I continued to grow in favour with aunt this winter, for the best possible reasons; I was the only one of the family that would sit still with her. The young people in the house were by no means congenial with her; and each had a love affair in hand, fast ripening into matrimony, that took up all their thoughts. Mr. H. our chaplain, was plausible, but superficial, vain, and ambitious. He, too, was busied in hatching a project of another kind. On pretence of study, he soon retired to his room after meals, dreading, no doubt, that aunt might be in possession of Ithuriel’s spear, or to speak without a figure, might either fathom his shallowness, or detect his project. One of these discoveries he knew would sink him in her opinion, and the other exclude him from her house. For my part, I was always puzzling myself to consider why I did not more love and reverence Mr. H. who I took it for granted must needs be good, wise, and learned; for I thought a clergyman was all but inspired. Thus thinking, I wondered why I did not feel for Mr. H. what I felt for aunt in some degree; but unfortunately, Mr. H. was a true bred native of Connecticut, which, perhaps, helped more than any intuitive penetration into character, to prevent any excess of veneration. Aunt and I read Burnet’s memoirs and some biography this winter, and talked at least over much geography and natural history. Here, indeed, I was in some degree obliged to Mr. H. I mean for a few lessons on the globe. He had, too, an edition of Shakspeare. I have been trying, but in vain, to recollect what aunt said of this. Not much, certainly; but she was much pleased with the Essay on Man, &c. Yet I somehow understood that Shakspeare was an admired author, and was not a little mortified when I found myself unable to appreciate his merits. I suppose my taste had been vitiated by bombast tragedies I had read at Colonel E’s. I thought them grossly familiar, and very inferior to Cato, whom aunt had taught me to admire; in short, I was ignorant, and because I could read Milton, did not know my own ignorance. I did not expect to meet nature in a play, and therefore did not recognise her. It is not to be conceived how I puzzled over Hamlet, or how his assumed madness and abuse of Ophelia confounded me. Othello’s jealousy, and the manner in which he expressed it, were quite beyond my comprehension.