Clendon _père_ was a dry-as-dust old gentleman, who was always grubbing among antique folios, and he had sketched out his son's life in black and white. Clendon _fils_--this is the parental prophecy--was to be a curate, a vicar, edit a Greek play--something of Æschylus for choice--blossom into a full-blown bishop, keep a holy but watchful eye on any possible vacancy in the sees of York or Canterbury, and die as high up in the Church as he could get. It was truly a beautiful vision, and Bookworm Clendon, burrowing in out-of-way libraries, looked upon this vision as a thing which was to be. But then that terrible _cacoeihes scribendi_, which spoils so many promising Bishops, Lord Chancellors, Prime Ministers, had infected the wholesome blood of Toby, and, in obedience to the itch, he scribbled--he scribbled--oh, Father Apollo, how he did scribble! Having scribbled, he published; having published he showed his printed compositions to his father; but that gentleman, despising modern print, modern paper, modern everything, would not look at his son's effusions. This narrow-mindedness grieved Toby, as he had hoped to break the matter gently to his reverend sire; but as this could not be done, instead of shivering on the brink like a timid bather, he plunged in. In plain English, he told his father that he wished to be a Shakespeare, a Dickens, a Tennyson, a--a--well select the most famous writers in the range of literature, and you have the people whom Toby wished to emulate in a nineteenth century sense. After this the deluge. No prophet likes to have his prophecies proved false, and Mr. Clendon was no exception to the rule. Having settled Toby's career in life, he was terribly angry that Toby should presume to unsettle it in any way. Not be a curate, not be a vicar, not be a bishop--what did the boy expect to be? The boy, with all humility, stated that he expected to be a Dickens, a George Eliot. "George Eliot, sir, was a woman." Well, then, a Walter Scott. Had his father any objections? The reverend bookworm had several. First objection.--Literature has no prizes. Money? Yes. Fame? Yes. But no official prizes. If you go into the law, you may hope some day to sit on the woolsack, which is stately but uncomfortable. If you prefer the Church, you may attain the dignity of a bishop--even of an archbishop. In medicine you may become physician to the court, and physic royalty, which entails large fees and a chance of populating the royal vaults in Westminster Abbey. Even in painting, the presidentship of the Royal Academy is not beyond the reach of a conventional painter who does not startle his generation with too much genius. All these things are worth striving for, because they smack of officialism. But literature--oh, shade of Richard Savage, what prize is there in literature? Suggestion by Toby.--The Poet Laureateship.