But my father pooh-poohed this. I was already far too old for the time at which the navy is entered--to wit, the mature years of thirteen.
Then my aunt Etty, who still curled her hair in the fashion of thirty years ago, recommended the army with a pensive air; for she had been engaged to a young sub, who was killed at--I must not say _where_, for it was a great many years ago, and Aunt Etty is unmarried still; but her views, though warmly seconded by sisters Dot and Sybil (who saw military balls and pic-nics in perspective), did not accord with mine, for I had spent two years or more in our Eton rifle corps, and the monotony of the drill--especially that boring _curriculum_ of Hythe position (I went through the musketry class), worried me, as I wilfully deemed myself able to sight my weapon and bring down either a Frenchman or a pheasant without it.
At Aunt Etty's suggestion, my father would shake his white head, and say, quoting the author of Ecclesiasticus,--
"'There are two things which grieve my heart to see: a man of war that suffereth from poverty, and men of understanding that are not set by.' The sword, Etty, is but a poor inheritance; better send Dick to the counting-house of his uncle, Rodney and Co., in London."
But I trembled at this suggestion, as it did not accord with my own brilliant views in any way and so months passed idly away.
I missed the manly amusements of Eton, and the hilarity of my class-fellows; and though loving well my home and family, when the novelty of my return and of perfect freedom passed away, I longed for a change of scene--a stirring occupation--an active employment.
I should hope not; yet for a time I was almost inclined to think so, after the terrible episode by which I was suddenly torn from my home, and cast upon that world which, hitherto, I had viewed through the sunny medium of my day-dreams and romances alone.
Our Rectory is situated a mile distant from the sea, of which an ample view can be had from the upper windows. Behind the house grows a coppice of mighty oaks, the gnarled arms of which bear loads of rustling foliage that form long leafy dells, through which the sun can scarcely penetrate in summer,--trees so old that the mind becomes lost in attempting to conceive what was there before they grew, or _who_ planted them, and of all that has passed in the changing world, of all that have been born, have lived long lives, died, and been laid in their silent graves, since these old oaks were acorns, twigs, and saplings!