"Mischievous vanity of readers," said the chaplain. "But, Mr. Peach, I like these remarks very much. Did you never print? Confess. You have caught Sir Thomas's spirit exactly." Cornelius coloured a little. "No," said he. "Never. I have nothing to confess." Polydore lighted his pipe, and sat down by the side of the chimney, just out of the glare of the fire. Miss Peach had retired, and the old bachelors were alone. They smoked in silence for a considerable time. "There was a time," at length the host murmured, "when I thought I should like to print. It was when I was courting my Mabel. I fancied it would be so pleasant to present her with a volume of my own inditing. She would be proud of me. She would hear me spoken of, and would say in her heart--he belongs to me. But there was another side to the medal, something whispered me, and I had not the courage. The early ambition passed away." "Well," said Polydore, "I was this morning singularly reminded that I had been one of the irritable race." The old clerk's face beamed radiant among the circumambient fumes. "You, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, and then begged pardon for the expression of surprise. "'Tis many years ago," the chaplain said. "I had not left my university at the time. I had nearly forgotten it. Yet it was a delightful dream." "What was your offspring?" Cornelius asked. "A tale," was the answer. "A little story. Simple enough, but intended to promote some opinions, of which, in my youth, I was a zealous advocate. I fear I had not then learned the lesson of those first words of Sir Thomas Browne." "I own," said Peach, "that I do not relish argumentative fiction." "Neither, perhaps, should I now," continued Polydore. "But youth is ardent in proselytism. I dreamt over my manuscript for nights and nights. It was so true, and so interesting. I was certain it could not fail; and others thought so too. The little book would be ushered into the world in a manner more favourable than I had dared to hope. Imagine, my dear sir, the sort of intoxication with which I revised the proofs. What Gibbon calls 'the awful interval of printing' was to me a season of impatient delight. I was rushing into celebrity. And so the book appeared--by Polydore Riches. I was not yet in orders. Moreover, it was noticed by critics, on the whole, kindly. I took for granted it was selling rapidly, and prepared my emendations for a second edition. Judge then of my feelings, when, at the end of a twelvemonth, I learned that I might have spared my pains." "What was the reason?" said Cornelius. "I can tell you best by this," Polydore replied. "After a little idle repining, and some tacit abuse of the public mind, I laid my poor child by. I read it again in a dozen years, and I discovered a hundred defects of which I was ignorant before. No doubt the public discerned them at the first glance. I did not wonder at my disappointment."