There were, to Alan's lights-much like the descending levels of Hell in Dante's Inferno-distinct gradations to the shit existing in the world. And the quality and quantity of it a body had to abide. Uncle Phineas, his lessor, for instance; his sternal, sneering, stultifying monologues, his miserly few suppers or "dos" (which formed the bulk of a bleak Lewrie social life)-now there was shit from the lowest Nether-Pit itself! And totally unabidable, in quality and amount.

In contrast, the literal item (such as the horse droppings le'd just stepped in)-some of those he didn't mind half so Mich. Horses were noble beasts, beautiful in form and notion. Their stalings were abidable, for they bore convivial folk together, astride or by coach, eased a traveller's burden, jleased with their speed, heart and endurance, livened hunts, "airs, social occasions… or elated one with the order of their inish at a race.

No, truth be told, Alan Lewrie, like all good English gentlemen, rather enjoyed horse poop. It had a redolence of lospitality, of congeniality, of freedom, excitement… and far lorizons!

The by-products of the lesser beasts necessary to a farm, hough; even his inept, clueless style of gentleman farming, of vhich folks said he did little but raise his hat-now they were)dious in the extreme. He knew little after four years, and was forced to depend upon the knowledge of Governour Chiswick, his brother-in-law, or of the vile old Phineas Chiswick; they both dropped their jaws and whinnied at his questions, making him feel as out of place, even after four years of applying himself, as he had aboard Ariadne back in '80 on his first day as a callow midshipman.

Or, even more discouraging, to have to "talk things over" with dearest Caroline in private, being coached on what orders to give that particular day to the few permanent farmhands, or the hired day workers. To be such a humble know-nothing in his wife's eyes!