Keep me informed of your proceedings as much as your
anomalous character will permit; so that nothing may
diminish my confidence that the man who had the honour
to be christened Kenelm will not disgrace his name,
but acquire the distinction denied to a Peter.
Your affectionate father.
VILLAGERS lie abed on Sundays later than on workdays,
and no shutter was unclosed in a window of the rural
street through which Kenelm Chillingly and Tom Bowles
went, side by side, in the still soft air of the Sabbath
morn. Side by side they went on, crossing the
pastoral glebe-lands, where the kine still drowsily
reclined under the bowery shade of glinting chestnut
leaves; and diving thence into a narrow lane or by-road,
winding deep between lofty banks all tangled with
convolvulus and wild-rose and honeysuckle.
They walked in silence, for Kenelm, after one or two
vain attempts at conversation, had the tact to discover
that his companion was in no mood for talk; and being
himself one of those creatures whose minds glide easily
into the dreamy monologue of revery, he was not displeased
to muse on undisturbed, drinking quietly into his heart
the subdued joy of the summer morn, with the freshness
of its sparkling dews, the wayward carol of its earliest
birds, the serene quietude of its limpid breezy air.
Only when they came to fresh turnings in the road
that led towards the town to which they were bound,
Tom Bowles stepped before his companion, indicating
the way by a monosyllable or a gesture. Thus
they journeyed for hours, till the sun attained power,
and a little wayside inn near a hamlet invited Kenelm
to the thought of rest and food.
“Tom,” said he then, rousing from his
revery, “what do you say to breakfast?”
Answered Tom sullenly, “I am not hungry; but
as you like.”
“Thank you, then we will stop here a while.
I find it difficult to believe that you are not hungry,
for you are very strong, and there are two things
which generally accompany great physical strength:
the one is a keen appetite; the other is—though
you may not suppose it, and it is not commonly known—a
melancholic temperament.”
“Eh!—a what?”
“A tendency to melancholy. Of course you
have heard of Hercules: you know the saying ’as
strong as Hercules’?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I was first led to the connection between
strength, appetite, and melancholy, by reading in
an old author named Plutarch that Hercules was among
the most notable instances of melancholy temperament
which the author was enabled to quote. That must
have been the traditional notion of the Herculean
constitution; and as for appetite, the appetite of
Hercules was a standard joke of the comic writers.
When I read that observation it set me thinking, being
myself melancholic and having an exceedingly good appetite.
Sure enough, when I began to collect evidence, I
