of course our papa.

Mrs Pontifex had no sense of humour, at least I can call to mind no signs
of this, but her husband had plenty of fun in him, though few would have
guessed it from his appearance. I remember my father once sent me down
to his workship to get some glue, and I happened to come when old
Pontifex was in the act of scolding his boy. He had got the lad--a
pudding-headed fellow--by the ear and was saying, "What? Lost
again--smothered o' wit." (I believe it was the boy who was himself
supposed to be a wandering soul, and who was thus addressed as lost.)
"Now, look here, my lad," he continued, "some boys are born stupid, and
thou art one of them; some achieve stupidity--that's thee again, Jim--thou
wast both born stupid and hast greatly increased thy birthright--and
some" (and here came a climax during which the boy's head and ear were
swayed from side to side) "have stupidity thrust upon them, which, if it
please the Lord, shall not be thy case, my lad, for I will thrust
stupidity from thee, though I have to box thine ears in doing so," but I
did not see that the old man really did box Jim's ears, or do more than
pretend to frighten him, for the two understood one another perfectly
well. Another time I remember hearing him call the village rat-catcher
by saying, "Come hither, thou three-days-and-three-nights, thou,"
alluding, as I afterwards learned, to the rat-catcher's periods of
intoxication; but I will tell no more of such trifles. My father's face
would always brighten when old Pontifex's name was mentioned. "I tell
you, Edward," he would say to me, "old Pontifex was not only an able man,
but he was one of the very ablest men that ever I knew."

This was more than I as a young man was prepared to stand. "My dear
father," I answered, "what did he do? He could draw a little, but could
he to save his life have got a picture into the Royal Academy exhibition?
He built two organs and could play the Minuet in _Samson_ on one and the
March in _Scipio_ on the other; he was a good carpenter and a bit of a
wag; he was a good old fellow enough, but why make him out so much abler
than he was?"

"My boy," returned my father, "you must not judge by the work, but by the
work in connection with the surroundings. Could Giotto or Filippo Lippi,
think you, have got a picture into the Exhibition? Would a single one of
those frescoes we went to see when we were at Padua have the remotest
chance of being hung,