Mr. Edward Gibbon Mardon, I observed, was slightly built, rather short,
and had scanty whiskers which developed into a little thicker tuft on
his chin. His eyes were pure blue, like the blue of the speedwell.
They were not piercing, but perfectly transparent, indicative of a
character which, if it possessed no particular creative power, would
not permit self-deception. They were not the eyes of a prophet, but of
a man who would not be satisfied with letting a half-known thing alone
and saying he believed it. His lips were thin, but not compressed into
bitterness; and above everything there was in his face a perfectly
legible frankness, contrasting pleasantly with the doubtfulness of most
of the faces I knew. I expressed my gratitude to him for his kind
opinion, and as we loitered he said:

"Sorry to see that attack upon you in the Sentinel. I suppose you are
aware it was Snale's. Everybody could tell that who knows the man."

"If it is Mr. Snale's, I am very sorry."

"It is Snale's. He is a contemptible cur and yet it is not his fault.
He has heard sermons about all sorts of supernatural subjects for
thirty years, and he has never once been warned against meanness, so of
course he supposes that supernatural subjects are everything and
meanness is nothing. But I will not detain you any longer now, for you
are busy. Good-night, sir."

This was rather abrupt and disappointing. However, I was much absorbed
in the morrow, and passed on.

Although I despised Snale, his letter was the beginning of a great
trouble to me. I had now been preaching for many months, and had met