“quibus hunc lenire dolorem
    Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem;”

not for glory, not for fame, not for applause,—­for against this disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as Pope has chosen to render it,

  “Rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied,
   Will cure the arrant’st puppy of his pride;”

nor yet for pleasure, properly so called:  the strict and virtuous lessons which I received in early life from the best of parents,—­a pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no more,—­I trust have rendered me sufficiently secure on that side:——­

No, Sir, for none of these things; but an appetite, in its coarsest and least metaphorical sense,—­an appetite for food.

The exorbitances of my arrowroot and pappish days I cannot go back far enough to remember; only I have been told that my mother’s constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home, the woman who had the care of me for that purpose used to make most extravagant demands for my pretended excesses in that kind; which my parents, rather than believe anything unpleasant of me, chose to impute to the known covetousness and mercenary disposition of that sort of people.  This blindness continued on their part after I was sent for home, up to the period when it was thought proper, on account of my advanced age, that I should mix with other boys more unreservedly than I had hitherto done.  I was accordingly sent to boarding-school.

Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised.  The prying republic of which a great school consists soon found me out:  there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other people’s shoulders,—­no good-natured maid to take upon herself the enormities of which I stood accused in the article of bread and butter, besides the crying sin of stolen ends of puddings, and cold pies strangely missing.  The truth was but too manifest in my looks,—­in the evident signs of inanition which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in spite of the double allowance which my master was privately instructed by my kind parents to give me.  The sense of the ridiculous, which is but too much alive in grown persons, is tenfold more active and alert in boys.  Once detected, I was the constant butt of their arrows,—­the mark against which every puny leveller directed his little shaft of scorn.  The very Graduses and Thesauruses were raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants.  Ventri natus—­Ventri deditus,—­Vesana gula,—­Escarum gurges,—­Dapibus indulgens,—­Non dans fraena gulae,-Sectans lautae fercula mensae, resounded wheresoever I passed.  I led a weary life, suffering the penalties of guilt for that which was no crime, but only following the blameless dictates of nature.  The remembrance of those childish reproaches haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams.  My school-days come again, and the horror I used to feel, when in some silent corner, retired from the