78 THE SMUGGLER. 



man's mind and character. Richard Radford had evidently 

 received what is called a good education, which is, in fact, no 

 education at all. He had been taught a great many things; 

 he knew a good deal; but that which really and truly consti- 

 tutes education was totally wanting. He had not learned 

 how to make use of that which he had acquired, either for his 

 own benefit or for that of society. He had been instructed, 

 not educated, and there is the greatest possible difference 

 between the two. He was shrewd enough, but selfish and 

 conceited to a high degree, with a sufficient portion of pride 

 to be offensive, with sufficient vanity to be irritable, with all 

 the wilfulness of a spoiled child, and with that confusion of 

 ideas in regard to plain right and wrong, which is always con- 

 sequent upon the want of moral training and over-indulgence 

 in youth. To judge from his own conversation, the whole end 

 and aim of his life seemed to be excitement ; he spoke of field 

 sports with pleasure; but the degree of satisfaction which he 

 derived from each, appeared to be always in proportion to the 

 danger, the activity, and the fierceness. Hunting he liked 

 better than shooting, shooting than fishing, which latter he 

 declared was only tolerable because there was nothing else to 

 be done in the spring of the year. But upon the pleasures of 

 the chase he would dilate largely, and he told several anecdotes 

 of staking a magnificent horse here, and breaking the back of 

 another there, till poor Zara turned somewhat pale, and begged 

 him to desist from such themes. 



" I cannot think how men can be so barbarous," she said. 

 " Their whole pleasure seems to consist in torturing poor 

 animals or killing them." 



Young Radford laughed. " What were they made for?" 

 he asked. 



" To be used by man, I think; not to be tortured by him," 

 the young lady replied. 



" No torture at all," said her companion on the left. " The 

 horse takes as much pleasure in running after the hounds as I 

 do, and if he breaks his back, or I break my neck, it's our 

 own fault. We have nobody to thank for it but ourselves. 

 The very chance of killing oneself gives additional pleasure; 

 and, when one pushes a horse at a leap, the best fun of the 

 whole is the thought whether he will be able by any possibility 

 to clear it or not. If it were not for hunting, and one or two 



