II. OF MEEKNESS
XXXIV. OF CRITICISM
XXXV. OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY
XXXVI. OF BIOGRAPHY
XXXVII. OF POSSESSIONS
XXXVIII. OF LONELINESS
XXXIX. OF THE WRITER'S LIFE
XL. OF WASTE
XLI. OF EDUCATION
XLII. OF RELIGION
XLIII. OF CRITICS
XLIV. OF WORSHIP
XLV. OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION
XLVI. OF AFFECTION
XLVII. OF RESPECT OF PERSONS
XLVIII. OF AMBIGUITY
XLIX. OF BELIEF
L. OF HONOUR
LI. OF WORK
LII. OF COMPANIONSHIP
LIII. OF MONEY
LIV. OF PEACEABLENESS
LV. OF LIFE-FORCE
LVI. OF CONSCIENCE
LVII. OF RANK
LVIII. OF BIOGRAPHY
LIX. OF EXCLUSIVENESS
LX. OF TAKING LIFE
LXI. OF BOOKISHNESS
LXII. OF CONSISTENCY
LXIII. OF WRENS AND LILIES
LXIV. OF POSE
LXV. OF REVENANTS
LXVI. OF DISCIPLINE
LXVII. OF INCREASE
LXVIII. OF PRAYER
LXIX. THE SHADOW
LXX. OF WEAKNESS
LXXI. THE BANK OF THE RIVER
LXXII. THE CROSSING
LXXIII. AFTER-THOUGHTS
LXXIV. DEPARTURE

FATHER PAYNE

I

FATHER PAYNE

It was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I was
twenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree in
Classics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession. There
was no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no influence in any
particular direction. My father had been in the Army, but was long dead. My
mother and only sister lived quietly in the country. I had no prosaic and
practical uncles to push me into any particular line; while on coming of
age I had inherited a little capital which brought me in some two hundred a
year, so that I could afford to wait and look round. My only real taste was
for literature. I wanted to write, but I had no very pressing aspirations
or inspirations. I may confess that I was indolent, fond of company, but
not afraid of comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entire
dilettante. I read a good many books, and tried feverishly to write in the
style of the authors who most attracted me, I settled down at home, more or
less, in a country village where I knew everyone; I travelled a little; and
I paid occasional visits to London, where several of my undergraduate and
school friends lived, with a vague idea of getting to know literary people;
but they were not very easy to meet, and, when I did meet them, they did
not betray any very marked interest in my designs and visions.

I was dining one night at a restaurant wit