an
old jackass, or meet the country boobies for a hunt, and be pointed
at as the Frenchman, and left to ride alone; or there's mine own
chamber, when the maids do not see fit to turn me out with their
pails and besoms, as they do at least twice a week--I sit there in
my cloak and furs (by the way, I am chidden for an effeminate fop if
ever I am seen in them). I would give myself to books, as my uncle
counselled, but what think you? By ill hap Bob, coming in to ask
some question, found me studying the Divina Commedia of Dante
Alighieri, and hit upon one of the engravings representing the
torments of purgatory. What must he do but report it, and
immediately a hue and cry arises that I am being corrupted with
Popish books. In vain do I tell them that their admirable John
Milton, the only poet save Sternhold and Hopkins that my father
deems not absolute pagan, knew, loved, and borrowed from Dante. All
my books are turned over as ruthlessly as ever Don Quixote's by the
curate and the barber, and whatever Mr. Horncastle's erudition
cannot vouch for is summarily handed over to the kitchen wench to
light the fires. The best of it is that they have left me my
classics, as though old Terence and Lucan were lesser heathens than
the great Florentine. However, I have bribed the young maid, and
rescued my Dante and Boiardo with small damage, but I dare not read
them save with door locked."

Mrs. Woodford could scarcely shake her head at the disobedience, and
she asked if there were really no other varieties.

"Such as fencing with that lubber Robert, and trying to bend his
stiff limbs to the noble art of l'escrime. But that is after dinner
work. There is the mountain of half-raw flesh to be consumed first,
and then my father, with Mr. Horncastle and Bob discuss on what they
call the news--happy if a poor rogue has been caught by Tom
Constable stealing faggots. 'Tis argument for a week--almost equal
to the price of a fat mutton at Portsmouth. My father and the
minister nod in due time over their ale-cup, and Bob and I go our
ways till dark, or till the house bell rings for prayers and
exposition. Well, dear good lady, I will not grieve you by telling
you how often they make me wish to be again the imp devoid of every
shred of self-respect, and too much inured to flogging to heed what
my antics might bring on me."

"I am glad you have that shred of self respect; I hope indeed it is
some higher respect."

"Well, I can