A
month or two afterwards, Dr. Skinner was gathered to his fathers.
"He was an old fool, Ernest," said I, "and you should not relent
towards him."
"I could not help it," he replied; "he was so old that it was almost
like playing with a child."
Sometimes, like all whose minds are active, Ernest overworks
himself, and then occasionally he has fierce and reproachful
encounters with Dr. Skinner or Theobald in his sleep-but beyond this
neither of these two worthies can now molest him further.
To myself he has been a son and more than a son; at times I am
half afraid- as for example when I talk to him about his books- that I
may have been to him more like a father than I ought; if I have, I
trust he has forgiven me. His books are the only bone of contention
between us. I want him to write like other people, and not to offend
so many his readers; he says he can no more change his manner of
writing than the colour of his hair and that he must write as he
does or not at all.
With the public generally he is not a favourite. He is admitted to
have talent, but it is considered generally to be of a queer,
unpractical kind, and no matter how serious he is, he is always
accused of being in jest.
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