I shall inform the
congregation that you are the son of Lord Gale. They are very
particular churchmen--all society people--and of course will be
satisfied with the work of the Lord, especially," he added, with a
polite smile, "when that work happens to be--the Lord Gale's son."
Accordingly, the next Sunday, John Gale occupied the pulpit of St.
Swithin. But an unexpected event happened. His pent-up eagerness
to denounce the present methods of Christianity, his fullness of
utterance, defeated his purpose. He was overcome with a kind of
pulpit fright. His ideas of time and place fled him. After
beginning, "Mr. Chairman, in rising to propose the toast of our
worthy Archdeacon--Fellow Manxmen--the present moment--er--er--the
proudest in my--er--life--Dearly beloved Golly--unaccustomed as I
am to public speaking," he abruptly delivered the benediction and
sat down. The incident, however, provoked little attention. The
congregation, accustomed to sleep through the sermon, awoke at the
usual time and went home. Only a single Scotchwoman said to him in
passing: "Verra weel for a beginning, laddie. But give it hotter
to 'em next time." Discomfited and bewildered, he communed with
himself gloomily. "I can't marry Golly. I can't talk. I hate
society. What's to be done? I have it! I'll go into a
monastery."
He went into a monastery in Bishopsgate Street, reached by a
threepenny 'bus.
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