etry, or the dash between the two, in a tone of
profound sincerity, and to enunciate solemn discordances with received
opinion so seriously as to convey the impression of a spiritual insight,
is the peculiar gift by which monomaniacs, having first persuaded
themselves, contrive to influence their neighbours, and through them
to make conquest of a good half of the world, for good or for ill. Sir
Austin had this gift. He spoke as if he saw the truth, and, persisting
in it so long, he was accredited by those who did not understand him,
and silenced them that did.

"We shall see," was all the argument left to Dr. Clifford, and other
unbelievers.

So far certainly the experiment had succeeded. A comelier, bracer,
better boy was nowhere to be met. His promise was undeniable. The
vessel, too, though it lay now in harbour and had not yet been proved
by the buffets of the elements on the great ocean, had made a good
trial trip, and got well through stormy weather, as the records of the
Bakewell Comedy witnessed to at Raynham. No augury could be hopefuller.
The Fates must indeed be hard, the Ordeal severe, the Destiny dark, that
could destroy so bright a Spring! But, bright as it was, the baronet
relaxed nothing of his vigilant supervision. He said to his intimates:
"Every act, every fostered inclination, almost every thought, in this
Blossoming Season, bears its seed for the Future. The living Tree now
requires incessant watchfulness." And, acting up to his light, Sir
Austin did watch. The youth submitted to an examination every night
before he sought his bed; professedly to give an account of his studies,
but really to recapitulate his moral experiences of the day. He could
do so, for he was pure. Any wildness in him that his father noted, any
remoteness or richness of fancy in his expressions, was set down as
incidental to the Blossoming Season. There is nothing like a theory for
binding the wise. Sir Austin, despite his rigid watch and ward, knew
less of his son than the servant of his household. And he was deaf, as
well as blind. Adrian thought it his duty to tell him that the youth
was consuming paper. Lady Blandish likewise hinted at his mooning
propensities. Sir Austin from his lofty watch-tower of the System
had foreseen it, he said. But when he came to hear that the youth
was writing poetry, his wounded heart had its reasons for being much
disturbed.

"Surely," said Lady Blandish, "you knew he scribbled?"

"A very