I think it was the fear of hearing something unpleasant that kept me silent. I concealed my fear, however, and I doubt if any one ever suspected that I had thoughts of the opprobrium cast upon me by this name. I resolved to make up any defect or deformity by my standing, not only in my classes but in our social life, by my proficiency and courtesy, and I think in a great measure I succeeded, for except by a very few, who occasionally in a mocking way tried to give me a snub, the others treated me not only with respect, but considerable deference. One of those who would have crowded me out, if he could have got others to join him, was a great lubberly fellow, coarse in feature and dull in intellect. He was the son of a chaplain on the plains who was compelled to marry the daughter of his charwoman before he left college. This I heard years after, and it was well I did not know it then. It is a wise provision of Providence that we do not know everything about our fellow-mortals. The mother of this boy, as I saw her years after, was an adipose creature, a fine specimen of good living and poor thinking. Once, calling on her husband to make some inquiries, the only remark I heard her make was, “Henry, I think that rooster will make a fine curry one of these days,” referring to a pullet in front of the veranda. The father was a “so so” sort of man, almost emaciated as if he gave his wife all the fat and nearly all the lean to eat. He had a recipe for a rum punch that he was offering to everybody, so that the profane of his flock called him the “Rum Punch Padri.” He was a good-natured, fidgety man, no sooner commencing anything than he was off to something else. He showed his nature in the performance of the Church service, for I never saw a padri get through with it quicker than he did. He never made a pause, and seemed never to take breath. From the time he commenced to the finish, it was a race between himself and the congregation; he to see how far ahead he could get, and they to keep in sight of him, for they would hardly begin “Good Lord” than he was far away into the middle of the next sentence. This reminds me of what a friend, the surgeon of a man-of-war, told me of their chaplain, one Sunday morning, betting a bottle of champagne that he could get through the service in fifteen minutes. He went in for it and came out with his watch in his hand, throwing off his gown, claimed his champagne, and got it. But the “Rum Punch Padri” was a truthful man, for he frankly said one day that so many services were a great bore. He was not to blame so much for his haste, for he had to make up for his wife’s slowness—and she was so slow! I often thought that if I had such a wife—but I will not say what, as it is not always best to say just what one thinks.