I rescued this gorgeous 1932 book (copy # 257 out of the 800 printed) from the library before it shuttered for the next few weeks. The craftsmanship makes your heart swell, perfect font, crisp photographs, handmade paper. It’s another collection of ad hoc writing from Samuel Butler, the one place where his entire Pauli explanation is given without editing; why, for the love of god, was he carving out £200-£300 a year out of his dwindling capital to give to Pauli, a man who he had no real friendship with, for dozens of years?
I think he says it best here: “Pauli impressed me as especially strong precisely in those respects wherein I felt most deficient… The main desire of my life was to conceal how severely I had been wounded [by his father and upbringing], and to get beyond reach of those arrows that from time to time still reached me. When, therefore, Pauli seemed attracted towards me and held out the right hand of fellowship, I caught at it not only because I liked him, but because I believed that the mere fact of being his friend would buoy me up in passing through waters that to me were still deep and troubled, but which to him I felt sure were shallow and smooth as glass.”
And once he was giving it, he was simply too much in the habit to keep giving Pauli his allowance each year. He broached the subject every year at Christmas but Pauli moaned and said (untruly) that he’d be ruined without the money. Butler seems to have recognized it as an obligation that he was required to keep performing until Pauli’s death, when he found Pauli had been earning a considerable amount at the bar and had other wealthy benefactors who knew nothing of Butler and vice versa.
Here also is the anecdote in full about Pauli’s handsomeness: “I remember how the late Captain Buckley, V.C., told me that when he and Pauli were at San Francisco together in 1860 or 1861 they went into the bar of the hotel where they were staying, and the barman asked Pauli to have a drink with him. Pauli tried to get out of it, but the barman said: ‘Oh, but you must; you are the handsomest man God ever sent into San Francisco, so help me God you are!’, with a strong emphasis on the ‘are.'”
Of other interest, Butler mentions that he’s only written two short reviews of books, one of Leslie Stephen’s Essays on Freethinking and Plain-speaking, the other on the philosophy of Rosmini.
When Butler died, he left his precious notebooks to be ravaged by his literary executors. This edition came out in 1934 and is still quite sanitized. I hope to get more of the real Butler from another source winging its way toward me.
Still, there are some worthwhile or funny bits.
Canadian Jokes: “When I was there I found their jokes like their roads—very long and not very good, leading to a little tin point of a spire which has been remorselessly obvious for miles without seeming to get any nearer.”
Pure snark: “I don’t like Plato, but I suppose I prefer him to Carlyle.”
On tourists: “On one of our Sunday walks Jones and my Cousin and I were at Gad’s Hill. An American tourist came up and asked if that was Charles Dickens’s house, pointing to it. I looked grave and said, ‘Yes, I am afraid it was,’ and left him.”
The miracles of Jesus Christ: “He should have gone about killing the rich old people who would not die.” (This from a man who almost became a priest, at a point where he’s waiting for his dad to kick the bucket so he can inherit).
Volume 2 of Jones’s memoir drags a bit but still has interesting and surprising facts; mostly it’s filled with letters to and from Butler, and reminisces about him by his friends once he’s gone.
An Italian woman asks Butler which is best: prose or poetry, and Butler decides “Poetry, because there is less of it on a page.”
I’m also reminded of the existence of savings banks at the post office; something that’s commonly referred to through English lit but is strange to think about, something that’s I think still in existence.
Mrs. Alfred Bovill writes: “He was not the sort of person one met casually; he never made a practice of going to parties, and therefore whenever we did meet it was a regular arrangement and was all the pleasanter as one could arrange not to have people there who would not be interesting or interested—just a few real friends.”
Of real interest was Appendix E, wherein Jones includes the lists of items that Butler took when away from home because he found himself always saddled with things he didn’t need and was missing things he did. Different lists for different locations. Boulogne is where he Christmas’ed (in France), Shrewsbury is where his family lived (NW of Birmingham), then there were the “foreign” travels (e.g. Switzerland, Italy, Greece). What on earth could “portfolio fully charged” mean in the 1880s?
A 1991 biography of Sam that I scoured for clues about the Pauli mystery. Raby references a pamphlet by A.C. Brassington that argues Pauli’s overtures were homosexual, but Raby himself disagrees with that assessment: “This seems, in the light of Butler’s future complex relationships with men and women, too straightforward an explanation, and inherently improbably. Butler observed a traditional and rigid social code, to which he adhered the more punctiliously because it was removed from any religious context. He paid for sex with women. The habits of his London life… make him a likely customer for a Christchurch brothel. There is no hint of physical homosexuality in any of his notes or letters.”
Later we’re told that Butler’s upstairs neighbor, Mr Butterfield, was an elderly bachelor who received a “weekly visit from a buxom woman known by the laundresses as ‘Mr Butterfield’s nurse’. Butler had made a regular arrangement with a dark, fine-looking young Frenchwoman, Lucie Dumas, whom he had come across near the Angel, Islington. She had had predecessors, according to Jones, but no rivals during the next twenty years. It was fifteen years before Butler revealed his name and address. They spoke in French, and he visited her regularly, paying her a pound a week, including holidays… ‘Oh bother, Alfred,’ he would say to his man-servant (in later years), ‘it’s Wednesday today, and I’ve got to go to Handel Street.’ He would leave at about two-thirty and be back by five, walking both ways.”
In Butler’s Note-books, vol. 6, ‘Blackguardisms and Improprieites,’ he has much more to say, especially of a trip to Italy where there was no bawdy house. Butler complains, ‘I had the greatest difficulty in getting a woman but at last was taken to the house of an old lady who kept a half idiot loathsome creature whom I had to put up with as the only thing that was to be got.’
He also organized H.F. Jones’s sex life, making an arrangement with his own lady, Madame Dumas to include a visit from Jones each Tuesday, and Butler paid for Jones.
But back to the Pauli mystery, it seems that Pauli was just a slimy character. After his death, Butler learned that Pauli had an extensive estate (£9,000) even though Butler had loaned him ~£7500 over 30 years. They had lunch together 3x a week, from 1:20pm to 2pm. Pauli had a similar arrangement with a Mr Swinburne, and neither Swinburne nor Butler knew of each other, but both had been paying Pauli an allowance in addition to large sums Pauli earned as a lawyer. Pauli left no message or remembrance of Butler in his will, but Butler managed to find humor in this, telling Pauli’s lawyer that ‘though he left me nothing in his will, he has, in effect, left me from £200-£210 a year, clear of all outgoings, for the luncheons must be taken into account. We both of us laughed heartily when I took in the luncheons.’
Volume 1 of Jones’s memoir of Butler was delightful. Jones lets Butler’s letters do most of the talking, interspersing with explanations and backstory where necessary.
Especially useful was the extensive correspondence between Butler and Miss Savage, the prototype for the Alethea character in The Way of all Flesh (although Jones is quick to point out how physically ugly Savage was). She was clever, witty, kind, his confidant for many years through frequent letters; they both lived in London but saw each other rarely.
Savage plied him with books and encouraged him endlessly in his writing. At her suggestion he reads Middlemarch, and his opinion: “I call it bad and not interesting: there is no sweetness in the whole book, and though it is stuffed full of epigrams, one feels that they are lugged in to show the writer off. The book seems to me to be a long-winded piece of studied brag, clever enough I daresay, but to me at any rate singularly unattractive.”
Butler could indulge his catty opinions to Miss Savage, which he did re: Goethe and Carlyle: “[Wilhelm Meister] seems perhaps the very worst book I ever read… I cannot remember a single good page or idea, and the priggishness is the finest of its kind that I can call to mind. Is it all a practical joke? If it really is Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister that I have been reading, I am glad I have never taken the trouble to learn German. What a wretch Carlyle must be to run Goethe as he has done.” Later he and Savage snicker about Carlyle: “it was very good of God to let Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle marry one another and so make only two people miserable instead
of four, besides being very amusing.”
His fight with Charles Darwin
Too many pages are devoted to this battle wherein Butler discovers that Darwin wasn’t the first to propose evolution. Books attacking one side or the other fly back and forth, as well as letters. Of note for me is that before the hoopla began, Darwin was on good terms with Butler and wrote saying that Leslie Stephen had known that Butler was the author of the anonymous work (Stephen being VW’s dad, of course). I get irrationally excited when accidentally bumping up against the Stephen clan anywhere I don’t expect them to be. Later we learn that Stephen was ordained in 1855 but he left Cambridge for London in 1864 “where he engaged in literary pursuits and we hear no more of him as a clergyman.”
His bizarre and complicated relationship with Pauli
I really don’t understand this bit. He became friends with a man, Charles Paine Pauli, in New Zealand, and was instrumental in helping him return to London. In exchange for a promise of repayment once Pauli came into his inheritance, Butler paid him an allowance of £200 a year out of his own dwindling capital, even after it became clear that Pauli would never be able to pay him back. Butler provided for Pauli for 30 years, but Pauli wouldn’t even tell Butler where he lived or whether he was making any money lawyering at the Bar. They “never met except when Pauli came over to lunch at Butler’s early dinner in Clifford’s Inn.”
Butler would take the train out to the country and go on long walks on Sunday. “He used to take something to eat in a sandwich box and get his beer in a public-house.” He was accompanied by his cousin Worsley, Jones, and sometimes Jones’s brother and a few others. On one of these walks “he had a homoeopathic medicine bottle full of Worcester sauce in his watch pocket. In getting over a stile he slipped and fell so that the bottle cracked one of his ribs, and it was a long time before he was able to breathe freely.”
Seeing London get electricity
[March 1879]- “I went the other night to see the British Museum lit with the electric light, the superintendent of the Reading Room having offered me a ticket; it looked very well; and I also went last night to the Albert Hall… and there I found more electric light, but not so good as at the British Museum.”
And yet only a few years later, Jones is still noting hearing the watchman, Tom, “going his rounds and calling the hours: ‘Past three o’clock and a stormy morning.'” Later Jones meets Tom who tells him that between midnight and six AM he doesn’t call very loud for fear of disturbing the gentlemen.
“When I was going over to America with [Lord Houghton] he asked me what I thought of the Americans. I said I did not know ; but I had seen them eating rhubarb in the month of July, and it had made a great impression on me.” (Butler lives in Montreal for a few years trying to save a company he’s invested lots of money in from going under, unsuccessfully).
I highly approve of the format of the memoir where every page has a small notation of what year is being discussed and the abbreviation “Aet.” to show what age Butler was. I have had to do the quick math myself countless times when reading bios so appreciate this previously common technique which has fallen out of favor.
Butler quotes his cousin’s laundress about how things will eventually turn out ok: “It will all come right in the wash.”
Butler was also a talented painter; his Mr. Heatherley’s Holiday was in the National Gallery before being acquired by the Tate in 1911:
How delightful to find this brief sketch of Butler’s life from the pen of his pal Henry Festing Jones in 1913. The 40-odd pages are found in the collection of essays Butler’s literary executor put forth as The Humour of Homer and Other Essays. Even better, in Jones’ note at the beginning, he’s hard at work on a full memoir about Butler, which I just tracked down. When SB returned to London in 1864 from his four years in New Zealand (having doubled his capital to £8000) “he took chambers consisting of a sitting-room, a bedroom, a painting-room, and a pantry, at 15 Clifford’s Inn, second floor (north)… [his income from investments] produced more than enough for him to live upon in the very simple way that suited him best, and life in the Inns of Court resembles life at Cambridge in that it reduces the cares of housekeeping to a minimum; it suited him so well that he never changed his rooms, remaining there thirty-eight years till his death.”
In a letter to a friend he’d made in New Zealand, Butler describes his life: “I live almost the life of a recluse, seeing very few people and going nowhere that I can help—I mean in the way of parties and so forth… I find that it is next to impossible to combine what is commonly called society and work.”
In 1886, Butler’s father died and his financial difficulties ended, but he made few changes to his life except to hire a clerk (Alfred Cathie) and buy a new hairbrush and a larger wash-hand basin. Jones says “Any change in his mode of life was an event,” before going on to describe his typical day: up at 6:30a in summer and 7:30a in winter, light a fire and put kettle on for water for his bath, dress, make tea and cook in his Dutch oven something he had bought the day before. Breakfast and read the Times. To the British Museum by 10:30a writing until 1:30p. 3 days a week he dined in a restaurant on the way home, the other 4 days he ate at home whatever his laundress had prepared. Tea, writing letters and attending to accounts with Alfred until 3:45p. At 5:30p he got his evening meal (he called it his tea), usually exactly what he’d had for breakfast. He wrote music until 8p, walked over to Jones’ rooms in Staple Inn, returning to Clifford’s Inn by 10p. After a piece of toast and glass of milk, he paid a game of Patience, prepped his breakfast and things for fire in the morning, smoked his last cigarette of the day and went to bed by 11pm.
On Thursdays he generally went into the country to sketch or walk, and on Sundays he nearly always went into the country walking; “his map of the district for 30 miles round London is covered all over with red lines showing where he had been. He sometimes went out of town from Saturday to Monday, and for over twenty years spent Christmas at Boulogne-sur-Mer.”
Jones met Butler in Italy in 1878 when they were both on the Sacro Monte above Varese, and every year after that they went to Italy together.
This bit isn’t in the sketch but in Butler’s essay Quis Desiderio, too delicious to not put in here, a rejoinder I’ve been in need of for years: “I replied with modest pride that I was a Bachelor of Arts. I keep all my other letters inside my name, not outside.”
I’m enamored with Sammy Butler and have discovered his notebooks, curated by his pal Henry Festing Jones in 1913 after Butler’s death (1902). The pages in this 100+ year old book are so thick that I would be ashamed to dogear them, so I’ve got post-it notes to lure me back to the hilarious and witty and sage advice he gathers in these pages. Jones’s preface tells us that Butler always carried a notebook to write down anything he wanted to remember, be it something someone said or usually something he himself said. He began to index these in 1874 and worked on organizing them up until his death, in five bound volumes. He wrote the notes in copying ink and gave a pressed copy to Jones for safekeeping in case of fire. Jones has culled these down to a single volume and organized them as he saw fit. Woolf’s comment on reading them: “I have just read a page or two of Samuel Butler’s notebooks… One rather craves brilliance & cantankerousness.”
What life in 1880s London was like
He had rooms in Clifford’s Inn and spent his evenings in his friend Jones’s rooms in Barnard’s Inn then walked home, thinking. He had a camera lucida that he considered using to take a photo of the demolition of Cock Tavern but decided not to (because of “all the trash that had been written about it” by Tennyson, whom he hated). He goes to the dentist and makes jokes about how his dentist always suggested using “the tooth-pick freely” and “the spirit twice a day.” He bought “ready-made boots” that the shopman says are too large for him, but this is how he avoids corns. Fires are events: “I was at one the other night and heard a man say ‘That corner stack is alight now quite nicely.’ People’s sympathies seem generally to be with the fire so long as no one is in danger of being burned.” On Sundays he would go on walks with a friend and then stop by a public-house for beer. The elderly wife of the owner said she hoped she wouldn’t die soon, “You see, I am beginning now to know how to live.” He eavesdrops on a man saying to another, “I went to live there just about the time that beer came down from 5d to 4d a pot. That will give you an idea of when it was.”
His list of humorous ideas for stories
The Diseases and Ordinary Causes of Mortality among Friendships.
The finding a lot of old photographs at Herculaneum or Thebes; and they should turn out to be of no interest.
On the points of resemblance and difference between the dropping off of leaves from a tree and the dropping off of guests from a dinner or a concert.
The Complete Drunkard. He would not give money to sober people, he said they would only eat it and send their children to school with it.
Life is one long process of getting tired.
My days run through me as water through a sieve.
The body is but a pair of pincers set over a bellows and a stewpan and the whole fixed upon stilts.
Always eat grapes downwards—that is, always eat the best grape first; in this way there will be none better left on the bunch, and each grape will seem good down to the last. If you eat the other way, you will not have a good grape in the lot. Besides, you will be tempting Providence to kill you before you come to the best. This is why autumn seems better than spring: in the autumn we are eating our days downwards, in the spring each day still seems “Very bad.” People should live on this principle more than they do, but they do live on it a good deal; from the age of, say, fifty we eat our days downwards.
A man’s style in any art should be like his dress—it should attract as little attention as possible.
In addition to all that I inherit from past generations [music, science, art] I receive from my own everything that makes life worth living—London, with its infinite sources of pleasure and amusement, good theatres, concerts, picture galleries, the British Museum Reading-Room, newspapers, a comfortable dwelling, railways and, above all, the society of the friends I value.
Every one should keep a mental waste-paper basket and the older he grows the more things he will consign to it—torn up to irrecoverable tatters.
Money is the last enemy that shall never be subdued. While there is flesh there is money—or the want of money; but money is always on the brain so long as there is a brain in reasonable order.
A man will feel loss of money more keenly than loss of bodily health, so long as he can keep his money. Take his money away and deprive him of the means of earning any more, and his health will soon break up; but leave him his money and, even though his health breaks up and he dies, he does not mind it so much as we think. Money losses are the worst, loss of health is next worst and loss of reputation comes in a bad third. All other things are amusements provided money, health and good name are untouched.
We want words to do more than they can. We try to do with them what comes to very much like trying to mend a watch with a pickaxe or to paint a miniature with a mop; we expect them to help us to grip and dissect that which in ultimate essence is as ungrippable as shadow. Nevertheless there they are; we have got to live with them, and the wise course is to treat them as we do our neighbours, and make the best and not the worst of them. But they are parvenu people as compared with thought and action. What we should read is not the words but the man whom we feel to be behind the words.
All words are juggles. To call a thing a juggle of words is often a bigger juggle than the juggle it is intended to complain of. The question is whether it is a greater juggle than is generally considered fair trading.
Words are like money; there is nothing so useless, unless when in actual use.
Gold and silver coins are only the tokens, symbols, outward and visible signs and sacraments of money. When not in actual process of being applied in purchase they are no more money than words not in use are language. Books are like imprisoned souls until some one takes them down from a shelf and reads them. The coins are potential money as the words are potential language, it is the power and will to apply the counters that make them vibrate with life; when the power and the will are in abeyance the counters lie dead as a log.
The arts of the musician, the painter and the writer are essentially the same. In composing a fugue, after you have exposed your subject, which must not be too unwieldy, you introduce an episode or episodes which must arise out of your subject. The great thing is that all shall be new, and yet nothing new, at the same time; the details must minister to the main effect and not obscure it; in other words, you must have a subject, develop it and not wander from it very far. This holds just as true for literature and painting and for art of all kinds. No man should try even to allude to the greater part of what he sees in his subject, and there is hardly a limit to what he may omit. What is required is that he shall say what he elects to say discreetly; that he shall be quick to see the gist of a matter, and give it pithily without either prolixity or stint of words.
Fortunately for me there are no academies for teaching people how to write books, or I should have fallen into them as I did into those for painting and, instead of writing, should have spent my time and money in being told that I was learning how to write. If I had one thing to say to students before I died (I mean, if I had got to die, but might tell students one thing first) I should say: “Don’t learn to do, but learn in doing. Let your falls not be on a prepared ground, but let them be bona fide falls in the rough and tumble of the world; only, of course, let them be on a small scale in the first instance till you feel your feet safe under you. Act more and rehearse less.”
Think of and look at your work as though it were done by your enemy. If you look at it to admire it you are lost.
I never knew a writer yet who took the smallest pains with his style and was at the same time readable. Plato’s having had seventy shies at one sentence is quite enough to explain to me why I dislike him. A man may, and ought to take a great deal of pains to write clearly, tersely and euphemistically: he will write many a sentence three or four times over—to do much more than this is worse than not rewriting at all: he will be at great pains to see that he does not repeat himself, to arrange his matter in the way that shall best enable the reader to master it, to cut out superfluous words and, even more, to eschew irrelevant matter: but in each case he will be thinking not of his own style but of his reader’s convenience… I should like to put it on record that I never took the smallest pains with my style, have never thought about it, and do not know or want to know whether it is a style at all or whether it is not, as I believe and hope, just common, simple straightforwardness. I cannot conceive how any man can take thought for his style without loss to himself and his readers.
Music & Street Noise
I should like to like Schumann’s music better than I do; I dare say I could make myself like it better if I tried; but I do not like having to try to make myself like things; I like things that make me like them at once and no trying at all.
People say the generous British public supported Handel. It did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, for some 30 years it did its best to ruin him, twice drove him to bankruptcy, badgered him till in 1737 he had a paralytic seizure which was as near as might be the death of him and, if he had died then, we should have no Israel, nor Messiah, nor Samson, nor any of his greatest oratorios. The British public only relented when he had become old and presently blind. Handel, by the way, is a rare instance of a man doing his greatest work subsequently to an attack of paralysis. What kept Handel up was not the public but the court. It was the pensions given him by George I and George II that enabled him to carry on at all. So that, in point of fact, it is to these two very prosaic kings that we owe the finest musical poems the world knows anything about.
My St. Dunstan’s bells near Clifford’s Inn play doleful hymn tunes which enter in at my window; I not only do not dislike them, but rather like them; they are so silly and the bells are out of tune. I never yet was annoyed by either bells or street music except when a loud piano organ strikes up outside the public-house opposite my bedroom window after I am in bed and when I am just going to sleep.
America will have her geniuses, as every other country has, in fact she has already had one in Walt Whitman, but I do not think America is a good place in which to be a genius. A genius can never expect to have a good time anywhere, if he is a genuine article, but America is about the last place in which life will be endurable at all for an inspired writer of any kind.
The Odyssey & The Iliad
They say no woman could possibly have written the Odyssey. To me, on the other hand, it seems even less possible that a man could have done so. As for its being by a practised and elderly writer, nothing but youth and inexperience could produce anything so naïve and so lovely. That is where the work will suffer by my translation. I am male, practised and elderly, and the trail of sex, age and experience is certain to be over my translation. If the poem is ever to be well translated, it must be by some high-spirited English girl who has been brought up at Athens and who, therefore, has not been jaded by academic study of the language.
When I returned from Calais last December, after spending Christmas at Boulogne according to my custom, the sea was rough as I crossed to Dover and, having a cold upon me, I went down into the second-class cabin, cleared the railway books off one of the tables, spread out my papers and continued my translation, or rather analysis, of the Iliad. Several people of all ages and sexes were on the sofas and they soon began to be sea-sick. There was no steward, so I got them each a basin and placed it for them as well as I could; then I sat down again at my table in the middle and went on with my translation while they were sick all round me. I had to get the Iliad well into my head before I began my lecture on The Humour of Homer and I could not afford to throw away a couple of hours, but I doubt whether Homer was ever before translated under such circumstances.
Art & Traveling
He got into a discussion about art with some strangers while traveling, and everyone threw names as if they were playing cards. “They played Raffaelle as a safe card…” “Then they played Leonardo Da Vinci. I had not intended saying how cordially I dislike him… As for his caricatures he should not have done them, much less preserved them; the fact of his having set store by them was enough to show that there was a screw loose about him somewhere and that he had no sense of humour. Still, I admitted that I liked him better than I did Michael Angelo.”
Samuel Butler’s 1872 novel imagines a forgotten civilization tucked away behind a few mountain ranges in New Zealand. Our hero discovers it when trying to find more land to graze sheep on, after a three week camping trip with a native once the sheep-shearing season is over. These are the best parts of the book, the journey to try and discover new lands, and then once he’s discovered by the Erewhonians. But it dulls once he launches into his main theme, which is to skewer social norms by way of this pseudo-utopian society. In this society, if you get sick, you’re a criminal, but embezzling funds is treated as if it were a physical ailment from which you could recover, topsy turvy to our world. Machines have been outlawed, and our hero’s watch is confiscated immediately upon arrival. Banks circulate worthless currency that everyone pretends to believe in. It’s a crime to be born. The college is called the College of Unreason (needless to say, this book was influential on Orwell).
Is there a better delight than unearthing a book that you’d never heard of but that is considered “one of the summits of human achievement” by Shaw, “one of the time bombs of literature” by V.S. Pritchett, better than “some of the masterpieces of English fiction” by Woolf? (Woolf’s 1916 review of his biography notes that Samuel Butler “is one of those rare spirits among the dead whom we like… as we do the living, so strong is their individuality and so clearly can we make up our minds about their manners and opinions.”) I stumbled onto this book by way of the 1924 Who Would Be Free, where the book made a huge impact on the main character. And lo, it appears to be on a list of the best 100 novels of all time!
Published posthumously in 1903 so as not to offend his family, it’s semi-autobiographical, a tale of a promising young boy thrust into the clergy and eventually estranged from his domineering pastor father. Unbeknownst to him, his aunt has left him a fortune to come to him upon his 28th birthday, and his godfather Overton (the book’s narrator) oversees the funds until then. The writing is a delight, so fresh and modern for having been written in the 1870s. His passage on marriage can’t be left without note:
A man’s friendships are, like his will, invalidated by marriage—but they are also no less invalidated by the marriage of his friends. The rift in friendship which invariably makes its appearance on the marriage of either of the parties to it was fast widening, as it no less invariably does, into the great gulf which is fixed between the married and the unmarried, and I was beginning to leave my protégé to a fate with which I had neither right nor power to meddle. In fact I had begun to feel him rather a burden; I did not so much mind this when I could be of use, but I grudged it when I could be of none. He had made his bed and he must lie upon it. Ernest had felt all this and had seldom come near me till now, one evening late in 1860, he called on me, and with a very woebegone face told me his troubles.
As soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him at once, and was as much interested in him as ever. There is nothing an old bachelor likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he had not got married—especially when the case is such an extreme one that he need not pretend to hope that matters will come all right again, or encourage his young friend to make the best of it.