a young man who was the prospective heir to a
fortune--this charming story is in Charles Dickens's wonderful novel,
"Great Expectations"--went up to London for the express purpose of
learning to be a gentleman. It fell about that almost as soon as he
arrived he was thrown into the company of a delightful youth who had
already attained the minor graces of polite society. Very much in
earnest about what he had set out to do, and blessed besides with a
goodish bit of common sense, he explained his situation to Herbert, for
that was the other boy's name, mentioned the fact that he had been
brought up by a blacksmith in a country place, that he knew practically
nothing of the ways of politeness, and that he would take it as a great
kindness if Herbert would give him a hint whenever he saw him at a loss
or going wrong.

"'With pleasure,' said he, 'though I venture to prophesy that you'll
want very few hints.'"

They went in to dinner together, a regular feast of a dinner it seemed
to the ex-blacksmith's apprentice, and after a while began to talk about
the benefactress who, they believed, had made it possible.

"'Let me introduce the topic,' began Herbert, who had been watching
Pip's table manners for some little time, 'by mentioning that in London
it is not the custom to put the knife in the mouth--for fear of
accidents--and that while the fork is reserved for that use it is not
put further in than necessary. It is scarcely worth mentioning, only
it's as well to do as other people do. Also, the spoon is not generally
used over-hand but under. This has two advantages. You get at your mouth
better (which after all is the object), and you save a good deal of the
attitude of opening oysters on the part of the right elbow.'

"He offered these suggestions (said Pip) in such a lively way, that we
both laughed and I scarcely blushed."

The conversation and the dinner continued and the friendship grew apace.
Presently Herbert broke off to observe that "society as a body does not
expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one's glass, as
to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one's nose."

"I had been doing this," Pip confessed, "in an excess of attention to
his recital. I thanked him, and apologized. He said, 'Not at all,' and
resumed."

This was written many years ago but neither in life nor in literature is
there a more beautiful example of perfect courtesy than that given by
Herbert Pocket when he took the b