the setting sun
                   Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne,
                       And Blaye's empurpled shore.
"Garonne and sun is a bad rhyme. Why, Frank, you do not even understand the beggarly trade you have chosen.
                 "'Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep,
                  His fall the dews of evening steep,
                         As if in sorrow shed,
                  So soft shall fall the trickling tear,
                  When England's maids and matrons hear
                        Of their Black Edward dead.

                      "'And though my sun of glory set,
                 Nor France, nor England, shall forget
                        The terror of my name;
                 And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
                 New planets in these southern skies,
                       Through clouds of blood and flame.'
"A cloud of flame is something new—Good-morrow, my masters all, and a merry Christmas to you!—Why, the bellman writes better lines." He then tossed the paper from him with an air of superlative contempt, and concluded—"Upon my credit, Frank, you are a greater blockhead than I took you for."
What could I say, my dear Tresham? There I stood, swelling with indignant mortification, while my father regarded me with a calm but stern look of scorn and pity; and poor Owen, with uplifted hands and eyes, looked as striking a picture of horror as if he had just read his patron's name in the Gazette. At length I took courage to speak, endeavouring that my tone of voice should betray my feelings as little as possible.
"I am quite aware, sir, how ill qualified I am to play the conspicuous part in society you have destined for me; and, luckily, I am not ambitious of the wealth I might acquire. Mr. Owen would be a much more effective assistant." I said this in some malice, for I considered Owen as having deserted my cause a little too soon.
"Owen!" said my father—"The boy is mad—actually insane. And, pray, sir, if I may presume to inquire, having coolly turned me over to Mr. Owen (although I may expect more attention from any one than from my son), what may your own sage projects be?"
"I should wish, sir," I replied, summoning up my courage, "to travel for two or three years, should that consist with your pleasure; otherwise, although late, I would willingly spend the same time at Oxford or Cambridge."
"In the name of common sense! was the like ever heard?—to put yourself to school among