were a minuet at the end of the dining-room table in front of the old bay window that looked upon the smooth shaven lawn.  On this Ernest departed; but a few days afterwards, the Doctor wrote him a letter and told him that his critics were a [Greek text], and at the same time [Greek text].  Ernest remembered [Greek text], and knew that the other words were something of like nature, so it was all right.  A month or two afterwards, Dr Skinner was gathered to his fathers.

“He was an old fool, Ernest,” said I, “and you should not relent towards him.”

“I could not help it,” he replied, “he was so old that it was almost like playing with a child.”

Sometimes, like all whose minds are active, Ernest overworks himself, and then occasionally he has fierce and reproachful encounters with Dr Skinner or Theobald in his sleep—­but beyond this neither of these two worthies can now molest him further.

To myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am half afraid—­as for example when I talk to him about his books—­that I may have been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have, I trust he has forgiven me.  His books are the only bone of contention between us.  I want him to write like other people, and not to offend so many of his readers; he says he can no more change his manner of writing than the colour of his hair, and that he must write as he does or not at all.

With the public generally he is not a favourite.  He is admitted to have talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer unpractical kind, and no matter how serious he is, he is always accused of being in jest.  His first book was a success for reasons which I have already explained, but none of his others have been more than creditable failures.  He is one of those unfortunate men, each one of whose books is sneered at by literary critics as soon as it comes out, but becomes “excellent reading” as soon as it has been followed by a later work which may in its turn be condemned.

He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life.  I have told him over and over again that this is madness, and find that this is the only thing I can say to him which makes him angry with me.

“What can it matter to me,” he says, “whether people read my books or not?  It may matter to them—­but I have too much money to want more, and if the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by.  I do not know nor greatly care whether they are good or not.  What opinion can any sane man form about his own work?  Some people must write stupid books just as there must be junior ops and third class poll men.  Why should I complain of being among the mediocrities?  If a man is not absolutely below mediocrity let him be thankful—­besides, the books will have to stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better.”

I spoke to his publisher about him not long since.  “Mr Pontifex,” he said, “is a homo unius libri, but it doesn’t do to tell him so.”