ldness in matters beyond sounding, yet
largely ungifted with knowledge of nature, whether human or superior.

"Better stick to his law-books," the Admiral had said, after singing out
some of the rhyme of it to the tune of "Billy Benbow"; "never sit on the
wool-sack by spewing oakum this way."

Faith had tried, as a matter of duty, to peruse this book to its cover;
but she found it beyond even her good-will, and mild sympathy with
everything, to do so. There was not the touch of nature in it which
makes humble people feel, and tickles even the very highest with desire
to enter into it. So Faith declared that it must be very clever, and no
doubt very beautiful, but she herself was so stupid that she could not
make out very clearly what it was all about.

"Well, I understand every word of it," Miss Dolly cried, with a literary
look. "I don't see how you can help doing that, when you know all about
Frank, who wrote it. Whenever it is not quite clear, it is because he
wants us to think that he knows too much, or else because he is not
quite certain what he wants to mean himself. And as for his talk about
freedom, and all that, I don't see why you should object to it. It is
quite the fashion with all clever people now, and it stops them from
doing any mischief. And nobody pays much attention to them, after the
cruel things done in France when I was seven or eight years old. If I
see Frank, I shall tell him that I like it."

"And I shall tell him that I don't," said Faith. "It cannot do anybody
any good. And what they call 'freedom' seems to mean making free with
other people's property."

These poems were issued in one volume, and under one title--The
Harmodiad--although there must have been some half-hundred of them,
and not more than nine odes to freedom in the lot. Some were almost
tolerable, and others lofty rubbish, and the critics (not knowing the
author) spoke their bright opinions freely. The poet, though shy as a
mouse in his preface, expected a mountain of inquiry as to the identity
of this new bard, and modestly signed himself "Asteroid," which made
his own father stare and swear. Growing sore prematurely from much
keelhauling--for the reviewers of the period were patriotic, and the
English public anti-Gallic--Frank quitted his chambers at Lincoln's Inn,
and came home to be comforted for Christmas. This was the wisest thing
that he could do, though he felt that it was not Harmodian. In spite of
all crotchets,