“Oh no!  I may go out birding with Bob, who is about as lively as 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 never believe that Heaven meant to be served by mortal dullness.  Seven years have only made old Horncastle blow his horn to the same note, only more drearily.”

“I can see indeed that it is a great trial to one used to the life of foreign Courts and to interest in great affairs like you, my poor Peregrine; but what can I say but to entreat you to be patient, try to find interest, and endeavour to win your father’s confidence so that he may accord you more liberty?  Did I not hear that your attention made your mother’s life happier?”