He was raising a dead weight.  The passion for sarcastic speech was manifestly at war with common prudence in the bosom of Mrs. Amble; prudence, however, overcame it.  She cast on him a look of a kind that makes matrimony terrific in the dreams of bachelors, and then wedding her energy to the assistance given she made one of those senseless springs of the upper half of the body, which strike the philosophic eye with the futility of an effort that does not arise from a solid basis.  Owing to the want of concert between them, the vicar’s impulsive strength was expended when his wife’s came into play.  Alice clutched her mother bravely.  The vicar had force enough to stay his wife’s descent; but Alice (she boasts of her muscle) had not the force in the other direction—­and no wonder.  There are few young ladies who could pull fourteen stone sheer up a camshot.

Mrs. Amble remained in suspense between the two.

Oh, Mr. Pollingray, if you were only on this side to help us,’ Miss Alice exclaimed very piteously, though I could see that she was half mad with the internal struggle of laughter at the parents and concern for them.

‘Now, pull, Alice,’ shouted the vicar.

‘No, not yet,’ screamed Mrs. Amble; I’m sinking.’

‘Pull, Alice.’

‘Now, Mama.’

‘Oh!’

‘Push, Papa.’

‘I’m down.’

‘Up, Ma’am; Jane; woman, up.’

‘Gently, Papa:  Abraham, I will not.’

‘My dear, but you must.’

‘And that man opposite.’

‘What, Pollingray?  He’s fifty.’

I found myself walking indignantly down the path.  Even now I protest my friend was guilty of bad manners, though I make every allowance for him; I excuse, I pass the order; but why—­what justifies one man’s bawling out another man’s age?  What purpose does it serve?  I suppose the vicar wished to reassure his wife, on the principle (I have heard him enunciate it) that the sexes are merged at fifty—­by which he means, I must presume, that something which may be good or bad, and is generally silly —­of course, I admire and respect modesty and pudeur as much as any man—­ something has gone:  a recognition of the bounds of division.  There is, if that is a lamentable matter, a loss of certain of our young tricks at fifty.  We have ceased to blush readily:  and let me ask you to define a blush.  Is it an involuntary truth or an ingenuous lie?  I know that this will sound like the language of a man not a little jealous of his youthful compeers.  I can but leave it to rightly judging persons to consider whether a healthy man in his prime, who has enough, and is not cursed by ambition, need be jealous of any living soul.