"oh, what becomes of our prodigal sons

when worried by troublesome debts and duns.

when fatherly loving is quite worn out,

and how to exist is a matter of doubt?

well, some go writing in london town,

a few rise up and a lot fall down,

many as squatters go south of the line

and 'tend to their sheep instead of their swine,

dozens in african jungles now rest,

numbers ranch in the far wild west;

but have they full or an empty purse,

have they lived decently or the reverse,

married or single, wherever they roam

our prodigal sons in the end come home."

when mr. clendon, vicar of deswarth, preached on the parable of "the prodigal son" he little thought that it would one day be applicable to his own offspring. yet such was the case, for tobias clendon--called after that celebrated character in the apocrypha--came home from oxford, where he was supposed to be studying for the church, and resolutely refused to become a curate, with the chance of a possible bishopric somewhere about the forties. the fact is, the young man had contracted the fatal habit of scribbling, and having had a few articles on dogcarts, poetry, saint simonism--such was the wideness of his range--accepted by friendly editors, had resolved to devote his energies to literature. he had not ambition enough to become a great writer, nor enough modesty to sink to the level of a literary hack; but seeing a chance of earning his bread and butter in an easy fashion, he determined to take advantage of it and get through life as happily as possible. having, therefore, made up his mind to be a scribbler of ephemeral essays, verse, stories--anything that paid, in fact--he had also made up his mind to tell his respected parent, but, having a wholesome dread of said parent, was afraid to do so.

chance--meddlesome goddess--helped him.

he was rusticated for an amusing escapade arising from a misuse of spirits--animal spirits and--and--other spirits. unfortunately, the college authorities did not look at the affair precisely in toby's way, so they banished him from alma mater, whom toby henceforward regarded as an unjust step-mother.

being thus summarily treated, he went home to deswarth, and was received by his respectable parent with as strong language as his position as vicar allowed him to use.

clendon père was a dry-as-dust old gentleman, who was always grubbing among antique folios, and he had sketched out his son's life in black and white. clendon fils--this is the parental prophecy--was to be a curate, a vicar, edit a greek play--something of æschylus for choice--blossom into a full-blown bishop, keep a holy but watchful eye on any possible vacancy in the sees of york or canterbury, and die as high up in the church as he could get. it was truly a beautiful vision, and bookworm clendon, burrowing in out-of-way libraries, looked upon this vision as a thing which was to be.

but then that terrible cacoeihes scribendi, which spoils so many promising bishops, lord chancellors, prime ministers, had infected the wholesome blood of toby, and, in obedience to the itch, he scribbled--he scribbled--oh, father apollo, how he did scribble! having scribbled, he published; having published he showed his printed compositions to his father; but that gentleman, despising modern print, modern paper, modern everything, would not look at his son's effusions.

this narrow-mindedness grieved toby, as he had hoped to break the matter gently to his reverend sire; but as this could not be done, instead of shivering on the brink like a timid bather, he plunged in.

in plain english, he told his father that he wished to be a shakespeare, a dickens, a tennyson, a--a--well select the most famous writers in the range of literature, and you have the people whom toby wished to emulate in a nineteenth century sense.

after this the deluge.

no prophet likes to have his prophecies proved false, and mr. clendon was no exception to the rule. having settled toby's career in life, he was terribly angry that toby should presume to unsettle it in any way. not be a curate, not be a vicar, not be a bishop--what did the boy expect to be?

the boy, with all humility, stated that he expected to be a dickens, a george eliot.

"george eliot, sir, was a woman."

well, then, a walter scott. had his father any objections?

the reverend bookworm had several.

first objection.--literature has no prizes. money? yes. fame? yes. but no official prizes. if you go into the law, you may hope some day to sit on the woolsack, which is stately but uncomfortable. if you prefer the church, you may attain the dignity of a bishop--even of an archbishop. in medicine you may become physician to the court, and physic royalty, which entails large fees and a chance of populating the royal vaults in westminster abbey. even in painting, the presidentship of the royal academy is not beyond the reach of a conventional painter who does not startle his generation with too much genius. all these things are worth striving for, because they smack of officialism. but literature--oh, shade of richard savage, what prize is there in literature?

suggestion by toby.--the poet laureateship.

which has no salary worth speaking of attached to it; and rhymes to order are seldom rhymes in order. no, the laureateship is out of the question; therefore literature has no prizes.

second objection.--literature is a good stick, but a bad crutch,--a remark of walter scott, which was uttered in the primeval times of scribbling. still, according to mr. clendon, who knew nothing past that period, it held good to-day. if toby went in for literature, how did he expect to live till the fame period, seeing that he could earn but little, and the paternal purse-strings were to be closed tightly? poetry. it doesn't pay.

verse

is a curse;

doesn't fill the purse.

rhyme and reason both, according to clendon père. novels! pshaw, the field is overrun by three volume rubbish by talented lady scribblers. essays! no one wants essays when lamb and addison can be bought cheaply. altogether, literature has no money in it.

third objection, and strongest.--you were intended for the church; and you must carry out my plans, even if against your own judgment.

having thus stated his objections, clendon père ordered toby to take holy orders at once, and think no more of the draggle-tailed muse and all her tribe.

toby refused.

his father used clerical bad language.

toby left the room.

his father cut him off with a shilling, and bade him leave the paternal roof, which he did.

here endeth the first book of tobias.

in london toby had a hard time. he went through the mill, and did not like it. he sounded the depths of the london ocean, which contains all kinds of disagreeable things which appear not on the surface--fireless grates, abusive landladies, obdurate editors, well-worn clothing. oh, it was certainly an unpleasant experience, but toby sank to rise, and never forgot, when wandering amid this submarine wreckage of london, that he was a gentleman and had one definite object in view.

if a man keep these two things in mind, they are bladders which will float him to the surface among successful crafts.

therefore tobias clendon rose--slowly at first, then rapidly.

he wrote articles about the wreckage amid which he wandered, and had them accepted by editors, who paid him as little as they could. afterwards he scribbled comic songs for opulent music-hall artistes, which contained the latest ideas of the day and a superfluity of slang. these efforts brought him into contact with the theatrical profession, which is renowned for its modesty, and he put new wine into old bottles by patching up old burlesques. in this cobbling he was very successful, and what with one thing and another, he got on capitally. from burlesques he advanced to little curtain raisers; he wrote short abusive stories for charitably-minded society papers, scathing articles on books by celebrated writers, in which he proved conclusively that they did not know their business as novelists, and altogether became a sort of literary autolycus, being a picker-up of unconsidered trifles in the literary line. this brought him in a good income, and in a few years he actually could face his bankers without blushing. then he took a holiday, and during such holiday went to marsh-on-the-sea, where he met miss valpy, who reminded him about his father, and then----

"i am," said toby, sententiously, "a prodigal son. i have lived in a far country, and eaten husks with london swine. unlike the young man, however, i have risen above the profession of swineherd. i have become friends with dives, and he has bidden me to feasts where i have fared sumptuously. the prodigal son began with money and ended with swine. i began with swine and end now with money. this is a distinct improvement on the old parable; but now 'i will arise and go to my father.' i'm afraid he won't kill the fatted calf, but i don't particularly mind as i detest veal; it's indigestible. he won't fall on my neck because he's not a demonstrative old gentleman, but still i'll go, especially as there is no dear brother to make things unpleasant. my lares and penates i will collect, and the country of my fathers will see me once more."

with this idea in his mind, toby, who had left home in a third-class carriage, returned in a first-class, and was puffed up accordingly. with all such pomposity, however, he took a common sense view of things with regard to the reception committee, and walked to the vicarage with a becoming air of humility. he had left his father grubbing among relics of fust and caxton, and on his return found him still grubbing--a little older looking, a little dryer--but still stranded among rare folios of the middle ages. toby saluted this paternal ghoul, and was received kindly, the ghoul having a heart concealed somewhere in his anatomy.

"i am glad to see you again, tobias," said clendon père, with marked cordiality. "i am a clergyman, and you offended me by not making the profession hereditary. however, i am also a father, and i have missed you very much, my boy--very much indeed--shake hands."

which toby did, and actually surprised a tear on the parchment cheek of his father, which touch of nature making them both akin, had a marked effect on the soft heart of the young man, and he fell into the arms of his sire.

thus far the parable was excellently interpreted.

but the fatted calf.

ah! it was truly an excellent beast, that same calf, for it consisted of several courses, and the wine was undeniable. clendon père looked after his cellar as well as his folios, and after a good dinner father and son clasped hands once more under the influence of '47 port, which made them both sentimental.

"you will stay with me, tobias, and comfort my declining years?"

"certainly, father; but you will let me go to london occasionally?"

"oh, yes, tobias; you must attend to your business. by the way, what is your business?"

"that of a scribbler."

"ah! richard savage and grub street. never mind, my boy, i've got money enough for us both."

"no, not grub street. nous avons change tout cela, eh, father! i make about five hundred a year."

"what!--what, at scribbling?"

"yes."

"dear me," remarked clendon père, eyeing his port, "what a lot of money there must be in the world."

"my dear father, literature has improved since the caxton period."

"but printing has not, tobias. no, no! nowadays they use flimsy paper, bad type----"

"but the matter, father; the contents of a book."

"i never read a modern book. pish! you can't teach an old dog new tricks. i don't believe in your cheap literature."

"it's a good thing for me, at any rate, father."

"of course. it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."

"well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year."

"good, good! yes, folios make one narrow. you shall expand my mind, tobias. you shall bring me into contact with the nineteenth century. but i won't read any books but your own."

"i don't write books."

"no? well, i'm thankful for small mercies. how long are you going to stay with me?"

"till you grow tired of me."

"then, tobias, you are settled here for the rest of your life."

"my dear father. by the way, i want to ask a friend of mine down here."

"not a woman?"

"no; i haven't got that far yet. a fellow called archie maxwell. he used to go to school with me, and we're great chums.

"tobias, no slang. you mean you are a david and jonathan?"

"i do. that's about the size of it."

"eheu, hinc illæ lachrymæ. i like not the nineteenth century talk. it grates on the ear."

"i beg your pardon, father; but can i have archie maxwell down?"

"certainly. is he also in grub street?"

"oh, no! he's an engineer."

"on the railway?"

"no; a civil engineer--builds bridges."

"well, well, let the young man come; but he'll find it dull here."

"oh no, he won't, because you see, father, there's a lady."

"eh!"

"miss kaituna pethram, whom he loves."

"ho, ho! i know the young lady. she is a parishioner of mine. her father came into the title a year ago, and has gone out to new zealand again, leaving his daughter in charge of mrs. belswin."

"mrs. belswin?"

"yes! a very charming lady who acts as chaperon."

"poor archie."

"what, are you afraid of the dragon who guards the golden apples?" said the bookworm with great good humour. "pooh! pooh! in my time young men were not such faint-hearted lovers. if he really adores this nymph of the ocean--she comes from new zealand i believe--he'll soon propitiate the dragon."

"is it an amiable dragon?"

"humph! i'm afraid not! your hercules must be stout-hearted."

"what a pity mrs. valpy and her daughter are not the chaperons still."

"eh! why i think miss valpy requires a chaperon herself, but perchance no hercules eyes that golden fruit."

silence on the part of tobias, and a blush on his cheek.

"tobias! tobias," said his father, with uplifted finger, "you've been looking over the garden wall of the hesperides, and the golden fruit of the valpys tempts you. eh! my son, you also are in love--with miss valpy."

"yes."

"and your friend is in love with miss pethram."

"yes."

"and you both intend to stay with me for a time, so as to be near your inamoratas."

"if you please, father."

mr. clendon smiled grimly and finished his glass of port, which he really felt he needed.

"cupid! cupid! what have i done that thus i should be sir pandarus of troy in my old age. tobias, go to bed."

"good-night, father;" and he vanished.

sir pandarus groaned.

"farewell, oh, lovely peace! i dwell no more under the shade of thy desirable olive. four lovers in one parish, and i the vicar thereof. alas! alas! the prodigal son i sent abroad with curses has returned, and he hath brought back his curse with him. eheu infelici."