Chapter Eight.
Only about a little Bird.
Oh! let them ne’er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain their little bill;
But sing what heaven inspires, and wander
where they will!
I was ten times angrier with myself when I got home.
What a fool I had been—what an idiot—to have thrown away my chances as I had done! I had wished for “the roc’s egg” to complete my happiness; and I had obtained it with a vengeance.
My roc’s egg had been the “open sesame” to Mrs Clyde’s castle. I had sighed for it, striven for it, gained it at last; and, a fine mess I had made of it, all things considered!
What must she think me?
An ill-bred, untutored, unlicked cub, most probably!
I did not let myself off easily, I promise you. My conscience gave it to me well, and I could find no satisfactory terms in which I could express my opinion of my own surly behaviour.