of sliding over a tale, but his words come squeamishly out of his mouth, and the laughter commonly before the jest.  He names this word college too often, and his discourse beats too much on the university.  The perplexity of mannerliness will not let him feed, and he is sharp set at an argument when he should cut his meat.  He is discarded for a gamester at all games but one and thirty[41], and at tables he reaches not beyond doublets.  His fingers are not long and drawn out to handle a fiddle, but his fist clunched with the habit of disputing.  He ascends a horse somewhat sinisterly, though not on the left side, and they both go jogging in grief together.  He is exceedingly censured by the inns-of-court men, for that heinous vice, being out of fashion.  He cannot speak to a dog in his own dialect, and understands Greek better than the language of a falconer.  He has been used to a dark room, and dark clothes, and his eyes dazzle at a sattin suit.  The hermitage of his study has made him somewhat uncouth in the world, and men make him worse by staring on him.  Thus is he [silly and] ridiculous, and it continues with him for some quarter of a year out of the university.  But practise him a little in men, and brush him over with good company, and he shall out-balance those glisterers, as far as a solid substance does a feather, or gold, gold-lace.

A PLAIN COUNTRY FELLOW

Is one that manures his ground well, but lets himself lie fallow and untilled.  He has reason enough to do his business, and not enough to be idle or melancholy.  He seems to have the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar, for his conversation is among beasts, and his talons none of the shortest, only he eats not grass, because he loves not salads.  His hand guides the plough, and the plough his thoughts, and his ditch and land-mark is the very mound of his meditations.  He expostulates with his oxen very understandingly, and speaks gee, and ree, better than English.  His mind is not much distracted with objects, but if a good fat cow come in his way, he stands dumb and astonished, and though his haste be never so great, will fix here half an hour’s contemplation.  His habitation is some poor thatched roof, distinguished from his barn by the loop-holes that let out smoke, which the rain had long since washed through, but for the double ceiling of bacon on the inside, which has hung there from his grandsire’s time, and is yet to make rashers for posterity.  His dinner is his other work, for he sweats at it as much as at his labour; he is a terrible fastener on a piece of beef, and you may hope to stave the guard off sooner.  His religion is a part of his copyhold, which he takes from his landlord, and refers it wholly to his discretion:  Yet if he give him leave he is a good Christian to his power, (that is,) comes to church in his best clothes, and sits there with his neighbours, where he is capable only of two prayers, for rain, and fair