g a man's
ultimate good work is, the more sure he is to pass through a time, and
perhaps a very long one, in which there seems very little hope for him at
all. We must all sow our spiritual wild oats. The fault I feel
personally disposed to find with my godson is not that he had wild oats
to sow, but that they were such an exceedingly tame and uninteresting
crop. The sense of humour and tendency to think for himself, of which
till a few months previously he had been showing fair promise, were
nipped as though by a late frost, while his earlier habit of taking on
trust everything that was told him by those in authority, and following
everything out to the bitter end, no matter how preposterous, returned
with redoubled strength. I suppose this was what might have been
expected from anyone placed as Ernest now was, especially when his
antecedents are remembered, but it surprised and disappointed some of his
cooler-headed Cambridge friends who had begun to think well of his
ability. To himself it seemed that religion was incompatible with half
measures, or even with compromise. Circumstances had led to his being
ordained; for the moment he was sorry they had, but he had done it and
must go through with it. He therefore set himself to find out what was
expected of him, and to act accordingly.

His rector was a moderate High Churchman of no very pronounced views--an
elderly man who had had too many curates not to have long since found out
that the connection between rector and curate, like that between employer
and employed in every other walk of life, was a mere matter of business.
He had now two curates, of whom Ernest was the junior; the senior curate
was named Pryer, and when this gentleman made advances, as he presently
did, Ernest in his forlorn state was delighted to meet them.

Pryer was about twenty-eight years old. He had been at Eton and at
Oxford. He was tall, and passed generally for good-looking; I only saw
him once for about five minutes, and then thought him odious both in
manners and appearance. Perhaps it was because he caught me up in a way
I did not like. I had quoted Shakespeare for lack of something better to
fill up a sentence--and had said that one touch of nature made the whole
world kin. "Ah," said Pryer, in a bold, brazen way which displeased me,
"but one touch of the unnatural makes it more kindred still," and he gave
me a look as though he thought me an old bore and did not care two st