den letters
on a purple ground the magical word "THOROUGH." His library chiefly
consisted of the "Tracts for the Times," and a colossal edition of
the Fathers gorgeously bound. He was a very clever fellow, this young
Thornberry, a natural orator, and was leader of the High Church party in
the Oxford Union. He brought home his friends occasionally to Hurstley,
and Job had the opportunity of becoming acquainted with a class and
school of humanity--with which, notwithstanding his considerable
experience of life, he had no previous knowledge--young gentlemen,
apparently half-starved and dressed like priests, and sometimes an
enthusiastic young noble, in much better physical condition, and in
costume becoming a cavalier, ready to raise the royal standard at
Edgehill. What a little annoyed Job was that his son always addressed
him as "Squire," a habit even pedantically followed by his companions.
He was, however, justly entitled to this ancient and reputable honour,
for Job had been persuaded to purchase Hurstley, was a lord of several
thousand acres, and had the boar's head carried in procession at
Christmas in his ancient hall. It is strange, but he was rather
perplexed than annoyed by all these marvellous metamorphoses in his life
and family. His intelligence was as clear as ever, and his views on all
subjects unchanged; but he was, like many other men, governed at home by
his affections. He preferred the new arrangement, if his wife and
family were happy and contented, to a domestic system founded on his own
principles, accompanied by a sullen or shrewish partner of his own life
and rebellious offspring.

What really vexed him, among comparatively lesser matters, was
the extraordinary passion which in time his son exhibited for
game-preserving. He did at last interfere on this matter, but in vain.
John Hampden announced that he did not value land if he was only to look
at it, and that sport was the patriotic pastime of an English gentleman.
"You used in old days never to be satisfied with what I got out of the
land," said the old grandfather to Job, with a little amiable malice;
"there is enough, at any rate now for the hares and rabbits, but I doubt
for anybody else."

We must not forget our old friend St. Barbe. Whether he had written
himself out or had become lazy in the luxurious life in which he now
indulged, he rarely appealed to the literary public, which still admired
him. He was, by way of intimating that he wa