He is a good deal like his father in the face,
but without a spark--so far as I have been able to observe--any literary
ability; he has a fair sense of humour and abundance of common sense, but
his instinct is clearly a practical one. I am not sure that he does not
put me in mind almost more of what Theobald would have been if he had
been a sailor, than of Ernest. Ernest used to go down to Battersby and
stay with his father for a few days twice a year until Theobald's death,
and the pair continued on excellent terms, in spite of what the
neighbouring clergy call "the atrocious books which Mr Ernest Pontifex"
has written. Perhaps the harmony, or rather absence of discord which
subsisted between the pair was due to the fact that Theobald had never
looked into the inside of one of his son's works, and Ernest, of course,
never alluded to them in his father's presence. The pair, as I have
said, got on excellently, but it was doubtless as well that Ernest's
visits were short and not too frequent. Once Theobald wanted Ernest to
bring his children, but Ernest knew they would not like it, so this was
not done.
Sometimes Theobald came up to town on small business matters and paid a
visit to Ernest's chambers; he generally brought with him a couple of
lettuces, or a cabbage, or half-a-dozen turnips done up in a piece of
brown paper, and told Ernest that he knew fresh vegetables were rather
hard to get in London, and he had brought him some.
Pages:
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684