Well, gentle Reader, (I love, by the by, as you already perceive, that old-fashioned courtesy of addressing you)--well, to finish this part of my life which, as it treats rather of my attempts at reformation than my success in error, must begin to weary you exceedingly, I acquired, more from my uncle’s conversation than the books we read, a sufficient acquaintance with the elements of knowledge, to satisfy myself, and to please my instructor. And I must say, in justification of my studies and my tutor, that I derived one benefit from them which has continued with me to this hour--viz. I obtained a clear knowledge of moral principle. Before that time, the little ability I possessed only led me into acts, which, I fear, most benevolent Reader, thou hast already sufficiently condemned: my good feelings--for I was not naturally bad--never availed me the least when present temptation came into my way. I had no guide but passion; no rule but the impulse of the moment. What else could have been the result of my education? If I was immoral, it was because I was never taught morality. Nothing, perhaps, is less innate than virtue. I own that the lessons of my uncle did not work miracles--that, living in the world, I have not separated myself from its errors and its follies: the vortex was too strong--the atmosphere too contagious; but I have at least avoided the crimes into which my temper would most likely have driven me. I ceased to look upon the world as a game one was to play fairly, if possible--but where a little cheating was readily allowed; I no longer divorced the interests of other men from my own: if I endeavoured to blind them, it was neither by unlawful means, nor for a purely selfish end:--if--but come, Henry Pelham, thou hast praised thyself enough for the present; and, after all, thy future adventures will best tell if thou art really amended. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Mihi jam non regia Roma, Sed vacuum Tibur placet.--Horace. “My dear child,” said my mother to me, affectionately, “you must be very much bored here, pour dire vrai, I am so myself. Your uncle is a very good man, but he does not make his house pleasant; and I have, lately, been very much afraid that he should convert you into a mere bookworm; after all, my dear Henry, you are quite clever enough to trust to your own ability. Your great geniuses never read.” “True, my dear mother,” said I, with a most unequivocal yawn, and depositing on the table Mr. Bentham upon Popular Fallacies; “true, and I am quite of your opinion. Did you see in the Post of this morning, how full Cheltenham was?” “Yes, Henry; and now you mention it, I don’t think you could do better than to go there for a month or two. As for me, I must return to your father, whom I left at Lord H--‘s: a place, entre nous, very little more amusing than this--but then one does get one’s ecarte table, and that dear Lady Roseville, your old acquaintance, is staying there.”