to buy some second-hand clothes to stock the shop with, they could\nmend them and clean them, and she could look after the women's clothes\nwhile he did the men's.  Then he could mend and make, if he could get the\norders.\n\nThey could soon make a business of 2 pounds a week in this way; she had a\nfriend who began like that and had now moved to a better shop, where she\nmade 5 or 6 pounds a week at least--and she, Ellen, had done the greater\npart of the buying and selling herself.\n\nHere was a new light indeed.  It was as though he had got his 5000 pounds\nback again all of a sudden, and perhaps ever so much more later on into\nthe bargain.  Ellen seemed more than ever to be his good genius.\n\nShe went out and got a few rashers of bacon for his and her breakfast.\nShe cooked them much more nicely than he had been able to do, and laid\nbreakfast for him and made coffee, and some nice brown toast.  Ernest had\nbeen his own cook and housemaid for the last few days and had not given\nhimself satisfaction.  Here he suddenly found himself with someone to\nwait on him again.  Not only had Ellen pointed out to him how he could\nearn a living when no one except himself had known how to advise him, but\nhere she was so pretty and smiling, looking after even his comforts, and\nrestoring him practically in all respects that he much cared about to the\nposition which he had lost--or rather putting him in one that he already\nliked much better.  No wonder he was radiant when he came to explain his\nplans to me.\n\nHe had some difficulty in telling all that had happened.  He hesitated,\nblushed, hummed and hawed.  Misgivings began to cross his mind when he\nfound himself obliged to tell his story to someone else.  He felt\ninclined to slur things over, but I wanted to get at the facts, so I\nhelped him over the bad places, and questioned him till I had got out\npretty nearly the whole story as I have given it above.\n\nI hope I did not show it, but I was very angry.  I had begun to like\nErnest.  I don't know why, but I never have heard that any young man to\nwhom I had become attached was going to get married without hating his\nintended instinctively, though I had never seen her; I have observed that\nmost bachelors feel the same thing, though we are generally at some pains\nto hide the fact.  Perhaps it is because we know we ought to have got\nmarried ourselves.  Ordinarily we say we are delighted--in the present\ncase I did not feel obliged to do this, though I made an effort to\nconceal my vexation.  That a young man of much promise who was heir also\nto what was now a handsome fortune, should fling himself away upon such a\nperson as Ellen was quite too provoking, and the more so because of the\nunexpectedness of the whole affair.\n\nI begged him not to marry Ellen yet--not at least until he had known her\nfor a longer time.  He would not hear of it; he had given his word, and\nif he had not given it he should go and give it at once.  I had hitherto\nfound him upon most matters singularly docile and easy to manage, but on\nthis point I could do nothing with him.  His recent victory over his\nfather and mother had increased his strength, and I was nowhere.  I would\nhave told him of his true position, but I knew very well that this would\nonly make him more bent on having his own way--for with so much money why\nshould he not please himself?  I said nothing, therefore, on this head,\nand yet all that I could urge went for very little with one who believed\nhimself to be an artisan or nothing.\n\nReally from his own standpoint there was nothing very outrageous in what\nhe was doing.  He had known and been very fond of Ellen years before.  He\nknew her to come of respectable people, and to have borne a good\ncharacter, and to have been universally liked at Battersby.  She was then\na quick, smart, hard-working girl--and a very pretty one.  When at last\nthey met again she was on her best behaviour, in fact, she was modesty\nand demureness itself.  What wonder, then, that his imagination should\nfail to realise the changes that eight years must have worked?  He knew\ntoo much against himself, and was too bankrupt in love to be squeamish;\nif Ellen had been only what he thought her, and if his prospects had been\nin reality no better than he believed they were, I do not know that there\nis anything much more imprudent in what Ernest proposed than there is in\nhalf the marriages that take place every day.\n\nThere was nothing for it, however, but to make the best of the\ninevitable, so I wished my young friend good fortune, and told him he\ncould have whatever money he wanted to start his shop with, if what he\nhad in hand was not sufficient.  He thanked me, asked me to be kind\nenough to let him do all my mending and repairing, and to get him any\nother like orders that I could, and left me to my own reflections.\n\nI was even more angry when he was gone than I had been while he was with\nme.  His frank, boyish face had beamed with a happiness that had rarely\nvisited it.  Except at Cambridge he had hardly known what happiness\nmeant, and even there his life had been clouded as of a man for whom\nwisdom at the greatest of its entrances was quite shut out.  I had seen\nenough of the world and of him to have observed this, but it was\nimpossible, or I thought it had been impossible, for me to have helped\nhim.\n\nWhether I ought to have tried to help him or not I do not know, but I am\nsure that the young of all animals often do want help upon matters about\nwhich anyone would say _a priori_ that there should be no difficulty.  One\nwould think that a young seal would want no teaching how to swim, nor yet\na bird to fly, but in practice a young seal drowns if put out of its\ndepth before its parents have taught it to swim; and so again, even the\nyoung hawk must be taught to fly before it can do so.\n\nI grant that the tendency of the times is to exaggerate the good which\nteaching can do, but in trying to teach too much, in most matters, we\nhave neglected others in respect of which a little sensible teaching\nwould do no harm.\n\nI know it is the fashion to say that young people must find out things\nfor themselves, and so they probably would if they had fair play to the\nextent of not having obstacles put in their way.  But they seldom have\nfair play; as a general rule they meet with foul play, and foul play from\nthose who live by selling them stones made into a great variety of shapes\nand sizes so as to form a tolerable imitation of bread.\n\nSome are lucky enough to meet with few obstacles, some are plucky enough\nto over-ride them, but in the greater number of cases, if people are\nsaved at all they are saved so as by fire.\n\nWhile Ernest was with me Ellen was looking out for a shop on the south\nside of the Thames near the \"Elephant and Castle,\" which was then almost\na new and a very rising neighbourhood.  By one o'clock she had found\nseveral from which a selection was to be made, and before night the pair\nhad made their choice.\n\nErnest brought Ellen to me.  I did not want to see her, but could not\nwell refuse.  He had laid out a few of his shillings upon her wardrobe,\nso that she was neatly dressed, and, indeed, she looked very pretty and\nso good that I could hardly be surprised at Ernest's infatuation when the\nother circumstances of the case were taken into consideration.  Of course\nwe hated one another instinctively from the first moment we set eyes on\none another, but we each told Ernest that we had been most favourably\nimpressed.\n\nThen I was taken to see the shop.  An empty house is like a stray dog or\na body from which life has departed.  Decay sets in at once in every part\nof it, and what mould and wind and weather would spare, street boys\ncommonly destroy.  Ernest's shop in its untenanted state was a dirty\nunsavoury place enough.  The house was not old, but it had been run up by\na jerry-builder and its constitution had no stamina whatever.  It was\nonly by being kept warm and quiet that it would remain in health for many\nmonths together.  Now it had been empty for some weeks and the cats had\ngot in by night, while the boys had broken the windows by day.  The\nparlour floor was covered with stones and dirt, and in the area was a\ndead dog which had been killed in the street and been thrown down into\nthe first unprotected place that could be found.  There was a strong\nsmell throughout the house, but whether it was bugs, or rats, or cats, or\ndrains, or a compound of all four, I could not determine.  The sashes did\nnot fit, the flimsy doors hung badly; the skirting was gone in several\nplaces, and there were not a few holes in the floor; the locks were\nloose, and paper was torn and dirty; the stairs were weak and one felt\nthe treads give as one went up them.\n\nOver and above these drawbacks the house had an ill name, by reason of\nthe fact that the wife of the last occupant had hanged herself in it not\nvery many weeks previously.  She had set down a bloater before the fire\nfor her husband's tea, and had made him a round of toast.  She then left\nthe room as though about to return to it shortly, but instead of doing so\nshe went into the back kitchen and hanged herself without a word.  It was\nthis which had kept the house empty so long in spite of its excellent\nposition as a corner shop.  The last tenant had left immediately after\nthe inquest, and if the owner had had it done up then people would have\ngot over the tragedy that had been enacted in it, but the combination of\nbad condition and bad fame had hindered many from taking it, who like\nEllen, could see that it had great business capabilities.  Almost\nanything would have sold there, but it happened also that there was no\nsecond-hand clothes shop in close proximity so that everything combined\nin its favour, except its filthy state and its reputation.\n\nWhen I saw it, I thought I would rather die than live in such an awful\nplace--but then I had been living in the Temple for the last five and\ntwenty years.  Ernest was lodging in Laystall Street and had just come\nout of prison; before this he had lived in Ashpit Place so that this\nhouse had no terrors for him provided he could get it done up.  The\ndifficulty was that the landlord was hard to move in this respect.  It\nended in my finding the money to do everything that was wanted, and\ntaking a lease of the house for five years at the same rental as that\npaid by the last occupant.  I then sublet it to Ernest, of course taking\ncare that it was put more efficiently into repair than his landlord was\nat all likely to have put it.\n\nA week later I called and found everything so completely transformed that\nI should hardly have recognised the house.  All the ceilings had been\nwhitewashed, all the rooms papered, the broken glass hacked out and\nreinstated, the defective wood-work renewed, all the sashes, cupboards\nand doors had been painted.  The drains had been thoroughly overhauled,\neverything in fact, that could be done had been done, and the rooms now\nlooked as cheerful as they had been forbidding when I had last seen them.\nThe people who had done the repairs were supposed to have cleaned the\nhouse down before leaving, but Ellen had given it another scrub from top\nto bottom herself after they were gone, and it was as clean as a new pin.\nI almost felt as though I could have lived in it myself, and as for\nErnest, he was in the seventh heaven.  He said it was all my doing and\nEllen's.\n\nThere was already a counter in the shop and a few fittings, so that\nnothing now remained but to get some stock and set them out for sale.\nErnest said he could not begin better than by selling his clerical\nwardrobe and his books, for though the shop was intended especially for\nthe sale of second-hand clothes, yet Ellen said there was no reason why\nthey should not sell a few books too; so a beginning was to be made by\nselling the books he had had at school and college at about one shilling\na volume, taking them all round, and I have heard him say that he learned\nmore that proved of practical use to him through stocking his books on a\nbench in front of his shop and selling them, than he had done from all\nthe years of study which he had bestowed upon their contents.\n\nFor the enquiries that were made of him whether he had such and such a\nbook taught him what he could sell and what he could not; how much he\ncould get for this, and how much for that.  Having made ever such a\nlittle beginning with books, he took to attending book sales as well as\nclothes sales, and ere long this branch of his business became no less\nimportant than the tailoring, and would, I have no doubt, have been the\none which he would have settled down to exclusively, if he had been\ncalled upon to remain a tradesman; but this is anticipating.\n\nI made a contribution and a stipulation.  Ernest wanted to sink the\ngentleman completely, until such time as he could work his way up again.\nIf he had been left to himself he would have lived with Ellen in the shop\nback parlour and kitchen, and have let out both the upper floors\naccording to his original programme.  I did not want him, however, to cut\nhimself adrift from music, letters and polite life, and feared that\nunless he had some kind of den into which he could retire he would ere\nlong become the tradesman and nothing else.  I therefore insisted on\ntaking the first floor front and back myself, and furnishing them with\nthe things which had been left at Mrs Jupp's.  I bought these things of\nhim for a small sum and had them moved into his present abode.\n\nI went to Mrs Jupp's to arrange all this, as Ernest did not like going to\nAshpit Place.  I had half expected to find the furniture sold and Mrs\nJupp gone, but it was not so; with all her faults the poor old woman was\nperfectly honest.\n\nI told her that Pryer had taken all Ernest's money and run away with it.\nShe hated Pryer.  \"I never knew anyone,\" she exclaimed, \"as white-livered\nin the face as that Pryer; he hasn't got an upright vein in his whole\nbody.  Why, all that time when he used to come breakfasting with Mr\nPontifex morning after morning, it took me to a perfect shadow the way he\ncarried on.  There was no doing anything to please him right.  First I\nused to get them eggs and bacon, and he didn't like that; and then I got\nhim a bit of fish, and he didn't like that, or else it was too dear, and\nyou know fish is dearer than ever; and then I got him a bit of German,\nand he said it rose on him; then I tried sausages, and he said they hit\nhim in the eye worse even than German; oh! how I used to wander my room\nand fret about it inwardly and cry for hours, and all about them paltry\nbreakfasts--and it wasn't Mr Pontifex; he'd like anything that anyone\nchose to give him.\n\n\"And so the piano's to go,\" she continued.  \"What beautiful tunes Mr\nPontifex did play upon it, to be sure; and there was one I liked better\nthan any I ever heard.  I was in the room when he played it once and when\nI said, 'Oh, Mr Pontifex, that's the kind of woman I am,' he said, 'No,\nMrs Jupp, it isn't, for this tune is old, but no one can say you are\nold.'  But, bless you, he meant nothing by it, it was only his mucky\nflattery.\"\n\nLike myself, she was vexed at his getting married.  She didn't like his\nbeing married, and she didn't like his not being married--but, anyhow, it\nwas Ellen's fault, not his, and she hoped he would be happy.  \"But after\nall,\" she concluded, \"it ain't you and it ain't me, and it ain't him and\nit ain't her.  It's what you must call the fortunes of matterimony, for\nthere ain't no other word for it.\"\n\nIn the course of the afternoon the furniture arrived at Ernest's new\nabode.  In the first floor we placed the piano, table, pictures,\nbookshelves, a couple of arm-chairs, and all the little household gods\nwhich he had brought from Cambridge.  The back room was furnished exactly\nas his bedroom at Ashpit Place had been--new things being got for the\nbridal apartment downstairs.  These two first-floor rooms I insisted on\nretaining as my own, but Ernest was to use them whenever he pleased; he\nwas never to sublet even the bedroom, but was to keep it for himself in\ncase his wife should be ill at any time, or in case he might be ill\nhimself.\n\nIn less than a fortnight from the time of his leaving prison all these\narrangements had been completed, and Ernest felt that he had again linked\nhimself on to the life which he had led before his imprisonment--with a\nfew important differences, however, which were greatly to his advantage.\nHe was no longer a clergyman; he was about to marry a woman to whom he\nwas much attached, and he had parted company for ever with his father and\nmother.\n\nTrue, he had lost all his money, his reputation, and his position as a\ngentleman; he had, in fact, had to burn his house down in order to get\nhis roast sucking pig; but if asked whether he would rather be as he was\nnow or as he was on the day before his arrest, he would not have had a\nmoment's hesitation in preferring his present to his past.  If his\npresent could only have been purchased at the expense of all that he had\ngone through, it was still worth purchasing at the price, and he would go\nthrough it all again if necessary.  The loss of the money was the worst,\nbut Ellen said she was sure they would get on, and she knew all about it.\nAs for the loss of reputation--considering that he had Ellen and me left,\nit did not come to much.\n\nI saw the house on the afternoon of the day on which all was finished,\nand there remained nothing but to buy some stock and begin selling.  When\nI was gone, after he had had his tea, he stole up to his castle--the\nfirst floor front.  He lit his pipe and sat down to the piano.  He played\nHandel for an hour or so, and then set himself to the table to read and\nwrite.  He took all his sermons and all the theological works he had\nbegun to compose during the time he had been a clergyman and put them in\nthe fire; as he saw them consume he felt as though he had got rid of\nanother incubus.  Then he took up some of the little pieces he had begun\nto write during the latter part of his undergraduate life at Cambridge,\nand began to cut them about and re-write them.  As he worked quietly at\nthese till he heard the clock strike ten and it was time to go to bed, he\nfelt that he was now not only happy but supremely happy.\n\nNext day Ellen took him to Debenham's auction rooms, and they surveyed\nthe lots of clothes which were hung up all round the auction room to be\nviewed.  Ellen had had sufficient experience to know about how much each\nlot ought to fetch; she overhauled lot after lot, and valued it; in a\nvery short time Ernest himself began to have a pretty fair idea what each\nlot should go for, and before the morning was over valued a dozen lots\nrunning at prices about which Ellen said he would not hurt if he could\nget them for that.\n\nSo far from disliking this work or finding it tedious, he liked it very\nmuch, indeed he would have liked anything which did not overtax his\nphysical strength, and which held out a prospect of bringing him in\nmoney.  Ellen would not let him buy anything on the occasion of this\nsale; she said he had better see one sale first and watch how prices\nactually went.  So at twelve o'clock when the sale began, he saw the lots\nsold which he and Ellen had marked, and by the time the sale was over he\nknew enough to be able to bid with safety whenever he should actually\nwant to buy.  Knowledge of this sort is very easily acquired by anyone\nwho is in _bona fide_ want of it.\n\nBut Ellen did not want him to buy at auctions--not much at least at\npresent.  Private dealing, she said, was best.  If I, for example, had\nany cast-off clothes, he was to buy them from my laundress, and get a\nconnection with other laundresses, to whom he might give a trifle more\nthan they got at present for whatever clothes their masters might give\nthem, and yet make a good profit.  If gentlemen sold their things, he was\nto try and get them to sell to him.  He flinched at nothing; perhaps he\nwould have flinched if he had had any idea how _outre_ his proceedings\nwere, but the very ignorance of the world which had ruined him up till\nnow, by a happy irony began to work its own cure.  If some malignant\nfairy had meant to curse him in this respect, she had overdone her\nmalice.  He did not know he was doing anything strange.  He only knew\nthat he had no money, and must provide for himself, a wife, and a\npossible family.  More than this, he wanted to have some leisure in an\nevening, so that he might read and write and keep up his music.  If\nanyone would show him how he could do better than he was doing, he should\nbe much obliged to them, but to himself it seemed that he was doing\nsufficiently well; for at the end of the first week the pair found they\nhad made a clear profit of 3 pounds.  In a few weeks this had increased\nto 4 pounds, and by the New Year they had made a profit of 5 pounds in\none week.\n\nErnest had by this time been married some two months, for he had stuck to\nhis original plan of marrying Ellen on the first day he could legally do\nso.  This date was a little delayed by the change of abode from Laystall\nStreet to Blackfriars, but on the first day that it could be done it was\ndone.  He had never had more than 250 pounds a year, even in the times of\nhis affluence, so that a profit of 5 pounds a week, if it could be\nmaintained steadily, would place him where he had been as far as income\nwent, and, though he should have to feed two mouths instead of one, yet\nhis expenses in other ways were so much curtailed by his changed social\nposition, that, take it all round, his income was practically what it had\nbeen a twelvemonth before.  The next thing to do was to increase it, and\nput by money.\n\nProsperity depends, as we all know, in great measure upon energy and good\nsense, but it also depends not a little upon pure luck--that is to say,\nupon connections which are in such a tangle that it is more easy to say\nthat they do not exist, than to try to trace them.  A neighbourhood may\nhave an excellent reputation as being likely to be a rising one, and yet\nmay become suddenly eclipsed by another, which no one would have thought\nso promising.  A fever hospital may divert the stream of business, or a\nnew station attract it; so little, indeed, can be certainly known, that\nit is better not to try to know more than is in everybody's mouth, and to\nleave the rest to chance.\n\nLuck, which certainly had not been too kind to my hero hitherto, now\nseemed to have taken him under her protection.  The neighbourhood\nprospered, and he with it.  It seemed as though he no sooner bought a\nthing and put it into his shop, than it sold with a profit of from thirty\nto fifty per cent.  He learned book-keeping, and watched his accounts\ncarefully, following up any success immediately; he began to buy other\nthings besides clothes--such as books, music, odds and ends of furniture,\netc.  Whether it was luck or business aptitude, or energy, or the\npoliteness with which he treated all his customers, I cannot say--but to\nthe surprise of no one more than himself, he went ahead faster than he\nhad anticipated, even in his wildest dreams, and by Easter was\nestablished in a strong position as the owner of a business which was\nbringing him in between four and five hundred a year, and which he\nunderstood how to extend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIII\n\n\nEllen and he got on capitally, all the better, perhaps, because the\ndisparity between them was so great, that neither did Ellen want to be\nelevated, nor did Ernest want to elevate her.  He was very fond of her,\nand very kind to her; they had interests which they could serve in\ncommon; they had antecedents with a good part of which each was familiar;\nthey had each of them excellent tempers, and this was enough.  Ellen did\nnot seem jealous at Ernest's preferring to sit the greater part of his\ntime after the day's work was done in the first floor front where I\noccasionally visited him.  She might have come and sat with him if she\nhad liked, but, somehow or other, she generally found enough to occupy\nher down below.  She had the tact also to encourage him to go out of an\nevening whenever he had a mind, without in the least caring that he\nshould take her too--and this suited Ernest very well.  He was, I should\nsay, much happier in his married life than people generally are.\n\nAt first it had been very painful to him to meet any of his old friends,\nas he sometimes accidentally did, but this soon passed; either they cut\nhim, or he cut them; it was not nice being cut for the first time or two,\nbut after that, it became rather pleasant than not, and when he began to\nsee that he was going ahead, he cared very little what people might say\nabout his antecedents.  The ordeal is a painful one, but if a man's moral\nand intellectual constitution are naturally sound, there is nothing which\nwill give him so much strength of character as having been well cut.\n\nIt was easy for him to keep his expenditure down, for his tastes were not\nluxurious.  He liked theatres, outings into the country on a Sunday, and\ntobacco, but he did not care for much else, except writing and music.  As\nfor the usual run of concerts, he hated them.  He worshipped Handel; he\nliked Offenbach, and the airs that went about the streets, but he cared\nfor nothing between these two extremes.  Music, therefore, cost him\nlittle.  As for theatres, I got him and Ellen as many orders as they\nliked, so these cost them nothing.  The Sunday outings were a small item;\nfor a shilling or two he could get a return ticket to some place far\nenough out of town to give him a good walk and a thorough change for the\nday.  Ellen went with him the first few times, but she said she found it\ntoo much for her, there were a few of her old friends whom she should\nsometimes like to see, and they and he, she said, would not hit it off\nperhaps too well, so it would be better for him to go alone.  This seemed\nso sensible, and suited Ernest so exactly that he readily fell into it,\nnor did he suspect dangers which were apparent enough to me when I heard\nhow she had treated the matter.  I kept silence, however, and for a time\nall continued to go well.  As I have said, one of his chief pleasures was\nin writing.  If a man carries with him a little sketch book and is\ncontinually jotting down sketches, he has the artistic instinct; a\nhundred things may hinder his due development, but the instinct is there.\nThe literary instinct may be known by a man's keeping a small note-book\nin his waistcoat pocket, into which he jots down anything that strikes\nhim, or any good thing that he hears said, or a reference to any passage\nwhich he thinks will come in useful to him.  Ernest had such a note-book\nalways with him.  Even when he was at Cambridge he had begun the practice\nwithout anyone's having suggested it to him.  These notes he copied out\nfrom time to time into a book, which as they accumulated, he was driven\ninto indexing approximately, as he went along.  When I found out this, I\nknew that he had the literary instinct, and when I saw his notes I began\nto hope great things of him.\n\nFor a long time I was disappointed.  He was kept back by the nature of\nthe subjects he chose--which were generally metaphysical.  In vain I\ntried to get him away from these to matters which had a greater interest\nfor the general public.  When I begged him to try his hand at some\npretty, graceful, little story which should be full of whatever people\nknew and liked best, he would immediately set to work upon a treatise to\nshow the grounds on which all belief rested.\n\n\"You are stirring mud,\" said I, \"or poking at a sleeping dog.  You are\ntrying to make people resume consciousness about things, which, with\nsensible men, have already passed into the unconscious stage.  The men\nwhom you would disturb are in front of you, and not, as you fancy, behind\nyou; it is you who are the lagger, not they.\"\n\nHe could not see it.  He said he was engaged on an essay upon the famous\n_quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_ of St Vincent de Lerins.  This\nwas the more provoking because he showed himself able to do better things\nif he had liked.\n\nI was then at work upon my burlesque \"The Impatient Griselda,\" and was\nsometimes at my wits' end for a piece of business or a situation; he gave\nme many suggestions, all of which were marked by excellent good sense.\nNevertheless I could not prevail with him to put philosophy on one side,\nand was obliged to leave him to himself.\n\nFor a long time, as I have said, his choice of subjects continued to be\nsuch as I could not approve.  He was continually studying scientific and\nmetaphysical writers, in the hope of either finding or making for himself\na philosopher's stone in the shape of a system which should go on all\nfours under all circumstances, instead of being liable to be upset at\nevery touch and turn, as every system yet promulgated has turned out to\nbe.\n\nHe kept to the pursuit of this will-o'-the-wisp so long that I gave up\nhope, and set him down as another fly that had been caught, as it were,\nby a piece of paper daubed over with some sticky stuff that had not even\nthe merit of being sweet, but to my surprise he at last declared that he\nwas satisfied, and had found what he wanted.\n\nI supposed that he had only hit upon some new \"Lo, here!\" when to my\nrelief, he told me that he had concluded that no system which should go\nperfectly upon all fours was possible, inasmuch as no one could get\nbehind Bishop Berkeley, and therefore no absolutely incontrovertible\nfirst premise could ever be laid.  Having found this he was just as well\npleased as if he had found the most perfect system imaginable.  All he\nwanted he said, was to know which way it was to be--that is to say\nwhether a system was possible or not, and if possible then what the\nsystem was to be.  Having found out that no system based on absolute\ncertainty was possible he was contented.\n\nI had only a very vague idea who Bishop Berkeley was, but was thankful to\nhim for having defended us from an incontrovertible first premise.  I am\nafraid I said a few words implying that after a great deal of trouble he\nhad arrived at the conclusion which sensible people reach without\nbothering their brains so much.\n\nHe said: \"Yes, but I was not born sensible.  A child of ordinary powers\nlearns to walk at a year or two old without knowing much about it;\nfailing ordinary powers he had better learn laboriously than never learn\nat all.  I am sorry I was not stronger, but to do as I did was my only\nchance.\"\n\nHe looked so meek that I was vexed with myself for having said what I\nhad, more especially when I remembered his bringing-up, which had\ndoubtless done much to impair his power of taking a common-sense view of\nthings.  He continued--\n\n\"I see it all now.  The people like Towneley are the only ones who know\nanything that is worth knowing, and like that of course I can never be.\nBut to make Towneleys possible there must be hewers of wood and drawers\nof water--men in fact through whom conscious knowledge must pass before\nit can reach those who can apply it gracefully and instinctively as the\nTowneleys can.  I am a hewer of wood, but if I accept the position\nfrankly and do not set up to be a Towneley, it does not matter.\"\n\nHe still, therefore, stuck to science instead of turning to literature\nproper as I hoped he would have done, but he confined himself henceforth\nto enquiries on specific subjects concerning which an increase of our\nknowledge--as he said--was possible.  Having in fact, after infinite\nvexation of spirit, arrived at a conclusion which cut at the roots of all\nknowledge, he settled contentedly down to the pursuit of knowledge, and\nhas pursued it ever since in spite of occasional excursions into the\nregions of literature proper.\n\nBut this is anticipating, and may perhaps also convey a wrong impression,\nfor from the outset he did occasionally turn his attention to work which\nmust be more properly called literary than either scientific or\nmetaphysical.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIV\n\n\nAbout six months after he had set up his shop his prosperity had reached\nits climax.  It seemed even then as though he were likely to go ahead no\nless fast than heretofore, and I doubt not that he would have done so, if\nsuccess or non-success had depended upon himself alone.  Unfortunately he\nwas not the only person to be reckoned with.\n\nOne morning he had gone out to attend some sales, leaving his wife\nperfectly well, as usual in good spirits, and looking very pretty.  When\nhe came back he found her sitting on a chair in the back parlour, with\nher hair over her face, sobbing and crying as though her heart would\nbreak.  She said she had been frightened in the morning by a man who had\npretended to be a customer, and had threatened her unless she gave him\nsome things, and she had had to give them to him in order to save herself\nfrom violence; she had been in hysterics ever since the man had gone.\nThis was her story, but her speech was so incoherent that it was not easy\nto make out what she said.  Ernest knew she was with child, and thinking\nthis might have something to do with the matter, would have sent for a\ndoctor if Ellen had not begged him not to do so.\n\nAnyone who had had experience of drunken people would have seen at a\nglance what the matter was, but my hero knew nothing about them--nothing,\nthat is to say, about the drunkenness of the habitual drunkard, which\nshows itself very differently from that of one who gets drunk only once\nin a way.  The idea that his wife could drink had never even crossed his\nmind, indeed she always made a fuss about taking more than a very little\nbeer, and never touched spirits.  He did not know much more about\nhysterics than he did about drunkenness, but he had always heard that\nwomen who were about to become mothers were liable to be easily upset and\nwere often rather flighty, so he was not greatly surprised, and thought\nhe had settled the matter by registering the discovery that being about\nto become a father has its troublesome as well as its pleasant side.\n\nThe great change in Ellen's life consequent upon her meeting Ernest and\ngetting married had for a time actually sobered her by shaking her out of\nher old ways.  Drunkenness is so much a matter of habit, and habit so\nmuch a matter of surroundings, that if you completely change the\nsurroundings you will sometimes get rid of the drunkenness altogether.\nEllen had intended remaining always sober henceforward, and never having\nhad so long a steady fit before, believed she was now cured.  So she\nperhaps would have been if she had seen none of her old acquaintances.\nWhen, however, her new life was beginning to lose its newness, and when\nher old acquaintances came to see her, her present surroundings became\nmore like her past, and on this she herself began to get like her past\ntoo.  At first she only got a little tipsy and struggled against a\nrelapse; but it was no use, she soon lost the heart to fight, and now her\nobject was not to try and keep sober, but to get gin without her\nhusband's finding it out.\n\nSo the hysterics continued, and she managed to make her husband still\nthink that they were due to her being about to become a mother.  The\nworse her attacks were, the more devoted he became in his attention to\nher.  At last he insisted that a doctor should see her.  The doctor of\ncourse took in the situation at a glance, but said nothing to Ernest\nexcept in such a guarded way that he did not understand the hints that\nwere thrown out to him.  He was much too downright and matter of fact to\nbe quick at taking hints of this sort.  He hoped that as soon as his\nwife's confinement was over she would regain her health and had no\nthought save how to spare her as far as possible till that happy time\nshould come.\n\nIn the mornings she was generally better, as long that is to say as\nErnest remained at home; but he had to go out buying, and on his return\nwould generally find that she had had another attack as soon as he had\nleft the house.  At times she would laugh and cry for half an hour\ntogether, at others she would lie in a semi-comatose state upon the bed,\nand when he came back he would find that the shop had been neglected and\nall the work of the household left undone.  Still he took it for granted\nthat this was all part of the usual course when women were going to\nbecome mothers, and when Ellen's share of the work settled down more and\nmore upon his own shoulders he did it all and drudged away without a\nmurmur.  Nevertheless, he began to feel in a vague way more as he had\nfelt in Ashpit Place, at Roughborough, or at Battersby, and to lose the\nbuoyancy of spirits which had made another man of him during the first\nsix months of his married life.\n\nIt was not only that he had to do so much household work, for even the\ncooking, cleaning up slops, bed-making and fire-lighting ere long\ndevolved upon him, but his business no longer prospered.  He could buy as\nhitherto, but Ellen seemed unable to sell as she had sold at first.  The\nfact was that she sold as well as ever, but kept back part of the\nproceeds in order to buy gin, and she did this more and more till even\nthe unsuspecting Ernest ought to have seen that she was not telling the\ntruth.  When she sold better--that is to say when she did not think it\nsafe to keep back more than a certain amount, she got money out of him on\nthe plea that she had a longing for this or that, and that it would\nperhaps irreparably damage the baby if her longing was denied her.  All\nseemed right, reasonable, and unavoidable, nevertheless Ernest saw that\nuntil the confinement was over he was likely to have a hard time of it.\nAll however would then come right again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXV\n\n\nIn the month of September 1860 a girl was born, and Ernest was proud and\nhappy.  The birth of the child, and a rather alarming talk which the\ndoctor had given to Ellen sobered her for a few weeks, and it really\nseemed as though his hopes were about to be fulfilled.  The expenses of\nhis wife's confinement were heavy, and he was obliged to trench upon his\nsavings, but he had no doubt about soon recouping this now that Ellen was\nherself again; for a time indeed his business did revive a little,\nnevertheless it seemed as though the interruption to his prosperity had\nin some way broken the spell of good luck which had attended him in the\noutset; he was still sanguine, however, and worked night and day with a\nwill, but there was no more music, or reading, or writing now.  His\nSunday outings were put a stop to, and but for the first floor being let\nto myself, he would have lost his citadel there too, but he seldom used\nit, for Ellen had to wait more and more upon the baby, and, as a\nconsequence, Ernest had to wait more and more upon Ellen.\n\nOne afternoon, about a couple of months after the baby had been born, and\njust as my unhappy hero was beginning to feel more hopeful and therefore\nbetter able to bear his burdens, he returned from a sale, and found Ellen\nin the same hysterical condition that he had found her in in the spring.\nShe said she was again with child, and Ernest still believed her.\n\nAll the troubles of the preceding six months began again then and there,\nand grew worse and worse continually.  Money did not come in quickly, for\nEllen cheated him by keeping it back, and dealing improperly with the\ngoods he bought.  When it did come in she got it out of him as before on\npretexts which it seemed inhuman to inquire into.  It was always the same\nstory.  By and by a new feature began to show itself.  Ernest had\ninherited his father's punctuality and exactness as regards money; he\nliked to know the worst of what he had to pay at once; he hated having\nexpenses sprung upon him which if not foreseen might and ought to have\nbeen so, but now bills began to be brought to him for things ordered by\nEllen without his knowledge, or for which he had already given her the\nmoney.  This was awful, and even Ernest turned.  When he remonstrated\nwith her--not for having bought the things, but for having said nothing\nto him about the moneys being owing--Ellen met him with hysteria and\nthere was a scene.  She had now pretty well forgotten the hard times she\nhad known when she had been on her own resources and reproached him\ndownright with having married her--on that moment the scales fell from\nErnest's eyes as they had fallen when Towneley had said, \"No, no, no.\"  He\nsaid nothing, but he woke up once for all to the fact that he had made a\nmistake in marrying.  A touch had again come which had revealed him to\nhimself.\n\nHe went upstairs to the disused citadel, flung himself into the\narm-chair, and covered his face with his hands.\n\nHe still did not know that his wife drank, but he could no longer trust\nher, and his dream of happiness was over.  He had been saved from the\nChurch--so as by fire, but still saved--but what could now save him from\nhis marriage?  He had made the same mistake that he had made in wedding\nhimself to the Church, but with a hundred times worse results.  He had\nlearnt nothing by experience: he was an Esau--one of those wretches whose\nhearts the Lord had hardened, who, having ears, heard not, having eyes\nsaw not, and who should find no place for repentance though they sought\nit even with tears.\n\nYet had he not on the whole tried to find out what the ways of God were,\nand to follow them in singleness of heart?  To a certain extent, yes; but\nhe had not been thorough; he had not given up all for God.  He knew that\nvery well he had done little as compared with what he might and ought to\nhave done, but still if he was being punished for this, God was a hard\ntaskmaster, and one, too, who was continually pouncing out upon his\nunhappy creatures from ambuscades.  In marrying Ellen he had meant to\navoid a life of sin, and to take the course he believed to be moral and\nright.  With his antecedents and surroundings it was the most natural\nthing in the world for him to have done, yet in what a frightful position\nhad not his morality landed him.  Could any amount of immorality have\nplaced him in a much worse one?  What was morality worth if it was not\nthat which on the whole brought a man peace at the last, and could anyone\nhave reasonable certainty that marriage would do this?  It seemed to him\nthat in his attempt to be moral he had been following a devil which had\ndisguised itself as an angel of light.  But if so, what ground was there\non which a man might rest the sole of his foot and tread in reasonable\nsafety?\n\nHe was still too young to reach the answer, \"On common sense\"--an answer\nwhich he would have felt to be unworthy of anyone who had an ideal\nstandard.\n\nHowever this might be, it was plain that he had now done for himself.  It\nhad been thus with him all his life.  If there had come at any time a\ngleam of sunshine and hope, it was to be obscured immediately--why,\nprison was happier than this!  There, at any rate, he had had no money\nanxieties, and these were beginning to weigh upon him now with all their\nhorrors.  He was happier even now than he had been at Battersby or at\nRoughborough, and he would not now go back, even if he could, to his\nCambridge life, but for all that the outlook was so gloomy, in fact so\nhopeless, that he felt as if he could have only too gladly gone to sleep\nand died in his arm-chair once for all.\n\nAs he was musing thus and looking upon the wreck of his hopes--for he saw\nwell enough that as long as he was linked to Ellen he should never rise\nas he had dreamed of doing--he heard a noise below, and presently a\nneighbour ran upstairs and entered his room hurriedly--\n\n\"Good gracious, Mr Pontifex,\" she exclaimed, \"for goodness' sake come\ndown quickly and help.  O Mrs Pontifex is took with the horrors--and\nshe's orkard.\"\n\nThe unhappy man came down as he was bid and found his wife mad with\n_delirium tremens_.\n\nHe knew all now.  The neighbours thought he must have known that his wife\ndrank all along, but Ellen had been so artful, and he so simple, that, as\nI have said, he had had no suspicion.  \"Why,\" said the woman who had\nsummoned him, \"she'll drink anything she can stand up and pay her money\nfor.\"  Ernest could hardly believe his ears, but when the doctor had seen\nhis wife and she had become more quiet, he went over to the public house\nhard by and made enquiries, the result of which rendered further doubt\nimpossible.  The publican took the opportunity to present my hero with a\nbill of several pounds for bottles of spirits supplied to his wife, and\nwhat with his wife's confinement and the way business had fallen off, he\nhad not the money to pay with, for the sum exceeded the remnant of his\nsavings.\n\nHe came to me--not for money, but to tell me his miserable story.  I had\nseen for some time that there was something wrong, and had suspected\npretty shrewdly what the matter was, but of course I said nothing.  Ernest\nand I had been growing apart for some time.  I was vexed at his having\nmarried, and he knew I was vexed, though I did my best to hide it.\n\nA man's friendships are, like his will, invalidated by marriage--but they\nare also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends.  The rift in\nfriendship which invariably makes its appearance on the marriage of\neither of the parties to it was fast widening, as it no less invariably\ndoes, into the great gulf which is fixed between the married and the\nunmarried, and I was beginning to leave my _protege_ to a fate with which\nI had neither right nor power to meddle.  In fact I had begun to feel him\nrather a burden; I did not so much mind this when I could be of use, but\nI grudged it when I could be of none.  He had made his bed and he must\nlie upon it.  Ernest had felt all this and had seldom come near me till\nnow, one evening late in 1860, he called on me, and with a very woebegone\nface told me his troubles.\n\nAs soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him at\nonce, and was as much interested in him as ever.  There is nothing an old\nbachelor likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he had\nnot got married--especially when the case is such an extreme one that he\nneed not pretend to hope that matters will come all right again, or\nencourage his young friend to make the best of it.\n\nI was myself in favour of a separation, and said I would make Ellen an\nallowance myself--of course intending that it should come out of Ernest's\nmoney; but he would not hear of this.  He had married Ellen, he said, and\nhe must try to reform her.  He hated it, but he must try; and finding him\nas usual very obstinate I was obliged to acquiesce, though with little\nconfidence as to the result.  I was vexed at seeing him waste himself\nupon such a barren task, and again began to feel him burdensome.  I am\nafraid I showed this, for he again avoided me for some time, and, indeed,\nfor many months I hardly saw him at all.\n\nEllen remained very ill for some days, and then gradually recovered.\nErnest hardly left her till she was out of danger.  When she had\nrecovered he got the doctor to tell her that if she had such another\nattack she would certainly die; this so frightened her that she took the\npledge.\n\nThen he became more hopeful again.  When she was sober she was just what\nshe was during the first days of her married life, and so quick was he to\nforget pain, that after a few days he was as fond of her as ever.  But\nEllen could not forgive him for knowing what he did.  She knew that he\nwas on the watch to shield her from temptation, and though he did his\nbest to make her think that he had no further uneasiness about her, she\nfound the burden of her union with respectability grow more and more\nheavy upon her, and looked back more and more longingly upon the lawless\nfreedom of the life she had led before she met her husband.\n\nI will dwell no longer on this part of my story.  During the spring\nmonths of 1861 she kept straight--she had had her fling of dissipation,\nand this, together with the impression made upon her by her having taken\nthe pledge, tamed her for a while.  The shop went fairly well, and\nenabled Ernest to make the two ends meet.  In the spring and summer of\n1861 he even put by a little money again.  In the autumn his wife was\nconfined of a boy--a very fine one, so everyone said.  She soon\nrecovered, and Ernest was beginning to breathe freely and be almost\nsanguine when, without a word of warning, the storm broke again.  He\nreturned one afternoon about two years after his marriage, and found his\nwife lying upon the floor insensible.\n\nFrom this time he became hopeless, and began to go visibly down hill.  He\nhad been knocked about too much, and the luck had gone too long against\nhim.  The wear and tear of the last three years had told on him, and\nthough not actually ill he was overworked, below par, and unfit for any\nfurther burden.\n\nHe struggled for a while to prevent himself from finding this out, but\nfacts were too strong for him.  Again he called on me and told me what\nhad happened.  I was glad the crisis had come; I was sorry for Ellen, but\na complete separation from her was the only chance for her husband.  Even\nafter this last outbreak he was unwilling to consent to this, and talked\nnonsense about dying at his post, till I got tired of him.  Each time I\nsaw him the old gloom had settled more and more deeply upon his face, and\nI had about made up my mind to put an end to the situation by a _coup de\nmain_, such as bribing Ellen to run away with somebody else, or something\nof that kind, when matters settled themselves as usual in a way which I\nhad not anticipated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVI\n\n\nThe winter had been a trying one.  Ernest had only paid his way by\nselling his piano.  With this he seemed to cut away the last link that\nconnected him with his earlier life, and to sink once for all into the\nsmall shop-keeper.  It seemed to him that however low he might sink his\npain could not last much longer, for he should simply die if it did.\n\nHe hated Ellen now, and the pair lived in open want of harmony with each\nother.  If it had not been for his children, he would have left her and\ngone to America, but he could not leave the children with Ellen, and as\nfor taking them with him he did not know how to do it, nor what to do\nwith them when he had got them to America.  If he had not lost energy he\nwould probably in the end have taken the children and gone off, but his\nnerve was shaken, so day after day went by and nothing was done.\n\nHe had only got a few shillings in the world now, except the value of his\nstock, which was very little; he could get perhaps 3 or 4 pounds by\nselling his music and what few pictures and pieces of furniture still\nbelonged to him.  He thought of trying to live by his pen, but his\nwriting had dropped off long ago; he no longer had an idea in his head.\nLook which way he would he saw no hope; the end, if it had not actually\ncome, was within easy distance and he was almost face to face with actual\nwant.  When he saw people going about poorly clad, or even without shoes\nand stockings, he wondered whether within a few months' time he too\nshould not have to go about in this way.  The remorseless, resistless\nhand of fate had caught him in its grip and was dragging him down, down,\ndown.  Still he staggered on, going his daily rounds, buying second-hand\nclothes, and spending his evenings in cleaning and mending them.\n\nOne morning, as he was returning from a house at the West End where he\nhad bought some clothes from one of the servants, he was struck by a\nsmall crowd which had gathered round a space that had been railed off on\nthe grass near one of the paths in the Green Park.\n\nIt was a lovely soft spring morning at the end of March, and unusually\nbalmy for the time of year; even Ernest's melancholy was relieved for a\nwhile by the look of spring that pervaded earth and sky; but it soon\nreturned, and smiling sadly he said to himself: \"It may bring hope to\nothers, but for me there can be no hope henceforth.\"\n\nAs these words were in his mind he joined the small crowd who were\ngathered round the railings, and saw that they were looking at three\nsheep with very small lambs only a day or two old, which had been penned\noff for shelter and protection from the others that ranged the park.\n\nThey were very pretty, and Londoners so seldom get a chance of seeing\nlambs that it was no wonder every one stopped to look at them.  Ernest\nobserved that no one seemed fonder of them than a great lubberly butcher\nboy, who leaned up against the railings with a tray of meat upon his\nshoulder.  He was looking at this boy and smiling at the grotesqueness of\nhis admiration, when he became aware that he was being watched intently\nby a man in coachman's livery, who had also stopped to admire the lambs,\nand was leaning against the opposite side of the enclosure.  Ernest knew\nhim in a moment as John, his father's old coachman at Battersby, and went\nup to him at once.\n\n\"Why, Master Ernest,\" said he, with his strong northern accent, \"I was\nthinking of you only this very morning,\" and the pair shook hands\nheartily.  John was in an excellent place at the West End.  He had done\nvery well, he said, ever since he had left Battersby, except for the\nfirst year or two, and that, he said, with a screw of the face, had well\nnigh broke him.\n\nErnest asked how this was.\n\n\"Why, you see,\" said John, \"I was always main fond of that lass Ellen,\nwhom you remember running after, Master Ernest, and giving your watch to.\nI expect you haven't forgotten that day, have you?\"  And here he laughed.\n\"I don't know as I be the father of the child she carried away with her\nfrom Battersby, but I very easily may have been.  Anyhow, after I had\nleft your papa's place a few days I wrote to Ellen to an address we had\nagreed upon, and told her I would do what I ought to do, and so I did,\nfor I married her within a month afterwards.  Why, Lord love the man,\nwhatever is the matter with him?\"--for as he had spoken the last few\nwords of his story Ernest had turned white as a sheet, and was leaning\nagainst the railings.\n\n\"John,\" said my hero, gasping for breath, \"are you sure of what you\nsay--are you quite sure you really married her?\"\n\n\"Of course I am,\" said John, \"I married her before the registrar at\nLetchbury on the 15th of August 1851.\n\n\"Give me your arm,\" said Ernest, \"and take me into Piccadilly, and put me\ninto a cab, and come with me at once, if you can spare time, to Mr\nOverton's at the Temple.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVII\n\n\nI do not think Ernest himself was much more pleased at finding that he\nhad never been married than I was.  To him, however, the shock of\npleasure was positively numbing in its intensity.  As he felt his burden\nremoved, he reeled for the unaccustomed lightness of his movements; his\nposition was so shattered that his identity seemed to have been shattered\nalso; he was as one waking up from a horrible nightmare to find himself\nsafe and sound in bed, but who can hardly even yet believe that the room\nis not full of armed men who are about to spring upon him.\n\n\"And it is I,\" he said, \"who not an hour ago complained that I was\nwithout hope.  It is I, who for weeks have been railing at fortune, and\nsaying that though she smiled on others she never smiled at me.  Why,\nnever was anyone half so fortunate as I am.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I, \"you have been inoculated for marriage, and have\nrecovered.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" he said, \"I was very fond of her till she took to drinking.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; but is it not Tennyson who has said: ''Tis better to have loved\nand lost, than never to have lost at all'?\"\n\n\"You are an inveterate bachelor,\" was the rejoinder.\n\nThen we had a long talk with John, to whom I gave a 5 pound note upon the\nspot.  He said, \"Ellen had used to drink at Battersby; the cook had\ntaught her; he had known it, but was so fond of her, that he had chanced\nit and married her to save her from the streets and in the hope of being\nable to keep her straight.  She had done with him just as she had done\nwith Ernest--made him an excellent wife as long as she kept sober, but a\nvery bad one afterwards.\"\n\n\"There isn't,\" said John, \"a sweeter-tempered, handier, prettier girl\nthan she was in all England, nor one as knows better what a man likes,\nand how to make him happy, if you can keep her from drink; but you can't\nkeep her; she's that artful she'll get it under your very eyes, without\nyou knowing it.  If she can't get any more of your things to pawn or\nsell, she'll steal her neighbours'.  That's how she got into trouble\nfirst when I was with her.  During the six months she was in prison I\nshould have felt happy if I had not known she would come out again.  And\nthen she did come out, and before she had been free a fortnight, she\nbegan shop-lifting and going on the loose again--and all to get money to\ndrink with.  So seeing I could do nothing with her and that she was just\na-killing of me, I left her, and came up to London, and went into service\nagain, and I did not know what had become of her till you and Mr Ernest\nhere told me.  I hope you'll neither of you say you've seen me.\"\n\nWe assured him we would keep his counsel, and then he left us, with many\nprotestations of affection towards Ernest, to whom he had been always\nmuch attached.\n\nWe talked the situation over, and decided first to get the children away,\nand then to come to terms with Ellen concerning their future custody; as\nfor herself, I proposed that we should make her an allowance of, say, a\npound a week to be paid so long as she gave no trouble.  Ernest did not\nsee where the pound a week was to come from, so I eased his mind by\nsaying I would pay it myself.  Before the day was two hours older we had\ngot the children, about whom Ellen had always appeared to be indifferent,\nand had confided them to the care of my laundress, a good motherly sort\nof woman, who took to them and to whom they took at once.\n\nThen came the odious task of getting rid of their unhappy mother.\nErnest's heart smote him at the notion of the shock the break-up would be\nto her.  He was always thinking that people had a claim upon him for some\ninestimable service they had rendered him, or for some irreparable\nmischief done to them by himself; the case however was so clear, that\nErnest's scruples did not offer serious resistance.\n\nI did not see why he should have the pain of another interview with his\nwife, so I got Mr Ottery to manage the whole business.  It turned out\nthat we need not have harrowed ourselves so much about the agony of mind\nwhich Ellen would suffer on becoming an outcast again.  Ernest saw Mrs\nRichards, the neighbour who had called him down on the night when he had\nfirst discovered his wife's drunkenness, and got from her some details of\nEllen's opinions upon the matter.  She did not seem in the least\nconscience-stricken; she said: \"Thank goodness, at last!\"  And although\naware that her marriage was not a valid one, evidently regarded this as a\nmere detail which it would not be worth anybody's while to go into more\nparticularly.  As regards his breaking with her, she said it was a good\njob both for him and for her.\n\n\"This life,\" she continued, \"don't suit me.  Ernest is too good for me;\nhe wants a woman as shall be a bit better than me, and I want a man that\nshall be a bit worse than him.  We should have got on all very well if we\nhad not lived together as married folks, but I've been used to have a\nlittle place of my own, however small, for a many years, and I don't want\nErnest, or any other man, always hanging about it.  Besides he is too\nsteady: his being in prison hasn't done him a bit of good--he's just as\ngrave as those as have never been in prison at all, and he never swears\nnor curses, come what may; it makes me afeared of him, and therefore I\ndrink the worse.  What us poor girls wants is not to be jumped up all of\na sudden and made honest women of; this is too much for us and throws us\noff our perch; what we wants is a regular friend or two, who'll just keep\nus from starving, and force us to be good for a bit together now and\nagain.  That's about as much as we can stand.  He may have the children;\nhe can do better for them than I can; and as for his money, he may give\nit or keep it as he likes, he's never done me any harm, and I shall let\nhim alone; but if he means me to have it, I suppose I'd better have\nit.\"--And have it she did.\n\n\"And I,\" thought Ernest to himself again when the arrangement was\nconcluded, \"am the man who thought himself unlucky!\"\n\nI may as well say here all that need be said further about Ellen.  For\nthe next three years she used to call regularly at Mr Ottery's every\nMonday morning for her pound.  She was always neatly dressed, and looked\nso quiet and pretty that no one would have suspected her antecedents.  At\nfirst she wanted sometimes to anticipate, but after three or four\nineffectual attempts--on each of which occasions she told a most pitiful\nstory--she gave it up and took her money regularly without a word.  Once\nshe came with a bad black eye, \"which a boy had throwed a stone and hit\nher by mistake\"; but on the whole she looked pretty much the same at the\nend of the three years as she had done at the beginning.  Then she\nexplained that she was going to be married again.  Mr Ottery saw her on\nthis, and pointed out to her that she would very likely be again\ncommitting bigamy by doing so.  \"You may call it what you like,\" she\nreplied, \"but I am going off to America with Bill the butcher's man, and\nwe hope Mr Pontifex won't be too hard on us and stop the allowance.\"\nErnest was little likely to do this, so the pair went in peace.  I\nbelieve it was Bill who had blacked her eye, and she liked him all the\nbetter for it.\n\nFrom one or two little things I have been able to gather that the couple\ngot on very well together, and that in Bill she has found a partner\nbetter suited to her than either John or Ernest.  On his birthday Ernest\ngenerally receives an envelope with an American post-mark containing a\nbook-marker with a flaunting text upon it, or a moral kettle-holder, or\nsome other similar small token of recognition, but no letter.  Of the\nchildren she has taken no notice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXVIII\n\n\nErnest was now well turned twenty-six years old, and in little more than\nanother year and a half would come into possession of his money.  I saw\nno reason for letting him have it earlier than the date fixed by Miss\nPontifex herself; at the same time I did not like his continuing the shop\nat Blackfriars after the present crisis.  It was not till now that I\nfully understood how much he had suffered, nor how nearly his supposed\nwife's habits had brought him to actual want.\n\nI had indeed noted the old wan worn look settling upon his face, but was\neither too indolent or too hopeless of being able to sustain a protracted\nand successful warfare with Ellen to extend the sympathy and make the\ninquiries which I suppose I ought to have made.  And yet I hardly know\nwhat I could have done, for nothing short of his finding out what he had\nfound out would have detached him from his wife, and nothing could do him\nmuch good as long as he continued to live with her.\n\nAfter all I suppose I was right; I suppose things did turn out all the\nbetter in the end for having been left to settle themselves--at any rate\nwhether they did or did not, the whole thing was in too great a muddle\nfor me to venture to tackle it so long as Ellen was upon the scene; now,\nhowever, that she was removed, all my interest in my godson revived, and\nI turned over many times in my mind, what I had better do with him.\n\nIt was now three and a half years since he had come up to London and\nbegun to live, so to speak, upon his own account.  Of these years, six\nmonths had been spent as a clergyman, six months in gaol, and for two and\na half years he had been acquiring twofold experience in the ways of\nbusiness and of marriage.  He had failed, I may say, in everything that\nhe had undertaken, even as a prisoner; yet his defeats had been always,\nas it seemed to me, something so like victories, that I was satisfied of\nhis being worth all the pains I could bestow upon him; my only fear was\nlest I should meddle with him when it might be better for him to be let\nalone.  On the whole I concluded that a three and a half years'\napprenticeship to a rough life was enough; the shop had done much for\nhim; it had kept him going after a fashion, when he was in great need; it\nhad thrown him upon his own resources, and taught him to see profitable\nopenings all around him, where a few months before he would have seen\nnothing but insuperable difficulties; it had enlarged his sympathies by\nmaking him understand the lower classes, and not confining his view of\nlife to that taken by gentlemen only.  When he went about the streets and\nsaw the books outside the second-hand book-stalls, the bric-a-brac in the\ncuriosity shops, and the infinite commercial activity which is\nomnipresent around us, he understood it and sympathised with it as he\ncould never have done if he had not kept a shop himself.\n\nHe has often told me that when he used to travel on a railway that\noverlooked populous suburbs, and looked down upon street after street of\ndingy houses, he used to wonder what kind of people lived in them, what\nthey did and felt, and how far it was like what he did and felt himself.\nNow, he said he knew all about it.  I am not very familiar with the\nwriter of the Odyssey (who, by the way, I suspect strongly of having been\na clergyman), but he assuredly hit the right nail on the head when he\nepitomised his typical wise man as knowing \"the ways and farings of many\nmen.\"  What culture is comparable to this?  What a lie, what a sickly\ndebilitating debauch did not Ernest's school and university career now\nseem to him, in comparison with his life in prison and as a tailor in\nBlackfriars.  I have heard him say he would have gone through all he had\nsuffered if it were only for the deeper insight it gave him into the\nspirit of the Grecian and the Surrey pantomimes.  What confidence again\nin his own power to swim if thrown into deep waters had not he won\nthrough his experiences during the last three years!\n\nBut, as I have said, I thought my godson had now seen as much of the\nunder currents of life as was likely to be of use to him, and that it was\ntime he began to live in a style more suitable to his prospects.  His\naunt had wished him to kiss the soil, and he had kissed it with a\nvengeance; but I did not like the notion of his coming suddenly from the\nposition of a small shop-keeper to that of a man with an income of\nbetween three and four thousand a year.  Too sudden a jump from bad\nfortune to good is just as dangerous as one from good to bad; besides,\npoverty is very wearing; it is a quasi-embryonic condition, through which\na man had better pass if he is to hold his later developments securely,\nbut like measles or scarlet fever he had better have it mildly and get it\nover early.\n\nNo man is safe from losing every penny he has in the world, unless he has\nhad his facer.  How often do I not hear middle-aged women and quiet\nfamily men say that they have no speculative tendency; _they_ never had\ntouched, and never would touch, any but the very soundest, best reputed\ninvestments, and as for unlimited liability, oh dear! dear! and they\nthrow up their hands and eyes.\n\nWhenever a person is heard to talk thus he may be recognised as the easy\nprey of the first adventurer who comes across him; he will commonly,\nindeed, wind up his discourse by saying that in spite of all his natural\ncaution, and his well knowing how foolish speculation is, yet there are\nsome investments which are called speculative but in reality are not so,\nand he will pull out of his pocket the prospectus of a Cornish gold mine.\nIt is only on having actually lost money that one realises what an awful\nthing the loss of it is, and finds out how easily it is lost by those who\nventure out of the middle of the most beaten path.  Ernest had had his\nfacer, as he had had his attack of poverty, young, and sufficiently badly\nfor a sensible man to be little likely to forget it.  I can fancy few\npieces of good fortune greater than this as happening to any man,\nprovided, of course, that he is not damaged irretrievably.\n\nSo strongly do I feel on this subject that if I had my way I would have a\nspeculation master attached to every school.  The boys would be\nencouraged to read the _Money Market Review_, the _Railway News_, and all\nthe best financial papers, and should establish a stock exchange amongst\nthemselves in which pence should stand as pounds.  Then let them see how\nthis making haste to get rich moneys out in actual practice.  There might\nbe a prize awarded by the head-master to the most prudent dealer, and the\nboys who lost their money time after time should be dismissed.  Of course\nif any boy proved to have a genius for speculation and made money--well\nand good, let him speculate by all means.\n\nIf Universities were not the worst teachers in the world I should like to\nsee professorships of speculation established at Oxford and Cambridge.\nWhen I reflect, however, that the only things worth doing which Oxford\nand Cambridge can do well are cooking, cricket, rowing and games, of\nwhich there is no professorship, I fear that the establishment of a\nprofessorial chair would end in teaching young men neither how to\nspeculate, nor how not to speculate, but would simply turn them out as\nbad speculators.\n\nI heard of one case in which a father actually carried my idea into\npractice.  He wanted his son to learn how little confidence was to be\nplaced in glowing prospectuses and flaming articles, and found him five\nhundred pounds which he was to invest according to his lights.  The\nfather expected he would lose the money; but it did not turn out so in\npractice, for the boy took so much pains and played so cautiously that\nthe money kept growing and growing till the father took it away again,\nincrement and all--as he was pleased to say, in self defence.\n\nI had made my own mistakes with money about the year 1846, when everyone\nelse was making them.  For a few years I had been so scared and had\nsuffered so severely, that when (owing to the good advice of the broker\nwho had advised my father and grandfather before me) I came out in the\nend a winner and not a loser, I played no more pranks, but kept\nhenceforward as nearly in the middle of the middle rut as I could.  I\ntried in fact to keep my money rather than to make more of it.  I had\ndone with Ernest's money as with my own--that is to say I had let it\nalone after investing it in Midland ordinary stock according to Miss\nPontifex's instructions.  No amount of trouble would have been likely to\nhave increased my godson's estate one half so much as it had increased\nwithout my taking any trouble at all.\n\nMidland stock at the end of August 1850, when I sold out Miss Pontifex's\ndebentures, stood at 32 pounds per 100 pounds.  I invested the whole of\nErnest's 15,000 pounds at this price, and did not change the investment\ntill a few months before the time of which I have been writing\nlately--that is to say until September 1861.  I then sold at 129 pounds\nper share and invested in London and North-Western ordinary stock, which\nI was advised was more likely to rise than Midlands now were.  I bought\nthe London and North-Western stock at 93 pounds per 100 pounds, and my\ngodson now in 1882 still holds it.\n\nThe original 15,000 pounds had increased in eleven years to over 60,000\npounds; the accumulated interest, which, of course, I had re-invested,\nhad come to about 10,000 pounds more, so that Ernest was then worth over\n70,000 pounds.  At present he is worth nearly double that sum, and all as\nthe result of leaving well alone.\n\nLarge as his property now was, it ought to be increased still further\nduring the year and a half that remained of his minority, so that on\ncoming of age he ought to have an income of at least 3500 pounds a year.\n\nI wished him to understand book-keeping by double entry.  I had myself as\na young man been compelled to master this not very difficult art; having\nacquired it, I have become enamoured of it, and consider it the most\nnecessary branch of any young man's education after reading and writing.\nI was determined, therefore, that Ernest should master it, and proposed\nthat he should become my steward, book-keeper, and the manager of my\nhoardings, for so I called the sum which my ledger showed to have\naccumulated from 15,000 to 70,000 pounds.  I told him I was going to\nbegin to spend the income as soon as it had amounted up to 80,000 pounds.\n\nA few days after Ernest's discovery that he was still a bachelor, while\nhe was still at the very beginning of the honeymoon, as it were, of his\nrenewed unmarried life, I broached my scheme, desired him to give up his\nshop, and offered him 300 pounds a year for managing (so far indeed as it\nrequired any managing) his own property.  This 300 pounds a year, I need\nhardly say, I made him charge to the estate.\n\nIf anything had been wanting to complete his happiness it was this.  Here,\nwithin three or four days he found himself freed from one of the most\nhideous, hopeless _liaisons_ imaginable, and at the same time raised from\na life of almost squalor to the enjoyment of what would to him be a\nhandsome income.\n\n\"A pound a week,\" he thought, \"for Ellen, and the rest for myself.\"\n\n\"No,\" said I, \"we will charge Ellen's pound a week to the estate also.\nYou must have a clear 300 pounds for yourself.\"\n\nI fixed upon this sum, because it was the one which Mr Disraeli gave\nConingsby when Coningsby was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes.  Mr\nDisraeli evidently thought 300 pounds a year the smallest sum on which\nConingsby could be expected to live, and make the two ends meet; with\nthis, however, he thought his hero could manage to get along for a year\nor two.  In 1862, of which I am now writing, prices had risen, though not\nso much as they have since done; on the other hand Ernest had had less\nexpensive antecedents than Coningsby, so on the whole I thought 300\npounds a year would be about the right thing for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXIX\n\n\nThe question now arose what was to be done with the children.  I\nexplained to Ernest that their expenses must be charged to the estate,\nand showed him how small a hole all the various items I proposed to\ncharge would make in the income at my disposal.  He was beginning to make\ndifficulties, when I quieted him by pointing out that the money had all\ncome to me from his aunt, over his own head, and reminded him there had\nbeen an understanding between her and me that I should do much as I was\ndoing, if occasion should arise.\n\nHe wanted his children to be brought up in the fresh pure air, and among\nother children who were happy and contented; but being still ignorant of\nthe fortune that awaited him, he insisted that they should pass their\nearlier years among the poor rather than the rich.  I remonstrated, but\nhe was very decided about it; and when I reflected that they were\nillegitimate, I was not sure but that what Ernest proposed might be as\nwell for everyone in the end.  They were still so young that it did not\nmuch matter where they were, so long as they were with kindly decent\npeople, and in a healthy neighbourhood.\n\n\"I shall be just as unkind to my children,\" he said, \"as my grandfather\nwas to my father, or my father to me.  If they did not succeed in making\ntheir children love them, neither shall I.  I say to myself that I should\nlike to do so, but so did they.  I can make sure that they shall not know\nhow much they would have hated me if they had had much to do with me, but\nthis is all I can do.  If I must ruin their prospects, let me do so at a\nreasonable time before they are old enough to feel it.\"\n\nHe mused a little and added with a laugh:--\n\n\"A man first quarrels with his father about three-quarters of a year\nbefore he is born.  It is then he insists on setting up a separate\nestablishment; when this has been once agreed to, the more complete the\nseparation for ever after the better for both.\"  Then he said more\nseriously: \"I want to put the children where they will be well and happy,\nand where they will not be betrayed into the misery of false\nexpectations.\"\n\nIn the end he remembered that on his Sunday walks he had more than once\nseen a couple who lived on the waterside a few miles below Gravesend,\njust where the sea was beginning, and who he thought would do.  They had\na family of their own fast coming on and the children seemed to thrive;\nboth father and mother indeed were comfortable well grown folks, in whose\nhands young people would be likely to have as fair a chance of coming to\na good development as in those of any whom he knew.\n\nWe went down to see this couple, and as I thought no less well of them\nthan Ernest did, we offered them a pound a week to take the children and\nbring them up as though they were their own.  They jumped at the offer,\nand in another day or two we brought the children down and left them,\nfeeling that we had done as well as we could by them, at any rate for the\npresent.  Then Ernest sent his small stock of goods to Debenham's, gave\nup the house he had taken two and a half years previously, and returned\nto civilisation.\n\nI had expected that he would now rapidly recover, and was disappointed to\nsee him get as I thought decidedly worse.  Indeed, before long I thought\nhim looking so ill that I insisted on his going with me to consult one of\nthe most eminent doctors in London.  This gentleman said there was no\nacute disease but that my young friend was suffering from nervous\nprostration, the result of long and severe mental suffering, from which\nthere was no remedy except time, prosperity and rest.\n\nHe said that Ernest must have broken down later on, but that he might\nhave gone on for some months yet.  It was the suddenness of the relief\nfrom tension which had knocked him over now.\n\n\"Cross him,\" said the doctor, \"at once.  Crossing is the great medical\ndiscovery of the age.  Shake him out of himself by shaking something else\ninto him.\"\n\nI had not told him that money was no object to us and I think he had\nreckoned me up as not over rich.  He continued:--\n\n\"Seeing is a mode of touching, touching is a mode of feeding, feeding is\na mode of assimilation, assimilation is a mode of recreation and\nreproduction, and this is crossing--shaking yourself into something else\nand something else into you.\"\n\nHe spoke laughingly, but it was plain he was serious.  He continued:--\n\n\"People are always coming to me who want crossing, or change, if you\nprefer it, and who I know have not money enough to let them get away from\nLondon.  This has set me thinking how I can best cross them even if they\ncannot leave home, and I have made a list of cheap London amusements\nwhich I recommend to my patients; none of them cost more than a few\nshillings or take more than half a day or a day.\"\n\nI explained that there was no occasion to consider money in this case.\n\n\"I am glad of it,\" he said, still laughing.  \"The homoeopathists use\n_aurum_ as a medicine, but they do not give it in large doses enough; if\nyou can dose your young friend with this pretty freely you will soon\nbring him round.  However, Mr Pontifex is not well enough to stand so\ngreat a change as going abroad yet; from what you tell me I should think\nhe had had as much change lately as is good for him.  If he were to go\nabroad now he would probably be taken seriously ill within a week.  We\nmust wait till he has recovered tone a little more.  I will begin by\nringing my London changes on him.\"\n\nHe thought a little and then said:--\n\n\"I have found the Zoological Gardens of service to many of my patients.  I\nshould prescribe for Mr Pontifex a course of the larger mammals.  Don't\nlet him think he is taking them medicinally, but let him go to their\nhouse twice a week for a fortnight, and stay with the hippopotamus, the\nrhinoceros, and the elephants, till they begin to bore him.  I find these\nbeasts do my patients more good than any others.  The monkeys are not a\nwide enough cross; they do not stimulate sufficiently.  The larger\ncarnivora are unsympathetic.  The reptiles are worse than useless, and\nthe marsupials are not much better.  Birds again, except parrots, are not\nvery beneficial; he may look at them now and again, but with the\nelephants and the pig tribe generally he should mix just now as freely as\npossible.\n\n\"Then, you know, to prevent monotony I should send him, say, to morning\nservice at the Abbey before he goes.  He need not stay longer than the\n_Te Deum_.  I don't know why, but _Jubilates_ are seldom satisfactory.\nJust let him look in at the Abbey, and sit quietly in Poets' Corner till\nthe main part of the music is over.  Let him do this two or three times,\nnot more, before he goes to the Zoo.\n\n\"Then next day send him down to Gravesend by boat.  By all means let him\ngo to the theatres in the evenings--and then let him come to me again in\na fortnight.\"\n\nHad the doctor been less eminent in his profession I should have doubted\nwhether he was in earnest, but I knew him to be a man of business who\nwould neither waste his own time nor that of his patients.  As soon as we\nwere out of the house we took a cab to Regent's Park, and spent a couple\nof hours in sauntering round the different houses.  Perhaps it was on\naccount of what the doctor had told me, but I certainly became aware of a\nfeeling I had never experienced before.  I mean that I was receiving an\ninflux of new life, or deriving new ways of looking at life--which is the\nsame thing--by the process.  I found the doctor quite right in his\nestimate of the larger mammals as the ones which on the whole were most\nbeneficial, and observed that Ernest, who had heard nothing of what the\ndoctor had said to me, lingered instinctively in front of them.  As for\nthe elephants, especially the baby elephant, he seemed to be drinking in\nlarge draughts of their lives to the re-creation and regeneration of his\nown.\n\nWe dined in the gardens, and I noticed with pleasure that Ernest's\nappetite was already improved.  Since this time, whenever I have been a\nlittle out of sorts myself I have at once gone up to Regent's Park, and\nhave invariably been benefited.  I mention this here in the hope that\nsome one or other of my readers may find the hint a useful one.\n\nAt the end of his fortnight my hero was much better, more so even than\nour friend the doctor had expected.  \"Now,\" he said, \"Mr Pontifex may go\nabroad, and the sooner the better.  Let him stay a couple of months.\"\n\nThis was the first Ernest had heard about his going abroad, and he talked\nabout my not being able to spare him for so long.  I soon made this all\nright.\n\n\"It is now the beginning of April,\" said I, \"go down to Marseilles at\nonce, and take steamer to Nice.  Then saunter down the Riviera to\nGenoa--from Genoa go to Florence, Rome and Naples, and come home by way\nof Venice and the Italian lakes.\"\n\n\"And won't you come too?\" said he, eagerly.\n\nI said I did not mind if I did, so we began to make our arrangements next\nmorning, and completed them within a very few days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXX\n\n\nWe left by the night mail, crossing from Dover.  The night was soft, and\nthere was a bright moon upon the sea.  \"Don't you love the smell of\ngrease about the engine of a Channel steamer?  Isn't there a lot of hope\nin it?\" said Ernest to me, for he had been to Normandy one summer as a\nboy with his father and mother, and the smell carried him back to days\nbefore those in which he had begun to bruise himself against the great\noutside world.  \"I always think one of the best parts of going abroad is\nthe first thud of the piston, and the first gurgling of the water when\nthe paddle begins to strike it.\"\n\nIt was very dreamy getting out at Calais, and trudging about with luggage\nin a foreign town at an hour when we were generally both of us in bed and\nfast asleep, but we settled down to sleep as soon as we got into the\nrailway carriage, and dozed till we had passed Amiens.  Then waking when\nthe first signs of morning crispness were beginning to show themselves, I\nsaw that Ernest was already devouring every object we passed with quick\nsympathetic curiousness.  There was not a peasant in a blouse driving his\ncart betimes along the road to market, not a signalman's wife in her\nhusband's hat and coat waving a green flag, not a shepherd taking out his\nsheep to the dewy pastures, not a bank of opening cowslips as we passed\nthrough the railway cuttings, but he was drinking it all in with an\nenjoyment too deep for words.  The name of the engine that drew us was\nMozart, and Ernest liked this too.\n\nWe reached Paris by six, and had just time to get across the town and\ntake a morning express train to Marseilles, but before noon my young\nfriend was tired out and had resigned himself to a series of sleeps which\nwere seldom intermitted for more than an hour or so together.  He fought\nagainst this for a time, but in the end consoled himself by saying it was\nso nice to have so much pleasure that he could afford to throw a lot of\nit away.  Having found a theory on which to justify himself, he slept in\npeace.\n\nAt Marseilles we rested, and there the excitement of the change proved,\nas I had half feared it would, too much for my godson's still enfeebled\nstate.  For a few days he was really ill, but after this he righted.  For\nmy own part I reckon being ill as one of the great pleasures of life,\nprovided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work till one is\nbetter.  I remember being ill once in a foreign hotel myself and how much\nI enjoyed it.  To lie there careless of everything, quiet and warm, and\nwith no weight upon the mind, to hear the clinking of the plates in the\nfar-off kitchen as the scullion rinsed them and put them by; to watch the\nsoft shadows come and go upon the ceiling as the sun came out or went\nbehind a cloud; to listen to the pleasant murmuring of the fountain in\nthe court below, and the shaking of the bells on the horses' collars and\nthe clink of their hoofs upon the ground as the flies plagued them; not\nonly to be a lotus-eater but to know that it was one's duty to be a lotus-\neater.  \"Oh,\" I thought to myself, \"if I could only now, having so\nforgotten care, drop off to sleep for ever, would not this be a better\npiece of fortune than any I can ever hope for?\"\n\nOf course it would, but we would not take it though it were offered us.\nNo matter what evil may befall us, we will mostly abide by it and see it\nout.\n\nI could see that Ernest felt much as I had felt myself.  He said little,\nbut noted everything.  Once only did he frighten me.  He called me to his\nbedside just as it was getting dusk and said in a grave, quiet manner\nthat he should like to speak to me.\n\n\"I have been thinking,\" he said, \"that I may perhaps never recover from\nthis illness, and in case I do not I should like you to know that there\nis only one thing which weighs upon me.  I refer,\" he continued after a\nslight pause, \"to my conduct towards my father and mother.  I have been\nmuch too good to them.  I treated them much too considerately,\" on which\nhe broke into a smile which assured me that there was nothing seriously\namiss with him.\n\nOn the walls of his bedroom were a series of French Revolution prints\nrepresenting events in the life of Lycurgus.  There was \"Grandeur d'ame\nde Lycurgue,\" and \"Lycurgue consulte l'oracle,\" and then there was\n\"Calciope a la Cour.\"  Under this was written in French and Spanish:\n\"Modele de grace et de beaute, la jeune Calciope non moins sage que belle\navait merite l'estime et l'attachement du vertueux Lycurgue.  Vivement\nepris de tant de charmes, l'illustre philosophe la conduisait dans le\ntemple de Junon, ou ils s'unirent par un serment sacre.  Apres cette\nauguste ceremonie, Lycurgue s'empressa de conduire sa jeune epouse au\npalais de son frere Polydecte, Roi de Lacedemon.  Seigneur, lui dit-il,\nla vertueuse Calciope vient de recevoir mes voeux aux pieds des autels,\nj'ose vous prier d'approuver cette union.  Le Roi temoigna d'abord\nquelque surprise, mais l'estime qu'il avait pour son frere lui inspira\nune reponse pleine de beinveillance.  Il s'approcha aussitot de Calciope\nqu'il embrassa tendrement, combla ensuite Lycurgue de prevenances et\nparut tres satisfait.\"\n\nHe called my attention to this and then said somewhat timidly that he\nwould rather have married Ellen than Calciope.  I saw he was hardening\nand made no hesitation about proposing that in another day or two we\nshould proceed upon our journey.\n\nI will not weary the reader by taking him with us over beaten ground.  We\nstopped at Siena, Cortona, Orvieto, Perugia and many other cities, and\nthen after a fortnight passed between Rome and Naples went to the\nVenetian provinces and visited all those wondrous towns that lie between\nthe southern slopes of the Alps and the northern ones of the Apennines,\ncoming back at last by the S. Gothard.  I doubt whether he had enjoyed\nthe trip more than I did myself, but it was not till we were on the point\nof returning that Ernest had recovered strength enough to be called\nfairly well, and it was not for many months that he so completely lost\nall sense of the wounds which the last four years had inflicted on him as\nto feel as though there were a scar and a scar only remaining.\n\nThey say that when people have lost an arm or a foot they feel pains in\nit now and again for a long while after they have lost it.  One pain\nwhich he had almost forgotten came upon him on his return to England, I\nmean the sting of his having been imprisoned.  As long as he was only a\nsmall shop-keeper his imprisonment mattered nothing; nobody knew of it,\nand if they had known they would not have cared; now, however, though he\nwas returning to his old position he was returning to it disgraced, and\nthe pain from which he had been saved in the first instance by\nsurroundings so new that he had hardly recognised his own identity in the\nmiddle of them, came on him as from a wound inflicted yesterday.\n\nHe thought of the high resolves which he had made in prison about using\nhis disgrace as a vantage ground of strength rather than trying to make\npeople forget it.  \"That was all very well then,\" he thought to himself,\n\"when the grapes were beyond my reach, but now it is different.\"  Besides,\nwho but a prig would set himself high aims, or make high resolves at all?\n\nSome of his old friends, on learning that he had got rid of his supposed\nwife and was now comfortably off again, wanted to renew their\nacquaintance; he was grateful to them and sometimes tried to meet their\nadvances half way, but it did not do, and ere long he shrank back into\nhimself, pretending not to know them.  An infernal demon of honesty\nhaunted him which made him say to himself: \"These men know a great deal,\nbut do not know all--if they did they would cut me--and therefore I have\nno right to their acquaintance.\"\n\nHe thought that everyone except himself was _sans peur et sans reproche_.\nOf course they must be, for if they had not been, would they not have\nbeen bound to warn all who had anything to do with them of their\ndeficiencies?  Well, he could not do this, and he would not have people's\nacquaintance under false pretences, so he gave up even hankering after\nrehabilitation and fell back upon his old tastes for music and\nliterature.\n\nOf course he has long since found out how silly all this was, how silly I\nmean in theory, for in practice it worked better than it ought to have\ndone, by keeping him free from _liaisons_ which would have tied his\ntongue and made him see success elsewhere than where he came in time to\nsee it.  He did what he did instinctively and for no other reason than\nbecause it was most natural to him.  So far as he thought at all, he\nthought wrong, but what he did was right.  I said something of this kind\nto him once not so very long ago, and told him he had always aimed high.\n\"I never aimed at all,\" he replied a little indignantly, \"and you may be\nsure I should have aimed low enough if I had thought I had got the\nchance.\"\n\nI suppose after all that no one whose mind was not, to put it mildly,\nabnormal, ever yet aimed very high out of pure malice aforethought.  I\nonce saw a fly alight on a cup of hot coffee on which the milk had formed\na thin skin; he perceived his extreme danger, and I noted with what ample\nstrides and almost supermuscan effort he struck across the treacherous\nsurface and made for the edge of the cup--for the ground was not solid\nenough to let him raise himself from it by his wings.  As I watched him I\nfancied that so supreme a moment of difficulty and danger might leave him\nwith an increase of moral and physical power which might even descend in\nsome measure to his offspring.  But surely he would not have got the\nincreased moral power if he could have helped it, and he will not\nknowingly alight upon another cup of hot coffee.  The more I see the more\nsure I am that it does not matter why people do the right thing so long\nonly as they do it, nor why they may have done the wrong if they have\ndone it.  The result depends upon the thing done and the motive goes for\nnothing.  I have read somewhere, but cannot remember where, that in some\ncountry district there was once a great scarcity of food, during which\nthe poor suffered acutely; many indeed actually died of starvation, and\nall were hard put to it.  In one village, however, there was a poor widow\nwith a family of young children, who, though she had small visible means\nof subsistence, still looked well-fed and comfortable, as also did all\nher little ones.  \"How,\" everyone asked, \"did they manage to live?\"  It\nwas plain they had a secret, and it was equally plain that it could be no\ngood one; for there came a hurried, hunted look over the poor woman's\nface if anyone alluded to the way in which she and hers throve when\nothers starved; the family, moreover, were sometimes seen out at unusual\nhours of the night, and evidently brought things home, which could hardly\nhave been honestly come by.  They knew they were under suspicion, and,\nbeing hitherto of excellent name, it made them very unhappy, for it must\nbe confessed that they believed what they did to be uncanny if not\nabsolutely wicked; nevertheless, in spite of this they throve, and kept\ntheir strength when all their neighbours were pinched.\n\nAt length matters came to a head and the clergyman of the parish cross-\nquestioned the poor woman so closely that with many tears and a bitter\nsense of degradation she confessed the truth; she and her children went\ninto the hedges and gathered snails, which they made into broth and\nate--could she ever be forgiven?  Was there any hope of salvation for her\neither in this world or the next after such unnatural conduct?\n\nSo again I have heard of an old dowager countess whose money was all in\nConsols; she had had many sons, and in her anxiety to give the younger\nones a good start, wanted a larger income than Consols would give her.\nShe consulted her solicitor and was advised to sell her Consols and\ninvest in the London and North-Western Railway, then at about 85.  This\nwas to her what eating snails was to the poor widow whose story I have\ntold above.  With shame and grief, as of one doing an unclean thing--but\nher boys must have their start--she did as she was advised.  Then for a\nlong while she could not sleep at night and was haunted by a presage of\ndisaster.  Yet what happened?  She started her boys, and in a few years\nfound her capital doubled into the bargain, on which she sold out and\nwent back again to Consols and died in the full blessedness of\nfund-holding.\n\nShe thought, indeed, that she was doing a wrong and dangerous thing, but\nthis had absolutely nothing to do with it.  Suppose she had invested in\nthe full confidence of a recommendation by some eminent London banker\nwhose advice was bad, and so had lost all her money, and suppose she had\ndone this with a light heart and with no conviction of sin--would her\ninnocence of evil purpose and the excellence of her motive have stood her\nin any stead?  Not they.\n\nBut to return to my story.  Towneley gave my hero most trouble.  Towneley,\nas I have said, knew that Ernest would have money soon, but Ernest did\nnot of course know that he knew it.  Towneley was rich himself, and was\nmarried now; Ernest would be rich soon, had _bona fide_ intended to be\nmarried already, and would doubtless marry a lawful wife later on.  Such\na man was worth taking pains with, and when Towneley one day met Ernest\nin the street, and Ernest tried to avoid him, Towneley would not have it,\nbut with his usual quick good nature read his thoughts, caught him,\nmorally speaking, by the scruff of his neck, and turned him laughingly\ninside out, telling him he would have no such nonsense.\n\nTowneley was just as much Ernest's idol now as he had ever been, and\nErnest, who was very easily touched, felt more gratefully and warmly than\never towards him, but there was an unconscious something which was\nstronger than Towneley, and made my hero determine to break with him more\ndeterminedly perhaps than with any other living person; he thanked him in\na low hurried voice and pressed his hand, while tears came into his eyes\nin spite of all his efforts to repress them.  \"If we meet again,\" he\nsaid, \"do not look at me, but if hereafter you hear of me writing things\nyou do not like, think of me as charitably as you can,\" and so they\nparted.\n\n\"Towneley is a good fellow,\" said I, gravely, \"and you should not have\ncut him.\"\n\n\"Towneley,\" he answered, \"is not only a good fellow, but he is without\nexception the very best man I ever saw in my life--except,\" he paid me\nthe compliment of saying, \"yourself; Towneley is my notion of everything\nwhich I should most like to be--but there is no real solidarity between\nus.  I should be in perpetual fear of losing his good opinion if I said\nthings he did not like, and I mean to say a great many things,\" he\ncontinued more merrily, \"which Towneley will not like.\"\n\nA man, as I have said already, can give up father and mother for Christ's\nsake tolerably easily for the most part, but it is not so easy to give up\npeople like Towneley.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXI\n\n\nSo he fell away from all old friends except myself and three or four old\nintimates of my own, who were as sure to take to him as he to them, and\nwho like myself enjoyed getting hold of a young fresh mind.  Ernest\nattended to the keeping of my account books whenever there was anything\nwhich could possibly be attended to, which there seldom was, and spent\nthe greater part of the rest of his time in adding to the many notes and\ntentative essays which had already accumulated in his portfolios.  Anyone\nwho was used to writing could see at a glance that literature was his\nnatural development, and I was pleased at seeing him settle down to it so\nspontaneously.  I was less pleased, however, to observe that he would\nstill occupy himself with none but the most serious, I had almost said\nsolemn, subjects, just as he never cared about any but the most serious\nkind of music.\n\nI said to him one day that the very slender reward which God had attached\nto the pursuit of serious inquiry was a sufficient proof that He\ndisapproved of it, or at any rate that He did not set much store by it\nnor wish to encourage it.\n\nHe said: \"Oh, don't talk about rewards.  Look at Milton, who only got 5\npounds for 'Paradise Lost.'\"\n\n\"And a great deal too much,\" I rejoined promptly.  \"I would have given\nhim twice as much myself not to have written it at all.\"\n\nErnest was a little shocked.  \"At any rate,\" he said laughingly, \"I don't\nwrite poetry.\"\n\nThis was a cut at me, for my burlesques were, of course, written in\nrhyme.  So I dropped the matter.\n\nAfter a time he took it into his head to reopen the question of his\ngetting 300 pounds a year for doing, as he said, absolutely nothing, and\nsaid he would try to find some employment which should bring him in\nenough to live upon.\n\nI laughed at this but let him alone.  He tried and tried very hard for a\nlong while, but I need hardly say was unsuccessful.  The older I grow,\nthe more convinced I become of the folly and credulity of the public; but\nat the same time the harder do I see it is to impose oneself upon that\nfolly and credulity.\n\nHe tried editor after editor with article after article.  Sometimes an\neditor listened to him and told him to leave his articles; he almost\ninvariably, however, had them returned to him in the end with a polite\nnote saying that they were not suited for the particular paper to which\nhe had sent them.  And yet many of these very articles appeared in his\nlater works, and no one complained of them, not at least on the score of\nbad literary workmanship.  \"I see,\" he said to me one day, \"that demand\nis very imperious, and supply must be very suppliant.\"\n\nOnce, indeed, the editor of an important monthly magazine accepted an\narticle from him, and he thought he had now got a footing in the literary\nworld.  The article was to appear in the next issue but one, and he was\nto receive proof from the printers in about ten days or a fortnight; but\nweek after week passed and there was no proof; month after month went by\nand there was still no room for Ernest's article; at length after about\nsix months the editor one morning told him that he had filled every\nnumber of his review for the next ten months, but that his article should\ndefinitely appear.  On this he insisted on having his MS. returned to\nhim.\n\nSometimes his articles were actually published, and he found the editor\nhad edited them according to his own fancy, putting in jokes which he\nthought were funny, or cutting out the very passage which Ernest had\nconsidered the point of the whole thing, and then, though the articles\nappeared, when it came to paying for them it was another matter, and he\nnever saw his money.  \"Editors,\" he said to me one day about this time,\n\"are like the people who bought and sold in the book of Revelation; there\nis not one but has the mark of the beast upon him.\"\n\nAt last after months of disappointment and many a tedious hour wasted in\ndingy anterooms (and of all anterooms those of editors appear to me to be\nthe dreariest), he got a _bona fide_ offer of employment from one of the\nfirst class weekly papers through an introduction I was able to get for\nhim from one who had powerful influence with the paper in question.  The\neditor sent him a dozen long books upon varied and difficult subjects,\nand told him to review them in a single article within a week.  In one\nbook there was an editorial note to the effect that the writer was to be\ncondemned.  Ernest particularly admired the book he was desired to\ncondemn, and feeling how hopeless it was for him to do anything like\njustice to the books submitted to him, returned them to the editor.\n\nAt last one paper did actually take a dozen or so of articles from him,\nand gave him cash down a couple of guineas apiece for them, but having\ndone this it expired within a fortnight after the last of Ernest's\narticles had appeared.  It certainly looked very much as if the other\neditors knew their business in declining to have anything to do with my\nunlucky godson.\n\nI was not sorry that he failed with periodical literature, for writing\nfor reviews or newspapers is bad training for one who may aspire to write\nworks of more permanent interest.  A young writer should have more time\nfor reflection than he can get as a contributor to the daily or even\nweekly press.  Ernest himself, however, was chagrined at finding how\nunmarketable he was.  \"Why,\" he said to me, \"If I was a well-bred horse,\nor sheep, or a pure-bred pigeon or lop-eared rabbit I should be more\nsaleable.  If I was even a cathedral in a colonial town people would give\nme something, but as it is they do not want me\"; and now that he was well\nand rested he wanted to set up a shop again, but this, of course, I would\nnot hear of.\n\n\"What care I,\" said he to me one day, \"about being what they call a\ngentleman?\"  And his manner was almost fierce.\n\n\"What has being a gentleman ever done for me except make me less able to\nprey and more easy to be preyed upon?  It has changed the manner of my\nbeing swindled, that is all.  But for your kindness to me I should be\npenniless.  Thank heaven I have placed my children where I have.\"\n\nI begged him to keep quiet a little longer and not talk about taking a\nshop.\n\n\"Will being a gentleman,\" he said, \"bring me money at the last, and will\nanything bring me as much peace at the last as money will?  They say that\nthose who have riches enter hardly into the kingdom of Heaven.  By Jove,\nthey do; they are like Struldbrugs; they live and live and live and are\nhappy for many a long year after they would have entered into the kingdom\nof Heaven if they had been poor.  I want to live long and to raise my\nchildren, if I see they would be happier for the raising; that is what I\nwant, and it is not what I am doing now that will help me.  Being a\ngentleman is a luxury which I cannot afford, therefore I do not want it.\nLet me go back to my shop again, and do things for people which they want\ndone and will pay me for doing for them.  They know what they want and\nwhat is good for them better than I can tell them.\"\n\nIt was hard to deny the soundness of this, and if he had been dependent\nonly on the 300 pounds a year which he was getting from me I should have\nadvised him to open his shop again next morning.  As it was, I temporised\nand raised obstacles, and quieted him from time to time as best I could.\n\nOf course he read Mr Darwin's books as fast as they came out and adopted\nevolution as an article of faith.  \"It seems to me,\" he said once, \"that\nI am like one of those caterpillars which, if they have been interrupted\nin making their hammock, must begin again from the beginning.  So long as\nI went back a long way down in the social scale I got on all right, and\nshould have made money but for Ellen; when I try to take up the work at a\nhigher stage I fail completely.\"  I do not know whether the analogy holds\ngood or not, but I am sure Ernest's instinct was right in telling him\nthat after a heavy fall he had better begin life again at a very low\nstage, and as I have just said, I would have let him go back to his shop\nif I had not known what I did.\n\nAs the time fixed upon by his aunt drew nearer I prepared him more and\nmore for what was coming, and at last, on his twenty-eighth birthday, I\nwas able to tell him all and to show him the letter signed by his aunt\nupon her death-bed to the effect that I was to hold the money in trust\nfor him.  His birthday happened that year (1863) to be on a Sunday, but\non the following day I transferred his shares into his own name, and\npresented him with the account books which he had been keeping for the\nlast year and a half.\n\nIn spite of all that I had done to prepare him, it was a long while\nbefore I could get him actually to believe that the money was his own.  He\ndid not say much--no more did I, for I am not sure that I did not feel as\nmuch moved at having brought my long trusteeship to a satisfactory\nconclusion as Ernest did at finding himself owner of more than 70,000\npounds.  When he did speak it was to jerk out a sentence or two of\nreflection at a time.  \"If I were rendering this moment in music,\" he\nsaid, \"I should allow myself free use of the augmented sixth.\"  A little\nlater I remember his saying with a laugh that had something of a family\nlikeness to his aunt's: \"It is not the pleasure it causes me which I\nenjoy so, it is the pain it will cause to all my friends except yourself\nand Towneley.\"\n\nI said: \"You cannot tell your father and mother--it would drive them\nmad.\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" said he, \"it would be too cruel; it would be like Isaac\noffering up Abraham and no thicket with a ram in it near at hand.  Besides\nwhy should I?  We have cut each other these four years.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXII\n\n\nIt almost seemed as though our casual mention of Theobald and Christina\nhad in some way excited them from a dormant to an active state.  During\nthe years that had elapsed since they last appeared upon the scene they\nhad remained at Battersby, and had concentrated their affection upon\ntheir other children.\n\nIt had been a bitter pill to Theobald to lose his power of plaguing his\nfirst-born; if the truth were known I believe he had felt this more\nacutely than any disgrace which might have been shed upon him by Ernest's\nimprisonment.  He had made one or two attempts to reopen negotiations\nthrough me, but I never said anything about them to Ernest, for I knew it\nwould upset him.  I wrote, however, to Theobald that I had found his son\ninexorable, and recommended him for the present, at any rate, to desist\nfrom returning to the subject.  This I thought would be at once what\nErnest would like best and Theobald least.\n\nA few days, however, after Ernest had come into his property, I received\na letter from Theobald enclosing one for Ernest which I could not\nwithhold.\n\nThe letter ran thus:--\n\n   \"To my son Ernest,--Although you have more than once rejected my\n   overtures I appeal yet again to your better nature.  Your mother, who\n   has long been ailing, is, I believe, near her end; she is unable to\n   keep anything on her stomach, and Dr Martin holds out but little hopes\n   of her recovery.  She has expressed a wish to see you, and says she\n   knows you will not refuse to come to her, which, considering her\n   condition, I am unwilling to suppose you will.\n\n   \"I remit you a Post Office order for your fare, and will pay your\n   return journey.\n\n   \"If you want clothes to come in, order what you consider suitable, and\n   desire that the bill be sent to me; I will pay it immediately, to an\n   amount not exceeding eight or nine pounds, and if you will let me know\n   what train you will come by, I will send the carriage to meet you.\n   Believe me, Your affectionate father, T. PONTIFEX.\"\n\nOf course there could be no hesitation on Ernest's part.  He could afford\nto smile now at his father's offering to pay for his clothes, and his\nsending him a Post Office order for the exact price of a second-class\nticket, and he was of course shocked at learning the state his mother was\nsaid to be in, and touched at her desire to see him.  He telegraphed that\nhe would come down at once.  I saw him a little before he started, and\nwas pleased to see how well his tailor had done by him.  Towneley himself\ncould not have been appointed more becomingly.  His portmanteau, his\nrailway wrapper, everything he had about him, was in keeping.  I thought\nhe had grown much better-looking than he had been at two or three and\ntwenty.  His year and a half of peace had effaced all the ill effects of\nhis previous suffering, and now that he had become actually rich there\nwas an air of _insouciance_ and good humour upon his face, as of a man\nwith whom everything was going perfectly right, which would have made a\nmuch plainer man good-looking.  I was proud of him and delighted with\nhim.  \"I am sure,\" I said to myself, \"that whatever else he may do, he\nwill never marry again.\"\n\nThe journey was a painful one.  As he drew near to the station and caught\nsight of each familiar feature, so strong was the force of association\nthat he felt as though his coming into his aunt's money had been a dream,\nand he were again returning to his father's house as he had returned to\nit from Cambridge for the vacations.  Do what he would, the old dull\nweight of _home-sickness_ began to oppress him, his heart beat fast as he\nthought of his approaching meeting with his father and mother, \"and I\nshall have,\" he said to himself, \"to kiss Charlotte.\"\n\nWould his father meet him at the station?  Would he greet him as though\nnothing had happened, or would he be cold and distant?  How, again, would\nhe take the news of his son's good fortune?  As the train drew up to the\nplatform, Ernest's eye ran hurriedly over the few people who were in the\nstation.  His father's well-known form was not among them, but on the\nother side of the palings which divided the station yard from the\nplatform, he saw the pony carriage, looking, as he thought, rather\nshabby, and recognised his father's coachman.  In a few minutes more he\nwas in the carriage driving towards Battersby.  He could not help smiling\nas he saw the coachman give a look of surprise at finding him so much\nchanged in personal appearance.  The coachman was the more surprised\nbecause when Ernest had last been at home he had been dressed as a\nclergyman, and now he was not only a layman, but a layman who was got up\nregardless of expense.  The change was so great that it was not till\nErnest actually spoke to him that the coachman knew him.\n\n\"How are my father and mother?\" he asked hurriedly, as he got into the\ncarriage.  \"The Master's well, sir,\" was the answer, \"but the Missis is\nvery sadly.\"  The horse knew that he was going home and pulled hard at\nthe reins.  The weather was cold and raw--the very ideal of a November\nday; in one part of the road the floods were out, and near here they had\nto pass through a number of horsemen and dogs, for the hounds had met\nthat morning at a place near Battersby.  Ernest saw several people whom\nhe knew, but they either, as is most likely, did not recognise him, or\ndid not know of his good luck.  When Battersby church tower drew near,\nand he saw the Rectory on the top of the hill, its chimneys just showing\nabove the leafless trees with which it was surrounded, he threw himself\nback in the carriage and covered his face with his hands.\n\nIt came to an end, as even the worst quarters of an hour do, and in a few\nminutes more he was on the steps in front of his father's house.  His\nfather, hearing the carriage arrive, came a little way down the steps to\nmeet him.  Like the coachman he saw at a glance that Ernest was appointed\nas though money were abundant with him, and that he was looking robust\nand full of health and vigour.\n\nThis was not what he had bargained for.  He wanted Ernest to return, but\nhe was to return as any respectable, well-regulated prodigal ought to\nreturn--abject, broken-hearted, asking forgiveness from the tenderest and\nmost long-suffering father in the whole world.  If he should have shoes\nand stockings and whole clothes at all, it should be only because\nabsolute rags and tatters had been graciously dispensed with, whereas\nhere he was swaggering in a grey ulster and a blue and white necktie, and\nlooking better than Theobald had ever seen him in his life.  It was\nunprincipled.  Was it for this that he had been generous enough to offer\nto provide Ernest with decent clothes in which to come and visit his\nmother's death-bed?  Could any advantage be meaner than the one which\nErnest had taken?  Well, he would not go a penny beyond the eight or nine\npounds which he had promised.  It was fortunate he had given a limit.  Why\nhe, Theobald, had never been able to afford such a portmanteau in his\nlife.  He was still using an old one which his father had turned over to\nhim when he went up to Cambridge.  Besides, he had said clothes, not a\nportmanteau.\n\nErnest saw what was passing through his father's mind, and felt that he\nought to have prepared him in some way for what he now saw; but he had\nsent his telegram so immediately on receiving his father's letter, and\nhad followed it so promptly that it would not have been easy to do so\neven if he had thought of it.  He put out his hand and said laughingly,\n\"Oh, it's all paid for--I am afraid you do not know that Mr Overton has\nhanded over to me Aunt Alethea's money.\"\n\nTheobald flushed scarlet.  \"But why,\" he said, and these were the first\nwords that actually crossed his lips--\"if the money was not his to keep,\ndid he not hand it over to my brother John and me?\"  He stammered a good\ndeal and looked sheepish, but he got the words out.\n\n\"Because, my dear father,\" said Ernest still laughing, \"my aunt left it\nto him in trust for me, not in trust either for you or for my Uncle\nJohn--and it has accumulated till it is now over 70,000 pounds.  But tell\nme how is my mother?\"\n\n\"No, Ernest,\" said Theobald excitedly, \"the matter cannot rest here, I\nmust know that this is all open and above board.\"\n\nThis had the true Theobald ring and instantly brought the whole train of\nideas which in Ernest's mind were connected with his father.  The\nsurroundings were the old familiar ones, but the surrounded were changed\nalmost beyond power of recognition.  He turned sharply on Theobald in a\nmoment.  I will not repeat the words he used, for they came out before he\nhad time to consider them, and they might strike some of my readers as\ndisrespectful; there were not many of them, but they were effectual.\nTheobald said nothing, but turned almost of an ashen colour; he never\nagain spoke to his son in such a way as to make it necessary for him to\nrepeat what he had said on this occasion.  Ernest quickly recovered his\ntemper and again asked after his mother.  Theobald was glad enough to\ntake this opening now, and replied at once in the tone he would have\nassumed towards one he most particularly desired to conciliate, that she\nwas getting rapidly worse in spite of all he had been able to do for her,\nand concluded by saying she had been the comfort and mainstay of his life\nfor more than thirty years, but that he could not wish it prolonged.\n\nThe pair then went upstairs to Christina's room, the one in which Ernest\nhad been born.  His father went before him and prepared her for her son's\napproach.  The poor woman raised herself in bed as he came towards her,\nand weeping as she flung her arms around him, cried: \"Oh, I knew he would\ncome, I knew, I knew he could come.\"\n\nErnest broke down and wept as he had not done for years.\n\n\"Oh, my boy, my boy,\" she said as soon as she could recover her voice.\n\"Have you never really been near us for all these years?  Ah, you do not\nknow how we have loved you and mourned over you, papa just as much as I\nhave.  You know he shows his feelings less, but I can never tell you how\nvery, very deeply he has felt for you.  Sometimes at night I have thought\nI have heard footsteps in the garden, and have got quietly out of bed\nlest I should wake him, and gone to the window to look out, but there has\nbeen only dark or the greyness of the morning, and I have gone crying\nback to bed again.  Still I think you have been near us though you were\ntoo proud to let us know--and now at last I have you in my arms once\nmore, my dearest, dearest boy.\"\n\nHow cruel, how infamously unfeeling Ernest thought he had been.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, \"forgive me--the fault was mine, I ought not to have\nbeen so hard; I was wrong, very wrong\"; the poor blubbering fellow meant\nwhat he said, and his heart yearned to his mother as he had never thought\nthat it could yearn again.  \"But have you never,\" she continued, \"come\nalthough it was in the dark and we did not know it--oh, let me think that\nyou have not been so cruel as we have thought you.  Tell me that you came\nif only to comfort me and make me happier.\"\n\nErnest was ready.  \"I had no money to come with, mother, till just\nlately.\"\n\nThis was an excuse Christina could understand and make allowance for;\n\"Oh, then you would have come, and I will take the will for the deed--and\nnow that I have you safe again, say that you will never, never leave\nme--not till--not till--oh, my boy, have they told you I am dying?\"  She\nwept bitterly, and buried her head in her pillow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIII\n\n\nJoey and Charlotte were in the room.  Joey was now ordained, and was\ncurate to Theobald.  He and Ernest had never been sympathetic, and Ernest\nsaw at a glance that there was no chance of a _rapprochement_ between\nthem.  He was a little startled at seeing Joey dressed as a clergyman,\nand looking so like what he had looked himself a few years earlier, for\nthere was a good deal of family likeness between the pair; but Joey's\nface was cold and was illumined with no spark of Bohemianism; he was a\nclergyman and was going to do as other clergymen did, neither better nor\nworse.  He greeted Ernest rather _de haut en bas_, that is to say he\nbegan by trying to do so, but the affair tailed off unsatisfactorily.\n\nHis sister presented her cheek to him to be kissed.  How he hated it; he\nhad been dreading it for the last three hours.  She, too, was distant and\nreproachful in her manner, as such a superior person was sure to be.  She\nhad a grievance against him inasmuch as she was still unmarried.  She\nlaid the blame of this at Ernest's door; it was his misconduct she\nmaintained in secret, which had prevented young men from making offers to\nher, and she ran him up a heavy bill for consequential damages.  She and\nJoey had from the first developed an instinct for hunting with the\nhounds, and now these two had fairly identified themselves with the older\ngeneration--that is to say as against Ernest.  On this head there was an\noffensive and defensive alliance between them, but between themselves\nthere was subdued but internecine warfare.\n\nThis at least was what Ernest gathered, partly from his recollections of\nthe parties concerned, and partly from his observation of their little\nways during the first half-hour after his arrival, while they were all\ntogether in his mother's bedroom--for as yet of course they did not know\nthat he had money.  He could see that they eyed him from time to time\nwith a surprise not unmixed with indignation, and knew very well what\nthey were thinking.\n\nChristina saw the change which had come over him--how much firmer and\nmore vigorous both in mind and body he seemed than when she had last seen\nhim.  She saw too how well he was dressed, and, like the others, in spite\nof the return of all her affection for her first-born, was a little\nalarmed about Theobald's pocket, which she supposed would have to be\nmulcted for all this magnificence.  Perceiving this, Ernest relieved her\nmind and told her all about his aunt's bequest, and how I had husbanded\nit, in the presence of his brother and sister--who, however, pretended\nnot to notice, or at any rate to notice as a matter in which they could\nhardly be expected to take an interest.\n\nHis mother kicked a little at first against the money's having gone to\nhim as she said \"over his papa's head.\"  \"Why, my dear,\" she said in a\ndeprecating tone, \"this is more than ever your papa has had\"; but Ernest\ncalmed her by suggesting that if Miss Pontifex had known how large the\nsum would become she would have left the greater part of it to Theobald.\nThis compromise was accepted by Christina who forthwith, ill as she was,\nentered with ardour into the new position, and taking it as a fresh point\nof departure, began spending Ernest's money for him.\n\nI may say in passing that Christina was right in saying that Theobald had\nnever had so much money as his son was now possessed of.  In the first\nplace he had not had a fourteen years' minority with no outgoings to\nprevent the accumulation of the money, and in the second he, like myself\nand almost everyone else, had suffered somewhat in the 1846 times--not\nenough to cripple him or even seriously to hurt him, but enough to give\nhim a scare and make him stick to debentures for the rest of his life.  It\nwas the fact of his son's being the richer man of the two, and of his\nbeing rich so young, which rankled with Theobald even more than the fact\nof his having money at all.  If he had had to wait till he was sixty or\nsixty-five, and become broken down from long failure in the meantime, why\nthen perhaps he might have been allowed to have whatever sum should\nsuffice to keep him out of the workhouse and pay his death-bed expenses;\nbut that he should come in to 70,000 pounds at eight and twenty, and have\nno wife and only two children--it was intolerable.  Christina was too ill\nand in too great a hurry to spend the money to care much about such\ndetails as the foregoing, and she was naturally much more good-natured\nthan Theobald.\n\n\"This piece of good fortune\"--she saw it at a glance--\"quite wiped out\nthe disgrace of his having been imprisoned.  There should be no more\nnonsense about that.  The whole thing was a mistake, an unfortunate\nmistake, true, but the less said about it now the better.  Of course\nErnest would come back and live at Battersby until he was married, and he\nwould pay his father handsomely for board and lodging.  In fact it would\nbe only right that Theobald should make a profit, nor would Ernest\nhimself wish it to be other than a handsome one; this was far the best\nand simplest arrangement; and he could take his sister out more than\nTheobald or Joey cared to do, and would also doubtless entertain very\nhandsomely at Battersby.\n\n\"Of course he would buy Joey a living, and make large presents yearly to\nhis sister--was there anything else?  Oh! yes--he would become a county\nmagnate now; a man with nearly 4000 pounds a year should certainly become\na county magnate.  He might even go into Parliament.  He had very fair\nabilities, nothing indeed approaching such genius as Dr Skinner's, nor\neven as Theobald's, still he was not deficient and if he got into\nParliament--so young too--there was nothing to hinder his being Prime\nMinister before he died, and if so, of course, he would become a peer.\nOh! why did he not set about it all at once, so that she might live to\nhear people call her son 'my lord'--Lord Battersby she thought would do\nvery nicely, and if she was well enough to sit he must certainly have her\nportrait painted at full length for one end of his large dining-hall.  It\nshould be exhibited at the Royal Academy: 'Portrait of Lord Battersby's\nmother,' she said to herself, and her heart fluttered with all its wonted\nvivacity.  If she could not sit, happily, she had been photographed not\nso very long ago, and the portrait had been as successful as any\nphotograph could be of a face which depended so entirely upon its\nexpression as her own.  Perhaps the painter could take the portrait\nsufficiently from this.  It was better after all that Ernest had given up\nthe Church--how far more wisely God arranges matters for us than ever we\ncan do for ourselves!  She saw it all now--it was Joey who would become\nArchbishop of Canterbury and Ernest would remain a layman and become\nPrime Minister\" . . . and so on till her daughter told her it was time to\ntake her medicine.\n\nI suppose this reverie, which is a mere fragment of what actually ran\nthrough Christina's brain, occupied about a minute and a half, but it, or\nthe presence of her son, seemed to revive her spirits wonderfully.  Ill,\ndying indeed, and suffering as she was, she brightened up so as to laugh\nonce or twice quite merrily during the course of the afternoon.  Next day\nDr Martin said she was so much better that he almost began to have hopes\nof her recovery again.  Theobald, whenever this was touched upon as\npossible, would shake his head and say: \"We can't wish it prolonged,\" and\nthen Charlotte caught Ernest unawares and said: \"You know, dear Ernest,\nthat these ups and downs of talk are terribly agitating to papa; he could\nstand whatever comes, but it is quite too wearing to him to think half-a-\ndozen different things backwards and forwards, up and down in the same\ntwenty-four hours, and it would be kinder of you not to do it--I mean not\nto say anything to him even though Dr Martin does hold out hopes.\"\n\nCharlotte had meant to imply that it was Ernest who was at the bottom of\nall the inconvenience felt by Theobald, herself, Joey and everyone else,\nand she had actually got words out which should convey this; true, she\nhad not dared to stick to them and had turned them off, but she had made\nthem hers at any rate for one brief moment, and this was better than\nnothing.  Ernest noticed throughout his mother's illness, that Charlotte\nfound immediate occasion to make herself disagreeable to him whenever\neither doctor or nurse pronounced her mother to be a little better.  When\nshe wrote to Crampsford to desire the prayers of the congregation (she\nwas sure her mother would wish it, and that the Crampsford people would\nbe pleased at her remembrance of them), she was sending another letter on\nsome quite different subject at the same time, and put the two letters\ninto the wrong envelopes.  Ernest was asked to take these letters to the\nvillage post-office, and imprudently did so; when the error came to be\ndiscovered Christina happened to have rallied a little.  Charlotte flew\nat Ernest immediately, and laid all the blame of the blunder upon his\nshoulders.\n\nExcept that Joey and Charlotte were more fully developed, the house and\nits inmates, organic and inorganic, were little changed since Ernest had\nlast seen them.  The furniture and the ornaments on the chimney-piece\nwere just as they had been ever since he could remember anything at all.\nIn the drawing-room, on either side of the fireplace there hung the Carlo\nDolci and the Sassoferrato as in old times; there was the water colour of\na scene on the Lago Maggiore, copied by Charlotte from an original lent\nher by her drawing master, and finished under his direction.  This was\nthe picture of which one of the servants had said that it must be good,\nfor Mr Pontifex had given ten shillings for the frame.  The paper on the\nwalls was unchanged; the roses were still waiting for the bees; and the\nwhole family still prayed night and morning to be made \"truly honest and\nconscientious.\"\n\nOne picture only was removed--a photograph of himself which had hung\nunder one of his father and between those of his brother and sister.\nErnest noticed this at prayer time, while his father was reading about\nNoah's ark and how they daubed it with slime, which, as it happened, had\nbeen Ernest's favourite text when he was a boy.  Next morning, however,\nthe photograph had found its way back again, a little dusty and with a\nbit of the gilding chipped off from one corner of the frame, but there\nsure enough it was.  I suppose they put it back when they found how rich\nhe had become.\n\nIn the dining-room the ravens were still trying to feed Elijah over the\nfireplace; what a crowd of reminiscences did not this picture bring back!\nLooking out of the window, there were the flower beds in the front garden\nexactly as they had been, and Ernest found himself looking hard against\nthe blue door at the bottom of the garden to see if there was rain\nfalling, as he had been used to look when he was a child doing lessons\nwith his father.\n\nAfter their early dinner, when Joey and Ernest and their father were left\nalone, Theobald rose and stood in the middle of the hearthrug under the\nElijah picture, and began to whistle in his old absent way.  He had two\ntunes only, one was \"In my Cottage near a Wood,\" and the other was the\nEaster Hymn; he had been trying to whistle them all his life, but had\nnever succeeded; he whistled them as a clever bullfinch might whistle\nthem--he had got them, but he had not got them right; he would be a\nsemitone out in every third note as though reverting to some remote\nmusical progenitor, who had known none but the Lydian or the Phrygian\nmode, or whatever would enable him to go most wrong while still keeping\nthe tune near enough to be recognised.  Theobald stood before the middle\nof the fire and whistled his two tunes softly in his own old way till\nErnest left the room; the unchangedness of the external and changedness\nof the internal he felt were likely to throw him completely off his\nbalance.\n\nHe strolled out of doors into the sodden spinney behind the house, and\nsolaced himself with a pipe.  Ere long he found himself at the door of\nthe cottage of his father's coachman, who had married an old lady's maid\nof his mother's, to whom Ernest had been always much attached as she also\nto him, for she had known him ever since he had been five or six years\nold.  Her name was Susan.  He sat down in the rocking-chair before her\nfire, and Susan went on ironing at the table in front of the window, and\na smell of hot flannel pervaded the kitchen.\n\nSusan had been retained too securely by Christina to be likely to side\nwith Ernest all in a moment.  He knew this very well, and did not call on\nher for the sake of support, moral or otherwise.  He had called because\nhe liked her, and also because he knew that he should gather much in a\nchat with her that he should not be able to arrive at in any other way.\n\n\"Oh, Master Ernest,\" said Susan, \"why did you not come back when your\npoor papa and mamma wanted you?  I'm sure your ma has said to me a\nhundred times over if she has said it once that all should be exactly as\nit had been before.\"\n\nErnest smiled to himself.  It was no use explaining to Susan why he\nsmiled, so he said nothing.\n\n\"For the first day or two I thought she never would get over it; she said\nit was a judgement upon her, and went on about things as she had said and\ndone many years ago, before your pa knew her, and I don't know what she\ndidn't say or wouldn't have said only I stopped her; she seemed out of\nher mind like, and said that none of the neighbours would ever speak to\nher again, but the next day Mrs Bushby (her that was Miss Cowey, you\nknow) called, and your ma always was so fond of her, and it seemed to do\nher a power o' good, for the next day she went through all her dresses,\nand we settled how she should have them altered; and then all the\nneighbours called for miles and miles round, and your ma came in here,\nand said she had been going through the waters of misery, and the Lord\nhad turned them to a well.\n\n\"'Oh yes, Susan,' said she, 'be sure it is so.  Whom the Lord loveth he\nchasteneth, Susan,' and here she began to cry again.  'As for him,' she\nwent on, 'he has made his bed, and he must lie on it; when he comes out\nof prison his pa will know what is best to be done, and Master Ernest may\nbe thankful that he has a pa so good and so long-suffering.'\n\n\"Then when you would not see them, that was a cruel blow to your ma.  Your\npa did not say anything; you know your pa never does say very much unless\nhe's downright waxy for the time; but your ma took on dreadful for a few\ndays, and I never saw the master look so black; but, bless you, it all\nwent off in a few days, and I don't know that there's been much\ndifference in either of them since then, not till your ma was took ill.\"\n\nOn the night of his arrival he had behaved well at family prayers, as\nalso on the following morning; his father read about David's dying\ninjunctions to Solomon in the matter of Shimei, but he did not mind it.\nIn the course of the day, however, his corns had been trodden on so many\ntimes that he was in a misbehaving humour, on this the second night after\nhis arrival.  He knelt next Charlotte and said the responses\nperfunctorily, not so perfunctorily that she should know for certain that\nhe was doing it maliciously, but so perfunctorily as to make her\nuncertain whether he might be malicious or not, and when he had to pray\nto be made truly honest and conscientious he emphasised the \"truly.\"  I\ndo not know whether Charlotte noticed anything, but she knelt at some\ndistance from him during the rest of his stay.  He assures me that this\nwas the only spiteful thing he did during the whole time he was at\nBattersby.\n\nWhen he went up to his bedroom, in which, to do them justice, they had\ngiven him a fire, he noticed what indeed he had noticed as soon as he was\nshown into it on his arrival, that there was an illuminated card framed\nand glazed over his bed with the words, \"Be the day weary or be the day\nlong, at last it ringeth to evensong.\"  He wondered to himself how such\npeople could leave such a card in a room in which their visitors would\nhave to spend the last hours of their evening, but he let it alone.\n\"There's not enough difference between 'weary' and 'long' to warrant an\n'or,'\" he said, \"but I suppose it is all right.\"  I believe Christina had\nbought the card at a bazaar in aid of the restoration of a neighbouring\nchurch, and having been bought it had got to be used--besides, the\nsentiment was so touching and the illumination was really lovely.  Anyhow,\nno irony could be more complete than leaving it in my hero's bedroom,\nthough assuredly no irony had been intended.\n\nOn the third day after Ernest's arrival Christina relapsed again.  For\nthe last two days she had been in no pain and had slept a good deal; her\nson's presence still seemed to cheer her, and she often said how thankful\nshe was to be surrounded on her death-bed by a family so happy, so God-\nfearing, so united, but now she began to wander, and, being more sensible\nof the approach of death, seemed also more alarmed at the thoughts of the\nDay of Judgment.\n\nShe ventured more than once or twice to return to the subject of her\nsins, and implored Theobald to make quite sure that they were forgiven\nher.  She hinted that she considered his professional reputation was at\nstake; it would never do for his own wife to fail in securing at any rate\na pass.  This was touching Theobald on a tender spot; he winced and\nrejoined with an impatient toss of the head, \"But, Christina, they _are_\nforgiven you\"; and then he entrenched himself in a firm but dignified\nmanner behind the Lord's prayer.  When he rose he left the room, but\ncalled Ernest out to say that he could not wish it prolonged.\n\nJoey was no more use in quieting his mother's anxiety than Theobald had\nbeen--indeed he was only Theobald and water; at last Ernest, who had not\nliked interfering, took the matter in hand, and, sitting beside her, let\nher pour out her grief to him without let or hindrance.\n\nShe said she knew she had not given up all for Christ's sake; it was this\nthat weighed upon her.  She had given up much, and had always tried to\ngive up more year by year, still she knew very well that she had not been\nso spiritually minded as she ought to have been.  If she had, she should\nprobably have been favoured with some direct vision or communication;\nwhereas, though God had vouchsafed such direct and visible angelic visits\nto one of her dear children, yet she had had none such herself--nor even\nhad Theobald.\n\nShe was talking rather to herself than to Ernest as she said these words,\nbut they made him open his ears.  He wanted to know whether the angel had\nappeared to Joey or to Charlotte.  He asked his mother, but she seemed\nsurprised, as though she expected him to know all about it, then, as if\nshe remembered, she checked herself and said, \"Ah! yes--you know nothing\nof all this, and perhaps it is as well.\"  Ernest could not of course\npress the subject, so he never found out which of his near relations it\nwas who had had direct communication with an immortal.  The others never\nsaid anything to him about it, though whether this was because they were\nashamed, or because they feared he would not believe the story and thus\nincrease his own damnation, he could not determine.\n\nErnest has often thought about this since.  He tried to get the facts out\nof Susan, who he was sure would know, but Charlotte had been beforehand\nwith him.  \"No, Master Ernest,\" said Susan, when he began to question\nher, \"your ma has sent a message to me by Miss Charlotte as I am not to\nsay nothing at all about it, and I never will.\"  Of course no further\nquestioning was possible.  It had more than once occurred to Ernest that\nCharlotte did not in reality believe more than he did himself, and this\nincident went far to strengthen his surmises, but he wavered when he\nremembered how she had misdirected the letter asking for the prayers of\nthe congregation.  \"I suppose,\" he said to himself gloomily, \"she does\nbelieve in it after all.\"\n\nThen Christina returned to the subject of her own want of\nspiritual-mindedness, she even harped upon the old grievance of her\nhaving eaten black puddings--true, she had given them up years ago, but\nfor how many years had she not persevered in eating them after she had\nhad misgivings about their having been forbidden!  Then there was\nsomething that weighed on her mind that had taken place before her\nmarriage, and she should like--\n\nErnest interrupted: \"My dear mother,\" he said, \"you are ill and your mind\nis unstrung; others can now judge better about you than you can; I assure\nyou that to me you seem to have been the most devotedly unselfish wife\nand mother that ever lived.  Even if you have not literally given up all\nfor Christ's sake, you have done so practically as far as it was in your\npower, and more than this is not required of anyone.  I believe you will\nnot only be a saint, but a very distinguished one.\"\n\nAt these words Christina brightened.  \"You give me hope, you give me\nhope,\" she cried, and dried her eyes.  She made him assure her over and\nover again that this was his solemn conviction; she did not care about\nbeing a distinguished saint now; she would be quite content to be among\nthe meanest who actually got into heaven, provided she could make sure of\nescaping that awful Hell.  The fear of this evidently was omnipresent\nwith her, and in spite of all Ernest could say he did not quite dispel\nit.  She was rather ungrateful, I must confess, for after more than an\nhour's consolation from Ernest she prayed for him that he might have\nevery blessing in this world, inasmuch as she always feared that he was\nthe only one of her children whom she should never meet in heaven; but\nshe was then wandering, and was hardly aware of his presence; her mind in\nfact was reverting to states in which it had been before her illness.\n\nOn Sunday Ernest went to church as a matter of course, and noted that the\never receding tide of Evangelicalism had ebbed many a stage lower, even\nduring the few years of his absence.  His father used to walk to the\nchurch through the Rectory garden, and across a small intervening field.\nHe had been used to walk in a tall hat, his Master's gown, and wearing a\npair of Geneva bands.  Ernest noticed that the bands were worn no longer,\nand lo! greater marvel still, Theobald did not preach in his Master's\ngown, but in a surplice.  The whole character of the service was changed;\nyou could not say it was high even now, for high-church Theobald could\nnever under any circumstances become, but the old easy-going\nslovenliness, if I may say so, was gone for ever.  The orchestral\naccompaniments to the hymns had disappeared while my hero was yet a boy,\nbut there had been no chanting for some years after the harmonium had\nbeen introduced.  While Ernest was at Cambridge, Charlotte and Christina\nhad prevailed on Theobald to allow the canticles to be sung; and sung\nthey were to old-fashioned double chants by Lord Mornington and Dr Dupuis\nand others.  Theobald did not like it, but he did it, or allowed it to be\ndone.\n\nThen Christina said: \"My dear, do you know, I really think\" (Christina\nalways \"really\" thought) \"that the people like the chanting very much,\nand that it will be a means of bringing many to church who have stayed\naway hitherto.  I was talking about it to Mrs Goodhew and to old Miss\nWright only yesterday, and they _quite_ agreed with me, but they all said\nthat we ought to chant the 'Glory be to the Father' at the end of each of\nthe psalms instead of saying it.\"\n\nTheobald looked black--he felt the waters of chanting rising higher and\nhigher upon him inch by inch; but he felt also, he knew not why, that he\nhad better yield than fight.  So he ordered the \"Glory be to the Father\"\nto be chanted in future, but he did not like it.\n\n\"Really, mamma dear,\" said Charlotte, when the battle was won, \"you\nshould not call it the 'Glory be to the Father' you should say 'Gloria.'\"\n\n\"Of course, my dear,\" said Christina, and she said \"Gloria\" for ever\nafter.  Then she thought what a wonderfully clever girl Charlotte was,\nand how she ought to marry no one lower than a bishop.  By-and-by when\nTheobald went away for an unusually long holiday one summer, he could\nfind no one but a rather high-church clergyman to take his duty.  This\ngentleman was a man of weight in the neighbourhood, having considerable\nprivate means, but without preferment.  In the summer he would often help\nhis brother clergymen, and it was through his being willing to take the\nduty at Battersby for a few Sundays that Theobald had been able to get\naway for so long.  On his return, however, he found that the whole psalms\nwere being chanted as well as the Glorias.  The influential clergyman,\nChristina, and Charlotte took the bull by the horns as soon as Theobald\nreturned, and laughed it all off; and the clergyman laughed and bounced,\nand Christina laughed and coaxed, and Charlotte uttered unexceptionable\nsentiments, and the thing was done now, and could not be undone, and it\nwas no use grieving over spilt milk; so henceforth the psalms were to be\nchanted, but Theobald grisled over it in his heart, and he did not like\nit.\n\nDuring this same absence what had Mrs Goodhew and old Miss Wright taken\nto doing but turning towards the east while repeating the Belief?\nTheobald disliked this even worse than chanting.  When he said something\nabout it in a timid way at dinner after service, Charlotte said, \"Really,\npapa dear, you _must_ take to calling it the 'Creed' and not the\n'Belief'\"; and Theobald winced impatiently and snorted meek defiance, but\nthe spirit of her aunts Jane and Eliza was strong in Charlotte, and the\nthing was too small to fight about, and he turned it off with a laugh.\n\"As for Charlotte,\" thought Christina, \"I believe she knows\n_everything_.\"  So Mrs Goodhew and old Miss Wright continued to turn to\nthe east during the time the Creed was said, and by-and-by others\nfollowed their example, and ere long the few who had stood out yielded\nand turned eastward too; and then Theobald made as though he had thought\nit all very right and proper from the first, but like it he did not.  By-\nand-by Charlotte tried to make him say \"Alleluia\" instead of\n\"Hallelujah,\" but this was going too far, and Theobald turned, and she\ngot frightened and ran away.\n\nAnd they changed the double chants for single ones, and altered them\npsalm by psalm, and in the middle of psalms, just where a cursory reader\nwould see no reason why they should do so, they changed from major to\nminor and from minor back to major; and then they got \"Hymns Ancient and\nModern,\" and, as I have said, they robbed him of his beloved bands, and\nthey made him preach in a surplice, and he must have celebration of the\nHoly Communion once a month instead of only five times in the year as\nheretofore, and he struggled in vain against the unseen influence which\nhe felt to be working in season and out of season against all that he had\nbeen accustomed to consider most distinctive of his party.  Where it was,\nor what it was, he knew not, nor exactly what it would do next, but he\nknew exceedingly well that go where he would it was undermining him; that\nit was too persistent for him; that Christina and Charlotte liked it a\ngreat deal better than he did, and that it could end in nothing but Rome.\nEaster decorations indeed!  Christmas decorations--in reason--were proper\nenough, but Easter decorations! well, it might last his time.\n\nThis was the course things had taken in the Church of England during the\nlast forty years.  The set has been steadily in one direction.  A few men\nwho knew what they wanted made cats' paws of the Christmas and the\nCharlottes, and the Christmas and the Charlottes made cats' paws of the\nMrs Goodhews and the old Miss Wrights, and Mrs Goodhews and old Miss\nWrights told the Mr Goodhews and young Miss Wrights what they should do,\nand when the Mr Goodhews and the young Miss Wrights did it the little\nGoodhews and the rest of the spiritual flock did as they did, and the\nTheobalds went for nothing; step by step, day by day, year by year,\nparish by parish, diocese by diocese this was how it was done.  And yet\nthe Church of England looks with no friendly eyes upon the theory of\nEvolution or Descent with Modification.\n\nMy hero thought over these things, and remembered many a _ruse_ on the\npart of Christina and Charlotte, and many a detail of the struggle which\nI cannot further interrupt my story to refer to, and he remembered his\nfather's favourite retort that it could only end in Rome.  When he was a\nboy he had firmly believed this, but he smiled now as he thought of\nanother alternative clear enough to himself, but so horrible that it had\nnot even occurred to Theobald--I mean the toppling over of the whole\nsystem.  At that time he welcomed the hope that the absurdities and\nunrealities of the Church would end in her downfall.  Since then he has\ncome to think very differently, not as believing in the cow jumping over\nthe moon more than he used to, or more, probably, than nine-tenths of the\nclergy themselves--who know as well as he does that their outward and\nvisible symbols are out of date--but because he knows the baffling\ncomplexity of the problem when it comes to deciding what is actually to\nbe done.  Also, now that he has seen them more closely, he knows better\nthe nature of those wolves in sheep's clothing, who are thirsting for the\nblood of their victim, and exulting so clamorously over its anticipated\nearly fall into their clutches.  The spirit behind the Church is true,\nthough her letter--true once--is now true no longer.  The spirit behind\nthe High Priests of Science is as lying as its letter.  The Theobalds,\nwho do what they do because it seems to be the correct thing, but who in\ntheir hearts neither like it nor believe in it, are in reality the least\ndangerous of all classes to the peace and liberties of mankind.  The man\nto fear is he who goes at things with the cocksureness of pushing\nvulgarity and self-conceit.  These are not vices which can be justly laid\nto the charge of the English clergy.\n\nMany of the farmers came up to Ernest when service was over, and shook\nhands with him.  He found every one knew of his having come into a\nfortune.  The fact was that Theobald had immediately told two or three of\nthe greatest gossips in the village, and the story was not long in\nspreading.  \"It simplified matters,\" he had said to himself, \"a good\ndeal.\"  Ernest was civil to Mrs Goodhew for her husband's sake, but he\ngave Miss Wright the cut direct, for he knew that she was only Charlotte\nin disguise.\n\nA week passed slowly away.  Two or three times the family took the\nsacrament together round Christina's death-bed.  Theobald's impatience\nbecame more and more transparent daily, but fortunately Christina (who\neven if she had been well would have been ready to shut her eyes to it)\nbecame weaker and less coherent in mind also, so that she hardly, if at\nall, perceived it.  After Ernest had been in the house about a week his\nmother fell into a comatose state which lasted a couple of days, and in\nthe end went away so peacefully that it was like the blending of sea and\nsky in mid-ocean upon a soft hazy day when none can say where the earth\nends and the heavens begin.  Indeed she died to the realities of life\nwith less pain than she had waked from many of its illusions.\n\n\"She has been the comfort and mainstay of my life for more than thirty\nyears,\" said Theobald as soon as all was over, \"but one could not wish it\nprolonged,\" and he buried his face in his handkerchief to conceal his\nwant of emotion.\n\nErnest came back to town the day after his mother's death, and returned\nto the funeral accompanied by myself.  He wanted me to see his father in\norder to prevent any possible misapprehension about Miss Pontifex's\nintentions, and I was such an old friend of the family that my presence\nat Christina's funeral would surprise no one.  With all her faults I had\nalways rather liked Christina.  She would have chopped Ernest or any one\nelse into little pieces of mincemeat to gratify the slightest wish of her\nhusband, but she would not have chopped him up for any one else, and so\nlong as he did not cross her she was very fond of him.  By nature she was\nof an even temper, more willing to be pleased than ruffled, very ready to\ndo a good-natured action, provided it did not cost her much exertion, nor\ninvolve expense to Theobald.  Her own little purse did not matter; any\none might have as much of that as he or she could get after she had\nreserved what was absolutely necessary for her dress.  I could not hear\nof her end as Ernest described it to me without feeling very\ncompassionate towards her, indeed her own son could hardly have felt more\nso; I at once, therefore, consented to go down to the funeral; perhaps I\nwas also influenced by a desire to see Charlotte and Joey, in whom I felt\ninterested on hearing what my godson had told me.\n\nI found Theobald looking remarkably well.  Every one said he was bearing\nit so beautifully.  He did indeed once or twice shake his head and say\nthat his wife had been the comfort and mainstay of his life for over\nthirty years, but there the matter ended.  I stayed over the next day\nwhich was Sunday, and took my departure on the following morning after\nhaving told Theobald all that his son wished me to tell him.  Theobald\nasked me to help him with Christina's epitaph.\n\n\"I would say,\" said he, \"as little as possible; eulogies of the departed\nare in most cases both unnecessary and untrue.  Christina's epitaph shall\ncontain nothing which shall be either the one or the other.  I should\ngive her name, the dates of her birth and death, and of course say she\nwas my wife, and then I think I should wind up with a simple text--her\nfavourite one for example, none indeed could be more appropriate,\n'Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.'\"\n\nI said I thought this would be very nice, and it was settled.  So Ernest\nwas sent to give the order to Mr Prosser, the stonemason in the nearest\ntown, who said it came from \"the Beetitudes.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXIV\n\n\nOn our way to town Ernest broached his plans for spending the next year\nor two.  I wanted him to try and get more into society again, but he\nbrushed this aside at once as the very last thing he had a fancy for.  For\nsociety indeed of all sorts, except of course that of a few intimate\nfriends, he had an unconquerable aversion.  \"I always did hate those\npeople,\" he said, \"and they always have hated and always will hate me.  I\nam an Ishmael by instinct as much as by accident of circumstances, but if\nI keep out of society I shall be less vulnerable than Ishmaels generally\nare.  The moment a man goes into society, he becomes vulnerable all\nround.\"\n\nI was very sorry to hear him talk in this way; for whatever strength a\nman may have he should surely be able to make more of it if he act in\nconcert than alone.  I said this.\n\n\"I don't care,\" he answered, \"whether I make the most of my strength or\nnot; I don't know whether I have any strength, but if I have I dare say\nit will find some way of exerting itself.  I will live as I like living,\nnot as other people would like me to live; thanks to my aunt and you I\ncan afford the luxury of a quiet unobtrusive life of self-indulgence,\"\nsaid he laughing, \"and I mean to have it.  You know I like writing,\" he\nadded after a pause of some minutes, \"I have been a scribbler for years.\nIf I am to come to the fore at all it must be by writing.\"\n\nI had already long since come to that conclusion myself.\n\n\"Well,\" he continued, \"there are a lot of things that want saying which\nno one dares to say, a lot of shams which want attacking, and yet no one\nattacks them.  It seems to me that I can say things which not another man\nin England except myself will venture to say, and yet which are crying to\nbe said.\"\n\nI said: \"But who will listen?  If you say things which nobody else would\ndare to say is not this much the same as saying what everyone except\nyourself knows to be better left unsaid just now?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said he, \"but I don't know it; I am bursting with these\nthings, and it is my fate to say them.\"\n\nI knew there would be no stopping him, so I gave in and asked what\nquestion he felt a special desire to burn his fingers with in the first\ninstance.\n\n\"Marriage,\" he rejoined promptly, \"and the power of disposing of his\nproperty after a man is dead.  The question of Christianity is virtually\nsettled, or if not settled there is no lack of those engaged in settling\nit.  The question of the day now is marriage and the family system.\"\n\n\"That,\" said I drily, \"is a hornet's nest indeed.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he no less drily, \"but hornet's nests are exactly what I\nhappen to like.  Before, however, I begin to stir up this particular one\nI propose to travel for a few years, with the especial object of finding\nout what nations now existing are the best, comeliest and most lovable,\nand also what nations have been so in times past.  I want to find out how\nthese people live, and have lived, and what their customs are.\n\n\"I have very vague notions upon the subject as yet, but the general\nimpression I have formed is that, putting ourselves on one side, the most\nvigorous and amiable of known nations are the modern Italians, the old\nGreeks and Romans, and the South Sea Islanders.  I believe that these\nnice peoples have not as a general rule been purists, but I want to see\nthose of them who can yet be seen; they are the practical authorities on\nthe question--What is best for man? and I should like to see them and\nfind out what they do.  Let us settle the fact first and fight about the\nmoral tendencies afterwards.\"\n\n\"In fact,\" said I laughingly, \"you mean to have high old times.\"\n\n\"Neither higher nor lower,\" was the answer, \"than those people whom I can\nfind to have been the best in all ages.  But let us change the subject.\"\nHe put his hand into his pocket and brought out a letter.  \"My father,\"\nhe said, \"gave me this letter this morning with the seal already broken.\"\nHe passed it over to me, and I found it to be the one which Christina had\nwritten before the birth of her last child, and which I have given in an\nearlier chapter.\n\n\"And you do not find this letter,\" said I, \"affect the conclusion which\nyou have just told me you have come to concerning your present plans?\"\n\nHe smiled, and answered: \"No.  But if you do what you have sometimes\ntalked about and turn the adventures of my unworthy self into a novel,\nmind you print this letter.\"\n\n\"Why so?\" said I, feeling as though such a letter as this should have\nbeen held sacred from the public gaze.\n\n\"Because my mother would have wished it published; if she had known you\nwere writing about me and had this letter in your possession, she would\nabove all things have desired that you should publish it.  Therefore\npublish it if you write at all.\"\n\nThis is why I have done so.\n\nWithin a month Ernest carried his intention into effect, and having made\nall the arrangements necessary for his children's welfare left England\nbefore Christmas.\n\nI heard from him now and again and learnt that he was visiting almost all\nparts of the world, but only staying in those places where he found the\ninhabitants unusually good-looking and agreeable.  He said he had filled\nan immense quantity of note-books, and I have no doubt he had.  At last\nin the spring of 1867 he returned, his luggage stained with the variation\nof each hotel advertisement 'twixt here and Japan.  He looked very brown\nand strong, and so well favoured that it almost seemed as if he must have\ncaught some good looks from the people among whom he had been living.  He\ncame back to his old rooms in the Temple, and settled down as easily as\nif he had never been away a day.\n\nOne of the first things we did was to go and see the children; we took\nthe train to Gravesend, and walked thence for a few miles along the\nriverside till we came to the solitary house where the good people lived\nwith whom Ernest had placed them.  It was a lovely April morning, but\nwith a fresh air blowing from off the sea; the tide was high, and the\nriver was alive with shipping coming up with wind and tide.  Sea-gulls\nwheeled around us overhead, sea-weed clung everywhere to the banks which\nthe advancing tide had not yet covered, everything was of the sea sea-ey,\nand the fine bracing air which blew over the water made me feel more\nhungry than I had done for many a day; I did not see how children could\nlive in a better physical atmosphere than this, and applauded the\nselection which Ernest had made on behalf of his youngsters.\n\nWhile we were still a quarter of a mile off we heard shouts and\nchildren's laughter, and could see a lot of boys and girls romping\ntogether and running after one another.  We could not distinguish our own\ntwo, but when we got near they were soon made out, for the other children\nwere blue-eyed, flaxen-pated little folks, whereas ours were dark and\nstraight-haired.\n\nWe had written to say that we were coming, but had desired that nothing\nshould be said to the children, so these paid no more attention to us\nthan they would have done to any other stranger, who happened to visit a\nspot so unfrequented except by sea-faring folk, which we plainly were\nnot.  The interest, however, in us was much quickened when it was\ndiscovered that we had got our pockets full of oranges and sweeties, to\nan extent greater than it had entered into their small imaginations to\nconceive as possible.  At first we had great difficulty in making them\ncome near us.  They were like a lot of wild young colts, very\ninquisitive, but very coy and not to be cajoled easily.  The children\nwere nine in all--five boys and two girls belonging to Mr and Mrs\nRollings, and two to Ernest.  I never saw a finer lot of children than\nthe young Rollings, the boys were hardy, robust, fearless little fellows\nwith eyes as clear as hawks; the elder girl was exquisitely pretty, but\nthe younger one was a mere baby.  I felt as I looked at them, that if I\nhad had children of my own I could have wished no better home for them,\nnor better companions.\n\nGeorgie and Alice, Ernest's two children, were evidently quite as one\nfamily with the others, and called Mr and Mrs Rollings uncle and aunt.\nThey had been so young when they were first brought to the house that\nthey had been looked upon in the light of new babies who had been born\ninto the family.  They knew nothing about Mr and Mrs Rollings being paid\nso much a week to look after them.  Ernest asked them all what they\nwanted to be.  They had only one idea; one and all, Georgie among the\nrest, wanted to be bargemen.  Young ducks could hardly have a more\nevident hankering after the water.\n\n\"And what do you want, Alice?\" said Ernest.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"I'm going to marry Jack here, and be a bargeman's wife.\"\n\nJack was the eldest boy, now nearly twelve, a sturdy little fellow, the\nimage of what Mr Rollings must have been at his age.  As we looked at\nhim, so straight and well grown and well done all round, I could see it\nwas in Ernest's mind as much as in mine that she could hardly do much\nbetter.\n\n\"Come here, Jack, my boy,\" said Ernest, \"here's a shilling for you.\"  The\nboy blushed and could hardly be got to come in spite of our previous\nblandishments; he had had pennies given him before, but shillings never.\nHis father caught him good-naturedly by the ear and lugged him to us.\n\n\"He's a good boy, Jack is,\" said Ernest to Mr Rollings, \"I'm sure of\nthat.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr Rollings, \"he's a werry good boy, only that I can't get\nhim to learn his reading and writing.  He don't like going to school,\nthat's the only complaint I have against him.  I don't know what's the\nmatter with all my children, and yours, Mr Pontifex, is just as bad, but\nthey none of 'em likes book learning, though they learn anything else\nfast enough.  Why, as for Jack here, he's almost as good a bargeman as I\nam.\"  And he looked fondly and patronisingly towards his offspring.\n\n\"I think,\" said Ernest to Mr Rollings, \"if he wants to marry Alice when\nhe gets older he had better do so, and he shall have as many barges as he\nlikes.  In the meantime, Mr Rollings, say in what way money can be of use\nto you, and whatever you can make useful is at your disposal.\"\n\nI need hardly say that Ernest made matters easy for this good couple; one\nstipulation, however, he insisted on, namely, there was to be no more\nsmuggling, and that the young people were to be kept out of this; for a\nlittle bird had told Ernest that smuggling in a quiet way was one of the\nresources of the Rollings family.  Mr Rollings was not sorry to assent to\nthis, and I believe it is now many years since the coastguard people have\nsuspected any of the Rollings family as offenders against the revenue\nlaw.\n\n\"Why should I take them from where they are,\" said Ernest to me in the\ntrain as we went home, \"to send them to schools where they will not be\none half so happy, and where their illegitimacy will very likely be a\nworry to them?  Georgie wants to be a bargeman, let him begin as one, the\nsooner the better; he may as well begin with this as with anything else;\nthen if he shows developments I can be on the look-out to encourage them\nand make things easy for him; while if he shows no desire to go ahead,\nwhat on earth is the good of trying to shove him forward?\"\n\nErnest, I believe, went on with a homily upon education generally, and\nupon the way in which young people should go through the embryonic stages\nwith their money as much as with their limbs, beginning life in a much\nlower social position than that in which their parents were, and a lot\nmore, which he has since published; but I was getting on in years, and\nthe walk and the bracing air had made me sleepy, so ere we had got past\nGreenhithe Station on our return journey I had sunk into a refreshing\nsleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXV\n\n\nErnest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling for\nthe last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began to\nwrite steadily.  Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but had\nproduced nothing, nor indeed did he come before the public for another\nthree or four years yet.\n\nHe lived as I have said very quietly, seeing hardly anyone but myself,\nand the three or four old friends with whom I had been intimate for\nyears.  Ernest and we formed our little set, and outside of this my\ngodson was hardly known at all.\n\nHis main expense was travelling, which he indulged in at frequent\nintervals, but for short times only.  Do what he would he could not get\nthrough more than about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income he\ngave away if he happened to find a case where he thought money would be\nwell bestowed, or put by until some opportunity arose of getting rid of\nit with advantage.\n\nI knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences of\nopinion upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject was\nseldom referred to between us, and I did not know that he was actually\npublishing till one day he brought me a book and told me flat it was his\nown.  I opened it and found it to be a series of semi-theological, semi-\nsocial essays, purporting to have been written by six or seven different\npeople, and viewing the same class of subjects from different\nstandpoints.\n\nPeople had not yet forgotten the famous \"Essays and Reviews,\" and Ernest\nhad wickedly given a few touches to at least two of the essays which\nsuggested vaguely that they had been written by a bishop.  The essays\nwere all of them in support of the Church of England, and appeared both\nby internal suggestion, and their prima facie purport to be the work of\nsome half-dozen men of experience and high position who had determined to\nface the difficult questions of the day no less boldly from within the\nbosom of the Church than the Church's enemies had faced them from without\nher pale.\n\nThere was an essay on the external evidences of the Resurrection; another\non the marriage laws of the most eminent nations of the world in times\npast and present; another was devoted to a consideration of the many\nquestions which must be reopened and reconsidered on their merits if the\nteaching of the Church of England were to cease to carry moral authority\nwith it; another dealt with the more purely social subject of middle\nclass destitution; another with the authenticity or rather the\nunauthenticity of the fourth gospel--another was headed \"Irrational\nRationalism,\" and there were two or three more.\n\nThey were all written vigorously and fearlessly as though by people used\nto authority; all granted that the Church professed to enjoin belief in\nmuch which no one could accept who had been accustomed to weigh evidence;\nbut it was contended that so much valuable truth had got so closely mixed\nup with these mistakes, that the mistakes had better not be meddled with.\nTo lay great stress on these was like cavilling at the Queen's right to\nreign, on the ground that William the Conqueror was illegitimate.\n\nOne article maintained that though it would be inconvenient to change the\nwords of our prayer book and articles, it would not be inconvenient to\nchange in a quiet way the meanings which we put upon those words.  This,\nit was argued, was what was actually done in the case of law; this had\nbeen the law's mode of growth and adaptation, and had in all ages been\nfound a righteous and convenient method of effecting change.  It was\nsuggested that the Church should adopt it.\n\nIn another essay it was boldly denied that the Church rested upon reason.\nIt was proved incontestably that its ultimate foundation was and ought to\nbe faith, there being indeed no other ultimate foundation than this for\nany of man's beliefs.  If so, the writer claimed that the Church could\nnot be upset by reason.  It was founded, like everything else, on initial\nassumptions, that is to say on faith, and if it was to be upset it was to\nbe upset by faith, by the faith of those who in their lives appeared more\ngraceful, more lovable, better bred, in fact, and better able to overcome\ndifficulties.  Any sect which showed its superiority in these respects\nmight carry all before it, but none other would make much headway for\nlong together.  Christianity was true in so far as it had fostered\nbeauty, and it had fostered much beauty.  It was false in so far as it\nfostered ugliness, and it had fostered much ugliness.  It was therefore\nnot a little true and not a little false; on the whole one might go\nfarther and fare worse; the wisest course would be to live with it, and\nmake the best and not the worst of it.  The writer urged that we become\npersecutors as a matter of course as soon as we begin to feel very\nstrongly upon any subject; we ought not therefore to do this; we ought\nnot to feel very strongly--even upon that institution which was dearer to\nthe writer than any other--the Church of England.  We should be\nchurchmen, but somewhat lukewarm churchmen, inasmuch as those who care\nvery much about either religion or irreligion are seldom observed to be\nvery well bred or agreeable people.  The Church herself should approach\nas nearly to that of Laodicea as was compatible with her continuing to be\na Church at all, and each individual member should only be hot in\nstriving to be as lukewarm as possible.\n\nThe book rang with the courage alike of conviction and of an entire\nabsence of conviction; it appeared to be the work of men who had a rule-\nof-thumb way of steering between iconoclasm on the one hand and credulity\non the other; who cut Gordian knots as a matter of course when it suited\ntheir convenience; who shrank from no conclusion in theory, nor from any\nwant of logic in practice so long as they were illogical of malice\nprepense, and for what they held to be sufficient reason.  The\nconclusions were conservative, quietistic, comforting.  The arguments by\nwhich they were reached were taken from the most advanced writers of the\nday.  All that these people contended for was granted them, but the\nfruits of victory were for the most part handed over to those already in\npossession.\n\nPerhaps the passage which attracted most attention in the book was one\nfrom the essay on the various marriage systems of the world.  It ran:--\n\n\"If people require us to construct,\" exclaimed the writer, \"we set good\nbreeding as the corner-stone of our edifice.  We would have it ever\npresent consciously or unconsciously in the minds of all as the central\nfaith in which they should live and move and have their being, as the\ntouchstone of all things whereby they may be known as good or evil\naccording as they make for good breeding or against it.\"\n\n\"That a man should have been bred well and breed others well; that his\nfigure, head, hands, feet, voice, manner and clothes should carry\nconviction upon this point, so that no one can look at him without seeing\nthat he has come of good stock and is likely to throw good stock himself,\nthis is the _desiderandum_.  And the same with a woman.  The greatest\nnumber of these well-bred men and women, and the greatest happiness of\nthese well-bred men and women, this is the highest good; towards this all\ngovernment, all social conventions, all art, literature and science\nshould directly or indirectly tend.  Holy men and holy women are those\nwho keep this unconsciously in view at all times whether of work or\npastime.\"\n\nIf Ernest had published this work in his own name I should think it would\nhave fallen stillborn from the press, but the form he had chosen was\ncalculated at that time to arouse curiosity, and as I have said he had\nwickedly dropped a few hints which the reviewers did not think anyone\nwould have been impudent enough to do if he were not a bishop, or at any\nrate some one in authority.  A well-known judge was spoken of as being\nanother of the writers, and the idea spread ere long that six or seven of\nthe leading bishops and judges had laid their heads together to produce a\nvolume, which should at once outbid \"Essays and Reviews\" and counteract\nthe influence of that then still famous work.\n\nReviewers are men of like passions with ourselves, and with them as with\neveryone else _omne ignotum pro magnifico_.  The book was really an able\none and abounded with humour, just satire, and good sense.  It struck a\nnew note and the speculation which for some time was rife concerning its\nauthorship made many turn to it who would never have looked at it\notherwise.  One of the most gushing weeklies had a fit over it, and\ndeclared it to be the finest thing that had been done since the\n\"Provincial Letters\" of Pascal.  Once a month or so that weekly always\nfound some picture which was the finest that had been done since the old\nmasters, or some satire that was the finest that had appeared since Swift\nor some something which was incomparably the finest that had appeared\nsince something else.  If Ernest had put his name to the book, and the\nwriter had known that it was by a nobody, he would doubtless have written\nin a very different strain.  Reviewers like to think that for aught they\nknow they are patting a Duke or even a Prince of the blood upon the back,\nand lay it on thick till they find they have been only praising Brown,\nJones or Robinson.  Then they are disappointed, and as a general rule\nwill pay Brown, Jones or Robinson out.\n\nErnest was not so much up to the ropes of the literary world as I was,\nand I am afraid his head was a little turned when he woke up one morning\nto find himself famous.  He was Christina's son, and perhaps would not\nhave been able to do what he had done if he was not capable of occasional\nundue elation.  Ere long, however, he found out all about it, and settled\nquietly down to write a series of books, in which he insisted on saying\nthings which no one else would say even if they could, or could even if\nthey would.\n\nHe has got himself a bad literary character.  I said to him laughingly\none day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was said\nthat nothing but such a character could keep down such parts.\n\nHe laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modern\nwriter or two whom he could name, whose parts were so poor that they\ncould be kept up by nothing but by such a character.\n\nI remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to meet\nMrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly allowance.  It\nwas at Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for a\nfew minutes.  I said to her: \"Mr Pontifex has written another book, Mrs\nJupp.\"\n\n\"Lor' now,\" said she, \"has he really?  Dear gentleman!  Is it about\nlove?\"  And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at me\nfrom under her aged eyelids.  I forget what there was in my reply which\nprovoked it--probably nothing--but she went rattling on at full speed to\nthe effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, \"So, of\ncourse,\" she said, \"I went.  I didn't understand one word of it, for it\nwas all French, but I saw their legs.  Oh dear, oh dear!  I'm afraid I\nshan't be here much longer, and when dear Mr Pontifex sees me in my\ncoffin he'll say, 'Poor old Jupp, she'll never talk broad any more'; but\nbless you I'm not so old as all that, and I'm taking lessons in dancing.\"\n\nAt this moment Ernest came in and the conversation was changed.  Mrs Jupp\nasked if he was still going on writing more books now that this one was\ndone.  \"Of course I am,\" he answered, \"I'm always writing books; here is\nthe manuscript of my next;\" and he showed her a heap of paper.\n\n\"Well now,\" she exclaimed, \"dear, dear me, and is that manuscript?  I've\noften heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live to\nsee some myself.  Well! well!  So that is really manuscript?\"\n\nThere were a few geraniums in the window and they did not look well.\nErnest asked Mrs Jupp if she understood flowers.  \"I understand the\nlanguage of flowers,\" she said, with one of her most bewitching leers,\nand on this we sent her off till she should choose to honour us with\nanother visit, which she knows she is privileged from time to time to do,\nfor Ernest likes her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXXXVI\n\n\nAnd now I must bring my story to a close.\n\nThe preceding chapter was written soon after the events it records--that\nis to say in the spring of 1867.  By that time my story had been written\nup to this point; but it has been altered here and there from time to\ntime occasionally.  It is now the autumn of 1882, and if I am to say more\nI should do so quickly, for I am eighty years old and though well in\nhealth cannot conceal from myself that I am no longer young.  Ernest\nhimself is forty-seven, though he hardly looks it.\n\nHe is richer than ever, for he has never married and his London and North-\nWestern shares have nearly doubled themselves.  Through sheer inability\nto spend his income he has been obliged to hoard in self-defence.  He\nstill lives in the Temple in the same rooms I took for him when he gave\nup his shop, for no one has been able to induce him to take a house.  His\nhouse, he says, is wherever there is a good hotel.  When he is in town he\nlikes to work and to be quiet.  When out of town he feels that he has\nleft little behind him that can go wrong, and he would not like to be\ntied to a single locality.  \"I know no exception,\" he says, \"to the rule\nthat it is cheaper to buy milk than to keep a cow.\"\n\nAs I have mentioned Mrs Jupp, I may as well say here the little that\nremains to be said about her.  She is a very old woman now, but no one\nnow living, as she says triumphantly, can say how old, for the woman in\nthe Old Kent Road is dead, and presumably has carried her secret to the\ngrave.  Old, however, though she is, she lives in the same house, and\nfinds it hard work to make the two ends meet, but I do not know that she\nminds this very much, and it has prevented her from getting more to drink\nthan would be good for her.  It is no use trying to do anything for her\nbeyond paying her allowance weekly, and absolutely refusing to let her\nanticipate it.  She pawns her flat iron every Saturday for 4d., and takes\nit out every Monday morning for 4.5d. when she gets her allowance, and\nhas done this for the last ten years as regularly as the week comes\nround.  As long as she does not let the flat iron actually go we know\nthat she can still worry out her financial problems in her own hugger-\nmugger way and had better be left to do so.  If the flat iron were to go\nbeyond redemption, we should know that it was time to interfere.  I do\nnot know why, but there is something about her which always reminds me of\na woman who was as unlike her as one person can be to another--I mean\nErnest's mother.\n\nThe last time I had a long gossip with her was about two years ago when\nshe came to me instead of to Ernest.  She said she had seen a cab drive\nup just as she was going to enter the staircase, and had seen Mr\nPontifex's pa put his Beelzebub old head out of the window, so she had\ncome on to me, for she hadn't greased her sides for no curtsey, not for\nthe likes of him.  She professed to be very much down on her luck.  Her\nlodgers did use her so dreadful, going away without paying and leaving\nnot so much as a stick behind, but to-day she was as pleased as a penny\ncarrot.  She had had such a lovely dinner--a cushion of ham and green\npeas.  She had had a good cry over it, but then she was so silly, she\nwas.\n\n\"And there's that Bell,\" she continued, though I could not detect any\nappearance of connection, \"it's enough to give anyone the hump to see him\nnow that he's taken to chapel-going, and his mother's prepared to meet\nJesus and all that to me, and now she ain't a-going to die, and drinks\nhalf a bottle of champagne a day, and then Grigg, him as preaches, you\nknow, asked Bell if I really was too gay, not but what when I was young\nI'd snap my fingers at any 'fly by night' in Holborn, and if I was togged\nout and had my teeth I'd do it now.  I lost my poor dear Watkins, but of\ncourse that couldn't be helped, and then I lost my dear Rose.  Silly\nfaggot to go and ride on a cart and catch the bronchitics.  I never\nthought when I kissed my dear Rose in Pullen's Passage and she gave me\nthe chop, that I should never see her again, and her gentleman friend was\nfond of her too, though he was a married man.  I daresay she's gone to\nbits by now.  If she could rise and see me with my bad finger, she would\ncry, and I should say, 'Never mind, ducky, I'm all right.'  Oh! dear,\nit's coming on to rain.  I do hate a wet Saturday night--poor women with\ntheir nice white stockings and their living to get,\" etc., etc.\n\nAnd yet age does not wither this godless old sinner, as people would say\nit ought to do.  Whatever life she has led, it has agreed with her very\nsufficiently.  At times she gives us to understand that she is still much\nsolicited; at others she takes quite a different tone.  She has not\nallowed even Joe King so much as to put his lips to hers this ten years.\nShe would rather have a mutton chop any day.  \"But ah! you should have\nseen me when I was sweet seventeen.  I was the very moral of my poor dear\nmother, and she was a pretty woman, though I say it that shouldn't.  She\nhad such a splendid mouth of teeth.  It was a sin to bury her in her\nteeth.\"\n\nI only knew of one thing at which she professes to be shocked.  It is\nthat her son Tom and his wife Topsy are teaching the baby to swear.  \"Oh!\nit's too dreadful awful,\" she exclaimed, \"I don't know the meaning of the\nwords, but I tell him he's a drunken sot.\"  I believe the old woman in\nreality rather likes it.\n\n\"But surely, Mrs Jupp,\" said I, \"Tom's wife used not to be Topsy.  You\nused to speak of her as Pheeb.\"\n\n\"Ah! yes,\" she answered, \"but Pheeb behaved bad, and it's Topsy now.\"\n\nErnest's daughter Alice married the boy who had been her playmate more\nthan a year ago.  Ernest gave them all they said they wanted and a good\ndeal more.  They have already presented him with a grandson, and I doubt\nnot, will do so with many more.  Georgie though only twenty-one is owner\nof a fine steamer which his father has bought for him.  He began when\nabout thirteen going with old Rollings and Jack in the barge from\nRochester to the upper Thames with bricks; then his father bought him and\nJack barges of their own, and then he bought them both ships, and then\nsteamers.  I do not exactly know how people make money by having a\nsteamer, but he does whatever is usual, and from all I can gather makes\nit pay extremely well.  He is a good deal like his father in the face,\nbut without a spark--so far as I have been able to observe--any literary\nability; he has a fair sense of humour and abundance of common sense, but\nhis instinct is clearly a practical one.  I am not sure that he does not\nput me in mind almost more of what Theobald would have been if he had\nbeen a sailor, than of Ernest.  Ernest used to go down to Battersby and\nstay with his father for a few days twice a year until Theobald's death,\nand the pair continued on excellent terms, in spite of what the\nneighbouring clergy call \"the atrocious books which Mr Ernest Pontifex\"\nhas written.  Perhaps the harmony, or rather absence of discord which\nsubsisted between the pair was due to the fact that Theobald had never\nlooked into the inside of one of his son's works, and Ernest, of course,\nnever alluded to them in his father's presence.  The pair, as I have\nsaid, got on excellently, but it was doubtless as well that Ernest's\nvisits were short and not too frequent.  Once Theobald wanted Ernest to\nbring his children, but Ernest knew they would not like it, so this was\nnot done.\n\nSometimes Theobald came up to town on small business matters and paid a\nvisit to Ernest's chambers; he generally brought with him a couple of\nlettuces, or a cabbage, or half-a-dozen turnips done up in a piece of\nbrown paper, and told Ernest that he knew fresh vegetables were rather\nhard to get in London, and he had brought him some.  Ernest had often\nexplained to him that the vegetables were of no use to him, and that he\nhad rather he would not bring them; but Theobald persisted, I believe\nthrough sheer love of doing something which his son did not like, but\nwhich was too small to take notice of.\n\nHe lived until about twelve months ago, when he was found dead in his bed\non the morning after having written the following letter to his son:--\n\n   \"Dear Ernest,--I've nothing particular to write about, but your letter\n   has been lying for some days in the limbo of unanswered letters, to\n   wit my pocket, and it's time it was answered.\n\n   \"I keep wonderfully well and am able to walk my five or six miles with\n   comfort, but at my age there's no knowing how long it will last, and\n   time flies quickly.  I have been busy potting plants all the morning,\n   but this afternoon is wet.\n\n   \"What is this horrid Government going to do with Ireland?  I don't\n   exactly wish they'd blow up Mr Gladstone, but if a mad bull would\n   chivy him there, and he would never come back any more, I should not\n   be sorry.  Lord Hartington is not exactly the man I should like to set\n   in his place, but he would be immeasurably better than Gladstone.\n\n   \"I miss your sister Charlotte more than I can express.  She kept my\n   household accounts, and I could pour out to her all little worries,\n   and now that Joey is married too, I don't know what I should do if one\n   or other of them did not come sometimes and take care of me.  My only\n   comfort is that Charlotte will make her husband happy, and that he is\n   as nearly worthy of her as a husband can well be.--Believe me, Your\n   affectionate father,\n\n   \"THEOBALD PONTIFEX.\"\n\nI may say in passing that though Theobald speaks of Charlotte's marriage\nas though it were recent, it had really taken place some six years\npreviously, she being then about thirty-eight years old, and her husband\nabout seven years younger.\n\nThere was no doubt that Theobald passed peacefully away during his sleep.\nCan a man who died thus be said to have died at all?  He has presented\nthe phenomena of death to other people, but in respect of himself he has\nnot only not died, but has not even thought that he was going to die.\nThis is not more than half dying, but then neither was his life more than\nhalf living.  He presented so many of the phenomena of living that I\nsuppose on the whole it would be less trouble to think of him as having\nbeen alive than as never having been born at all, but this is only\npossible because association does not stick to the strict letter of its\nbond.\n\nThis, however, was not the general verdict concerning him, and the\ngeneral verdict is often the truest.\n\nErnest was overwhelmed with expressions of condolence and respect for his\nfather's memory.  \"He never,\" said Dr Martin, the old doctor who brought\nErnest into the world, \"spoke an ill word against anyone.  He was not\nonly liked, he was beloved by all who had anything to do with him.\"\n\n\"A more perfectly just and righteously dealing man,\" said the family\nsolicitor, \"I have never had anything to do with--nor one more punctual\nin the discharge of every business obligation.\"\n\n\"We shall miss him sadly,\" the bishop wrote to Joey in the very warmest\nterms.  The poor were in consternation.  \"The well's never missed,\" said\none old woman, \"till it's dry,\" and she only said what everyone else\nfelt.  Ernest knew that the general regret was unaffected as for a loss\nwhich could not be easily repaired.  He felt that there were only three\npeople in the world who joined insincerely in the tribute of applause,\nand these were the very three who could least show their want of\nsympathy.  I mean Joey, Charlotte, and himself.  He felt bitter against\nhimself for being of a mind with either Joey or Charlotte upon any\nsubject, and thankful that he must conceal his being so as far as\npossible, not because of anything his father had done to him--these\ngrievances were too old to be remembered now--but because he would never\nallow him to feel towards him as he was always trying to feel.  As long\nas communication was confined to the merest commonplace all went well,\nbut if these were departed from ever such a little he invariably felt\nthat his father's instincts showed themselves in immediate opposition to\nhis own.  When he was attacked his father laid whatever stress was\npossible on everything which his opponents said.  If he met with any\ncheck his father was clearly pleased.  What the old doctor had said about\nTheobald's speaking ill of no man was perfectly true as regards others\nthan himself, but he knew very well that no one had injured his\nreputation in a quiet way, so far as he dared to do, more than his own\nfather.  This is a very common case and a very natural one.  It often\nhappens that if the son is right, the father is wrong, and the father is\nnot going to have this if he can help it.\n\nIt was very hard, however, to say what was the true root of the mischief\nin the present case.  It was not Ernest's having been imprisoned.\nTheobald forgot all about that much sooner than nine fathers out of ten\nwould have done.  Partly, no doubt, it was due to incompatibility of\ntemperament, but I believe the main ground of complaint lay in the fact\nthat he had been so independent and so rich while still very young, and\nthat thus the old gentleman had been robbed of his power to tease and\nscratch in the way which he felt he was entitled to do.  The love of\nteasing in a small way when he felt safe in doing so had remained part of\nhis nature from the days when he told his nurse that he would keep her on\npurpose to torment her.  I suppose it is so with all of us.  At any rate\nI am sure that most fathers, especially if they are clergymen, are like\nTheobald.\n\nHe did not in reality, I am convinced, like Joey or Charlotte one whit\nbetter than he liked Ernest.  He did not like anyone or anything, or if\nhe liked anyone at all it was his butler, who looked after him when he\nwas not well, and took great care of him and believed him to be the best\nand ablest man in the whole world.  Whether this faithful and attached\nservant continued to think this after Theobald's will was opened and it\nwas found what kind of legacy had been left him I know not.  Of his\nchildren, the baby who had died at a day old was the only one whom he\nheld to have treated him quite filially.  As for Christina he hardly ever\npretended to miss her and never mentioned her name; but this was taken as\na proof that he felt her loss too keenly to be able ever to speak of her.\nIt may have been so, but I do not think it.\n\nTheobald's effects were sold by auction, and among them the Harmony of\nthe Old and New Testaments which he had compiled during many years with\nsuch exquisite neatness and a huge collection of MS. sermons--being all\nin fact that he had ever written.  These and the Harmony fetched\nninepence a barrow load.  I was surprised to hear that Joey had not given\nthe three or four shillings which would have bought the whole lot, but\nErnest tells me that Joey was far fiercer in his dislike of his father\nthan ever he had been himself, and wished to get rid of everything that\nreminded him of him.\n\nIt has already appeared that both Joey and Charlotte are married.  Joey\nhas a family, but he and Ernest very rarely have any intercourse.  Of\ncourse, Ernest took nothing under his father's will; this had long been\nunderstood, so that the other two are both well provided for.\n\nCharlotte is as clever as ever, and sometimes asks Ernest to come and\nstay with her and her husband near Dover, I suppose because she knows\nthat the invitation will not be agreeable to him.  There is a _de haut en\nbas_ tone in all her letters; it is rather hard to lay one's finger upon\nit but Ernest never gets a letter from her without feeling that he is\nbeing written to by one who has had direct communication with an angel.\n\"What an awful creature,\" he once said to me, \"that angel must have been\nif it had anything to do with making Charlotte what she is.\"\n\n\"Could you like,\" she wrote to him not long ago, \"the thoughts of a\nlittle sea change here?  The top of the cliffs will soon be bright with\nheather: the gorse must be out already, and the heather I should think\nbegun, to judge by the state of the hill at Ewell, and heather or no\nheather--the cliffs are always beautiful, and if you come your room shall\nbe cosy so that you may have a resting corner to yourself.  Nineteen and\nsixpence is the price of a return-ticket which covers a month.  Would you\ndecide just as you would yourself like, only if you come we would hope to\ntry and make it bright for you; but you must not feel it a burden on your\nmind if you feel disinclined to come in this direction.\"\n\n\"When I have a bad nightmare,\" said Ernest to me, laughing as he showed\nme this letter, \"I dream that I have got to stay with Charlotte.\"\n\nHer letters are supposed to be unusually well written, and I believe it\nis said among the family that Charlotte has far more real literary power\nthan Ernest has.  Sometimes we think that she is writing at him as much\nas to say, \"There now--don't you think you are the only one of us who can\nwrite; read this!  And if you want a telling bit of descriptive writing\nfor your next book, you can make what use of it you like.\"  I daresay she\nwrites very well, but she has fallen under the dominion of the words\n\"hope,\" \"think,\" \"feel,\" \"try,\" \"bright,\" and \"little,\" and can hardly\nwrite a page without introducing all these words and some of them more\nthan once.  All this has the effect of making her style monotonous.\n\nErnest is as fond of music as ever, perhaps more so, and of late years\nhas added musical composition to the other irons in his fire.  He finds\nit still a little difficult, and is in constant trouble through getting\ninto the key of C sharp after beginning in the key of C and being unable\nto get back again.\n\n\"Getting into the key of C sharp,\" he said, \"is like an unprotected\nfemale travelling on the Metropolitan Railway, and finding herself at\nShepherd's Bush, without quite knowing where she wants to go to.  How is\nshe ever to get safe back to Clapham Junction?  And Clapham Junction\nwon't quite do either, for Clapham Junction is like the diminished\nseventh--susceptible of such enharmonic change, that you can resolve it\ninto all the possible termini of music.\"\n\nTalking of music reminds me of a little passage that took place between\nErnest and Miss Skinner, Dr Skinner's eldest daughter, not so very long\nago.  Dr Skinner had long left Roughborough, and had become Dean of a\nCathedral in one of our Midland counties--a position which exactly suited\nhim.  Finding himself once in the neighbourhood Ernest called, for old\nacquaintance sake, and was hospitably entertained at lunch.\n\nThirty years had whitened the Doctor's bushy eyebrows--his hair they\ncould not whiten.  I believe that but for that wig he would have been\nmade a bishop.\n\nHis voice and manner were unchanged, and when Ernest remarking upon a\nplan of Rome which hung in the hall, spoke inadvertently of the Quirinal,\nhe replied with all his wonted pomp: \"Yes, the QuirInal--or as I myself\nprefer to call it, the QuirInal.\"  After this triumph he inhaled a long\nbreath through the corners of his mouth, and flung it back again into the\nface of Heaven, as in his finest form during his head-mastership.  At\nlunch he did indeed once say, \"next to impossible to think of anything\nelse,\" but he immediately corrected himself and substituted the words,\n\"next to impossible to entertain irrelevant ideas,\" after which he seemed\nto feel a good deal more comfortable.  Ernest saw the familiar volumes of\nDr Skinner's works upon the bookshelves in the Deanery dining-room, but\nhe saw no copy of \"Rome or the Bible--Which?\"\n\n\"And are you still as fond of music as ever, Mr Pontifex?\" said Miss\nSkinner to Ernest during the course of lunch.\n\n\"Of some kinds of music, yes, Miss Skinner, but you know I never did like\nmodern music.\"\n\n\"Isn't that rather dreadful?--Don't you think you rather\"--she was going\nto have added, \"ought to?\" but she left it unsaid, feeling doubtless that\nshe had sufficiently conveyed her meaning.\n\n\"I would like modern music, if I could; I have been trying all my life to\nlike it, but I succeed less and less the older I grow.\"\n\n\"And pray, where do you consider modern music to begin?\"\n\n\"With Sebastian Bach.\"\n\n\"And don't you like Beethoven?\"\n\n\"No, I used to think I did, when I was younger, but I know now that I\nnever really liked him.\"\n\n\"Ah! how can you say so?  You cannot understand him, you never could say\nthis if you understood him.  For me a simple chord of Beethoven is\nenough.  This is happiness.\"\n\nErnest was amused at her strong family likeness to her father--a likeness\nwhich had grown upon her as she had become older, and which extended even\nto voice and manner of speaking.  He remembered how he had heard me\ndescribe the game of chess I had played with the doctor in days gone by,\nand with his mind's ear seemed to hear Miss Skinner saying, as though it\nwere an epitaph:--\n\n   \"Stay:\n   I may presently take\n   A simple chord of Beethoven,\n   Or a small semiquaver\n   From one of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words.\"\n\nAfter luncheon when Ernest was left alone for half an hour or so with the\nDean he plied him so well with compliments that the old gentleman was\npleased and flattered beyond his wont.  He rose and bowed.  \"These\nexpressions,\" he said, _voce sua_, \"are very valuable to me.\"  \"They are\nbut a small part, Sir,\" rejoined Ernest, \"of what anyone of your old\npupils must feel towards you,\" and the pair danced as it were a minuet at\nthe end of the dining-room table in front of the old bay window that\nlooked upon the smooth shaven lawn.  On this Ernest departed; but a few\ndays afterwards, the Doctor wrote him a letter and told him that his\ncritics were a [Greek text], and at the same time [Greek text].  Ernest\nremembered [Greek text], and knew that the other words were something of\nlike nature, so it was all right.  A month or two afterwards, Dr Skinner\nwas gathered to his fathers.\n\n\"He was an old fool, Ernest,\" said I, \"and you should not relent towards\nhim.\"\n\n\"I could not help it,\" he replied, \"he was so old that it was almost like\nplaying with a child.\"\n\nSometimes, like all whose minds are active, Ernest overworks himself, and\nthen occasionally he has fierce and reproachful encounters with Dr\nSkinner or Theobald in his sleep--but beyond this neither of these two\nworthies can now molest him further.\n\nTo myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am half\nafraid--as for example when I talk to him about his books--that I may\nhave been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have, I trust he\nhas forgiven me.  His books are the only bone of contention between us.  I\nwant him to write like other people, and not to offend so many of his\nreaders; he says he can no more change his manner of writing than the\ncolour of his hair, and that he must write as he does or not at all.\n\nWith the public generally he is not a favourite.  He is admitted to have\ntalent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind,\nand no matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest.\nHis first book was a success for reasons which I have already explained,\nbut none of his others have been more than creditable failures.  He is\none of those unfortunate men, each one of whose books is sneered at by\nliterary critics as soon as it comes out, but becomes \"excellent reading\"\nas soon as it has been followed by a later work which may in its turn be\ncondemned.\n\nHe never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life.  I have told him over\nand over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing\nI can say to him which makes him angry with me.\n\n\"What can it matter to me,\" he says, \"whether people read my books or\nnot?  It may matter to them--but I have too much money to want more, and\nif the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by.  I do not\nknow nor greatly care whether they are good or not.  What opinion can any\nsane man form about his own work?  Some people must write stupid books\njust as there must be junior ops and third class poll men.  Why should I\ncomplain of being among the mediocrities?  If a man is not absolutely\nbelow mediocrity let him be thankful--besides, the books will have to\nstand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better.\"\n\nI spoke to his publisher about him not long since.  \"Mr Pontifex,\" he\nsaid, \"is a _homo unius libri_, but it doesn't do to tell him so.\"\n\nI could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in\nErnest's literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure\nwas all the more hopeless for the fact of his having once made a _coup_.\n\"He is in a very solitary position, Mr Overton,\" continued the publisher.\n\"He has formed no alliances, and has made enemies not only of the\nreligious world but of the literary and scientific brotherhood as well.\nThis will not do nowadays.  If a man wishes to get on he must belong to a\nset, and Mr Pontifex belongs to no set--not even to a club.\"\n\nI replied, \"Mr Pontifex is the exact likeness of Othello, but with a\ndifference--he hates not wisely but too well.  He would dislike the\nliterary and scientific swells if he were to come to know them and they\nhim; there is no natural solidarity between him and them, and if he were\nbrought into contact with them his last state would be worse than his\nfirst.  His instinct tells him this, so he keeps clear of them, and\nattacks them whenever he thinks they deserve it--in the hope, perhaps,\nthat a younger generation will listen to him more willingly than the\npresent.\"\n\n\"Can anything,\"' said the publisher, \"be conceived more impracticable and\nimprudent?\"\n\nTo all this Ernest replies with one word only--\"Wait.\"\n\nSuch is my friend's latest development.  He would not, it is true, run\nmuch chance at present of trying to found a College of Spiritual\nPathology, but I must leave the reader to determine whether there is not\na strong family likeness between the Ernest of the College of Spiritual\nPathology and the Ernest who will insist on addressing the next\ngeneration rather than his own.  He says he trusts that there is not, and\ntakes the sacrament duly once a year as a sop to Nemesis lest he should\nagain feel strongly upon any subject.  It rather fatigues him, but \"no\nman's opinions,\" he sometimes says, \"can be worth holding unless he knows\nhow to deny them easily and gracefully upon occasion in the cause of\ncharity.\"  In politics he is a Conservative so far as his vote and\ninterest are concerned.  In all other respects he is an advanced Radical.\nHis father and grandfather could probably no more understand his state of\nmind than they could understand Chinese, but those who know him\nintimately do not know that they wish him greatly different from what he\nactually is."