y an attempt to escape from the dreary vacuum of idleness.
There are many tasks and occupations which a man is unwilling to perform,
but let no one think that he is therefore in love with idleness; he turns
to something which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless
more suited to his nature; but he is not in love with idleness. A boy
may play the truant from school because he dislikes books and study; but,
depend upon it, he intends doing something the while--to go fishing, or
perhaps to take a walk; and who knows but that from such excursions both
his mind and body may derive more benefit than from books and school?
Many people go to sleep to escape from idleness; the Spaniards do; and,
according to the French account, John Bull, the 'squire, hangs himself in
the month of November; but the French, who are a very sensible people,
attribute the action _a une grande envie de se desennuyer_; he wishes to
be doing something, say they, and having nothing better to do, he has
recourse to the cord.

It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after my return
home, I applied myself to the study of languages. By the acquisition of
Irish, with the first elements of which I had become acquainted under the
tuition of Murtagh, I had contracted a certain zest and inclination for
the pursuit. Yet it is probable that had I been launched about this time
into some agreeable career, that of arms for example, for which, being
the son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I might
have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues of any kind; but,
having nothing to do, I followed the only course suited to my genius
which appeared open to me.

So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly about the
streets of the old town, I came to a small book-stall, and stopping,
commenced turning over the books; I took up at least a dozen, and almost
instantly flung them down. What were they to me? At last, coming to a
thick volume, I opened it, and after inspecting its contents for a few
minutes, I paid for it what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home.

It was a tessaraglot grammar; a strange old book, printed somewhere in
Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to the acquirement of the
French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English tongues, by means of which anyone
conversant in any one of these languages could make himself master of the
other three. I turned my attention to th