["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Pryer had done well to warn Ernest against promiscuous house to house\nvisitation. He had not gone outside Mrs Jupp's street door, and yet what\nhad been the result? Mr Holt had put him in bodily fear; Mr and Mrs Baxter had nearly made a\nMethodist of him; Mr Shaw had undermined his faith in the Resurrection;\nMiss Snow's charms had ruined--or would have done so but for an\naccident--his moral character. As for Miss Maitland, he had done his\nbest to ruin hers, and had damaged himself gravely and irretrievably in\nconsequence. The only lodger who had done him no harm was the bellows'\nmender, whom he had not visited. Other young clergymen, much greater fools in many respects than he, would\nnot have got into these scrapes. He seemed to have developed an aptitude\nfor mischief almost from the day of his having been ordained. He could\nhardly preach without making some horrid _faux pas_. He preached one\nSunday morning when the Bishop was at his Rector's church, and made his\nsermon turn upon the question what kind of little cake it was that the\nwidow of Zarephath had intended making when Elijah found her gathering a\nfew sticks. He demonstrated that it was a seed cake. The sermon was\nreally very amusing, and more than once he saw a smile pass over the sea\nof faces underneath him. The Bishop was very angry, and gave my hero a\nsevere reprimand in the vestry after service was over; the only excuse he\ncould make was that he was preaching _ex tempore_, had not thought of\nthis particular point till he was actually in the pulpit, and had then\nbeen carried away by it. Another time he preached upon the barren fig-tree, and described the\nhopes of the owner as he watched the delicate blossom unfold, and give\npromise of such beautiful fruit in autumn. Next day he received a letter\nfrom a botanical member of his congregation who explained to him that\nthis could hardly have been, inasmuch as the fig produces its fruit first\nand blossoms inside the fruit, or so nearly so that no flower is\nperceptible to an ordinary observer. This last, however, was an accident\nwhich might have happened to any one but a scientist or an inspired\nwriter. The only excuse I can make for him is that he was very young--not yet\nfour and twenty--and that in mind as in body, like most of those who in\nthe end come to think for themselves, he was a slow grower. By far the\ngreater part, moreover, of his education had been an attempt, not so much\nto keep him in blinkers as to gouge his eyes out altogether. But to return to my story. It transpired afterwards that Miss Maitland\nhad had no intention of giving Ernest in charge when she ran out of Mrs\nJupp's house. She was running away because she was frightened, but\nalmost the first person whom she ran against had happened to be a\npoliceman of a serious turn of mind, who wished to gain a reputation for\nactivity. He stopped her, questioned her, frightened her still more, and\nit was he rather than Miss Maitland, who insisted on giving my hero in\ncharge to himself and another constable. Towneley was still in Mrs Jupp's house when the policeman came. He had\nheard a disturbance, and going down to Ernest's room while Miss Maitland\nwas out of doors, had found him lying, as it were, stunned at the foot of\nthe moral precipice over which he had that moment fallen. He saw the\nwhole thing at a glance, but before he could take action, the policemen\ncame in and action became impossible. He asked Ernest who were his friends in London. Ernest at first wanted\nnot to say, but Towneley soon gave him to understand that he must do as\nhe was bid, and selected myself from the few whom he had named. \"Writes\nfor the stage, does he?\" said Towneley. \"Does he write comedy?\" Ernest\nthought Towneley meant that I ought to write tragedy, and said he was\nafraid I wrote burlesque. \"Oh, come, come,\" said Towneley, \"that will do\nfamously. I will go and see him at once.\" But on second thoughts he\ndetermined to stay with Ernest and go with him to the police court. So\nhe sent Mrs Jupp for me. Mrs Jupp hurried so fast to fetch me, that in\nspite of the weather's being still cold she was \"giving out,\" as she\nexpressed it, in streams. The poor old wretch would have taken a cab,\nbut she had no money and did not like to ask Towneley to give her some. I\nsaw that something very serious had happened, but was not prepared for\nanything so deplorable as what Mrs Jupp actually told me. As for Mrs\nJupp, she said her heart had been jumping out of its socket and back\nagain ever since. I got her into a cab with me, and we went off to the police station. She\ntalked without ceasing. \"And if the neighbours do say cruel things about me, I'm sure it ain't no\nthanks to _him_ if they're true. Mr Pontifex never took a bit o' notice\nof me no more than if I had been his sister. Oh, it's enough to make\nanyone's back bone curdle. Then I thought perhaps my Rose might get on\nbetter with him, so I set her to dust him and clean him as though I were\nbusy, and gave her such a beautiful clean new pinny, but he never took no\nnotice of her no more than he did of me, and she didn't want no\ncompliment neither, she wouldn't have taken not a shilling from him,\nthough he had offered it, but he didn't seem to know anything at all. I\ncan't make out what the young men are a-coming to; I wish the horn may\nblow for me and the worms take me this very night, if it's not enough to\nmake a woman stand before God and strike the one half on 'em silly to see\nthe way they goes on, and many an honest girl has to go home night after\nnight without so much as a fourpenny bit and paying three and sixpence a\nweek rent, and not a shelf nor cupboard in the place and a dead wall in\nfront of the window. \"It's not Mr Pontifex,\" she continued, \"that's so bad, he's good at\nheart. He never says nothing unkind. And then there's his dear eyes--but\nwhen I speak about that to my Rose she calls me an old fool and says I\nought to be poleaxed. It's that Pryer as I can't abide. Oh he! He\nlikes to wound a woman's feelings he do, and to chuck anything in her\nface, he do--he likes to wind a woman up and to wound her down.\" (Mrs\nJupp pronounced \"wound\" as though it rhymed to \"sound.\") \"It's a\ngentleman's place to soothe a woman, but he, he'd like to tear her hair\nout by handfuls. Why, he told me to my face that I was a-getting old;\nold indeed! there's not a woman in London knows my age except Mrs Davis\ndown in the Old Kent Road, and beyond a haricot vein in one of my legs\nI'm as young as ever I was. Old indeed! There's many a good tune played\non an old fiddle. I hate his nasty insinuendos.\" Even if I had wanted to stop her, I could not have done so. She said a\ngreat deal more than I have given above. I have left out much because I\ncould not remember it, but still more because it was really impossible\nfor me to print it. When we got to the police station I found Towneley and Ernest already\nthere. The charge was one of assault, but not aggravated by serious\nviolence. Even so, however, it was lamentable enough, and we both saw\nthat our young friend would have to pay dearly for his inexperience. We\ntried to bail him out for the night, but the Inspector would not accept\nbail, so we were forced to leave him. Towneley then went back to Mrs Jupp's to see if he could find Miss\nMaitland and arrange matters with her. She was not there, but he traced\nher to the house of her father, who lived at Camberwell. The father was\nfurious and would not hear of any intercession on Towneley's part. He\nwas a Dissenter, and glad to make the most of any scandal against a\nclergyman; Towneley, therefore, was obliged to return unsuccessful. Next morning, Towneley--who regarded Ernest as a drowning man, who must\nbe picked out of the water somehow or other if possible, irrespective of\nthe way in which he got into it--called on me, and we put the matter into\nthe hands of one of the best known attorneys of the day.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I was greatly\npleased with Towneley, and thought it due to him to tell him what I had\ntold no one else. I mean that Ernest would come into his aunt's money in\na few years' time, and would therefore then be rich. Towneley was doing all he could before this, but I knew that the\nknowledge I had imparted to him would make him feel as though Ernest was\nmore one of his own class, and had therefore a greater claim upon his\ngood offices. As for Ernest himself, his gratitude was greater than\ncould be expressed in words. I have heard him say that he can call to\nmind many moments, each one of which might well pass for the happiest of\nhis life, but that this night stands clearly out as the most painful that\nhe ever passed, yet so kind and considerate was Towneley that it was\nquite bearable. But with all the best wishes in the world neither Towneley nor I could do\nmuch to help beyond giving our moral support. Our attorney told us that\nthe magistrate before whom Ernest would appear was very severe on cases\nof this description, and that the fact of his being a clergyman would\ntell against him. \"Ask for no remand,\" he said, \"and make no defence. We\nwill call Mr Pontifex's rector and you two gentlemen as witnesses for\nprevious good character. These will be enough. Let us then make a\nprofound apology and beg the magistrate to deal with the case summarily\ninstead of sending it for trial. If you can get this, believe me, your\nyoung friend will be better out of it than he has any right to expect.\" This advice, besides being obviously sensible, would end in saving Ernest\nboth time and suspense of mind, so we had no hesitation in adopting it. The case was called on about eleven o'clock, but we got it adjourned till\nthree, so as to give time for Ernest to set his affairs as straight as he\ncould, and to execute a power of attorney enabling me to act for him as I\nshould think fit while he was in prison. Then all came out about Pryer and the College of Spiritual Pathology. Ernest had even greater difficulty in making a clean breast of this than\nhe had had in telling us about Miss Maitland, but he told us all, and the\nupshot was that he had actually handed over to Pryer every halfpenny that\nhe then possessed with no other security than Pryer's I.O.U. 's for the\namount. Ernest, though still declining to believe that Pryer could be\nguilty of dishonourable conduct, was becoming alive to the folly of what\nhe had been doing; he still made sure, however, of recovering, at any\nrate, the greater part of his property as soon as Pryer should have had\ntime to sell. Towneley and I were of a different opinion, but we did not\nsay what we thought. It was dreary work waiting all the morning amid such unfamiliar and\ndepressing surroundings. I thought how the Psalmist had exclaimed with\nquiet irony, \"One day in thy courts is better than a thousand,\" and I\nthought that I could utter a very similar sentiment in respect of the\nCourts in which Towneley and I were compelled to loiter. At last, about\nthree o'clock the case was called on, and we went round to the part of\nthe court which is reserved for the general public, while Ernest was\ntaken into the prisoner's dock. As soon as he had collected himself\nsufficiently he recognised the magistrate as the old gentleman who had\nspoken to him in the train on the day he was leaving school, and saw, or\nthought he saw, to his great grief, that he too was recognised. Mr Ottery, for this was our attorney's name, took the line he had\nproposed. He called no other witnesses than the rector, Towneley and\nmyself, and threw himself on the mercy of the magistrate. When he had\nconcluded, the magistrate spoke as follows: \"Ernest Pontifex, yours is\none of the most painful cases that I have ever had to deal with. You\nhave been singularly favoured in your parentage and education. You have\nhad before you the example of blameless parents, who doubtless instilled\ninto you from childhood the enormity of the offence which by your own\nconfession you have committed. You were sent to one of the best public\nschools in England. It is not likely that in the healthy atmosphere of\nsuch a school as Roughborough you can have come across contaminating\ninfluences; you were probably, I may say certainly, impressed at school\nwith the heinousness of any attempt to depart from the strictest chastity\nuntil such time as you had entered into a state of matrimony. At\nCambridge you were shielded from impurity by every obstacle which\nvirtuous and vigilant authorities could devise, and even had the\nobstacles been fewer, your parents probably took care that your means\nshould not admit of your throwing money away upon abandoned characters. At night proctors patrolled the street and dogged your steps if you tried\nto go into any haunt where the presence of vice was suspected. By day\nthe females who were admitted within the college walls were selected\nmainly on the score of age and ugliness. It is hard to see what more can\nbe done for any young man than this. For the last four or five months\nyou have been a clergyman, and if a single impure thought had still\nremained within your mind, ordination should have removed it:\nnevertheless, not only does it appear that your mind is as impure as\nthough none of the influences to which I have referred had been brought\nto bear upon it, but it seems as though their only result had been\nthis--that you have not even the common sense to be able to distinguish\nbetween a respectable girl and a prostitute. \"If I were to take a strict view of my duty I should commit you for\ntrial, but in consideration of this being your first offence, I shall\ndeal leniently with you and sentence you to imprisonment with hard labour\nfor six calendar months.\" Towneley and I both thought there was a touch of irony in the\nmagistrate's speech, and that he could have given a lighter sentence if\nhe would, but that was neither here nor there. We obtained leave to see\nErnest for a few minutes before he was removed to Coldbath Fields, where\nhe was to serve his term, and found him so thankful to have been\nsummarily dealt with that he hardly seemed to care about the miserable\nplight in which he was to pass the next six months. When he came out, he\nsaid, he would take what remained of his money, go off to America or\nAustralia and never be heard of more. We left him full of this resolve, I, to write to Theobald, and also to\ninstruct my solicitor to get Ernest's money out of Pryer's hands, and\nTowneley to see the reporters and keep the case out of the newspapers. He\nwas successful as regards all the higher-class papers. There was only\none journal, and that of the lowest class, which was incorruptible. I saw my solicitor at once, but when I tried to write to Theobald, I\nfound it better to say I would run down and see him. I therefore\nproposed this, asking him to meet me at the station, and hinting that I\nmust bring bad news about his son. I knew he would not get my letter\nmore than a couple of hours before I should see him, and thought the\nshort interval of suspense might break the shock of what I had to say. Never do I remember to have halted more between two opinions than on my\njourney to Battersby upon this unhappy errand. When I thought of the\nlittle sallow-faced lad whom I had remembered years before, of the long\nand savage cruelty with which he had been treated in childhood--cruelty\nnone the less real for having been due to ignorance and stupidity rather\nthan to deliberate malice; of the atmosphere of lying and self-laudatory\nhallucination in which he had been brought up; of the readiness the boy\nhad shown to love anything that would be good enough to let him, and of\nhow affection for his parents, unless I am much mistaken, had only died\nin him because it had been killed anew, again and again and again, each\ntime that it had tried to spring. When I thought of all this I felt as\nthough, if the matter had rested with me, I would have sentenced Theobald\nand Christina to mental suffering even more severe than that which was\nabout to fall upon them.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> But on the other hand, when I thought of\nTheobald's own childhood, of that dreadful old George Pontifex his\nfather, of John and Mrs John, and of his two sisters, when again I\nthought of Christina's long years of hope deferred that maketh the heart\nsick, before she was married, of the life she must have led at\nCrampsford, and of the surroundings in the midst of which she and her\nhusband both lived at Battersby, I felt as though the wonder was that\nmisfortunes so persistent had not been followed by even graver\nretribution. Poor people! They had tried to keep their ignorance of the world from\nthemselves by calling it the pursuit of heavenly things, and then\nshutting their eyes to anything that might give them trouble. A son\nhaving been born to them they had shut his eyes also as far as was\npracticable. Who could blame them? They had chapter and verse for\neverything they had either done or left undone; there is no better\nthumbed precedent than that for being a clergyman and a clergyman's wife. In what respect had they differed from their neighbours? How did their\nhousehold differ from that of any other clergyman of the better sort from\none end of England to the other? Why then should it have been upon them,\nof all people in the world, that this tower of Siloam had fallen? Surely it was the tower of Siloam that was naught rather than those who\nstood under it; it was the system rather than the people that was at\nfault. If Theobald and his wife had but known more of the world and of\nthe things that are therein, they would have done little harm to anyone. Selfish they would have always been, but not more so than may very well\nbe pardoned, and not more than other people would be. As it was, the\ncase was hopeless; it would be no use their even entering into their\nmothers' wombs and being born again. They must not only be born again\nbut they must be born again each one of them of a new father and of a new\nmother and of a different line of ancestry for many generations before\ntheir minds could become supple enough to learn anew. The only thing to\ndo with them was to humour them and make the best of them till they\ndied--and be thankful when they did so. Theobald got my letter as I had expected, and met me at the station\nnearest to Battersby. As I walked back with him towards his own house I\nbroke the news to him as gently as I could. I pretended that the whole\nthing was in great measure a mistake, and that though Ernest no doubt had\nhad intentions which he ought to have resisted, he had not meant going\nanything like the length which Miss Maitland supposed. I said we had\nfelt how much appearances were against him, and had not dared to set up\nthis defence before the magistrate, though we had no doubt about its\nbeing the true one. Theobald acted with a readier and acuter moral sense than I had given him\ncredit for. \"I will have nothing more to do with him,\" he exclaimed promptly, \"I will\nnever see his face again; do not let him write either to me or to his\nmother; we know of no such person. Tell him you have seen me, and that\nfrom this day forward I shall put him out of my mind as though he had\nnever been born. I have been a good father to him, and his mother\nidolised him; selfishness and ingratitude have been the only return we\nhave ever had from him; my hope henceforth must be in my remaining\nchildren.\" I told him how Ernest's fellow curate had got hold of his money, and\nhinted that he might very likely be penniless, or nearly so, on leaving\nprison. Theobald did not seem displeased at this, but added soon\nafterwards: \"If this proves to be the case, tell him from me that I will\ngive him a hundred pounds if he will tell me through you when he will\nhave it paid, but tell him not to write and thank me, and say that if he\nattempts to open up direct communication either with his mother or\nmyself, he shall not have a penny of the money.\" Knowing what I knew, and having determined on violating Miss Pontifex's\ninstructions should the occasion arise, I did not think Ernest would be\nany the worse for a complete estrangement from his family, so I\nacquiesced more readily in what Theobald had proposed than that gentleman\nmay have expected. Thinking it better that I should not see Christina, I left Theobald near\nBattersby and walked back to the station. On my way I was pleased to\nreflect that Ernest's father was less of a fool than I had taken him to\nbe, and had the greater hopes, therefore, that his son's blunders might\nbe due to postnatal, rather than congenital misfortunes. Accidents which\nhappen to a man before he is born, in the persons of his ancestors, will,\nif he remembers them at all, leave an indelible impression on him; they\nwill have moulded his character so that, do what he will, it is hardly\npossible for him to escape their consequences. If a man is to enter into\nthe Kingdom of Heaven, he must do so, not only as a little child, but as\na little embryo, or rather as a little zoosperm--and not only this, but\nas one that has come of zoosperms which have entered into the Kingdom of\nHeaven before him for many generations. Accidents which occur for the\nfirst time, and belong to the period since a man's last birth, are not,\nas a general rule, so permanent in their effects, though of course they\nmay sometimes be so. At any rate, I was not displeased at the view which\nErnest's father took of the situation. After Ernest had been sentenced, he was taken back to the cells to wait\nfor the van which should take him to Coldbath Fields, where he was to\nserve his term. He was still too stunned and dazed by the suddenness with which events\nhad happened during the last twenty-four hours to be able to realise his\nposition. A great chasm had opened between his past and future;\nnevertheless he breathed, his pulse beat, he could think and speak. It\nseemed to him that he ought to be prostrated by the blow that had fallen\non him, but he was not prostrated; he had suffered from many smaller\nlaches far more acutely. It was not until he thought of the pain his\ndisgrace would inflict on his father and mother that he felt how readily\nhe would have given up all he had, rather than have fallen into his\npresent plight. It would break his mother's heart. It must, he knew it\nwould--and it was he who had done this. He had had a headache coming on all the forenoon, but as he thought of\nhis father and mother, his pulse quickened, and the pain in his head\nsuddenly became intense. He could hardly walk to the van, and he found\nits motion insupportable. On reaching the prison he was too ill to walk\nwithout assistance across the hall to the corridor or gallery where\nprisoners are marshalled on their arrival. The prison warder, seeing at\nonce that he was a clergyman, did not suppose he was shamming, as he\nmight have done in the case of an old gaol-bird; he therefore sent for\nthe doctor. When this gentleman arrived, Ernest was declared to be\nsuffering from an incipient attack of brain fever, and was taken away to\nthe infirmary. Here he hovered for the next two months between life and\ndeath, never in full possession of his reason and often delirious, but at\nlast, contrary to the expectation of both doctor and nurse, he began\nslowly to recover. It is said that those who have been nearly drowned, find the return to\nconsciousness much more painful than the loss of it had been, and so it\nwas with my hero. As he lay helpless and feeble, it seemed to him a\nrefinement of cruelty that he had not died once for all during his\ndelirium. He thought he should still most likely recover only to sink a\nlittle later on from shame and sorrow; nevertheless from day to day he\nmended, though so slowly that he could hardly realise it to himself. One\nafternoon, however, about three weeks after he had regained\nconsciousness, the nurse who tended him, and who had been very kind to\nhim, made some little rallying sally which amused him; he laughed, and as\nhe did so, she clapped her hands and told him he would be a man again. The spark of hope was kindled, and again he wished to live. Almost from\nthat moment his thoughts began to turn less to the horrors of the past,\nand more to the best way of meeting the future. His worst pain was on behalf of his father and mother, and how he should\nagain face them.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It still seemed to him that the best thing both for him\nand them would be that he should sever himself from them completely, take\nwhatever money he could recover from Pryer, and go to some place in the\nuttermost parts of the earth, where he should never meet anyone who had\nknown him at school or college, and start afresh. Or perhaps he might go\nto the gold fields in California or Australia, of which such wonderful\naccounts were then heard; there he might even make his fortune, and\nreturn as an old man many years hence, unknown to everyone, and if so, he\nwould live at Cambridge. As he built these castles in the air, the spark\nof life became a flame, and he longed for health, and for the freedom\nwhich, now that so much of his sentence had expired, was not after all\nvery far distant. Then things began to shape themselves more definitely. Whatever happened\nhe would be a clergyman no longer. It would have been practically\nimpossible for him to have found another curacy, even if he had been so\nminded, but he was not so minded. He hated the life he had been leading\never since he had begun to read for orders; he could not argue about it,\nbut simply he loathed it and would have no more of it. As he dwelt on\nthe prospect of becoming a layman again, however disgraced, he rejoiced\nat what had befallen him, and found a blessing in this very imprisonment\nwhich had at first seemed such an unspeakable misfortune. Perhaps the shock of so great a change in his surroundings had\naccelerated changes in his opinions, just as the cocoons of silkworms,\nwhen sent in baskets by rail, hatch before their time through the novelty\nof heat and jolting. But however this may be, his belief in the stories\nconcerning the Death, Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus Christ, and\nhence his faith in all the other Christian miracles, had dropped off him\nonce and for ever. The investigation he had made in consequence of Mr\nShaw's rebuke, hurried though it was, had left a deep impression upon\nhim, and now he was well enough to read he made the New Testament his\nchief study, going through it in the spirit which Mr Shaw had desired of\nhim, that is to say as one who wished neither to believe nor disbelieve,\nbut cared only about finding out whether he ought to believe or no. The\nmore he read in this spirit the more the balance seemed to lie in favour\nof unbelief, till, in the end, all further doubt became impossible, and\nhe saw plainly enough that, whatever else might be true, the story that\nChrist had died, come to life again, and been carried from earth through\nclouds into the heavens could not now be accepted by unbiassed people. It\nwas well he had found it out so soon. In one way or another it was sure\nto meet him sooner or later. He would probably have seen it years ago if\nhe had not been hoodwinked by people who were paid for hoodwinking him. What should he have done, he asked himself, if he had not made his\npresent discovery till years later when he was more deeply committed to\nthe life of a clergyman? Should he have had the courage to face it, or\nwould he not more probably have evolved some excellent reason for\ncontinuing to think as he had thought hitherto? Should he have had the\ncourage to break away even from his present curacy? He thought not, and knew not whether to be more thankful for having been\nshown his error or for having been caught up and twisted round so that he\ncould hardly err farther, almost at the very moment of his having\ndiscovered it. The price he had had to pay for this boon was light as\ncompared with the boon itself. What is too heavy a price to pay for\nhaving duty made at once clear and easy of fulfilment instead of very\ndifficult? He was sorry for his father and mother, and he was sorry for\nMiss Maitland, but he was no longer sorry for himself. It puzzled him, however, that he should not have known how much he had\nhated being a clergyman till now. He knew that he did not particularly\nlike it, but if anyone had asked him whether he actually hated it, he\nwould have answered no. I suppose people almost always want something\nexternal to themselves, to reveal to them their own likes and dislikes. Our most assured likings have for the most part been arrived at neither\nby introspection nor by any process of conscious reasoning, but by the\nbounding forth of the heart to welcome the gospel proclaimed to it by\nanother. We hear some say that such and such a thing is thus or thus,\nand in a moment the train that has been laid within us, but whose\npresence we knew not, flashes into consciousness and perception. Only a year ago he had bounded forth to welcome Mr Hawke's sermon; since\nthen he had bounded after a College of Spiritual Pathology; now he was in\nfull cry after rationalism pure and simple; how could he be sure that his\npresent state of mind would be more lasting than his previous ones? He\ncould not be certain, but he felt as though he were now on firmer ground\nthan he had ever been before, and no matter how fleeting his present\nopinions might prove to be, he could not but act according to them till\nhe saw reason to change them. How impossible, he reflected, it would\nhave been for him to do this, if he had remained surrounded by people\nlike his father and mother, or Pryer and Pryer's friends, and his rector. He had been observing, reflecting, and assimilating all these months with\nno more consciousness of mental growth than a school-boy has of growth of\nbody, but should he have been able to admit his growth to himself, and to\nact up to his increased strength if he had remained in constant close\nconnection with people who assured him solemnly that he was under a\nhallucination? The combination against him was greater than his unaided\nstrength could have broken through, and he felt doubtful how far any\nshock less severe than the one from which he was suffering would have\nsufficed to free him. As he lay on his bed day after day slowly recovering he woke up to the\nfact which most men arrive at sooner or later, I mean that very few care\ntwo straws about truth, or have any confidence that it is righter and\nbetter to believe what is true than what is untrue, even though belief in\nthe untruth may seem at first sight most expedient. Yet it is only these\nfew who can be said to believe anything at all; the rest are simply\nunbelievers in disguise. Perhaps, after all, these last are right. They\nhave numbers and prosperity on their side. They have all which the\nrationalist appeals to as his tests of right and wrong. Right, according\nto him, is what seems right to the majority of sensible, well-to-do\npeople; we know of no safer criterion than this, but what does the\ndecision thus arrived at involve? Simply this, that a conspiracy of\nsilence about things whose truth would be immediately apparent to\ndisinterested enquirers is not only tolerable but righteous on the part\nof those who profess to be and take money for being _par excellence_\nguardians and teachers of truth. Ernest saw no logical escape from this conclusion. He saw that belief on\nthe part of the early Christians in the miraculous nature of Christ's\nResurrection was explicable, without any supposition of miracle. The\nexplanation lay under the eyes of anyone who chose to take a moderate\ndegree of trouble; it had been put before the world again and again, and\nthere had been no serious attempt to refute it. How was it that Dean\nAlford for example who had made the New Testament his speciality, could\nnot or would not see what was so obvious to Ernest himself? Could it be\nfor any other reason than that he did not want to see it, and if so was\nhe not a traitor to the cause of truth? Yes, but was he not also a\nrespectable and successful man, and were not the vast majority of\nrespectable and successful men, such for example, as all the bishops and\narchbishops, doing exactly as Dean Alford did, and did not this make\ntheir action right, no matter though it had been cannibalism or\ninfanticide, or even habitual untruthfulness of mind? Monstrous, odious falsehood! Ernest's feeble pulse quickened and his\npale face flushed as this hateful view of life presented itself to him in\nall its logical consistency. It was not the fact of most men being liars\nthat shocked him--that was all right enough; but even the momentary doubt\nwhether the few who were not liars ought not to become liars too. There\nwas no hope left if this were so; if this were so, let him die, the\nsooner the better. \"Lord,\" he exclaimed inwardly, \"I don't believe one\nword of it. Strengthen Thou and confirm my disbelief.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-08 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It seemed to him\nthat he could never henceforth see a bishop going to consecration without\nsaying to himself: \"There, but for the grace of God, went Ernest\nPontifex.\" It was no doing of his. He could not boast; if he had lived\nin the time of Christ he might himself have been an early Christian, or\neven an Apostle for aught he knew. On the whole he felt that he had much\nto be thankful for. The conclusion, then, that it might be better to believe error than truth\nshould be ordered out of court at once, no matter by how clear a logic it\nhad been arrived at; but what was the alternative? It was this, that our\ncriterion of truth--i.e. that truth is what commends itself to the great\nmajority of sensible and successful people--is not infallible. The rule\nis sound, and covers by far the greater number of cases, but it has its\nexceptions. He asked himself, what were they? Ah! that was a difficult matter; there\nwere so many, and the rules which governed them were sometimes so subtle,\nthat mistakes always had and always would be made; it was just this that\nmade it impossible to reduce life to an exact science. There was a rough\nand ready rule-of-thumb test of truth, and a number of rules as regards\nexceptions which could be mastered without much trouble, yet there was a\nresidue of cases in which decision was difficult--so difficult that a man\nhad better follow his instinct than attempt to decide them by any process\nof reasoning. Instinct then is the ultimate court of appeal. And what is instinct? It\nis a mode of faith in the evidence of things not actually seen. And so\nmy hero returned almost to the point from which he had started\noriginally, namely that the just shall live by faith. And this is what the just--that is to say reasonable people--do as\nregards those daily affairs of life which most concern them. They settle\nsmaller matters by the exercise of their own deliberation. More\nimportant ones, such as the cure of their own bodies and the bodies of\nthose whom they love, the investment of their money, the extrication of\ntheir affairs from any serious mess--these things they generally entrust\nto others of whose capacity they know little save from general report;\nthey act therefore on the strength of faith, not of knowledge. So the\nEnglish nation entrusts the welfare of its fleet and naval defences to a\nFirst Lord of the Admiralty, who, not being a sailor can know nothing\nabout these matters except by acts of faith. There can be no doubt about\nfaith and not reason being the _ultima ratio_. Even Euclid, who has laid himself as little open to the charge of\ncredulity as any writer who ever lived, cannot get beyond this. He has\nno demonstrable first premise. He requires postulates and axioms which\ntranscend demonstration, and without which he can do nothing. His\nsuperstructure indeed is demonstration, but his ground is faith. Nor\nagain can he get further than telling a man he is a fool if he persists\nin differing from him. He says \"which is absurd,\" and declines to\ndiscuss the matter further. Faith and authority, therefore, prove to be\nas necessary for him as for anyone else. \"By faith in what, then,\" asked\nErnest of himself, \"shall a just man endeavour to live at this present\ntime?\" He answered to himself, \"At any rate not by faith in the\nsupernatural element of the Christian religion.\" And how should he best persuade his fellow-countrymen to leave off\nbelieving in this supernatural element? Looking at the matter from a\npractical point of view he thought the Archbishop of Canterbury afforded\nthe most promising key to the situation. It lay between him and the\nPope. The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice the\nArchbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well. If he could only\nmanage to sprinkle a pinch of salt, as it were, on the Archbishop's tail,\nhe might convert the whole Church of England to free thought by a _coup\nde main_. There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop--an\nArchbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment for\nassault--would not be able to withstand. When brought face to face with\nthe facts, as he, Ernest, could arrange them; his Grace would have no\nresource but to admit them; being an honourable man he would at once\nresign his Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct in\nEngland within a few months' time. This, at any rate, was how things\nought to be. But all the time Ernest had no confidence in the\nArchbishop's not hopping off just as the pinch was about to fall on him,\nand this seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of it. If\nthis was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious\nuse of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from an\nambuscade. To do him justice it was not himself that he greatly cared about. He\nknew he had been humbugged, and he knew also that the greater part of the\nills which had afflicted him were due, indirectly, in chief measure to\nthe influence of Christian teaching; still, if the mischief had ended\nwith himself, he should have thought little about it, but there was his\nsister, and his brother Joey, and the hundreds and thousands of young\npeople throughout England whose lives were being blighted through the\nlies told them by people whose business it was to know better, but who\nscamped their work and shirked difficulties instead of facing them. It\nwas this which made him think it worth while to be angry, and to consider\nwhether he could not at least do something towards saving others from\nsuch years of waste and misery as he had had to pass himself. If there\nwas no truth in the miraculous accounts of Christ's Death and\nResurrection, the whole of the religion founded upon the historic truth\nof those events tumbled to the ground. \"My,\" he exclaimed, with all the\narrogance of youth, \"they put a gipsy or fortune-teller into prison for\ngetting money out of silly people who think they have supernatural power;\nwhy should they not put a clergyman in prison for pretending that he can\nabsolve sins, or turn bread and wine into the flesh and blood of One who\ndied two thousand years ago? What,\" he asked himself, \"could be more\npure 'hanky-panky' than that a bishop should lay his hands upon a young\nman and pretend to convey to him the spiritual power to work this\nmiracle? It was all very well to talk about toleration; toleration, like\neverything else, had its limits; besides, if it was to include the bishop\nlet it include the fortune-teller too.\" He would explain all this to the\nArchbishop of Canterbury by and by, but as he could not get hold of him\njust now, it occurred to him that he might experimentalise advantageously\nupon the viler soul of the prison chaplain. It was only those who took\nthe first and most obvious step in their power who ever did great things\nin the end, so one day, when Mr Hughes--for this was the chaplain's\nname--was talking with him, Ernest introduced the question of Christian\nevidences, and tried to raise a discussion upon them. Mr Hughes had been\nvery kind to him, but he was more than twice my hero's age, and had long\ntaken the measure of such objections as Ernest tried to put before him. I\ndo not suppose he believed in the actual objective truth of the stories\nabout Christ's Resurrection and Ascension any more than Ernest did, but\nhe knew that this was a small matter, and that the real issue lay much\ndeeper than this. Mr Hughes was a man who had been in authority for many years, and he\nbrushed Ernest on one side as if he had been a fly. He did it so well\nthat my hero never ventured to tackle him again, and confined his\nconversation with him for the future to such matters as what he had\nbetter do when he got out of prison; and here Mr Hughes was ever ready to\nlisten to him with sympathy and kindness.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-08, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-08", "answer": "Ernest, Towneley, Overton, arrest, jail, embarrassment, journal, judge, sentence, six months hard labor, Coldbath Fields Prison, genteel upbringing, Cambridge, respectable girl, prostitute, brain fever, prison infirmary, recovery, clergyman, Christianity, Resurrection, rationalism, Archbishop of Canterbury, renounce Christianity, monstrous hoax, Theobald, parental interference, misfortune, undoing wrongs, evidence for Resurrection, bedfast, public renunciation, supporting characters"}]