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Textbook Ebook The Perfect Escape Suzanne Park All Chapter PDF
Textbook Ebook The Perfect Escape Suzanne Park All Chapter PDF
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Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
For my family.
(Mom and Dad, sorry about all the cussing.)
“Money trees is the perfect place for shade. And that’s just how I
feel, nah nah.”
—Kendrick Lamar, karaoked by Nate Kim in the shower
Chapter One
Nate
There were entrails hanging out where her belly button should’ve
been.
“I was starting to get a little claustrophobic.” The girl blinked
rapidly, adjusting her eyes to the flickering radiant lights. “I’m Kate,
the new ‘spooky seasonal feature’ they added last week.” She took
one quick look at my Feed Me (Braaaains)! T-shirt and tattered
jeans, then focused her gaze on my face.
My eyes and ears tuned into her every move, my whole body on
high alert. I was trapped in a room with a zombie girl. All the other
zombies I’d worked with were dudes. “I’m Nate.” I shrugged, trying
not to cringe at our cutesy rhyming names, not quite sure why I was
shrugging in the first place.
Everything on my body that could possibly sweat did. Instant oil
slicks involuntarily formed on my palms, feet, and face T-zone, and
there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
Was it weird to think she was cute? She had shining brown eyes
and a button nose that crinkled adorably each time she looked at the
fluorescent lights. Well, as adorable as a zombified girl could be,
with all that makeup, straggly hair, and fake wounds. Why did she
take this “zombie girl in the closet” role? She could seriously star in
commercials or something like that.
This girl was way out of my league, though. Out of my dimension,
even. My heart pounded as my chest tightened, giving me the
sensation that my body was trying to choke my heart out of my
chest cavity. God, why was I so awkward around girls? And a zombie
girl, no less.
Not knowing what else to do next, I extended my clammy, sweat-
pooled hand, and we shook firmly, like we were coaches facing off in
a football game.
“Nice to meet you, Nate,” she said, then stretched her arms high
above her head. “That closet is way too small for someone my
height. And I’m only five foot three and a half.” After hopping around
on both feet, she added, “My feet are asleep!”
“So, you’re the new big finale, jumping out of the closet at the
end? You’re here from now through Halloween, and then what—are
you coming back for Thanksgiving and Hanukkah and Christmas?” I
was torn between being ecstatic about her new role and being
terrified, knowing she’d be hiding in the closet for fifty-nine minutes
of each session, maybe listening to me give my opening spiel. Even
with fifty-plus escape room games under my belt, my self-confidence
shrank by the second at the mere thought of being in future sessions
with this zombie girl.
“Yeah, I’m just a seasonal worker, not a year-rounder like you. Will
work for food. Or brains,” she said, giving a nod toward my shirt. A
boom of thunder rumbled and echoed through the building, taking
me by surprise. Thunderstorms were a rarity in Seattle, something to
do with the cool breeze on the Pacific Ocean. Something I didn’t
really pay much attention to in junior high science class, but maybe
should have.
“Hey, can you do me a favor?” she asked.
Gulping down my fear, I replied, “Depends. What do you need? If
you need a ride home or something, then maybe?” My mom’s 2002
Honda was a busted piece of crap and shimmied at fifty-five miles
per hour, its top speed, but it got the job done, driving from point A
to point B. But if Kate wanted to borrow money, she was shit out of
luck. All of my wages went toward my Xbox subscription, college
fund, and savings for a business I’d launch in a few years. I had
nothing to spare.
“I need you to tell me which black eye looks better.” She pointed
double-finger guns at her face. “Left eye…or the right one? I’m
trying to perfect my makeup artistry for work again tomorrow.”
Damn, she was working a shift tomorrow, and unfortunately I
wasn’t. My stomach twinged with disappointment. Or hunger. Maybe
both.
“I—I—I like the one on the left. It gives your eye a gaunt, hollow
look,” I said hesitantly as she raised an eyebrow at me.
She pulled a mirror from her purse and examined both eyes.
“Interesting. I kind of like the other one. It looks more realistic to
me. Like I’m not trying too hard to look dead, you know?”
What in the hell was she talking about? Both of her eyes were
“dead”-looking. I’d worked at this zombie escape room job for a
year. Read every zombie survival guide I could get my hands on.
Watched every zombie movie and every episode of The Walking
Dead more than once. I knew my zombie shit.
“Yeah, I agree,” I replied, and motioned for her to come with me to
the employee lockers in the break room.
“So, actually, could I get a lift home maybe?” she asked as we
opened our lockers. “I didn’t really think about how I’d look taking
public transportation. And you know, the rain could make it all
worse.” She removed her hat and smiled, revealing a fake missing
tooth and bloody gums. I had to admit, she took her zombie job
very seriously. Kate was convincingly, purposefully gross.
I grinned confidently while shutting my locker door, even though
my heart was pounding and my sweatiness all over my body
intensified. “Sure, my after-hours job is zombie rescue. I retrieve
zombies and put them back in their habitat.”
She pulled her peacoat from her locker and put it on over her
raggedy dress. “Great! There’s a Dick’s Hamburgers on the way to
my house. I need food. I’ll buy you dinner and a milkshake if you
want.”
When we got outside, rain assaulted us from every direction. We’d
already had ten days of straight rain, not unusual for October in
Seattle. And the seven-day forecast? Even more rain.
Kate studied the flyers on the corkboard next to the entrance while
I locked up. She stared hard at the neon-green Zombiegeddon
advertisement, examining every word. Zombiegeddon was a new
zombie-themed survival competition with a huge cash prize. It was
on the same day as my big-time cross-country meet a month away,
so I hadn’t bothered to look into it more.
When we finally got to my car, I swiped my accordion folder of
college financial aid applications off the front passenger seat and
tossed it in the back. I handed Kate a wad of clean tissues from my
pocket to mop up her runny makeup and also used some to wipe my
forehead’s fountain of sweat.
As I turned the key in the ignition, I wondered, If we are eating
hamburgers and it is her treat, does this count as a date?
Kate took a selfie just before wiping off her cheeks. “I look scarier
now than I did before. I might try this look tomorrow. Maybe I’ll
stick my head under the shower or something.”
Her boot thumped hard against something on the floorboard.
“Oops,” she said apologetically. “I hope I didn’t break anything.” She
bent down to look. “Wow, is this where you keep guns and ammo?”
I laughed. “That’s my dad’s trusty six-drawer toolbox. It’s older
than I am.” He always liked to consider himself handy around the
house, but Mom and I called him Mr. Fixer-Downer. “He refuses to
hire plumbers or handymen. He’s a do-it-yourselfer, to save money.
Watches YouTube videos and thinks he’s a pro.”
“Oh, that’s cool!” Kate sighed and glanced at the toolbox again.
“My dad’s not handy at all. He outsources everything.”
I wished we outsourced more. “Well, I didn’t say my dad was good
at it. He once spent three hours building a three-cube bookshelf.”
“In his defense, IKEA furniture is a pain in the ass to put together.
Don’t let those cute cartoon drawing instructions fool you,” she
teased.
“Yeah! How do they manage to have like forty types of different
screws with all sorts of head shapes in an impossible-to-open plastic
baggie for just one stool? I should be nicer to my dad.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel at a stoplight and
snuck a quick glance at her. “Too bad I don’t work tomorrow. Do you
work any other days too?” Saturday nights were when I played State
of Decay on Xbox Live with my buddies. There were three of us, and
we’d all played together since middle school. I was z0mbie_killir_1.
Spelling was never my forte.
Kate shook her head. “I’m only working Friday and Saturday
nights. It’s okay, though. That works out with school and other
stuff.”
“I usually work Monday-Wednesday-Friday.” It dawned on me that
the next time I’d see her was the next Friday. “It’s cool we’ll be able
to work together, at least for a few weeks.”
Kate shrugged. “I’m a temp zombie for now, but maybe if I do a
good job, the guys in charge will keep me around for the whole
year.”
“Yeah, think about all the holidays after Christmas! Valentine’s Day.
Saint Patrick’s Day. Easter. And who doesn’t love an Easter zombie?”
I waggled my eyebrows the best I could.
She smiled at me as she grabbed my phone from the center
console and typed her address into the maps app. “I live twenty
minutes away. Looks like there’s a little bit of traffic on the way
there. Sorry. But we can do our Dick’s pit stop, and maybe the roads
will clear up.” She leaned forward and peered at the radio. “Mind if I
turn it on?”
Heat flushed to my cheeks, starkly contrasting with my rain-pelted,
clammy skin. “This is my mom’s car. It’s super old, so there’s nothing
automatic on it. You might even have to turn the knob.” My ears
burned with embarrassment. “And her preset stations are NPR, easy
listening, and classical crap, so no judging. But yeah, fiddle with it if
you want.”
She punched one of my mom’s preset stations and “Jingle Bell
Rock” came on. Already? It was only October! I thought there were
rules against that shit.
“Yes! Holiday music!” she squealed. “Don’t you love Christmas
music?”
Ugghhh, noooo. Kill me now. “Yeah. It’s great.”
Mickey’s Christmas Carol was the only Christmasy thing I liked.
Scrooge McDuck was rich, focused, and no-nonsense. When asked
the question “Who would I have dinner with, real or fictional?” I
always answered Scrooge McDuck. I didn’t dare tell Kate all this,
though, given her affinity for the shittiest yuletide song in history.
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have imitated conduct so chivalrously generous. He was more
knightly in love, and it is recorded to his honor, that he married
Matilda, daughter of Malcolm, King of Scotland, for pure love, and
not for “filthy lucre,” preferring to have her without a marriage portion,
than to wait till one could be provided for her. This would have been
praiseworthy enough had Henry not been, subsequently, like many
other persons who marry in haste—for ever looking for pecuniary
assistance from other resources than his own. He especially lacked
too what was enjoined on every knight, a love of truth. His own
promises were violated with alacrity, when the violation brought
profit. He wanted, too, the common virtue of fidelity, which men of
knightly rank were supposed to possess above all others. The fact
that fifteen illegitimate children survived him, speaks little for his
respect for either of his consorts, Matilda of Scotland, or Adelicia of
Louvain. Generally speaking, however, the character of the royal
scholar may be described in any terms, according to the view in
which it is taken. With some historians, he is all virtue, with others all
vice.
Stephen had more of the knightly character about him. He was an
accomplished swordsman, and loved the sound of battle as became
the spirit of the times, which considered the king as the first knight in
the land. He had as little regard as Henry for a sense of justice when
disposed to seize upon that to which he had no right, but he was
incontestably brave, as he was indefensibly rash. Stephen received
the spurs of knighthood from his uncle, Henry I., previous to the
battle of Tinchebray; and in that fray he so bore himself as to show
that he was worthy of the honor that had been conferred upon him.
But Stephen was as faithless to his marriage vow as many other
belted knights, and Matilda of Boulogne had to mourn over the
faithlessness of one who had sworn to be faithful. It is said, too, of
this king that he always went into battle terribly arrayed. This was in
the spirit of those birds that raise their crests to affright their
enemies.
Henry II., like his brother kings, we can only consider in his character
of knight. In this character he is almost unexceptionable, which is
more than can be said of him generally as king or as man. He was
brave and generous, two chief characteristics of knighthood. He it
was who abolished that burdensome and unprofitable feudal military
service, which brought the barons or military tenants into the field, for
forty days. The camp consequently abounded in unskilful and
disorderly men. Henry accordingly introduced the practice of
commuting their military service for money, by levying scutages from
his baronies and knights-fees, or so much for every shield or bearer
of it that should attend but had purchased exemption.
Henry II., not only loved knightly practice himself, but he loved to see
his sons exercising knight-errantry, and wandering about in disguise
from court to court, displaying their prowess in tournaments, and
carrying off prizes from all adversaries. To the stories of these
adventures of his by no means exemplary sons he would listen with
delight. He was himself, however, a sire who set but indifferent
example to his children; and his two sons, of whom fair Rosamond
was the mother, were brought up and educated with his children by
Eleanor. He received much knightly service and true affection from
his illegitimate children. William, Earl of Salisbury, is known by his
chivalric surname of “Longsword,” but Geoffrey, Bishop of Lincoln,
the second son of Henry and Rosamond, was not the less a knight
for being a bishop before he was twenty. It was this prelate who, at
the head of an armed force put down the first great northern
insurrection. He was on his triumphant way back, at the head of one
hundred and forty knights, when he was met by his royal sire, who
embraced him warmly, exclaiming the while, “Thou alone art my
legitimate son, the rest are all bastards.” That he himself could
endure much was evinced when he submitted to correction at the
shrine of Becket. He was flagellated by the prelates, abbots, bishop,
and eighty monks; and the first refreshment he took after the long
penance, was some water in which a portion of Becket’s blood was
mingled. His claim to be considered chivalrous never suffered, in the
mind of the church at least, because of this humiliating submission.
But in the dissensions which led to this humiliation, the church
incurred perhaps more disgrace than the king. Nothing could
possibly be more disgraceful than the conduct of the pope and the
diplomacy of the Roman government throughout the continuation of
the quarrel between Becket and the king. Double-dealing, atrocious
deceit, and an unblushing disregard for truth, marked every act of
him who was looked upon as the spiritual head of Christendom.
Comparing Becket with the king, it is impossible to avoid coming to
the conclusion that, in many of the requirements of knighthood, he
was superior to the sovereign. His death, that is the way in which he
met it, was sublime. Throughout the great quarrel, of which that
death was a consequence, Becket never, like Henry, in his moments
of defeat and discouragement, gave way to such impotent
manifestations of rage as were shown by his royal antagonist. The
latter forgot the dignity, not only of knight, but of manhood, when he
was seen casting his cap violently to the earth, flinging away his belt,
tearing his clothes from his body, and dragging the silk coverlet from
his bed, on which, in presence of his captains, he rolled himself like
a maniac, grasping the mattress in his mouth, and gnawing the wool
and the horsehair which he drew out with his teeth.
Richard I. has a brilliant reputation as a knight, and if valor were the
only virtue required, he would not be undeserving of the pre-
eminence which is claimed for him. But this was his sole virtue. Of
the other qualifications for, or qualities of chivalry, he knew nothing,
or little cared for them. He was faithless in love; regardless of his
pledged word; cruel, extravagant, dishonest; and not even always
brave, when away from the clamor and excitements of war. But John
lacked the one rough quality of Richard, and was not even brave—
that is to say, he was not distinguishedly brave. When he stole away
Isabella of Angoulême from her first lover, Sir Hugh de Lusignan, it
was not done with the dashing gallantry of Young Lochinvar. John, in
fact, was a shabby and recreant knight; and when stout Sir Hugh
challenged him to single combat, because of his crime of abduction,
John offered to accept it by deputy, and to fight also by deputy. Sir
Hugh knew the craven prince thoroughly, and truly enough remarked
that the deputy would be a mere assassin, and he would have
nothing to do with either principal or representative. John kept the
lady; and, if there be any persons curious to see how niggardly he
kept her, they are referred to the duly-published chronicles wherein
there are full details.
Henry III. was the most pacifically-minded of the kings of England
who had hitherto reigned. He had little of the knight about him,
except the courtesy, and he could occasionally forget even that.
Devotion to the fair, too, may fairly be reckoned among his knightly
qualities; but he lacked the crowning virtue of fidelity. He wooed
many, was rejected by several, and jilted the few who believed in
him. He exhibited, it must be allowed, a chivalrous generosity in at
last marrying Eleanor of Castile, without dowry; but he was not the
more true to her on that account. Mild as he was by nature, he was
the especial favorite of the most warlike of the orders of knighthood
—the Templars. They mourned for him when dead, as though he had
been the very flower of chivalry, and the most approved master of
their order. They buried him, too, with a pomp which must have
drawn largely even on their well-lined purses, and the Knights of the
Temple deposited the king in the tomb of the most pious of monarchs
—Edward the Confessor. It is difficult to say why the Templars had
such love for the weak king, for he was not an encourager of knightly
associations and observations. At the same time he may be said to
have lowered the estimation in which knighthood had been held, by
making the honor itself cheap, and sometimes even less than that—
unwelcome. Henry III. issued a writ in the twenty-ninth year of his
reign, summoning tenants in chief to come and receive knighthood at
his hands: and tenants of mesne lords to be knighted by
whomsoever they pleased. It may be believed that this last
permission was abused, for soon after this period “it became an
established principle of our law that no subject can confer
knighthood except by the king’s authority.” So says Hallam. The most
extraordinary law or custom of this reign with respect to chivalry was,
that any man who possessed an annual income of fifteen pounds
derived from land, was to be compelled to receive the honor of
knighthood.
The successor of Henry, Edward I., was of a far more knightly
quality. Faithful in love, intrepid in battle, generous to the needy, and
courteous to all—except when his temper was crossed—he may
pass muster as a very respectable knight. He was active and strong,
and, with one hand on the back of his steed, could vault, at a single
bound, into the saddle. Few men cared less for finery. He was even
reproved on one occasion by a bishop, for being dressed beneath
his dignity of either king or knight. “Father,” said Edward, “what could
I do more in royal robes than in this plain gaberdine?”
Edward would have acted little in the spirit of a true knight if he had
really acted toward the Bards, according to the cruel fashion
recorded in history. I am inclined to believe with Davies, in his
“Mythology of the Druids,” that this king has been calumniated in this
respect. “There is not the name,” says Davies, “of a single bard upon
record who suffered either by his hand or by his orders. His real act
was the removal of that patronage, under which the bards had,
hitherto, cherished the heathenish superstition of their ancestors, to
the disgrace of our native princes.” This king showed a feeling
common with many knights, that however indifferently they might
look living, in rusty armor or faded mantle, they should wear a decent
and comely covering when dead. Thus he ordered that every year
his tomb should be opened, and his remains covered with a new
cere-cloth or pall. It was a pride akin to that of Mrs. Oldfield’s, in the
days of our grandmothers, who was buried in a Brussels lace head-
dress, a Holland shift with tucker and double ruffles of the same lace,
and a pair of new kid gloves. The same weakness of nature marked
both the tragedy-queen and the actual king; and it marks many more
than they. There was more humility, however, in the second Duke
Richard of Normandy, who was far more chivalrous than Edward I.,
and who ordered his body to be buried at the church-door, where
passengers might tread upon it, and the spouts from the roof
discharge their water upon it.
It was in the religious spirit of chivalry that Edward I. expelled the
Jews. One curious result is said to have followed. Report alleges that
many of the Jewish families fled into Scotland, where “they have
propagated ever since in great numbers; witness the aversion this
nation has above others to hog’s flesh.”
Of the unfortunate Edward II., it may be said that he was an
indifferent knight, who gave the honors of chivalry to very indifferent
persons, and committed great outrages on knightly orders
themselves. In the annals of knighthood he is remembered as the
monarch who abolished the Order of Knights Templars in England.
He treated the luckless chevaliers with far more generosity than
Henry VIII. observed toward the ejected monks and abbots. He
allowed two shillings per day to the deprived master of the Temple,
and fourpence each daily to the other knights for their support, out of
their former confiscated property. Edward himself loved carousing
and hunting, more than any other pastime. There were other
pleasures, indeed, in which he greatly delighted, and these are well
catalogued in one of Gaveston’s speeches in Marlowe’s tragedy,
called by this king’s name:—
The countess, naturally, has the best of the argument, and shames
the king. In this pleasant light is she presented by both chronicler
and poet, and the lady, chiefly to honor whom the Order of the Garter
was constructed upon the basis of the Order of the Blue Thong, was
worthy of all the distinctive homage that could be rendered to her by
knight or king.
Richard II., so fond of parade and pleasure, so refined and
intellectual, so affable at first, so despotic and absolute at last, till he
was superseded and then slain, is among the most melancholy of
knights and sovereigns. He was not heroic, for he was easily
elevated and easily depressed. He turned deadly pale on hearing, in
Ireland, of the landing of Henry Bolingbroke in England, and that the
Archbishop of Canterbury had preached in favor of the usurper. He
was eminently courageous, sang a roundelay as well as any
minstrel, and often made the roundelays he sung. He looked little
like a knight indeed when he traversed part of Wales to Conway,
disguised as a Franciscan friar; or flying from castle to castle, having
sorry lodging and little food. It was in the dress and cowl of a monk
that the once chivalrous Richard surrendered himself to his cousin.
In the army of that cousin, sent to take Richard and his few faithful
knights and squires who refused to detach his device from their
coats, was “Sir Henry Percy” (the Hotspur of Shakespeare), “whom
they held to be the best knight in England.”
It was by persuasion of Hotspur’s father that Richard left Conway for
Flint, where he was made prisoner, and afterward conveyed to
Chester, the English knights of the opposite faction behaving to him
with most unchivalric rudeness. The unsceptred monarch was first
taken to Pickering, one of the most beautiful spots in England,
defaced by scenes of the greatest crimes, of which place knights and
nobles were the masters. Thence he passed on to Leeds and
Knaresborough Castle, where the king’s chamber is still pointed out
to visiters. Finally, he was carried to “bloody Pomfret”—“fatal and
ominous to noble peers.” Never, it is said, did man look less like a
knight than the unhappy king, when he appeared before the
drawbridge of Pontefract Castle. Majestic still he was in feature, but
the majesty was depressed by such profound melancholy, that few
could look upon the weeping king without themselves shedding
tears. If the picture of him at this juncture might be metrically given in
outline, the following sketch might feebly render it:—
A man of wo he seems,
Whom Sadness deep hath long marked for her own.
Hath such a form as that indulged in dreams
Upon a throne?
In Edward’s time then, the collar may have constituted the difference
between squire and knight. But it was not the only one. If there was a
difference at their necks, there was also a distinction at their heels.
The knight always wore golden spurs: he was the Eques Auratus.
The squire could wear spurs of no more costly metal than silver, and
“White-spurs,” accordingly, was the generic term for an esquire. It
was probably in allusion to this that the country squire mentioned by
Jonson, displayed his silver spurs among his side-board plate. To
return to Henry VIII.; let me add that he exhibited something of what
was considered a knightly attribute, compassion for the lowly, when
he suggested that due sleeping-time should be allowed to laborers
during the summer.
Edward VI. was simply a youth of much promise. His father was
unwilling to create him a knight before he knew how to wield arms;
and if he gained this knowledge early, he was never called to put it in
practice. There was more of the chivalrous character in his over-
abused half-sister, Mary, and also in Elizabeth; but then queens can
not of course be considered as knights: Elizabeth, however, had
much of the spirit, and she was surrounded by knightly men and
served with a knightly devotion. There was, I may observe, one
species of knights in her time, who were known as “knights of the
road.” The 39th of Elizabeth, especially and curiously points to them
in an act to relieve the hundred of Beynhurst from the statute of Hue
and Cry (where there was no voluntary default) on account of the
penalties to which that hundred was subject from the numerous
robberies committed in Maidenhead Thicket. Mavor, in his account of
Berkshire, says that “The vicar of Henley who served the curé of
Maidenhead, was allowed about the same time an advance of salary
as some compensation for the danger of passing the thicket.” The
vicar, like the knights of the road, at least, had purer air than the
clergy and chivalry who kept house in the capital. “In London,” says
Euphues, “are all things (as the fame goeth) that may either please
the sight, or dislike the smell; either fill the eye with delight, or fill the
nose with infection.”
Refreshment under such circumstances was doubly needed; and the
popular gratitude was due to that most serviceable of knights, Sir
Thomas Gresham, who introduced the orange as an article of trade,
and who was consequently painted by Antonio More with an orange
in his hand. The old Utrecht artist just named, was knighted by
Charles V. who paid him poorly—some six hundred ducats for three
pictures, but added knighthood, which cost the emperor nothing, and
was esteemed of great value by the painter.
One would imagine that under Mary and Elizabeth, knighthood had
become extinguished, were we to judge by an anonymous volume
which was published in Mary’s reign, and republished in that of
Elizabeth. The great names of that period are proof to the contrary,
but there may have been exceptions. Let us then look into the
volume of this unknown writer who bewails the degeneracy of his
times, and lays down what he entitles the “Institution of a
Gentleman.”