the Catholic Church, or who would be apt to make a shining mark in any
other.

Fat and red-faced and pudding-headed was Father Higgins; uncommonly in
the way of good eating, and now and then disposed for good drinking; as
lazy as he dared be, ignorant enough for a hermit, and simple enough for
a monk. His chief excellence lay in his kindliness of heart, which would
doubtless have made him very serviceable and comfortable to his
fellow-men, had it not been for his indolence, his spare intellectual
gifts, and perhaps a little leaven of selfishness.

Such as he was, however, Father Higgins had no small "consate" of
himself, and sometimes thought that even a bishopric would not be
"beyant his desarts." He pleased himself with imagining how finely he
would fill an episcopal chair, what apostolic labors he would accomplish
in his diocese, what swarms of heretics or pagans he would convert, what
a self-sacrificing and heroic life he would lead, and what a saintly
name he would leave. One day, or to speak with a precision worthy of
this true history, one evening, he became a bishop.

It happened on this wise. Father Higgins had ventured to treat himself
to a spectacle. He had attended, for the first time in his life, an
exhibition of legerdemain; this one being given by that celebrated
master of the black-art, Professor Heller. He had seen the professor
change turnips into gold watches, draw a dozen live pigeons in
succession out of an empty box, send rings into ladies' handkerchiefs at
the other end of the hall, catch a bullet out of an exploded pistol in
his hand, and perform other marvels equally irrational and disturbing.
From this raree-show Father Higgins had gone home feeling that he had
witnessed something about as unearthly as he was likely to be confronted