upon his table. Old problems
in trigonometry were the pleasing relaxations of his mind, and
complications of figures were a delight to him. There was not one of
those prosperous clergymen around him, and who scorned him, whom he
could not have instructed in Hebrew. It was always a gratification to
him to remember that his old friend the dean was weak in his Hebrew.
He, with these acquirements, with these fitnesses, had been thrust
down to the ground,--to the very granite,--and because in that harsh
heartless thrusting his intellect had for moments wavered as to
common things, cleaving still to all its grander, nobler possessions,
he was now to be rent in pieces and scattered to the winds, as being
altogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It was thus
that he thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate,
while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.

He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite
of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too
strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two.
He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all the
courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth should
ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do
justice though the heaven should fall. But he could not forget to pay
a tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, when
accepting with an effort of meekness the small payment made by the
world to him, in return for his great works, could he forget the
great payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient
for him to remember that he knew Hebrew, but he must remember also
that the dean did not.

Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind
with a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddiness
of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect
of this man was essentially clear. It was simply his memory that
would play him tricks,--his memory as to things which at the moment
were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money
was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the
money, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himself
that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been
important to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr. Tempest,
and that he would tell Dr. Tempest that there was no occasion for a