_Merchant of Venice_.

I am by birth an Irishman, and descended from an ancient family. I lay
no claim to any connection with Brian Boru, or Malichi, of the crown
of gold, a gentleman who, notwithstanding the poetical authority
of Tom Moore, we have some reason to believe during his long and
illustrious reign was never master of a crown sterling. My ancestor
was Colonel Hamilton, as stout a Cromwellian as ever led a squadron
of Noll's Ironsides to a charge. If my education was not of the
first order, it was for no lack of instructors. My father, a half-pay
dragoon, had me on the pig-skin before my legs were long enough to
reach the saddle-skirt; the keeper, in proper time, taught me to
shoot: a retired gentleman, _olim_, of the Welsh fusileers, with a
single leg and sixty pounds per annum, paid quarterly by Greenwood
and Cox, indoctrinated me in the mystery of tying a fly, and casting
the same correctly. The curate--the least successful of the lot,
poor man--did his best to communicate Greek and Latin, and my cousin
Constance gave me my first lessons in the art of love. All were able
professors in their way, but cousin Constance was infinitely the most
agreeable.

I am by accident an only son. My mother, in two years after she had
sworn obedience at the altar, presented her liege lord with a couple
of pledges of connubial love, and the gender of both was masculine.
Twelve years elapsed and no addition was made to the Hamiltons; when
lo! upon a fine spring morning a little Benjamin was ushered into
existence, and I was the God-send. My father never could be persuaded
that there was a gentlemanly profession in the world but one, and
that was the trade of arms. My brothers, as they grew up, entirely
coincided with him in opinion, and both would be soldiers. William