his first pleasure.  In the study of Greek, for which at an early age I evinced great aptitude, I learnt the structure of the language and its laws from the keen observations of my master, whose rules were drawn from the classic work before us—­rather than from grammars.  To this hour I retain the information thus obtained, and at no period of my life have I ever had greater cause for thankfulness, than when, after many months of idleness and neglect, with a view to purchase bread I opened, not without anxiety, my book again, and found that time had not impaired my knowledge, and that light shone brightly on the pages, as it did of old.  Towards the close of the evening, I was invited to the study of Mr Fairman.  Doctor Mayhew was still with him, and I was introduced to the physician as the teacher newly arrived from London.  The doctor was a stout good-humoured gentleman of the middle height, with a cheerful and healthy-looking countenance.  He was, in truth, a jovial man, as well as a great snuff-taker.  The incumbent offered me a chair, and placed a decanter of wine before me.  His own glass of port was untouched, and he looked serious and dejected.

“Well, sir, how does London look?” enquired the doctor, “are the folks as mad as they used to be?  What new invention is the rage now?  What bubble is going to burst?  What lord committed forgery last?  Who was the last woman murdered before you started?”

I confessed my inability to answer.

“Well, never mind.  There isn’t much lost.  I am almost ashamed of old England, that’s the truth on’t.  I have given over reading the newspapers, for they are about as full of horrors as Miss What’s-her-name’s tales of the Infernals.  What an age this is! all crime and fanaticism!  Everyman and everything is on the rush.  Come, Fairman, take your wine.”

Mr Fairman sat gazing on the fire, quietly, and took no notice of the request.  “People’s heads,” continued the medical gentleman, “seem turned topsy-turvy.  Dear me, how different it was in my time!  What men are about, I can’t think.  The very last newspaper I read had an advertisement that I should as soon have expected to see there when my father was alive, as a ship sailing along this coast keel upwards.  You saw it, Fairman.  It was just under the Everlasting Life Pill advertisement; and announced that the Reverend Mr Somebody would preach on the Sunday following, at some conventicle, when the public were invited to listen to him—­and that the doors would be opened half an hour earlier than usual to prevent squeezing.  That’s modern religion, and it looks as much like ancient play-acting as two peas.  Where will these marching days of improvement bring us to at last?”

“Tell me, Mayhew,” said Mr Fairman, “does it not surprise you that a girl of her age should be so easily fatigued?”

“My dear friend, that makes the sixth time of asking.  Let us hope that it will be the last.  I don’t know what you mean by ‘so easily’ fatigued.  The poor girl has been in the village all day, fomenting and poulticing old Mrs Barnes, and if it had been any girl but herself, she would have been tired out long before.  Make your mind easy.  I have sent the naughty puss to bed, and she’ll be as fresh as a rose in the morning.”