Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

[31] CAPITULUM III I was some seven years old, resumed the Archbishop, at the close of the exciting interlude described in the last chapter, when I first obtained any real satisfaction from the passion of love, which has since done so much to regulate and in- spire my career. The incident occurred on this wise. For some days my ponderous and unwieldy bollocks had become turgid and swollen with the fluid we know, my boy, you dog ! As spunk. Eighty-three pounds and four ounces they weighed on the penny-in-the-slot machine at our village station, and had it not been for the singular ro- bustness of my physique, unenervated by de- bauch, I should have seen myself condemned to share the unenviable lot of the Samoan with ele- phantiasis of the scrotum, and support my too generous endowments with a wheelbarrow. Fortu- nately this extreme measure was not required, but for all that the fullness of these giant spermsacks caused me no little inconvenience at such games as football and the like. Occupied with my trouble, which modesty forbade me to reveal even to my parents, I wandered, nursing with thoughtful hands the bags of fecundity, in the park belonging to one of our local magnates, a famous distiller of old Scotch whisky, and reputed in venereal circles as a grand trencher man at a mutton-pie. But I was destined to unmask this fellow. He was, as I speedily discovered, but a worn-out reprobate, a fellow of Fumbler’s Hall, a mere butterfingers at coney-catching ! In a dingle of one of his numerous