he would convey the remanent rind into his own, with a merry quirk of “the nearer the bone,” &c., and declaring that he universally preferred the outside.  For we had our table distinctions, you are to know, and some of us in a manner sate above the salt.  None but his guest or guests dreamed of tasting flesh luxuries at night, the fragments were vere hospilibus sacra.  But of one thing or another there was always enough, and leavings:  only he would sometimes finish the remainder crust, to show that he wished no savings.

Wine he had none; nor, except on very rare occasions, spirits; but the sensation of wine was there.  Some thin kind of ale I remember—­“British beverage,” he would say!  “Push about, my boys;” “Drink to your sweethearts, girls.”  At every meagre draught a toast must ensue, or a song.  All the forms of good liquor were there, with none of the effects wanting.  Shut your eyes, and you would swear a capacious bowl of punch was foaming in the centre, with beams of generous Port or Madeira radiating to it from each of the table corners.  You got flustered, without knowing whence; tipsy upon words; and reeled under the potency of his unperforming Bacchanalian encouragements.

We had our songs—­“Why, Soldiers, Why”—­and the “British Grenadiers”—­in which last we were all obliged to bear chorus.  Both the daughters sang.  Their proficiency was a nightly theme—­the masters he had given them—­the “no-expence” which he spared to accomplish them in a science “so necessary to young women.”  But then—­they could not sing “without the instrument.”

Sacred, and by me, never-to-be violated, Secrets of Poverty!  Should I disclose your honest aims at grandeur, your make-shift efforts of magnificence?  Sleep, sleep, with all thy broken keys, if one of the bunch be extant; thrummed by a thousand ancestral thumbs; dear, cracked spinnet of dearer Louisa!  Without mention of mine, be dumb, thou thin accompanier of her thinner warble!  A veil be spread over the dear delighted face of the well-deluded father, who now haply listening to cherubic notes, scarce feels sincerer pleasure than when she awakened thy time-shaken chords responsive to the twitterings of that slender image of a voice.

We were not without our literary talk either.  It did not extend far, but as far as it went, it was good.  It was bottomed well; had good grounds to go upon.  In the cottage was a room, which tradition authenticated to have been the same in which Glover, in his occasional retirements, had penned the greater part of his Leonidas.  This circumstance was nightly quoted, though none of the present inmates, that I could discover, appeared ever to have met with the poem in question.  But that was no matter.  Glover had written there, and the anecdote was pressed into the account of the family importance.  It diffused a learned air through the apartment, the little side casement of which (the poet’s study window), opening upon a superb view