"The finest hearted creature that ever talked nonsense," said my father, who came up like Horace's deity just at the right moment. "What is it you must believe in, brother, no matter what the proof against you?" My uncle was silent; and with great energy dug the point of his cane into the gravel. "He will not believe in our great ancestor the printer," said I, maliciously. My father's calm brow was overcast in a moment. "Brother," said the Captain loftily, "you have a right to your own ideas, but you should take care how they contaminate your child." "Contaminate!" said my father; and for the first time I saw an angry sparkle flash from his eyes, but he checked himself on the instant; "change the word, my dear brother." "No, sir, I will not change it! to bely the records of the family!" "Records! A brass plate in a village church against all the books of the College of Arms!" "To renounce, as your ancestor, a knight who died in the field!" "For the worst cause that man ever fought for!" "On behalf of his king!" "Who had murdered his nephews!" "A knight! with our crest on his helmet!" "And no brains underneath it, or he would never have had them knocked out for so bloody a villain!" "A rascally, drudging, money-making printer!" "The wise and glorious introducer of the art that has enlightened a world. Prefer, for an ancestor, to one whom scholar and sage never name but in homage, a worthless, obscure, jolter-headed booby in mail, whose only record to men is a brass plate in a church in a village!" My uncle turned round perfectly livid. "Enough, sir! enough! I am insulted sufficiently. I ought to have expected it. I wish you and your son a very good day." My father stood aghast. The Captain was hobbling off to the iron gate; in another moment he would have been out of our precincts. I ran up and hung upon him. "Uncle, it is all my fault. Between you and me, I am quite of your side; pray, forgive us both. What could I have been thinking of, to vex you so! And my father, whom your visit has made so happy!" My uncle paused, feeling for the latch of the gate. My father had now come up, and caught his hand. "What are all the printers that ever lived, and all the books they ever printed, to one wrong to thy fine heart, brother Roland? Shame on me! A bookman's weak point, you know! It is very true, I should never have taught the boy one thing to give you pain, brother Roland;--though I don't remember," continued my father, with a perplexed look, "that I ever did teach it him either! Pisistratus, as you value my blessing, respect, as your ancestor, Sir William de Caxton, the hero of Bosworth. Come, come, brother!" "I am an old fool," said Uncle Roland, "whichever way we look at it. Ah, you young dog! you are laughing at us both!" "I have ordered breakfast on the lawn," said my mother, coming out from the porch, with her cheerful smile on her lips; "and I think the devil will be done to your liking to-day, brother Roland."