Chapter: I used to stay at Battersby for a day or two sometimes, while my godson
and his brother and sister were children.  I hardly know why I went, for
Theobald and I grew more and more apart, but one gets into grooves
sometimes, and the supposed friendship between myself and the Pontifexes
continued to exist, though it was now little more than rudimentary.  My
godson pleased me more than either of the other children, but he had not
much of the buoyancy of childhood, and was more like a puny, sallow
little old man than I liked.  The young people, however, were very ready
to be friendly.

I remember Ernest and his brother hovered round me on the first day of
one of these visits with their hands full of fading flowers, which they
at length proffered me.  On this I did what I suppose was expected: I
inquired if there was a shop near where they could buy sweeties.  They
said there was, so I felt in my pockets, but only succeeded in finding
two pence halfpenny in small money.  This I gave them, and the
youngsters, aged four and three, toddled off alone.  Ere long they
returned, and Ernest said, "We can't get sweeties for all this money" (I
felt rebuked, but no rebuke was intended); "we can get sweeties for this"
(showing a penny), "and for this" (showing another penny), "but we cannot
get them for all this," and he added the halfpenny to the two pence.  I
suppose they had wanted a twopenny cake, or something like that.  I was
amused, and left them to solve the difficulty their own way, being
anxious to see what they would do.

Presently Ernest said, "May we give you back this" (showing the
halfpenny) "and not give you back this and this?" (showing the pence).  I
assented, and they gave a sigh of relief and went on their way rejoicing.
A few more presents of pence and small toys completed the conquest, and
they began to take me into their confidence.

They told me a good deal which I am afraid I ought not to have listened
to.  They said that if grandpapa had lived longer he would most likely
have been made a Lord, and that then papa would have been the Honourable
and Reverend, but that grandpapa was now in heaven singing beautiful
hymns with grandmamma Allaby to Jesus Christ, who was very fond of them;
and that when Ernest was ill, his mamma had told him he need not be
afraid of dying for he would go straight to heaven, if he would only be
sorry for having done his lessons so badly and vexed his dear papa, and
if he would promise never, never to vex him any more; and that when he
got to heaven grandpapa and grandmamma Allaby would meet him, and he
would be always with them, and they would be very good to him and teach
him to sing ever such beautiful hymns, more beautiful by far than those
which he was now so fond of, etc., etc.; but he did not wish to die, and
was glad when he got better, for there were no kittens in heaven, and he
did not think there were cowslips to make cowslip tea with.

Their mother was plainly disappointed in them.  "My children are none of
them geniuses, Mr Overton," she said to me at breakfast one morning.
"They have fair abilities, and, thanks to Theobald's tuition, they are
forward for their years, but they have nothing like genius: genius is a
thing apart from this, is it not?"

Of course I said it was "a thing quite apart from this," but if my
thoughts had been laid bare, they would have appeared as "Give me my
coffee immediately, ma'am, and don't talk nonsense."  I have no idea what
genius is, but so far as I can form any conception about it, I should say
it was a stupid word which cannot be too soon abandoned to scientific and
literary _claqueurs_.

I do not know exactly what Christina expected, but I should imagine it
was something like this: "My children ought to be all geniuses, because
they are mine and Theobald's, and it is naughty of them not to be; but,
of course, they cannot be so good and clever as Theobald and I were, and
if they show signs of being so it will be naughty of them.  Happily,
however, they are not this, and yet it is very dreadful that they are
not.  As for genius--hoity-toity, indeed--why, a genius should turn
intellectual summersaults as soon as it is born, and none of my children
have yet been able to get into the newspapers.  I will not have children
of mine give themselves airs--it is enough for them that Theobald and I
should do so."

She did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an invisible
cloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men without being
suspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from itself always, and from
all others for many years, its greatness will ere long shrink to very
ordinary dimensions.  What, then, it may be asked, is the good of being
great?  The answer is that you may understand greatness better in others,
whether alive or dead, and choose better company from these and enjoy and
understand that company better when you have chosen it--also that you may
be able to give pleasure to the best people and live in the lives of
those who are yet unborn.  This, one would think, was substantial gain
enough for greatness without its wanting to ride rough-shod over us, even
when disguised as humility.

I was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the young
people were taught to observe the Sabbath; they might not cut out things,
nor use their paintbox on a Sunday, and this they thought rather hard,
because their cousins the John Pontifexes might do these things.  Their
cousins might play with their toy train on Sunday, but though they had
promised that they would run none but Sunday trains, all traffic had been
prohibited.  One treat only was allowed them--on Sunday evenings they
might choose their own hymns.

In the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room, and, as an
especial treat, were to sing some of their hymns to me, instead of saying
them, so that I might hear how nicely they sang.  Ernest was to choose
the first hymn, and he chose one about some people who were to come to
the sunset tree.  I am no botanist, and do not know what kind of tree a
sunset tree is, but the words began, "Come, come, come; come to the
sunset tree for the day is past and gone."  The tune was rather pretty
and had taken Ernest's fancy, for he was unusually fond of music and had
a sweet little child's voice which he liked using.

He was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard it "c" or "k,"
and, instead of saying "Come," he said "Tum tum, tum."

"Ernest," said Theobald, from the arm-chair in front of the fire, where
he was sitting with his hands folded before him, "don't you think it
would be very nice if you were to say 'come' like other people, instead
of 'tum'?"

"I do say tum," replied Ernest, meaning that he had said "come."

Theobald was always in a bad temper on Sunday evening.  Whether it is
that they are as much bored with the day as their neighbours, or whether
they are tired, or whatever the cause may be, clergymen are seldom at
their best on Sunday evening; I had already seen signs that evening that
my host was cross, and was a little nervous at hearing Ernest say so
promptly "I do say tum," when his papa had said he did not say it as he
should.

Theobald noticed the fact that he was being contradicted in a moment.  He
got up from his arm-chair and went to the piano.

"No, Ernest, you don't," he said, "you say nothing of the kind, you say
'tum,' not 'come.'  Now say 'come' after me, as I do."

"Tum," said Ernest, at once; "is that better?"  I have no doubt he
thought it was, but it was not.

"Now, Ernest, you are not taking pains: you are not trying as you ought
to do.  It is high time you learned to say 'come,' why, Joey can say
'come,' can't you, Joey?"

"Yeth, I can," replied Joey, and he said something which was not far off
"come."

"There, Ernest, do you hear that?  There's no difficulty about it, nor
shadow of difficulty.  Now, take your own time, think about it, and say
'come' after me."

The boy remained silent a few seconds and then said "tum" again.

I laughed, but Theobald turned to me impatiently and said, "Please do not
laugh, Overton; it will make the boy think it does not matter, and it
matters a great deal;" then turning to Ernest he said, "Now, Ernest, I
will give you one more chance, and if you don't say 'come,' I shall know
that you are self-willed and naughty."

He looked very angry, and a shade came over Ernest's face, like that
which comes upon the face of a puppy when it is being scolded without
understanding why.  The child saw well what was coming now, was
frightened, and, of course, said "tum" once more.

"Very well, Ernest," said his father, catching him angrily by the
shoulder.  "I have done my best to save you, but if you will have it so,
you will," and he lugged the little wretch, crying by anticipation, out
of the room.  A few minutes more and we could hear screams coming from
the dining-room, across the hall which separated the drawing-room from
the dining-room, and knew that poor Ernest was being beaten.

"I have sent him up to bed," said Theobald, as he returned to the drawing-
room, "and now, Christina, I think we will have the servants in to
prayers," and he rang the bell for them, red-handed as he was.





The man-servant William came and set the chairs for the maids, and
presently they filed in.  First Christina's maid, then the cook, then the
housemaid, then William, and then the coachman.  I sat opposite them, and
watched their faces as Theobald read a chapter from the Bible.  They were
nice people, but more absolute vacancy I never saw upon the countenances
of human beings.

Theobald began by reading a few verses from the Old Testament, according
to some system of his own.  On this occasion the passage came from the
fifteenth chapter of Numbers: it had no particular bearing that I could
see upon anything which was going on just then, but the spirit which
breathed throughout the whole seemed to me to be so like that of Theobald
himself, that I could understand better after hearing it, how he came to
think as he thought, and act as he acted.

The verses are as follows--

   "But the soul that doeth aught presumptuously, whether he be born in
   the land or a stranger, the same reproacheth the Lord; and that soul
   shall be cut off from among his people.

   "Because he hath despised the word of the Lord, and hath broken His
   commandments, that soul shall be utterly cut off; his iniquity shall
   be upon him.

   "And while the children of Israel were in the wilderness they found a
   man that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath day.

   "And they that found him gathering sticks brought him unto Moses and
   Aaron, and unto all the congregation.

   "And they put him in ward because it was not declared what should be
   done to him.

   "And the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall be surely put to death;
   all the congregation shall stone him with stones without the camp.

   "And all the congregation brought him without the camp, and stoned him
   with stones, and he died; as the Lord commanded Moses.

   "And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying,

   "Speak unto the children of Israel, and bid them that they make them
   fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their generations,
   and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a ribband of blue.

   "And it shall be unto you for a fringe, that ye may look upon it and
   remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them, and that ye
   seek not after your own heart and your own eyes.

   "That ye may remember and do all my commandments and be holy unto your
   God.

   "I am the Lord your God which brought you out of the land of Egypt, to
   be your God: I am the Lord your God."

My thoughts wandered while Theobald was reading the above, and reverted
to a little matter which I had observed in the course of the afternoon.

It happened that some years previously, a swarm of bees had taken up
their abode in the roof of the house under the slates, and had multiplied
so that the drawing-room was a good deal frequented by these bees during
the summer, when the windows were open.  The drawing-room paper was of a
pattern which consisted of bunches of red and white roses, and I saw
several bees at different times fly up to these bunches and try them,
under the impression that they were real flowers; having tried one bunch,
they tried the next, and the next, and the next, till they reached the
one that was nearest the ceiling, then they went down bunch by bunch as
they had ascended, till they were stopped by the back of the sofa; on
this they ascended bunch by bunch to the ceiling again; and so on, and so
on till I was tired of watching them.  As I thought of the family prayers
being repeated night and morning, week by week, month by month, and year
by year, I could nor help thinking how like it was to the way in which
the bees went up the wall and down the wall, bunch by bunch, without ever
suspecting that so many of the associated ideas could be present, and yet
the main idea be wanting hopelessly, and for ever.

When Theobald had finished reading we all knelt down and the Carlo Dolci
and the Sassoferrato looked down upon a sea of upturned backs, as we
buried our faces in our chairs.  I noted that Theobald prayed that we
might be made "truly honest and conscientious" in all our dealings, and
smiled at the introduction of the "truly."  Then my thoughts ran back to
the bees and I reflected that after all it was perhaps as well at any
rate for Theobald that our prayers were seldom marked by any very
encouraging degree of response, for if I had thought there was the
slightest chance of my being heard I should have prayed that some one
might ere long treat him as he had treated Ernest.

Then my thoughts wandered on to those calculations which people make
about waste of time and how much one can get done if one gives ten
minutes a day to it, and I was thinking what improper suggestion I could
make in connection with this and the time spent on family prayers which
should at the same time be just tolerable, when I heard Theobald
beginning "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ" and in a few seconds the
ceremony was over, and the servants filed out again as they had filed in.

As soon as they had left the drawing-room, Christina, who was a little
ashamed of the transaction to which I had been a witness, imprudently
returned to it, and began to justify it, saying that it cut her to the
heart, and that it cut Theobald to the heart and a good deal more, but
that "it was the only thing to be done."

I received this as coldly as I decently could, and by my silence during
the rest of the evening showed that I disapproved of what I had seen.

Next day I was to go back to London, but before I went I said I should
like to take some new-laid eggs back with me, so Theobald took me to the
house of a labourer in the village who lived a stone's throw from the
Rectory as being likely to supply me with them.  Ernest, for some reason
or other, was allowed to come too.  I think the hens had begun to sit,
but at any rate eggs were scarce, and the cottager's wife could not find
me more than seven or eight, which we proceeded to wrap up in separate
pieces of paper so that I might take them to town safely.

This operation was carried on upon the ground in front of the cottage
door, and while we were in the midst of it the cottager's little boy, a
lad much about Ernest's age, trod upon one of the eggs that was wrapped
up in paper and broke it.

"There now, Jack," said his mother, "see what you've done, you've broken
a nice egg and cost me a penny--Here, Emma," she added, calling her
daughter, "take the child away, there's a dear."

Emma came at once, and walked off with the youngster, taking him out of
harm's way.

"Papa," said Ernest, after we had left the house, "Why didn't Mrs Heaton
whip Jack when he trod on the egg?"

I was spiteful enough to give Theobald a grim smile which said as plainly
as words could have done that I thought Ernest had hit him rather hard.

Theobald coloured and looked angry.  "I dare say," he said quickly, "that
his mother will whip him now that we are gone."

I was not going to have this and said I did not believe it, and so the
matter dropped, but Theobald did not forget it and my visits to Battersby
were henceforth less frequent.

On our return to the house we found the postman had arrived and had
brought a letter appointing Theobald to a rural deanery which had lately
fallen vacant by the death of one of the neighbouring clergy who had held
the office for many years.  The bishop wrote to Theobald most warmly, and
assured him that he valued him as among the most hard-working and devoted
of his parochial clergy.  Christina of course was delighted, and gave me
to understand that it was only an instalment of the much higher dignities
which were in store for Theobald when his merits were more widely known.

I did not then foresee how closely my godson's life and mine were in
after years to be bound up together; if I had, I should doubtless have
looked upon him with different eyes and noted much to which I paid no
attention at the time.  As it was, I was glad to get away from him, for I
could do nothing for him, or chose to say that I could not, and the sight
of so much suffering was painful to me.  A man should not only have his
own way as far as possible, but he should only consort with things that
are getting their own way so far that they are at any rate comfortable.
Unless for short times under exceptional circumstances, he should not
even see things that have been stunted or starved, much less should he
eat meat that has been vexed by having been over-driven or underfed, or
afflicted with any disease; nor should he touch vegetables that have not
been well grown.  For all these things cross a man; whatever a man comes
in contact with in any way forms a cross with him which will leave him
better or worse, and the better things he is crossed with the more likely
he is to live long and happily.  All things must be crossed a little or
they would cease to live--but holy things, such for example as Giovanni
Bellini's saints, have been crossed with nothing but what is good of its
kind,





The storm which I have described in the previous chapter was a sample of
those that occurred daily for many years.  No matter how clear the sky,
it was always liable to cloud over now in one quarter now in another, and
the thunder and lightning were upon the young people before they knew
where they were.

"And then, you know," said Ernest to me, when I asked him not long since
to give me more of his childish reminiscences for the benefit of my
story, "we used to learn Mrs Barbauld's hymns; they were in prose, and
there was one about the lion which began, 'Come, and I will show you what
is strong.  The lion is strong; when he raiseth himself from his lair,
when he shaketh his mane, when the voice of his roaring is heard the
cattle of the field fly, and the beasts of the desert hide themselves,
for he is very terrible.'  I used to say this to Joey and Charlotte about
my father himself when I got a little older, but they were always
didactic, and said it was naughty of me.

"One great reason why clergymen's households are generally unhappy is
because the clergyman is so much at home or close about the house.  The
doctor is out visiting patients half his time: the lawyer and the
merchant have offices away from home, but the clergyman has no official
place of business which shall ensure his being away from home for many
hours together at stated times.  Our great days were when my father went
for a day's shopping to Gildenham.  We were some miles from this place,
and commissions used to accumulate on my father's list till he would make
a day of it and go and do the lot.  As soon as his back was turned the
air felt lighter; as soon as the hall door opened to let him in again,
the law with its all-reaching 'touch not, taste not, handle not' was upon
us again.  The worst of it was that I could never trust Joey and
Charlotte; they would go a good way with me and then turn back, or even
the whole way and then their consciences would compel them to tell papa
and mamma.  They liked running with the hare up to a certain point, but
their instinct was towards the hounds.

"It seems to me," he continued, "that the family is a survival of the
principle which is more logically embodied in the compound animal--and
the compound animal is a form of life which has been found incompatible
with high development.  I would do with the family among mankind what
nature has done with the compound animal, and confine it to the lower and
less progressive races.  Certainly there is no inherent love for the
family system on the part of nature herself.  Poll the forms of life and
you will find it in a ridiculously small minority.  The fishes know it
not, and they get along quite nicely.  The ants and the bees, who far
outnumber man, sting their fathers to death as a matter of course, and
are given to the atrocious mutilation of nine-tenths of the offspring
committed to their charge, yet where shall we find communities more
universally respected?  Take the cuckoo again--is there any bird which we
like better?"

I saw he was running off from his own reminiscences and tried to bring
him back to them, but it was no use.

"What a fool," he said, "a man is to remember anything that happened more
than a week ago unless it was pleasant, or unless he wants to make some
use of it.

"Sensible people get the greater part of their own dying done during
their own lifetime.  A man at five and thirty should no more regret not
having had a happier childhood than he should regret not having been born
a prince of the blood.  He might be happier if he had been more fortunate
in childhood, but, for aught he knows, if he had, something else might
have happened which might have killed him long ago.  If I had to be born
again I would be born at Battersby of the same father and mother as
before, and I would not alter anything that has ever happened to me."

The most amusing incident that I can remember about his childhood was
that when he was about seven years old he told me he was going to have a
natural child.  I asked him his reasons for thinking this, and he
explained that papa and mamma had always told him that nobody had
children till they were married, and as long as he had believed this of
course he had had no idea of having a child, till he was grown up; but
not long since he had been reading Mrs Markham's history of England and
had come upon the words "John of Gaunt had several natural children" he
had therefore asked his governess what a natural child was--were not all
children natural?

"Oh, my dear," said she, "a natural child is a child a person has before
he is married."  On this it seemed to follow logically that if John of
Gaunt had had children before he was married, he, Ernest Pontifex, might
have them also, and he would be obliged to me if I would tell him what he
had better do under the circumstances.

I enquired how long ago he had made this discovery.  He said about a
fortnight, and he did not know where to look for the child, for it might
come at any moment.  "You know," he said, "babies come so suddenly; one
goes to bed one night and next morning there is a baby.  Why, it might
die of cold if we are not on the look-out for it.  I hope it will be a
boy."

"And you have told your governess about this?"

"Yes, but she puts me off and does not help me: she says it will not come
for many years, and she hopes not then."

"Are you quite sure that you have not made any mistake in all this?"

"Oh, no; because Mrs Burne, you know, called here a few days ago, and I
was sent for to be looked at.  And mamma held me out at arm's length and
said, 'Is he Mr Pontifex's child, Mrs Burne, or is he mine?'  Of course,
she couldn't have said this if papa had not had some of the children
himself.  I did think the gentleman had all the boys and the lady all the
girls; but it can't be like this, or else mamma would not have asked Mrs
Burne to guess; but then Mrs Burne said, 'Oh, he's Mr Pontifex's child
_of course_,' and I didn't quite know what she meant by saying 'of
course': it seemed as though I was right in thinking that the husband has
all the boys and the wife all the girls; I wish you would explain to me
all about it."

This I could hardly do, so I changed the conversation, after reassuring
him as best I could.





Three or four years after the birth of her daughter, Christina had had
one more child.  She had never been strong since she married, and had a
presentiment that she should not survive this last confinement.  She
accordingly wrote the following letter, which was to be given, as she
endorsed upon it, to her sons when Ernest was sixteen years old.  It
reached him on his mother's death many years later, for it was the baby
who died now, and not Christina.  It was found among papers which she had
repeatedly and carefully arranged, with the seal already broken.  This, I
am afraid, shows that Christina had read it and thought it too creditable
to be destroyed when the occasion that had called it forth had gone by.
It is as follows--

   "BATTERSBY, March 15th, 1841.

   "My Two Dear Boys,--When this is put into your hands will you try to
   bring to mind the mother whom you lost in your childhood, and whom, I
   fear, you will almost have forgotten?  You, Ernest, will remember her
   best, for you are past five years old, and the many, many times that
   she has taught you your prayers and hymns and sums and told you
   stories, and our happy Sunday evenings will not quite have passed from
   your mind, and you, Joey, though only four, will perhaps recollect
   some of these things.  My dear, dear boys, for the sake of that mother
   who loved you very dearly--and for the sake of your own happiness for
   ever and ever--attend to and try to remember, and from time to time
   read over again the last words she can ever speak to you.  When I
   think about leaving you all, two things press heavily upon me: one,
   your father's sorrow (for you, my darlings, after missing me a little
   while, will soon forget your loss), the other, the everlasting welfare
   of my children.  I know how long and deep the former will be, and I
   know that he will look to his children to be almost his only earthly
   comfort.  You know (for I am certain that it will have been so), how
   he has devoted his life to you and taught you and laboured to lead you
   to all that is right and good.  Oh, then, be sure that you _are_ his
   comforts.  Let him find you obedient, affectionate and attentive to
   his wishes, upright, self-denying and diligent; let him never blush
   for or grieve over the sins and follies of those who owe him such a
   debt of gratitude, and whose first duty it is to study his happiness.
   You have both of you a name which must not be disgraced, a father and
   a grandfather of whom to show yourselves worthy; your respectability
   and well-doing in life rest mainly with yourselves, but far, far
   beyond earthly respectability and well-doing, and compared with which
   they are as nothing, your eternal happiness rests with yourselves.  You
   know your duty, but snares and temptations from without beset you, and
   the nearer you approach to manhood the more strongly will you feel
   this.  With God's help, with God's word, and with humble hearts you
   will stand in spite of everything, but should you leave off seeking in
   earnest for the first, and applying to the second, should you learn to
   trust in yourselves, or to the advice and example of too many around
   you, you will, you must fall.  Oh, 'let God be true and every man a
   liar.'  He says you cannot serve Him and Mammon.  He says that strait
   is the gate that leads to eternal life.  Many there are who seek to
   widen it; they will tell you that such and such self-indulgences are
   but venial offences--that this and that worldly compliance is
   excusable and even necessary.  The thing _cannot be_; for in a hundred
   and a hundred places He tells you so--look to your Bibles and seek
   there whether such counsel is true--and if not, oh, 'halt not between
   two opinions,' if God is the Lord follow Him; only be strong and of a
   good courage, and He will never leave you nor forsake you.  Remember,
   there is not in the Bible one law for the rich, and one for the
   poor--one for the educated and one for the ignorant.  To _all_ there
   is but one thing needful.  _All_ are to be living to God and their
   fellow-creatures, and not to themselves.  _All_ must seek first the
   Kingdom of God and His righteousness--must _deny themselves_, be pure
   and chaste and charitable in the fullest and widest sense--all,
   'forgetting those things that are behind,' must 'press forward towards
   the mark, for the prize of the high calling of God.'

   "And now I will add but two things more.  Be true through life to each
   other, love as only brothers should do, strengthen, warn, encourage
   one another, and let who will be against you, let each feel that in
   his brother he has a firm and faithful friend who will be so to the
   end; and, oh! be kind and watchful over your dear sister; without
   mother or sisters she will doubly need her brothers' love and
   tenderness and confidence.  I am certain she will seek them, and will
   love you and try to make you happy; be sure then that you do not fail
   her, and remember, that were she to lose her father and remain
   unmarried, she would doubly need protectors.  To you, then, I
   especially commend her.  Oh! my three darling children, be true to
   each other, your Father, and your God.  May He guide and bless you,
   and grant that in a better and happier world I and mine may meet
   again.--Your most affectionate mother,

   CHRISTINA PONTIFEX."

From enquiries I have made, I have satisfied myself that most mothers
write letters like this shortly before their confinements, and that fifty
per cent. keep them afterwards, as Christina did.





The foregoing letter shows how much greater was Christina's anxiety for
the eternal than for the temporal welfare of her sons.  One would have
thought she had sowed enough of such religious wild oats by this time,
but she had plenty still to sow.  To me it seems that those who are happy
in this world are better and more lovable people than those who are not,
and that thus in the event of a Resurrection and Day of Judgement, they
will be the most likely to be deemed worthy of a heavenly mansion.
Perhaps a dim unconscious perception of this was the reason why Christina
was so anxious for Theobald's earthly happiness, or was it merely due to
a conviction that his eternal welfare was so much a matter of course,
that it only remained to secure his earthly happiness?  He was to "find
his sons obedient, affectionate, attentive to his wishes, self-denying
and diligent," a goodly string forsooth of all the virtues most
convenient to parents; he was never to have to blush for the follies of
those "who owed him such a debt of gratitude," and "whose first duty it
was to study his happiness."  How like maternal solicitude is this!
Solicitude for the most part lest the offspring should come to have
wishes and feelings of its own, which may occasion many difficulties,
fancied or real.  It is this that is at the bottom of the whole mischief;
but whether this last proposition is granted or no, at any rate we
observe that Christina had a sufficiently keen appreciation of the duties
of children towards their parents, and felt the task of fulfilling them
adequately to be so difficult that she was very doubtful how far Ernest
and Joey would succeed in mastering it.  It is plain in fact that her
supposed parting glance upon them was one of suspicion.  But there was no
suspicion of Theobald; that he should have devoted his life to his
children--why this was such a mere platitude, as almost to go without
saying.

How, let me ask, was it possible that a child only a little past five
years old, trained in such an atmosphere of prayers and hymns and sums
and happy Sunday evenings--to say nothing of daily repeated beatings over
the said prayers and hymns, etc., about which our authoress is silent--how
was it possible that a lad so trained should grow up in any healthy or
vigorous development, even though in her own way his mother was
undoubtedly very fond of him, and sometimes told him stories?  Can the
eye of any reader fail to detect the coming wrath of God as about to
descend upon the head of him who should be nurtured under the shadow of
such a letter as the foregoing?

I have often thought that the Church of Rome does wisely in not allowing
her priests to marry.  Certainly it is a matter of common observation in
England that the sons of clergymen are frequently unsatisfactory.  The
explanation is very simple, but is so often lost sight of that I may
perhaps be pardoned for giving it here.

The clergyman is expected to be a kind of human Sunday.  Things must not
be done in him which are venial in the week-day classes.  He is paid for
this business of leading a stricter life than other people.  It is his
_raison d'etre_.  If his parishioners feel that he does this, they
approve of him, for they look upon him as their own contribution towards
what they deem a holy life.  This is why the clergyman is so often called
a vicar--he being the person whose vicarious goodness is to stand for
that of those entrusted to his charge.  But his home is his castle as
much as that of any other Englishman, and with him, as with others,
unnatural tension in public is followed by exhaustion when tension is no
longer necessary.  His children are the most defenceless things he can
reach, and it is on them in nine cases out of ten that he will relieve
his mind.

A clergyman, again, can hardly ever allow himself to look facts fairly in
the face.  It is his profession to support one side; it is impossible,
therefore, for him to make an unbiassed examination of the other.

We forget that every clergyman with a living or curacy, is as much a paid
advocate as the barrister who is trying to persuade a jury to acquit a
prisoner.  We should listen to him with the same suspense of judgment,
the same full consideration of the arguments of the opposing counsel, as
a judge does when he is trying a case.  Unless we know these, and can
state them in a way that our opponents would admit to be a fair
representation of their views, we have no right to claim that we have
formed an opinion at all.  The misfortune is that by the law of the land
one side only can be heard.

Theobald and Christina were no exceptions to the general rule.  When they
came to Battersby they had every desire to fulfil the duties of their
position, and to devote themselves to the honour and glory of God.  But
it was Theobald's duty to see the honour and glory of God through the
eyes of a Church which had lived three hundred years without finding
reason to change a single one of its opinions.

I should doubt whether he ever got as far as doubting the wisdom of his
Church upon any single matter.  His scent for possible mischief was
tolerably keen; so was Christina's, and it is likely that if either of
them detected in him or herself the first faint symptoms of a want of
faith they were nipped no less peremptorily in the bud, than signs of
self-will in Ernest were--and I should imagine more successfully.  Yet
Theobald considered himself, and was generally considered to be, and
indeed perhaps was, an exceptionally truthful person; indeed he was
generally looked upon as an embodiment of all those virtues which make
the poor respectable and the rich respected.  In the course of time he
and his wife became persuaded even to unconsciousness, that no one could
even dwell under their roof without deep cause for thankfulness.  Their
children, their servants, their parishioners must be fortunate _ipso
facto_ that they were theirs.  There was no road to happiness here or
hereafter, but the road that they had themselves travelled, no good
people who did not think as they did upon every subject, and no
reasonable person who had wants the gratification of which would be
inconvenient to them--Theobald and Christina.

This was how it came to pass that their children were white and puny;
they were suffering from _home-sickness_.  They were starving, through
being over-crammed with the wrong things.  Nature came down upon them,
but she did not come down on Theobald and Christina.  Why should she?
They were not leading a starved existence.  There are two classes of
people in this world, those who sin, and those who are sinned against; if
a man must belong to either, he had better belong to the first than to
the second.

 Ernest's early childhood is recollected as an unrelieved succession of Victorian Sundays. Of the two parents, Christina is the more tolerable and affectionate, but her role is rather that of an accomplice to Theobald's tyranny than as a loving and kindly presence whose love and kindness are sorely needed. When Ernest, age three, cannot pronounce the word come correctly, he is whipped for being "self-willed and naughty." A measure of relief from this oppressive existence comes on Sunday evenings when the children are permitted to select their own hymns to sing. Overton confesses that "the sight of so much suffering" dissuades him from visiting the Pontifexes more often. When questioned by Overton in his later years about his childhood, Ernest, perhaps out of stubborn family loyalty, refuses to wish he had been treated differently as a child. He is quite emphatic, however, in his insistence that the family as an institution should be confined to a lower species. His point is well borne out by the reproduction of a letter written by Christina to her children at a time of confinement when she feared that she would not survive the delivery of another baby. Her solicitude for her children's welfare consists entirely of admonishing them to be obedient to their father. Their own salvation is considered only in terms of a final day of judgment, and there is no reference to their happiness as mere worldlings. Overton sums up Ernest's early years by remarking that Ernest was made to suffer from "home-sickness," a kind of "starving, through being over-crammed with the wrong things."

