"What I was thinking of," said Polwarth, "was mainly the experience
in life he would gather by having to make his own living; that,
behind the counter or the plough, or in the workshop, he would come
to know men and their struggles and their thoughts--"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Ramshorn. "But I must be under some
misapprehension! It is not possible you can be speaking of the
CHURCH--of the clerical PROFESSION. The moment that is brought
within the reach of such people as you describe, that moment the
church sinks to the level of the catholic priesthood."

"Say rather, to the level of Jeremy Taylor," returned Polwarth, "who
was the son of a barber; or of Tillotson, who was the son of a
clothier, or something of the sort, and certainly a fierce
dissenter. His enemies said the archbishop himself was never
baptized. By-the-way, he was not ordained till he was thirty--and
that bears on what I was just saying to Mr. Wingfold, that I would
have no one ordained till after forty, by which time he would know
whether he had any real call or only a temptation to the church,
from the base hope of an easy living."

By this time Mrs. Ramshorn had had more than enough of it. The man
was a leveller, a chartist, a positivist--a despiser of dignities!

"Mr.--, Mr.--, I don't know your name--you will oblige me by
uttering no more such vile slanders in my company. You are talking
about what you don't in the least understand. The man who does not
respect the religion of his native country is capable of--of--of
ANYTHING.--I am astonished, Mr. Wingfold, at your allowing a member
of your congregation to speak with so little regard for the feelings