I have told you the story about Herbert and the poor man in the words of Izaak Walton, the first writer of a life of George Herbert.
In all Herbert's work among his people, his wife was his companion and help, and the people loved her as much as they loved their parson.
Besides living thus for his people Herbert almost rebuilt the church and rectory both of which he found very ruined.
But Herbert's happy, useful days at Bemerton were all too short.
Herbert often gave quaint names to his poems, names which at first sight seem to have little meaning.
But, again, there came upon me, for my relief, that odd impression that Herbert Pocket would never be very successful or rich.
"But the thing is," said Herbert Pocket, "that you look about you.
"Then the time comes," said Herbert, "when you see your opening.
On the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the counting-house to report himself - to look about him, too, I suppose - and I bore him company.
When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a celebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have been the most abject superstition in Europe, and where I could not help noticing, even then, that there was much more gravy on the tablecloths and knives and waiters' clothes, than in the steaks.
Pocket, baby and all, and was caught by Herbert and myself.