“Ah! so us have—­so us have,” came the response.

“And you carn’t get rid of him,” continued the speaker.

“Not of oursel’s,” ejaculated a fervent voice at the end of the room, “but the Lord will help us.”

The old preacher turned on him almost fiercely:—­

“But th’ Lord woan’t,” he shouted; “doan’t ’ee reckon on that, lad.  Ye’ve got him an’ ye’ve got ta keep him.  Ye carn’t get rid of him.  Th’ Lord doan’t mean ’ee to.”

Here there broke forth murmurs of angry disapproval, but the old fellow went on, unheeding:—­

“It arn’t good for ’ee to get rid of him.  Ye’ve just got to hug him tight.  Doan’t let him go.  Hold him fast, and—­LAM INTO HIM.  I tell ’ee it’s good, healthy Christian exercise.”

We had been discussing the subject with reference to our hero.  It had been suggested by Brown as an unhackneyed idea, and one lending itself, therefore, to comparative freshness of treatment, that our hero should be a thorough-paced scamp.

Jephson seconded the proposal, for the reason that it would the better enable us to accomplish artistic work.  He was of opinion that we should be more sure of our ground in drawing a villain than in attempting to portray a good man.

MacShaughnassy thirded (if I may coin what has often appeared to me to be a much-needed word) the motion with ardour.  He was tired, he said, of the crystal-hearted, noble-thinking young man of fiction.  Besides, it made bad reading for the “young person.”  It gave her false ideas, and made her dissatisfied with mankind as he really is.

And, thereupon, he launched forth and sketched us his idea of a hero, with reference to whom I can only say that I should not like to meet him on a dark night.

Brown, our one earnest member, begged us to be reasonable, and reminded us, not for the first time, and not, perhaps, altogether unnecessarily, that these meetings were for the purpose of discussing business, not of talking nonsense.

Thus adjured, we attacked the subject conscientiously.

Brown’s idea was that the man should be an out-and-out blackguard, until about the middle of the book, when some event should transpire that would have the effect of completely reforming him.  This naturally brought the discussion down to the question with which I have commenced this chapter:  Does man ever reform?  I argued in the negative, and gave the reasons for my disbelief much as I have set them forth here.  MacShaughnassy, on the other hand, contended that he did, and instanced the case of himself—­a man who, in his early days, so he asserted, had been a scatterbrained, impracticable person, entirely without stability.

I maintained that this was merely an example of enormous will-power enabling a man to overcome and rise superior to the defects of character with which nature had handicapped him.

“My opinion of you,” I said, “is that you are naturally a hopelessly irresponsible, well-meaning ass.  But,” I continued quickly, seeing his hand reaching out towards a complete Shakespeare in one volume that lay upon the piano, “your mental capabilities are of such extraordinary power that you can disguise this fact, and make yourself appear a man of sense and wisdom.”