call him) was at school at Shrewsbury by this time. The rector
took up his pen, and rubbed up his Latin once more, to correspond
with his boy. It was very clear that the lad's were what are
called show letters. They were of a highly mental description,
giving an account of his studies, and his intellectual hopes of
various kinds, with an occasional quotation from the classics; but,
now and then, the animal nature broke out in such a little sentence
as this, evidently written in a trembling hurry, after the letter
had been inspected: "Mother dear, do send me a cake, and put
plenty of citron in." The "mother dear" probably answered her boy
in the form of cakes and "goody," for there were none of her
letters among this set; but a whole collection of the rector's, to
whom the Latin in his boy's letters was like a trumpet to the old
war-horse. I do not know much about Latin, certainly, and it is,
perhaps, an ornamental language, but not very useful, I think--at
least to judge from the bits I remember out of the rector's
letters. One was, "You have not got that town in your map of
Ireland; but Bonus Bernardus non videt omnia, as the Proverbia
say." Presently it became very evident that "poor Peter" got
himself into many scrapes. There were letters of stilted penitence
to his father, for some wrong-doing; and among them all was a
badly-written, badly-sealed, badly-directed, blotted note:- "My
dear, dear, dear, dearest mother, I will be a better boy; I will,
indeed; but don't, please, be ill for me; I am not worth it; but I
will be good, darling mother."

Miss Matty could not speak for crying, after she had read this
note. She gave it to me in silence, and then got up and took it to
her sacred recesses in her own room, for fear, by any chance, it
might get burnt. "Poor Peter!" she said; "he was always in