"There was a man with a great venerable beard; said the Bishop, 'You, behind the beard.'" That is quite in a modern comedian's manner: "You, behind the beard!" Aubrey ends with this convivial memory: "His Chaplaine, Dr. Lushington, was a very learned and ingenious man, and they loved one another. The Bishop would sometimes take the key of the wine cellar, and he and his chaplaine would go and lock themselves in and be merry; then first he layes down his episcopal hood, 'There layes the doctor'; then he puts off his gowne, 'There layes the bishop'; then 'twas 'Here's to thee, Corbet'; 'Here's to thee, Lushington!' Bishops and then chaplains are not like that now; and perhaps it is as well. But those were more spacious days. And, after all, when a chaplain is named Lushington...! I find one excellent and more serious saying of Corbet recorded by another acquaintance, for I have been looking into his history. On a public occasion--the visit of King James to Cambridge in 1614-5, the Bishop, who was present, was much beset by his companions to indulge his satirical vein, for the employment of which there was no lack of material. But he refrained, saying that "he had left his malice and judgment at home, and came there only to commend." Next to the _Farewell_, the Bishop's prettiest verses are to his son Vincent, on his third birthday:-- "I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, Both bodily and ghostly health: Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee; So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning, not for show, Enough for to instruct, and know; Not such as gentlemen require, To prate at table, or at fire. I wish thee all thy mother's graces, Thy father's fortunes, and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court, Not to build on, but support; To keep thee, not in doing many Oppressions, but from suffering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, Nor lazy not contentious days; And when thy soul and body part, As innocent as now thou art." How many a wish in verses to a child has been falsified in this sad world! Poor little Vincent Corbet grew into a wastrel, and after his father's death was to be seen begging in the streets of London. The Bishop was perhaps a wiser man than parent. Many wits are. He died in 1635; his last words were, "Good night, Lushington." CHAPTER XXIII MISS AZURE VERITY AND MR. DABNEY OF _THE BALANCE_ CONTINUE TO KEEP MY MIND TO A SINGLE SUBJECT I rather liked my own rooms once, but Miss Verity's have made me discontented. What is the secret of femininity? Can it be reduced to a word? Not by me. But a literary exquisite--a Flaubert or a Maupassant--in search of it might do worse than await inspiration at Azure's flat.