CHAPTER SECOND.I begin shrewdly to suspect the young man of a terrible
taint—Poetry; with which idle disease if he be infected,
there's no hope of him in astate course. Actum est of him
for a commonwealth's man, if he goto't in rhyme once.
Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair.
My father had, generally speaking, his temper under complete self-command, and his anger rarely indicated itself by words, except in a sort of dry testy manner, to those who had displeased him. He never used threats, or expressions of loud resentment. All was arranged with him on system, and it was his practice to do "the needful" on every occasion, without wasting words about it. It was, therefore, with a bitter smile that he listened to my imperfect answers concerning the state of commerce in France, and unmercifully
