So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself possessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian was my favourite. "_Vous serez_ _un jour un grand philologue_, _mon cher_," said the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante's Hell. "I hope I shall be something better," said I, "before I die, or I shall have lived to little purpose." "That's true, my dear! philologist--one small poor dog. What would you wish to be?" "Many things sooner than that; for example, I would rather be like him who wrote this book." "_Quoi_, _Monsieur Dante_? He was a vagabond, my dear, forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet." "I don't think so." "How, not think so? He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody. T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker." "Were you not forced to flee from your country?" "That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue." "Well," said I, "you can return now; the Bourbons are restored." "I find myself very well here; not bad country. _Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France_; but all are dead there who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and literature. I find myself very well; and why? Because I know how to govern my tongue; never call people hard names. _Ma foi_, _il y a beaucoup de difference entre moi et ce sacre de Dante_."