was for him to acquire a situation of such trust and confidence in the
household of a Marshal of France and the especial favourite of Louis
XIV.

It was pleasant enough to mark the gradual ascendency he gained over my
uncle; and the timorous dislike which the good knight entertained for
him, yet struggled to conceal. Perhaps that was the only time in his
life in which Sir William Devereux was a hypocrite.

Enough of the priest at present; I return to his charge. To school we
went: our parting with our uncle was quite pathetic; mine in especial.
"Hark ye, Sir Count," whispered he (I bore my father's title), "hark ye,
don't mind what the old priest tells you; your real man of wit never
wants the musty lessons of schools in order to make a figure in the
world. Don't cramp your genius, my boy; read over my play, and honest
George Etherege's 'Man of Mode;' they'll keep your spirits alive, after
dozing over those old pages which Homer (good soul!) dozed over before.
God bless you, my child; write to me; no one, not even your mother,
shall see your letters; and--and be sure, my fine fellow, that you don't
fag too hard. The glass of life is the best book, and one's natural wit
the only diamond that can write legibly on it."

Such were my uncle's parting admonitions; it must be confessed that,
coupled with the dramatic gifts alluded to, they were likely to be of
infinite service to the /debutant/ for academical honours. In fact, Sir
William Devereux was deeply impregnated with the notion of his
time,--that ability and inspiration were the same thing, and that,
unless you were thoroughly idle, you could not be thoroughly a genius.
I verily believe that he thought wisdom got its gems, as Abu Zeid al
Hassan* declares some Chinese philosophers thought oysters got their