these matters, notwithstanding that envy, hatred, and malice and all uncharitableness maintain their

footing.

The vast majority of the diocesan males and all the females believed in the Bishop; and he found himself, with much complacency, looked up to as one erudite and deep, whose person and presence conveyed the idea of perfect placidity and happiness.

I am, of course, well aware that there are those who will captiously argue that the dullest intellects are invariably the most placid and happy. I neither accept nor deny the assertion (for, after all, it is nothing more); but I trust that my reader is such an all-round happy person as by no means to relish the inference or require me to combat it. Doubtless a uniform state of mediocrity is best, as being freest from envy; and if, in this middle state, we can unselfishly be amusing or interesting —like a monkey or a dancing-bear -well and good. These animals are, I daresay, in many particulars superior to the average spectator, and are, I venture to believe, often unhappy in the company they are obliged to keep.

"But this is," you will insist, "simply the result of over-culture on the part of these animals. Culture is all very well, but at the rate at which we are going what is to become of the commonplace? There will be a dearth of mediocre people to fill mediocre appointments." No doubt; but it is a great consolation to feel, with Dr Quodlibet, that such an important institution as the Church will be the last to suffer from such a contingency.

For my part, were I a bishop or anything else in high authority or position, I should, as a matter of mere expediency—if I wanted to

be popular-much prefer a reputation for mediocrity: it saves a great deal of trouble and annoyance, and you can so much more easily live up to it. He is a thoroughly sensible man, to my mind, who holds the theory that one should strive to be neither better nor worse than those one meets; for, as he affirms, one of the miseries of intellectual excellence is that nine-tenths of those you come in contact with do not know whether you are an impostor or not. Admitted, say you, that this is right as far as it goes-how far does it go? A fair question; for, after all, the obtuseness of these nine forms the force of the isolated tenth. Their ignorance is in fact your strength. And thus, if it be true that there are no people who have no pretensions, and that the fewer they have the less they can afford to acknowledge yours, it is also equally true that there is a potential power in self-assertion which never fails to place the tenth person on a pedestal composed of the shoulders of the other nine; and, once up, like the Bishop, the position is easily retained.

I do not go so far as to say that one invariably reaches high position by self-assertion far from it: the Bishop was apparently a modest and unassuming man; but reputation is called for when the position and the office are both exalted ones-he was not only a Lord, but a spiritual one.

Mediocrity may be the normal condition of the masses, and may do very well for persons, but not for personages. We expect more from favoured individuals whose callings begin with capital letters than from mere toilers and moilers; therefore, those placed in authority over us should have by nature, or should boldly assume, distinc

tive excellences to be put on with their distinctive garments. Even the poorest actor must learn the stage strut, and must dress for his part; and we expect more from lawn sleeves than from a smockfrock.

Be the argument as it may, the Bishop got credit for great profundity. Nothing is so easily believed as what you don't know; and if you tell an ignorant man that you have assimilated a great deal of learning, and are clever, some one will hear the story from him and pass it on, till it ultimately becomes a settled conviction all round, and emerges from the doubtful atmosphere of "they say" into the clearer air of "everybody knows." Credence, like love, grows by what it feeds on, and faith is self-cumulative.

Anyhow, abstract speculation can add nothing to the fact that Bishop Quodlibet stood high. He was consulted by deputations on every subject, being most accessible, and only asking for due notice and a digest of the matters to be brought before him. This was thought to be very reasonable, considering his high position, and the many calls which must of necessity be made upon his time. The conditions which he imposed gave him opportunity to make up his subject thoroughly; to hunt (if need be) through books and authorities; to cram himself with facts and statistics, quotations and arguments, which sent away the members of the deputation dazzled, if not convinced his head was so small, and yet it seemed to hold such a lot.

He was, as we remarked incidentally, what is called a fine man, fully six feet in his "stocking feet." Sitting enthroned in his robes on Sunday he had very much the look of a large white

rabbit. an illusion which was accentuated by a trick he had of winking with his nose (if I may so express it) in a way peculiaras far as I am aware-to that animal. His eyes, which were large and brown, appeared to be all pupil, still and deep. His hair was snow-white, cut short, and very thick - which somehow at first sight clashed with one's idea of a Father in God, though why it should I am unable to explain. I know that it was a cause of stumbling to Canon Fungus, who envied his diocesan this gift of nature, having himself nothing but a long tuft rooted at the back, which he carefully divided, festooned over each ear, and then intermingled over his forehead. The Bishop's was a soldier's crop, not to be put out of trim by either shovel-hat or summer breeze.

But these are trivial personalities which it is not I willingly admit-good form to notice at the expense of Canon Fungus or anybody else; and the introduction of which can only be excused and covered by the precedent of antiquity. I take refuge on this occasion behind Martial, who has passed almost identical comment upon his friend Marianus:"Raros colligis hinc et hinc capillos, et latum nitidæ, calvæ

campum temporibus tegis comatis. How the cap of Marianus fits even myself, I do not care openly to

declare

The measured tramp of footsteps along the corridor indicated to the major that Hawkes had not been remiss in attending to the most important of his master's orders.

The sergeant halted his man at the door, and in response to the major's request, opened it and marched him in.

"That will do, sergeant, thank you. Leave him; you need not wait," and with a mute salute the non-com. departed, shutting the door behind him, and leaving the soldier standing to attention, while the major, with his back turned, sedulously poked the fire.

It did not require poking; in fact it would have been a far better fire if it had been let alone. Nevertheless he poked it again and again, raked out the bars, exchanged the poker for the tongs, lifted several cinders, and placed them on the top. Finally he took up a small piece of scorched paper and dropped it into the blaze,it was the last corner of the warrant which he had previously held till the fire reached his finger-tips. All this was done to gain time, -to let the sergeant out of earshot. He and this soldier had been old and warm schoolboy friends, a fact which the name in the now consumed warrant had disclosed to Tynte. Memories of the past were revived, and as an officer and a private could not meet as social equals in the presence of a sergeant, without undermining one of the first principles of soldiering, the major was driven to this small subterfuge,

VOL. CXLIX.-NO. DCCCCVIII.

"

-WORDSWORTH.

because to meet Hugh Scottowe in any other way than a friendly one was impossible. They had been fast chums at school, and all the obligations of friendship and instincts of a naturally kindly nature were strongly asserting themselves at the moment. He felt, too, that somehow Hugh Scottowe had come to grief,-the chap who had in many an early encounter, both of head and hand, befriended him, coached him in his studies, and backed him in his fights. He had heard some years back that this quondam friend put in a claim to the ancient seat of his family- which adjoined Tynte's-and the last letter the major wrote was one based on this report, and wishing him success; but years had passed and they had neither met nor corresponded, and now they stood within a few feet of each other,-one a commissioned officer, the other a full private.

The situation was embarrassing —and that was why the major wanted the sergeant to be well off the premises before he allowed his feelings to get the better of him : there was nothing for it but to poke the fire.

At last-and even before the coast was clear-being unable to restrain himself longer, he suddenly dropped the tongs, and, straightening himself, faced the tall visitor for an instant, and then "went for him " - laying suddenly impulsive hands upon the shoulders of Scottowe, with an impetus which caused the latter to stagger under the shock.

3 F

"Hugh! Hugh!" he exclaimed; "in the name of heaven, how is this? What on earth brings you here in-in-uniform?" his deep emotion plainly discoverable in the tone of his voice.

Misfortune," said the other, with a calmness strangely in contrast with the suppressed excitement of his friend. "Folly, madness-what you will. Some fools would call it ill-luck; but-no matter-call it what you will, I am here as the result. It is well that I do not appear in a less honourable attire-equally subject to the Crown."

"Do not jest with me, old fellow.

For the sake of past and pleasant times and memories, be frank. You could not be a criminal under any circumstances: I refuse to believe it. Tell me all, Hugh. Time is short-very short. There must be much to tell; I have lost sight of you for so long. And now to drop on one another under such exceptional circumstances seems very strange and almost

"Ominous!" The major shook his head with a kind denying smile. "I did not say so or think so.'

"We have no time for subtle distinctions, Tynte, suggested by your kindness of heart. We are each of us the sons of our own deeds; and the stern fact is, old man, that I am a fugitive from justice-or, rather, from the law, which is not always just. your strong right arm I owe my present freedom; but it may be at cost to you. My fate is always. to hurt my friends."

To

"Well, if my mind is easy on that score, why need you fret?" said Tynte, in a reassuring tone. "I have broken civil and military law, and even moral, for the matter of that, because it does not sanction a breach, even though good should come of it; but if the good comes, I shall be quite satisfied. My conscience will not prick; and in the present excitement and high pressure I daresay we'll pull through. But you must let me believe in you still. Our school days must not Be exbe so easily forgotten. plicit, like a good fellow; because, of course, you can explain, and I positively won't believe you bad."

"Misfortune dogged me, Tynte. If you remember anything, you will remember how every school scrape I got into was the result of over-confidence in others. I always followed the lead for good or ill."

"That wasn't a crime," mildly put in the other; "sometimes it is not even a defect."

"It is worse than a crime, of ten, in its effects. If a man stands cowering under a northern blast, and can be persuaded that it is only the south wind coming back, and be got to actually believe it feels warm, what would you do with the idiot or say to him?”

"Yes. Misfortune dogged me, as I said, Tynte, after you and I parted. You knew what my ambition was-my one burning desire; how the most intense pride of family was in my blood?"

"We often laughed at it—we boys."

"You did. What enemies I made by it! My ambition was to win back the possession of that place at Scottowe to which I made, on foot, a vacation pilgrimage, which I was told belonged to my ancestors, and which was going begging for an heir-that heir being myself."

"I remember all that, Hugh, as if it were yesterday; and how your grandfather left on record a written statement as to his paternity, and family letters proving his undoubted relationship-I remember it all: it seemed to us, boy genealogists, conclusive; and in your case the wish was father to the thought."

"It was when my father died I

jumped at the bait, not for a moment wondering why he had not done so himself. I would rise to my proper position; have no more to do with shopping and trade; be a Scottowe of the Scottowesthe representative of a noble race, instead of ah! why talk of it? The bubble burst, the illusion was dispelled; and the reaction—the recoil-almost drove me mad."

"Where was the hitch?" asked Tynte, becoming interested; "could it not be overcome?"

"No; it was insurmountable. My father was aware of, and purposely suppressed the fact of his father's illegitimacy-whether from shame or pride I know not, nor does it matter. The discovery came like a thunder-clap on me, after a rascally attorney had pumped me dry, and there was no more cash to be got. The scoundrel knew the secret all the time, but led me on. He induced me to take up speculative connection with projected companies, to put me on my legs,' as he said; and, after duping me till even my suspicions began to be awakened, he flung the fatal fact brutally in my face and threw me over-my pride and shame in fierce antagonism. The first narrow escape I had was after the thrashing I gave him. It was a mercy that I did not kill him. He was afraid to institute proceedings against me; and waiting for revenge, he took me in doubly by playing upon my sense of remorse. He led me deeper into the mire. You remember an old schoolfellow, Joe Hinch ?"

"Well! A bad lot. We never could discover what his people were, or where he came from. Did you?"

"Never. I only know that if there was a difficulty about tracing out his beginnings I have none in predicting his end. I came across him again through this same attor