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“Probably it is God, and not the devil, who knows why, Templeton.”

“Be it so-Frightful as it is to have to say it-I do not so much care-I suppose it is all right: if it is not, it will all come right at last. And in the meantime, I compromise, like the rest of the world; and hear Jane making the children every week-day pray that they may become God’s children, and then teaching them every Sunday evening the Catechism, which says that they are so already. I don’t understand it-I suppose if it was important, one would understand it. One knows right from wrong, you know, and other fundamentals. If that were necessary, one would know that too.”

“But can you submit quietly to such a barefaced contradiction?”

“I? I am only a plain country squire. Of course I should call such dealing with an Act of Parliament a lie and a sham-But about these things, I fancy, the women know best. Jane is ten thousand times as good as I am-you don’t know half her worth-And I haven’t the heart to contradict her-nor the right either; for I have no reasons to give her; no faith to substitute for hers.”

“Our friend, the High-Church curate, could have given you a few plain reasons, I should think.”

“Of course he could. And I believe in my heart the man is in the right in calling Jane wrong. He has honesty and common sense on his side, just as he has when he calls the present state of Convocation, in the face of that prayer for God’s Spirit on its deliberations, a blasphemous lie and sham. Of course it is. Any ensign in a marching regiment could tell us that from his mere sense of soldier’s honour. But then-if she is wrong, is he right? How do I know? I want reasons: he gives me historic authorities.”

“And very good things too; for they are fair phenomena for induction.”

“But how will proving to me that certain people once thought a thing right prove to me that it is right? Good people think differently every day. Good people have thought differently about those very matters in every age. I want some proof which will coincide with the little which I do know about science and philosophy. They must fight out their own battle, if they choose to fight it on mere authority. If one could but have the implicit faith of a child, it would be all very well: but one can’t. If one has once been fool enough to think about these things, one must have reasons, or something better than mere ipse dixits, or one can’t believe them. I should be glad enough to believe; do you suppose that I don’t envy poor dear Jane from morning to night?-but I can’t. And so-“

“And so what?” asked I.

“And so, I believe, I am growing to have no religion at all, and no substitute for it either; for I feel I have no ground or reason for admiring or working out any subject. I have tired of philosophy. Perhaps it’s all wrong-at least I can’t see what it has to do with God, and Christianity, and all which, if it is true, must be more important than anything else. I have tired of art for the same reason. How can I be anything but a wretched dilettante, when I have no principles to ground my criticism on, beyond bosh about ‘The Beautiful’? I did pluck up heart and read Mr. Ruskin’s books greedily when they came out, because I heard he was a good Christian. But I fell upon a little tract of his, ‘Notes on Sheepfolds,’ and gave him up again, when I found that he had a leaning to that ‘Clapham sect.’ I have dropped politics: for I have no reason, no ground, no principle in them, but expediency. When they asked me this summer to represent the interests of the county in Parliament, I asked them how they came to make such a mistake as to fancy that I knew what was their interest, or anyone else’s? I am becoming more and more of an animal; fragmentary, inconsistent, seeing to the root of nothing, unable to unite things in my own mind. I just do the duty which lies nearest, and looks simplest. I try to make the boys grow up plucky and knowing-though what’s the use of it? They will go to college with even less principles than I had, and will get into proportionably worse scrapes, I expect to be ruined by their debts before I die. And for the rest, I read nothing but “The Edinburgh” and “The Agricultural Gazette.” My talk is of bullocks. I just know right from wrong enough to see that the farms are in good order, pay my labourers living wages, keep the old people out of the workhouse, and see that my cottages and schools are all right; for I suppose I was put here for some purpose of that kind-though what it is I can’t very clearly define-And there’s an end of my long story.”