in this place? You an orphan, then?' I think I
should have slain him with my wood-chopping axe.

On these visitors' days we all wore boots and clothes which were never
seen at other times. I hated mine most virulently, because they were
not mine, but had been worn by some other boy before they came to me.
It was never given to me to learn what became of the ample store of
clothing I had on board the _Livorno_. The sisters were exceedingly
thorough in detail. On the mornings of these visitors' Sundays, before
going out to work, we 'dressed' our beds. That is to say we were given
sheets, and made to arrange them neatly upon our beds. Before retiring
at night we had to remove these sheets and refold them with exact
care, under the sister's watchful eyes, so that they might be fresh
and uncreased for next visitors' Sunday. We never saw them at any
other times. Our boots really were rather a trial. Running about
barefoot all day makes the feet swell and spread. It hardens them,
certainly, but it makes the use of boots, and especially of hard,
ill-fitting boots, abominably painful.

And with it all, having said that I detested the place and was unhappy
during all my time there, how is it I cannot leave the matter at that?
For I cannot. I do not feel that I have truly and fully stated the
case. It is not merely that I have made no attempt to follow my life
there in detail. No such exhaustive and exhausting record is needed.
But I do desire to set down here the essential facts of each phase in
my life.

I have referred already to the precociously developed trick I had of
savouring life as a spectator, of observing myself as a figure in an
illustrated romance--probably the hero. Now, as I am certain this
habit was not entirely dropped during my life at St. Peter's, I think
one must argue that I cannot have been entirely and uniformly unhappy
there. Indeed, I am sure I was not, because I can distinctly remember
luxuriating in my sadness. I can remember translating it into unspoken
words, the while my head was cushioned in the flank of a cow at
milking time, describing myself and my forlorn estate as an orphan and
an 'inmate' to myself. And, without doubt, I derived satisfaction from
that. I can recall picturesquely vivid contrasts drawn in my mind
between Master Nicholas Freydon, as the playmate of Nelly Fane on the
_Ariadne_, and the son of the distinguished-looking Mr. Freydon whom
every one admired, and as the 'inmate' of