"My father used to tell me, we must not take away our own lives; but he
forgot to tell me we might sell them for others to take away."

"William," said the dean to his son, his patience tired with his nephew's
persevering nonsense, "explain to your cousin the difference between a
battle and a massacre."

"A massacre," said William, rising from his seat, and fixing his eyes
alternately upon his father, his mother, and the bishop (all of whom were
present) for their approbation, rather than the person's to whom his
instructions were to be addressed--"a massacre," said William, "is when
human beings are slain, who have it not in their power to defend
themselves."

"Dear cousin William," said Henry, "that must ever be the case with every
one who is killed."

After a short hesitation, William replied: "In massacres people are put
to death for no crime, but merely because they are objects of suspicion."

"But in battle," said Henry, "the persons put to death are not even
suspected."

The bishop now condescended to end this disputation by saying
emphatically,

"Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the infant, the aged, the
sick, nor infirm are involved, but only those in the full prime of health
and vigour."

As this argument came from so great and reverend a man as the bishop,
Henry was obliged, by a frown from his uncle, to submit, as one refuted;
although he had an answer at the veriest tip of his tongue, which it was
torture to him not to utter. What he wished to say must ever remain a
secret. The church has its terrors as well as the law; and Henry was
awed by the dean's tremendous wig as much as Paternoster Row is awed by
the Attorney-General.

CHAPTER XV.

If the dean had loved his wife but moderately, seeing all her faults
clearly as he did, he must frequently have quarrelled with her: if he had
loved her with tenderness, he must have treated her with a degree of
violence in the hope of amending her failings. But having neither
personal nor mental affection towards her sufficiently interesting to
give himself the trouble to contradict her will in anything, he passed
for one of the best husbands in the world. Lady Clementina went out when
she liked, stayed at home when she liked, dressed as she liked, and
talked as she liked without a word of disapprobation from her husband,
and all--because he cared nothing about her.

Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate affection; a