Every-day services he did prohibit, declaring that he would not have the parish church made ridiculous; but in other respects his curate was the pastor.
Once every Sunday he read the service, and once every Sunday he preached, and he resided in his parsonage ten months every year.

His wife and daughters went among the poor--and he smoked cigars in his library.

Though not yet fifty, he was becoming fat and idle--unwilling to walk, and not caring much even for such riding as the bishop had left to him.

And to make matters worse--far worse, he knew all this of himself, and understood it thoroughly.

"I see a better path, and know how good it is, but I follow ever the worse." He was saying that to himself daily, and was saying it always without hope.
And his wife had given him up.