It is only very gradually that one comes to appreciate Lalage.  I had known her since she was quite a small child.  I even recollect her insisting upon my wheeling her perambulator once when I was a schoolboy, and naturally resented such an indignity.  Yet I had failed to realize the earnestness and vigour of her character.  I did not expect anything to come of the guarantee which I had signed for her.  I might and ought to have known better; but I was in fact greatly surprised when I received by post the first copy of the Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette.  It was not a very large publication, but it contained more print than I should have thought obtainable for the sum of ten pounds.  Besides the title of the magazine and a statement that this issue was Vol.  I, No.  I., there was a picture of a young lady, clothed like the goddess Diana in the illustrations of the classical dictionary, who was urging on several large dogs of most ferocious appearance.  In the distance, evidently terrified by the dogs, were three animals of no recognized species, but very disgusting in appearance, which bore on their sides the words “Tommy Rot.”  The huntress was remarkably like Hilda in appearance and the initials “L.B.” at the bottom left-hand corner of the picture told me that the artist was Lalage herself.  One of the dogs was a highly idealized portrait of a curly haired retriever belonging to my mother.  The objects of the chase I did not recognize as copies of any beasts known to me; though there was something in the attitude of the worst of them which reminded me slightly of the Archdeacon.  I never heard what Hilda’s mother thought of this picture.  If she is the kind of woman I imagine her to be she probably resented the publication of a portrait of her daughter dressed in a single garment only and that decidedly shorter than an ordinary night dress.

Opening the magazine at page one, I came upon an editorial article.  The rapid increase of the habit of talking tommyrot was dwelt upon and the necessity for prompt action was emphasized.  The objects of the society were set forth with a naked directness, likely, I feared, to cause offence.  Then came a paragraph, most disquieting to me, in which the generous gentleman whose aid had rendered the publication of the magazine possible was subjected to a good deal of praise.  His name was not actually mentioned, but he was described as a distinguished diplomatist well known in an important continental court.  This made me uneasy.  There are not very many distinguished diplomatists who would finance a magazine of the kind.  I felt that suspicion would fasten almost at once upon me, in the event of there being any kind of public inquiry.  Next to the editorial article came a page devoted on one side entirely to the advertisement of the gentleman who wanted second-hand feather beds.  The other side of it was announced as “To Let,” and the attention of advertisers was called to the unique opportunity offered to them of making their wishes known to an intelligent and progressive public.  After that came the bishops.

Each bishop had at least half a page to himself.  Some had much more, the amount of space devoted to them being apparently regulated in accordance with the enormity of their offences.  There was a note in italics at the end of each indictment which ran thus: 

“All inquirers after the original sources of the information used in this article are requested to apply to J. Selby-Harrison, Esq., 175 Trinity College, Dublin, by whom the research in the columns of the daily papers has been conducted with much ability and disinterested discretion.  P.S. ­J.  Selby-Harrison has in all cases preserved notes of the dates, etc., for purposes of verification.”  The working up of the material thus collected was without doubt done by Lalage.  I recognized her style.  Hilda probably corrected the proof.

In the letter which Lalage wrote to me at the time of the founding of the A.T.R.S. she spoke of university life as broadening the mind and enlarging the horizon.  Either Oxford in this respect is inferior to Trinity College, Dublin, or else my mind has narrowed again since I took my degree and my horizon has shrunk.  I did not feel that the episcopal pronouncements quoted deserved the eminence to which Lalage promoted them.  They struck me as being simply commonplace.  I had grown quite accustomed to them and had come to regard them as proper and natural things for bishops to say.  For instance, the very first paragraph in this pillory of Lalage’s was devoted to a bishop, I forget his name and territorial title, who had denounced Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe.”  Some evil-minded person had put forward this novel as a suitable reading book for Irish boys and girls in secondary schools, and the bishop had objected strongly.  Lalage was cheerfully contemptuous of him.  Without myself sharing his feeling, I can quite understand that he may have found it his duty to protest against the deliberate encouragement of such dangerous reading; and it is seldom right to laugh at a man for doing his duty.  I read “Ivanhoe” when I was a boy and I distinctly remember that at least one eminent ecclesiastic is presented in a most unfavourable light.  If Irish boys and girls got into the way of thinking of twelfth-century priors as gay dogs, the step onward to actual disrespect for contemporary bishops would be quite a short one.

There was another bishop (he appeared a few pages further on in the Gazette) who objected to the education of boys and girls under seven years of age in the same infant schools.  He said that this mixing of the sexes would destroy the beautiful modesty of demeanour which distinguishes Irish girls from those of other nations.  Lalage poked fun at this man for a page and a half.  I hesitate to say that she was actually wrong.  My own experience of infant schools is very small.  I once went into one, but I did not stay there for more than five minutes, hardly long enough to form an opinion about the wholesomeness of the moral atmosphere.  But in this case again I can enter into the feelings of the bishop.  He probably knows, having once been six years old himself, that all boys of that age are horrid little beasts.  He also knows ­he distinctly says so in the pastoral quoted by Lalage ­that the charm of maidenhood is a delicate thing, comparable to the bloom on a peach or the gloss on a butterfly’s wings.  Even Miss Battersby, who must know more about girls than any bishop, felt that Lalage had lost something not to be regained when she became intimate enough with Tom Kitterick to rub glycerine and cucumber into his cheeks.

Lalage was, in my opinion, herself guilty of something very like the sin of tommyrot when she mocked another bishop for a sermon he had preached on “Empire Day.”  He said that wherever the British flag flies there is liberty for subject peoples and several other obviously true things of the same kind.  I do not see what else, under the circumstances, the poor man could say.  Nor do I blame him in the least for boldly demanding more battleships to carry something ­I think he said the Gospel ­to still remoter lands.  Lalage chose to pretend that liberty and subjection are contradictory terms, but this is plainly absurd.  Lord Thormanby talked over this part of the Gazette with me some months later and gave it as his opinion that a man whom he knew in the club had put the case very well by saying that there are several quite distinct kinds of liberty.

I found myself still more puzzled by Lalage’s attitude toward another man who was not even, strictly speaking, a bishop.  He was a moderator, or an ex-moderator, of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church.  He had made a speech in which he set forth reasons why he and others like him should have a recognized place in the vice-regal court.  I am not myself passionately fond of vice-regal courts, but I know that many people regard them with great reverence, and I do not see why a man should be laughed at for wanting to walk through the state rooms in Dublin Castle in front of somebody else.  It is a harmless, perhaps a laudable, ambition.  Lalage chose to see something funny in it, and I am bound to say that when I had finished her article I too began to catch a glimpse of the amusing side of it.

I spent a long time over the Gazette.  The more I read it the greater my perplexity grew.  Many things which I had accepted for years as solemn and necessary parts of the divine ordering of the world were suddenly seized, contorted, and made to grin like apes.  I felt disquieted, inclined, and yet half afraid, to laugh.  I was rendered acutely uncomfortable by an editorial note which followed the last jibe at the last bishop:  “The next number of the Anti-Tommy-Rot Gazette will deal with politicians and may be expected to be lively.  Subscribe at once. ­Ed.”

I was so profoundy distrustful of my own judgment in delicate matters that I determined to find out if I could what Dodds thought of Lalage’s opinions.  Dodds is preeminently a man of the world, very sound, unemotional and full of common sense.  I did not produce the Gazette or mention Lalage’s name, for Dodds has had a prejudice against her since the evening on which he played bridge with Miss Battersby.  Nor did I make a special business of asking his advice.  I waited until we sat down to bridge together after dinner and then I put a few typical cases before him in casual tones, as if they were occurring to me at the moment.

“Dodds,” I said, holding the cards in my hand, “supposing that a bishop for whom you always had a respect on account of the dignity of his office, were to say ­”

“I wouldn’t have any respect for a bishop on account of his office,” said Dodds.  “Why don’t you deal?”

“We’re Presbyterians,” said Mrs. Dodds.

“That needn’t prevent you considering this case, for the word bishop is here used ­that is to say, I am using it ­to mean any eminent ecclesiastic.  All right, I’m dealing as fast as I can.  Supposing that a man of that kind, call him a bishop or anything else you like, were to say that boys and girls ought not to read ‘Ivanhoe’ on account of the danger to their faith and morals contained in that book, would you or would you not say that he, the bishop, not ‘Ivanhoe,’ was talking what in ordinary slang is called tommyrot?”

I finished dealing and, after glancing rather inattentively at my cards, declared hearts.

Dodds, who was sitting on my left, picked up his hand and doubled my hearts.  He did so in a tone that convinced me that I had been rash in my declaration.  He paid no attention whatever to my question about the bishop and “Ivanhoe.”  It turned out that he had a remarkably good hand and he scored thirty-two below the line, which of course gave him the game.  Mrs. Dodds, who was my partner, seemed temporarily soured, and while Dodds was explaining to us how well he had played, she took up the question about the bishop.

“I’d be thinking,” she said, “that that bishop of yours had very little to do to be talking that way.  I’d say he’d be the kind of man who’d declare hearts with no more than one honour on his hand and that the queen.”

This rather nettled me, for I quite realized that my hand did not justify a heart declaration.  I had made it inadvertently my mind being occupied with more important matters.

“Of course,” I said, “you’re prejudiced in favour of Sir Walter Scott.  You Scotch are all the same.  A word against Sir Walter or Robbie Burns is enough for you.  But I’ll put another case to you:  Supposing a bishop ­understanding the word as I’ve explained it ­were to say that infant schools are a danger to public morality on account of the way that boys and girls are mixed up together in the same classrooms, would he, in your opinion ?”

Dodds has a horribly coarse mind.  He stopped dealing and grinned.  Then he winked at the young engineer who sat opposite to him.  He, I was pleased to see, had the grace to look embarrassed.  Mrs. Dodds, who of course knows how her husband revels in anything which can be twisted into impropriety, interrupted me with a question asked in a very biting tone.

“Is it chess you think you are playing the now, or is it bridge?”

I had to let the next deal pass without any further attempt to discover Dodds’s opinion about tommyrot.  I was trying to think out what Mrs. Dodds meant by accusing me of wanting to play chess.  It struck me as an entirely gratuitous and, using the word in its original sense, impertinent suggestion.  Nothing I had said seemed in any way to imply that I was thinking of chess.  As a matter of fact, I detest the game and never play it.  I suppose I am slow-witted, but it did not occur to me for quite a long time, that, being a Scotch Presbyterian, the mention of bishops was more likely to call up to her mind the pieces which sidle obliquely across a chessboard than living men of lordly degree.  I was not sure in the end that I had tracked her thought correctly, but I know that I made several bad mistakes during the next and the following hands.

When it worked round to my turn to deal again I gave out the cards very slowly and made another attempt to find out whether Dodds did or did not agree with Lalage about tommyrot.

“Supposing,” I said, “that a clergyman, an ordinary clergyman, not a bishop, the kind of clergyman whom you would perhaps describe as a minister, were to preach a sermon about the British Empire and were to say ­”

“In our church,” said Mrs. Dodds snappily, “the ministers preach the Gospel.”

“I am convinced of that,” I said, “but you must surely admit that the great idea of the imperial expansion of the race, Greater Britain beyond the seas, and ­the White Man’s Burden, and all that kind of thing, are not essentially anti-evangelical, when looked at from the proper point of view.  Suppose, for instance, that our hypothetical clergyman were to take for his text ­”

I laid down the last card in the pack on my own pile and looked triumphantly at Dodds.  I had, at all events, not made a misdeal.  Dodds put his hand down on his cards with a bang.  He has large red hands, which swell out between the knuckles and at the wrists.  I saw by the way his fingers were spread on the table that he was going to speak strongly.  I recollected then, when it was too late, that Dodds is an advanced Radical and absolutely hates the idea of imperialism.  I tried to diminish his wrath by slipping in an apologetic explanation before he found words to express his feelings.

“The clergyman I mean,” I said, “isn’t ­he’s purely imaginary, but if he had any real existence he wouldn’t belong to your church.  He’d be a bishop.”

“He’d better,” said Dodds grimly.

I felt so much depressed that I declared spades at once.  I gathered from the tone in which he spoke that if the clergyman who preached imperialism came within the jurisdiction of Dodds, or for the matter of that of Mrs. Dodds, it would be the worse for him.  By far his best chance of a peaceful life was to be a bishop and not to live in Scotland.  This was a great deal worse than Lalage’s way of treating him.  She merely sported, pursuing him with gay ridicule, mangling his pet quotations, smiling at his swelling rotundities.  Dodds would have sent him to the stake without an opportunity for recantation.

I lost altogether seven shillings during the evening, which represents a considerable run of bad luck, for we never played for more than a shilling for each hundred points.  Mrs. Dodds, of course, lost the same amount.  I tried to make it up to her next day by sending her, anonymously, six pairs of gloves.  She must have known that they came from me for she was very gracious and friendly next evening.  But for a long time afterward Dodds used to annoy her by proposing to talk about bishops and infant schools whenever she happened to be my partner.