proverb of
mine, which I quoted to the _fanciullo_, that there are no handsome
prisons! Did not the son of that celebrated Frenchman, surnamed _Bras de
Fer_, write a book not only to prove that adversities are more necessary
than prosperities, but that among all adversities a prison is the most
pleasant and profitable?[32] But is not this condition of mine,
voluntarily and experimentally incurred, a type of my life? Is it the
first time that I have thrust myself into a hobble?--and if in a hobble
of mine own choosing, why should I blame the gods?"

Upon this Dr. Riccabocca fell into a train of musing so remote from time
and place, that in a few minutes he no more remembered that he was in
the parish stocks, than a lover remembers that flesh is grass, a miser
that mammon is perishable, a philosopher that wisdom is vanity.--Dr.
Riccabocca was in the clouds.

CHAPTER X.

The dullest dog that ever wrote a novel (and, _entre nous_, reader--but
let it go no farther--we have a good many dogs among the fraternity that
are not Munitos[33]) might have seen with half an eye that the Parson's
discourse had produced a very genial and humanizing effect upon his
audience. When all was over, and the congregation stood up to let Mr.
Hazeldean and his family walk first down the aisle (for that was the
custom at Hazeldean), moistened eyes glanced at the Squire's sunburned,
manly face, with a kindness that bespoke revived memory of many a
generous benefit and ready service. The head might be wrong now and
then--the heart was in the right place after all. And the lady, leaning
on his arm, came in for a large share of that gracious good feeling.
True, she now and then gave a little offence when the cottages were not
so clean as she fancied they ought to be--and poor folks don't like a
liberty taken with their houses any more than the rich do; true, that
she was not quite so popular with the women as the Squire was, for, if
the husband went too often to the alehouse, she always laid the fault on
the wife, and said, "No man would go out of doors for his comforts, if
he had a smiling face and a clean hearth at his home;" whereas the
Squire maintained the more gallant opinion, that "if Gill was a shrew,
it was because Jack did not, as in duty bound, stop her mouth with a
kiss." Still, notwithstanding these more obnoxious notions on her part,
and a certain awe inspired by the stiff silk gown and the handsome
aquiline nose, it was impossible