CHAPTER I
_ When I was a small boy at the beginning of the century I remember an
old man who wore knee-breeches and worsted stockings, and who used
to hobble about the street of our village with the help of a stick.
He must have been getting on for eighty in the year 1807, earlier
than which date I suppose I can hardly remember him, for I was born
in 1802. A few white locks hung about his ears, his shoulders were
bent and his knees feeble, but he was still hale, and was much
respected in our little world of Paleham. His name was Pontifex.
His wife was said to be his master； I have been told she brought him
a little money, but it cannot have been much. She was a tall,
square-shouldered person (I have heard my father call her a Gothic
woman) who had insisted on being married to Mr Pontifex when he was
young and too good-natured to say nay to any woman who wooed him.
The pair had lived not unhappily together, for Mr Pontifex‘s temper
was easy and he soon learned to

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