For therewith arose not conviction but discussion; Trevanion was logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held firm to the saffron bag. When James the First dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham his Meditation on the Lord’s Prayer, he gave a very sensible reason for selecting his grace for that honour,—“For,” (saith the king) “it is made upon a very short and plaine prayer, and, therefore, the fitter for a courtier, for courtiers are for the most part thought neither to have lust nor leisure to say long prayers; liking best _courte messe et long disner_.” I suppose it was for a similar reason that my father persisted in dedicating to the member of parliament and the fine gentleman, this “short and plaine” morality of his—to wit, the saffron bag. He was evidently persuaded, if he could once get them to apply that, it was all that was needful; that they had neither lust nor leisure for longer instructions. And this saffron bag,—it came down with such a whack, at every round in the argument! You would have thought my father one of the old plebeian combatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to use sword and lance, fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail: a very stunning weapon it was when filled only with sand; but a bag filled with saffron,—it was irresistible! Though my father had two to one against him, they could not stand such a deuce of a weapon. And after tuts and pishes innumerable from Mr Trevanion, and sundry bland grimaces from Sir Sedley Beaudesert, they fairly gave in, though they would not own they were beaten. “Enough,” said the member, “I see that you don’t comprehend me; I must continue to move by my own impulse.” My father’s pet book was the Colloquies of Erasmus; he was wont to say that those Colloquies furnished life with illustrations in every page. Out of the Colloquies of Erasmus he now answered the member:— “Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up,” quoth my father, “cried out to him to move. ‘I do move,’ said Syrus. ‘I see you move,’ replied Rabirius, ‘but you _move nothing_.’ To return to the saffron bag,—” “Confound the saffron bag!” cried Trevanion in a rage; and then, softening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned to my mother, and said, with more politeness than was natural to, or at least customary with him:— “By the way, my dear Mrs Caxton, I should tell you that Lady Ellinor comes to town to-morrow, on purpose to call on you. We shall be here some little time, Austin; and though London is so empty, there are still some persons of note to whom I should like to introduce you, and yours—” “Nay,” said my father, “your world and my world are not the same. Books for me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits, even for friendship; she has a great piece of work to finish, and so have I. Mountains cannot stir, especially when in labour; but Mahomet can come to the mountain as often as he likes.”