The　Way　of　All　Flesh
  by　Samuel　Butler
  CHAPTER　I
  When　I　was　a　small　boy　at　the　beginning　of　the　century　I　remember　an
  old　man　who　wore　knee…breeches　and　worsted　stockings；　and　who　used
  to　hobble　about　the　street　of　our　village　with　the　help　of　a　stick。
  He　must　have　been　getting　on　for　eighty　in　the　year　1807；　earlier
  than　which　date　I　suppose　I　can　hardly　remember　him；　for　I　was　born
  in　1802。　　A　few　white　locks　hung　about　his　ears；　his　shoulders　were
  bent　and　his　knees　feeble；　but　he　was　still　hale；　and　was　much
  respected　in　our　little　world　of　Paleham。　　His　name　was　Pontifex。
  His　wife　was　said　to　be　his　master；　I　have　been　told　she　brought　him
  a　little　money；　but　it　cannot　have　been　much。　　She　was　a　tall；
  square…shouldered　person　（I　have　heard　my　father　call　her　a　Gothic
  woman）　who　had　insisted　on　being　married　to　Mr　Pontifex　when　he　was
  young　and　too　good…natured　to　say　nay　to　any　woman　who　wooed　him。
  The　pair　had　lived　not　unhappily　together；　for　Mr　Pontifex's　temper
  was　easy　and　he　soon　learned　to　bow　before　his　wife's　more　stormy
  moods。
  Mr　Pontifex　was　a　carpenter　by　trade；　he　was　also　at　one　time　parish
  clerk；　when　I　remember　him；　however；　he　had　so　far　risen　in　life　as
  to　be　no　longer　compelled　to　work　with　his　own　hands。　　In　his
  earlier　days　he　had　taught　himself　to　draw。　　I　do　not　say　he　drew
  well；　but　it　was　surprising　he　should　draw　as　well　as　he　did。　　My
  father；　who　took　the　living　of　Paleham　about　the　year　1797；　became
  possessed　of　a　good　many　of　old　Mr　Pontifex's　drawings；　which　were
  always　of　local　subjects；　and　so　unaffectedly　painstaking　that　they
  might　have　passed　for　the　work　of　some　good　early　master。　　I
  remember　them　as　hanging　up　framed　and　glazed　in　the　study　at　the
  Rectory；　and　tinted；　as　all　else　in　the　room　was　tinted；　with　the
  green　reflected　from　the　fringe　of　ivy　leaves　that　grew　around　the
  windows。　　I　wonder　how　they　will　actually　cease　and　come　to　an　end
  as　drawings；　and　into　what　new　phases　of　being　they　will　then　enter。
  Not　content　with　being　an　artist；　Mr　Pontifex　must　needs　also　be　a
  musician。　　He　built　the　organ　in　the　church　with　his　own　hands；　and
  made　a　smaller　one　which　he　kept　in　his　own　house。　　He　could　play　as
  much　as　he　could　draw；　not　very　well　according　to　professional
  standards；　but　much　better　than　could　have　been　expected。　　I　myself
  showed　a　taste　for　music　at　an　early　age；　and　old　Mr　Pontifex　on
  finding　it　out；　as　he　soon　did；　became　partial　to　me　in　consequence。
  It　may　be　thought　that　with　so　many　irons　in　the　fire　he　could
  hardly　be　a　very　thriving　man；　but　this　was　not　the　case。　　His
  father　had　been　a　day　labourer；　and　he　had　himself　begun　life　with
  no　other　capital　than　his　good　sense　and　good　constitution；　now；
  however；　there　was　a　goodly　show　of　timber　about　his　yard；　and　a
  look　of　solid　comfort　over　his　whole　establishment。　　Towards　the
  close　of　the　eighteenth　century　and　not　long　before　my　father　came
  to　Paleham；　he　had　taken　a　farm　of　about　ninety　acres；　thus　making　a
  considerable　rise　in　life。　　Along　with　the　farm　there　went　an　old…
  fashioned　but　comfortable　house　with　a　charming　garden　and　an
  orchard。　　The　carpenter's　business　was　now　carried　on　in　one　of　the
  outhouses　that　had　once　been　part　of　some　conventual　buildings；　the
  remains　of　which　could　be　seen　in　what　was　called　the　Abbey　Close。
  The　house　itself；　embosomed　in　honeysuckles　and　creeping　roses；　was
  an　ornament　to　the　whole　village；　nor　were　its　internal　arrangements
  less　exemplary　than　its　outside　was　ornamental。　　Report　said　that
  Mrs　Pontifex　starched　the　sheets　for　her　best　bed；　and　I　can　well
  believe　it。
  How　well　do　I　remember　her　parlour　half　filled　with　the　organ　which
  her　husband　had　built；　and　scented　with　a　withered　apple　or　two　from
  the　pyrus　japonica　that　grew　outside　the　house；　the　picture　of　the
  prize　ox　over　the　chimney…piece；　which　Mr　Pontifex　himself　had
  painted；　the　transparency　of　the　man　coming　to　show　light　to　a　coach
  upon　a　snowy　night；　also　by　Mr　Pontifex；　the　little　old　man　and
  little　old　woman　who　told　the　weather；　the　china　shepherd　and
  shepherdess；　the　jars　of　feathery　flowering　grasses　with　a　peacock's
  feather　or　two　among　them　to　set　them　off；　and　the　china　bowls　full
  of　dead　rose　leaves　dried　with　bay　salt。　　All　has　long　since
  vanished　and　become　a　memory；　faded　but　still　fragrant　to　myself。
  Nay；　but　her　kitchenand　the　glimpses　into　a　cavernous　cellar
  beyond　it；　wherefrom　came　gleams　from　the　pale　surfaces　of　milk
  cans；　or　it　may　be　of　the　arms　and　face　of　a　milkmaid　skimming　the
  cream；　or　again　her　storeroom；　where　among　other　treasures　she　kept
  the　famous　lipsalve　which　was　one　of　her　especial　glories；　and　of
  which　she　would　present　a　shape　yearly　to　those　whom　she　delighted
  to　honour。　　She　wrote　out　the　recipe　for　this　and　gave　it　to　my
  mother　a　year　or　two　before　she　died；　but　we　could　never　make　it　as
  she　did。　　When　we　were　children　she　used　sometimes　to　send　her
  respects　to　my　mother；　and　ask　leave　for　us　to　come　and　take　tea
  with　her。　　Right　well　she　used　to　ply　us。　　As　for　her　temper；　we
  never　met　such　a　delightful　old　lady　in　our　lives；　whatever　Mr
  Pontifex　may　have　had　to　put　up　with；　we　had　no　cause　for　complaint；
  and　then　Mr　Pontifex　would　play　to　us　upon　the　organ；　and　we　would
  stand　round　him　open…mouthed　and　think　him　the　most　wonderfully
  clever　man　that　ever　was　born；　except　of　course　our　papa。
  Mrs　Pontifex　had　no　sense　of　humour；　at　least　I　can　call　to　mind　no
  signs　of　this；　but　her　husband　had　plenty　of　fun　in　him；　though　few
  would　have　guessed　it　from　his　appearance。　　I　remember　my　father
  once　sent　me　down　to　his　workship　to　get　some　glue；　and　I　happened
  to　come　when　old　Pontifex　was　in　the　act　of　scolding　his　boy。　　He
  had　got　the　lada　pudding…headed　fellowby　the　ear　and　was　saying；
  〃What？　　Lost　againsmothered　o'　wit。〃　　（I　believe　it　was　the　boy
  who　was　himself　supposed　to　be　a　wandering　soul；　and　who　was　thus
  addressed　as　lost。）　　〃Now；　look　here；　my　lad；〃　he　continued；　〃some
  boys　are　born　stupid；　and　thou　art　one　of　them；　some　achieve
  stupiditythat's　thee　again；　Jimthou　wast　both　born　stupid　and
  hast　greatly　increased　thy　birthrightand　some〃　（and　here　came　a
  climax　during　which　the　boy's　head　and　ear　were　swayed　from　side　to
  side）　〃have　stupidity　thrust　upon　them；　which；　if　it　please　the
  Lord；　shall　not　be　thy　case；　my　lad；　for　I　will　thrust　stupidity
  from　thee；　though　I　have　to　box　thine　ears　in　doing　so；〃　but　I　did
  not　see　that　the　old　man　really　did　box　Jim's　ears；　or　do　more　than
  pretend　to　frighten　him；　for　the　two　understood　one　another
  perfectly　well。　　Another　time　I　remember　hearing　him　call　the
  village　rat…catcher　by　saying；　〃Come　hither；　thou　three…days…and…
  three…nights；　thou；〃　alluding；　as　I　afterwards　learned；　to　the　rat…
  catcher's　periods　of　intoxication；　but　I　will　tell　no　more　of　such
  trifles。　　My　father's　face　would　always　brighten　when　old　Pontifex's
  name　was　mentioned。　　〃I　tell　you；　Edward；〃　he　would　say　to　me；　〃old
  Pontifex　was　not　only　an　able　man；　but　he　was　one　of　the　very　ablest
  men　that　ever　I　knew。〃
  This　was　more　than　I　as　a　young　man　was　prepared　to　stand。　　〃My　dear
  father；〃　I　answered；　〃what　did　he　do？　　He　could　draw　a　little；　but
  could　he　to　save　his　life　have　got　a　picture　into　the　Royal　Academy
  exhibition？　　He　built　two　organs　and　could　play　the　Minuet　in　Samson
  on　one　and　the　March　in　Scipio　on　the　other；　he　was　a　good　carpenter
  and　a　bit　of　a　wag；　he　was　a　good　old　fellow　enough；　but　why　make
  him　out　so　much　abler　than　he　was？〃
  〃My　boy；〃　returned　my　father；　〃you　must　not　judge　by　the　work；　but
  by　the　work　in　connection　with　the　surroundings。　　Could　Giotto　or
  Filippo　Lippi；　think　you；　have　got　a　picture　into　the　Exhibition？
  Would　a　single　one　of　those　frescoes　we　went　to　see　when　we　were　at
  Padua　have　the　remotest　chance　of　being　hung；　if　it　were　sent　in　for
  exhibition　now？　　Why；　the　Academy　people　would　be　so　outraged　that
  they　would　not　even　write　to　poor　Giotto　to　tell　him　to　come　and
  take　his　fresco　away。　　Phew！〃　continued　he；　waxing　warm；　〃if　old
  Pontifex　had　had　Cromwell's　chances　he　would　have　done　all　that
  Cromwell　did；　and　have　done　it　better；　if　he　had　had　Giotto's
  chances　he　would　have　done　all　that　Giotto　did；　and　done　it　no
  worse；　as　it　was；　he　was　a　village　carpenter；　and　I　will　undertake
  to　say　he　never　scamped　a　job　in　the　whole　course　of　his　life。〃
  〃But；〃　said　I；　〃we　cannot　judge　people　with　so　many　'ifs。'　　If　old
  Pontifex　had　lived　in　Giotto's　time　he　might　have　been　another
  Giotto；　but　he　did　not　live　in　Giotto's　time。〃
  〃I　tell　you；　Edward；〃　said　my　father　with　some　severity；　〃we　must
  judge　men　not　so　much　by　what　they　do；　as　by　what　they　make　us　feel
  that　they　have　it　in　them　to　do。　　If　a　man　has　done　enough　either　in
  painting；　music　or　the　affairs　of　life；　to　make　me　feel　that　I　might
  trust　him　in　an　emergency　he　has　done　enough。　　It　is　not　by　what　a
  man　has　actually　put　upon　his　canvas；　nor　yet　by　the　acts　which　he
  has　set　down；　so　to　speak；　upon　the　canvas　of　his　life　that　I　will
  judge　him；　but　by　what　he　makes　me　feel　that　he　felt　and　aimed　at。
  If　he　has　made　me　feel　that　he　felt　those　things　to　be　loveable
  which　I　hold　loveable　mysel