quisition of the two languages. I
found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the
accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a
Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite.

'Vous serez un jour un grand philologue, mon cher,' said the old man, on
our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell.

'I hope I shall be something better,' said I, 'before I die, or I shall
have lived to little purpose.'

'That's true, my dear! philologist--one small poor dog. What would you
wish to be?'

'Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him
who wrote this book.'

'Quoi, Monsieur Dante? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from
his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like
Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet.'

'I don't think so.'

'How, not think so? He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died
much respected by everybody. T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from
his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker.'

'Were you not forced to flee from your country?'

'That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante.
He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his
betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of
the badness of my tongue.'

'Well,' said I, 'you can return now; the Bourbons are restored.'

'I find myself very well here; not bad country. Il est vrai que la
France sera toujours la France; but all are dead there who knew me. I
find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic,
that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very
well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people
hard names. Ma foi, il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre
de Dante.'

Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern languages,
besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some knowledge of
Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to philology; I had other
pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving life I had led in former days,
nor its delights; neither was I formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor
student. No, no! I was fond of other and, I say it boldly, better
things than study. I had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun
likewise. In our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its
lock, in rather antique characters, 'Tower, 1746'; with