. But the circumstances need only be indicated here. He had
been opposed in everything to his father's views. His father, finding
him to be a clever lad, had at first designed him for the Bar. But
he, before he had left Oxford, utterly repudiated all legal pursuits.
"What the devil do you wish to be?" said his father, who at that
time was supposed to be able to leave his son L2000 a-year. The son
replied that he would work for a fellowship, and devote himself to
literature. The old admiral sent literature to all the infernal gods,
and told his son that he was a fool. But the lad did not succeed in
getting his fellowship, and neither father nor mother ever knew the
amount of suffering which he endured thereby. He became plaintive
and wrote poetry, and spent his pocket-money in publishing it, which
again caused him sorrow, not for the loss of his money, but by the
obscurity of his poetry. He had to confess to himself that God
had not conferred upon him the gift of writing poetry; and having
acknowledged so much, he never again put two lines together. Of all
this he said nothing; but the sense of failure made him sad at heart.
And his father, when he was in those straits, only laughed at him,
not at all believing the assurances of his son's misery, which from
time to time were given to him by his wife.

Then the old admiral declared that, as his son would do nothing for
himself, he must work for his son. And he took in his old age to
going into the city and speculating in shares. Then the Admiral
died. The shares came to nothing, and calls were made; and when
Mrs Whittlestaff followed her husband, her son, looking about him,
bought Croker's Hall, reduced his establishment, and put down the
man-servant whose departed glory was to Mrs Baggett a matter of such
deep regret.

But before this time Mr Whittlestaff had encountered the greatest
sorrow of his life. Even the lost fellowship, even the rejected
poetry, had not caused him such misery as this. He had loved a young
lady, and had been accepted;--and then the young lady had jilted him.
At this time of his life he was about thirty; and as to the outside
world, he was absolutely dumfounded by the catastrophe. Up to this
period he had been a sportsman in a moderate degree, fishing a good
deal, shooting a little, and devoted to hunting, to the extent of a
single horse. But when the blow came, he never fished or shot, or
hunted again. I think that the young lady would hardly h