“What a temptation! one is but human!
“So how can he be honest without believing certain things, to believe which (without shame) one must be as simple as a little child; as, by-the-way, he is so cleverly told to be in these matters, and so cleverly tells us—and so seldom is himself in any other matter whatever—his own interests, other people’s affairs, the world, the flesh, and the devil! And that’s clever of him too. …
“And if he chooses to be as simple as a little child, why shouldn’t I treat him as a little child, for his own good, and fool him to the top of his little bent for his dear daughter’s sake, that I may make her happy, and thereby him too?
“And if he’s not quite so simple as all that, and makes artful little compromises with his conscience—for a good purpose, of course—why shouldn’t I make artful little compromises with mine, and for a better purpose still, and try to get what I want in the way he does? I want to marry his daughter far worse than he can ever want to live in a palace, and ride in a carriage and pair with a mitre on the panels.
“If he cheats, why shouldn’t I cheat too?
“If he cheats, he cheats everybody all round—the wide, wide world, and something wider and higher still that can’t be measured, something in himself. I only cheat him!
“If he cheats, he cheats for the sake of very worldly things indeed—tithes, honors, influence, power, authority, social consideration and respect—not to speak of bread and butter! I only cheat for the love of a lady fair—and cheating for cheating, I like my cheating best.
“So, whether he cheats or not, I’ll—
“Confound it! what would old Taffy do in such a case, I wonder? …
“Oh, bother! it’s no good wondering what old Taffy would do.
“Taffy never wants to marry anybody’s daughter; he doesn’t even want to paint her! He only wants to paint his beastly ragamuffins and thieves and drunkards, and be left alone.
“Besides, Taffy’s as simple as a little child himself, and couldn’t fool anyone, and wouldn’t if he could—not even a parson. But if anyone tries to fool him, my eyes! don’t he cut up rough, and call names, and kick up a shindy, and even knock people down! That’s the worst of fellows like Taffy. They’re too good for this world and too solemn. They’re impossible, and lack all sense of humor. In point of fact, Taffy’s a gentleman—poor fellow! et puis voilà!
“I’m not simple—worse luck; and I can’t knock people down—I only wish I could! I can only paint them! and not even that ‘as they really are!’ … Good old Taffy! …
“Faint heart never won fair lady!
“Oh, happy, happy thought—I’ll be brave and win!
“I can’t knock people down, or do doughty deeds, but I’ll be brave in my own little way—the only way I can. …
“I’ll simply lie through thick and thin—I must—I will—nobody need ever be a bit the wiser! I can do more good by lying than by telling the truth, and make more deserving people happy, including myself and the sweetest girl alive—the end shall justify the means: that’s my excuse, my only excuse! and this lie of mine is on so stupendous a scale that it will have to last me for life. It’s my only one, but its name is Lion! and I’ll never tell another as long as I live.
“And now that I know what temptation really is, I’ll never think any harm of any parson any more … never, never, never!”
So the little man went on, as if he knew all about it, had found it all out for himself, and nobody else had ever found it out before! and I am not responsible for his ways of thinking (which are not necessarily my own).
It must be remembered, in extenuation, that he was very young, and not very wise: no philosopher, no scholar—just a painter of lovely pictures; only that and nothing more. Also, that he was reading Mr. Darwin’s immortal book for the third time, and it was a little too strong for him; also, that all this happened in the early sixties, long ere Religion had made up her mind to meet Science halfway, and hobnob and kiss and be friends. Alas! before such a lying down of the lion and the lamb can ever come to pass, Religion will have to perform a larger share of the journey than half, I fear!
Then, still carried away by the flood of his own eloquence (for he had never had such an innings as this, no such a listener), he again apostrophized the dog Tray, who had been growing somewhat inattentive (like the reader, perhaps), in language more beautiful than ever:
“Oh, to be like you, Tray—and secrete love and goodwill from morn till night, from night till morning—like saliva, without effort! with never a moment’s cessation of flow, even in disgrace and humiliation! How much better to love than to be loved—to love as you do, my Tray—so warmly, so easily, so unremittingly—to forgive all wrongs and neglect and injustice so quickly and so well—and forget a kindness never! Lucky dog that you are!
“Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be as I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o’er many a vanished scene,
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish tho’ they be,
So ’midst this withered waste of life those tears would flow to me!
“What do you think of those lines, Tray? I love them, because my mother taught them to me when I was about your age—six years old, or seven! and before the bard who wrote them
