he shook at his
betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of
the badness of my tongue."

"Well," said I, "you can return now; the Bourbons are restored."

"I find myself very well here; not bad country. _Il est vrai que la
France sera toujours la France_; but all are dead there who knew me. I
find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic,
that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very
well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people
hard names. _Ma foi_, _il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce
sacre de Dante_."

Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages,
besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of
Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other
pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days,
nor its delights; neither was I formed by nature to be a pallid indoor
student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better
things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun
likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its
lock, in rather antique characters, "Tower, 1746"; with this weapon I had
already, in Ireland, performed some execution among the rooks and
choughs, and it was now again destined to be a source of solace and
amusement to me, in the winter season, especially on occasions of severe
frost when birds abounded. Sallying forth with it at these times, far
into the country, I seldom returned at night without a string of
bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging in triumph round my neck.
When I reflect on the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed
down the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at the
number of birds which I slaughtered, than that I never blew my hands,
face, and old honey-combed gun, at one and the same time, to pieces.

But the winter, alas! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in England more
than three or four months; so, during the rest of the year, when not
occupied with my philological studies, I had to seek for other
diversions. I have already given a hint that I was also addicted to the
angle. Of course there is no comparison between the two pursuits, the
rod and line seeming but very poor trumpery to one who has had the honour
of carrying a noble firelock. There is a time, however, for all thin