, and with their heads filled with the nonsense they have imbibed
from gentility-novels, go over from Socinus to the Pope, becoming sisters
in fusty convents, or having heard a few sermons in Mr. Platitude's
"chapelle," seek for admission at the establishment of mother S---, who,
after employing them for a time in various menial offices, and making
them pluck off their eyebrows hair by hair, generally dismisses them on
the plea of sluttishness; whereupon they return to their papas to eat the
bread of the country, with the comfortable prospect of eating it still in
the shape of a pension after their sires are dead. Papa (ex uno disce
omnes) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true,
being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even
as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very slight
appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great
admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in
particular, whose "Despatches," bound in red morocco, you will find on
his table. A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind,
with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionize,
exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding
Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from down-
trodden but scowling Italy, "Confound the revolutionary canaille, why
can't it be quiet!" in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the
"Walpurgis Nacht." The writer is no admirer of Gothe, but the idea of
that parvenu was certainly a good one. Yes, putting one in mind of the
individual who says--

"Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,
Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;
Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,
Und eben da wir's fest erhalten wollten."

We were no fools, as every one discern'd,
And stopp'd at nought our projects in fulfilling;
But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn'd,
To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for Lavengro and
its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both. It is
true that such hatred is by no means surprising. There is certainly a
great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one
thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at
kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at
pub