“As an example it has been a dismal failure. For many years I have searched for some successful results, for one man who would prove to me that, being a drunkard, he was so much impressed by the example of his clergyman, who for his sake and imitation ceased to drink his glass of beer at luncheon, his glass of port at dinner, or his glass of whisky and water at night, that he broke away from his vicious indulgence and became a sober man.” Ponsonby stood at the Canon’s elbow, patiently waiting for the end of this harangue. “Hock, sir?” said he, in sepulchral tones. “Certainly, Ponsonby, certainly!” replied the Canon, so vigorously that the butler was not a little disconcerted. “What do you think of this hock, Thomas? Not bad, I flatter myself.” He raised the glass to his nose and inhaled the pleasant odour. He drank his wine and smiled. An expression of placid satisfaction came over his face. He favoured the company with a Latin quotation: “_O quam bonum est,_ _O quam jucundum est,_ _Poculis fraternis gaudere_.” II It was one of Canon Spratte’s peculiarities that he liked to read his _Times_ before any other member of his family. He found a peculiar delight in opening it himself, and likened the perusal of a newspaper which some one else had read, to the drinking of milk from which a dishonest dairyman had skimmed the cream. Next morning, running his eye down the list of contents, he discovered that the Bishop of Barchester was dead. “Poor Andover is no more, Sophia,” he remarked, with a decent solemnity. He ate his kidney absently, and it was not till he passed his coffee-cup to Lady Sophia to be refilled that he made any observation. “It’s really almost providential that the poor old man should depart this life on the very day I am to meet Lord Stonehenge at dinner. I’d better have the pair to-night, Sophia.” “Where are you dining?” “At the Hollingtons,” he answered. “Last time a bishopric was vacant, the Prime Minister practically assured me that I should have the next.” “He’s probably done the same to half the school-masters in England.” “Nonsense! Who is there that could take it? They’ve none of them half the claims that I have.” Theodore Spratte never concealed from the world that he rated himself highly. He esteemed bashfulness a sign of bad manners, and was used to say that a man who pretended not to know his own value was a possing fool. “It’s a ridiculous system altogether to give a bishopric to Tom Noddy because he’s taught Latin verses to a parcel of stupid school-boys. And besides, as the youngest son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I may expect something from my country.” “Pray pass me the toast,” said Lady Sophia. “I’m not a vain man, but I honestly think I have the right to some recognition. As my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England, often said....”