and his hand may have lost its cunning.

Not that we were not great epicures. I remember how we
constantly grumbled at the quantity of the food in our master's
house -- which on my conscience I believe was excellent and
plentiful -- and how we tried once or twice to eat him out of
house and home. At the pastrycook's we may have over-eaten
ourselves (I have admitted half-a-crown's worth for my own part,
but I don't like to mention the real figure for fear of
perverting the present generation of boys by my monstrous
confession) -- we may have eaten too much, I say. We did; but
what then? The school apothecary was sent for: a couple of
small globules at night, a trifling preparation of senna in the
morning, and we had not to go to school, so that the draught was
an actual pleasure.

For our amusements, besides the games in vogue, which were pretty
much in old times as they are now (except cricket par exemple --
and I wish the present youth joy of their bowling, and suppose
Armstrong and Whitworth will bowl at them with light field-pieces
next), there were novels -- ah! I trouble you to find such novels
in the present day! O Scottish Chiefs, didn't we weep over you!
O Mysteries of Udolpho, didn't I and Briggs Minor draw pictures
out of you, as I have said? Efforts, feeble indeed, but still
giving pleasure to us and our friends. "I say, old boy, draw us
Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition," or, "Draw us Don Quixote
and the windmills, you know," amateurs would say, to boys who had
a love of drawing. "Peregrine Pickle" we liked, our fathers
admiring it, and telling us (the sly old boys) it was capital
fun; but I think I was rather bewildered by it, though "Roderick