upon him!  Who had been tried as he had been tried, and had gone through such fire with less loss of intellectual power than he had done?  He was still a scholar, though no brother scholar ever came near him, and would make Greek iambics as he walked through the lanes.  His memory was stored with poetry, though no book ever came into his hands, except those shorn and tattered volumes which lay 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 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 that 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 not occasion for any further inquiry.  He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop’s decision be what it might.  Things were different