the Tractarian agitation was beginning to
be felt in backward provincial regions, and the Tractarian satire on the
Low-Church party was beginning to tell even on those who disavowed or
resisted Tractarian doctrines. The vibration of an intellectual movement
was felt from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment; and
so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the market-town
close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to have a clerical meeting
every month, wherein they would exercise their intellects by discussing
theological and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly love
by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as
an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus, you perceive, there was
provision made for ample friction of the clerical mind.

Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who have a decided will
and opinion of their own; he held himself bolt upright, and had no
self-distrust. He would march very determinedly along the road he thought
best; but then it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best
road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted discussion made
him see that an Episcopalian Establishment was much more than
unobjectionable, and on many other points he began to feel that he held
opinions a little too far-sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly
communicated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been rubbed
with spices; the strong original odour was blended with something new and
foreign. The Low-Church onion still offended refined High Church
nostrils, and the new spice was unwelcome to the palate of the genuine
onion-eater.

We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting today, because we shall
probably want to go thither some day when he will be absent. And just now
I am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess Czerlaski,
with whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine tomorrow.

Chapter 3

Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold snow, and the
white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are casting a blue shadow across
the white ground, while the Rev. Amos Barton, and his wife are audibly
crushing the crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o'clock on
Friday evening, they approach the door of the above-named desirable
country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, etc.,
situated only half a mile from the market-town o