advantage of so favourable a butt for jests, and alluded to
the bystander in a witticism which drew laughter from all but St. John,
who, turning suddenly towards the parson, addressed an observation
to him in the most respectful tone. Nor did he cease talking with him
(fatiguing as the conference must have been, for never was there
a duller ecclesiastic than the gentleman conversed with) until we
descended to dinner. Then, for the first time, I learned that
nothing can constitute good breeding that has not good-nature for its
foundation; and then, too, as I was leading Lady Barbara Lackland to
the great hall by the tip of her forefinger I made another observation.
Passing the priest, I heard him say to a fellow-clerk,--

"Certainly, he is the greatest man in England;" and I mentally remarked,
"There is no policy like politeness; and a good manner is the best thing
in the world, either to get one a good name or to supply the want of
it."

CHAPTER VI.

A DIALOGUE, WHICH MIGHT BE DULL IF IT WERE LONGER.

THREE days after the arrival of St. John, I escaped from the crowd of
impertinents, seized a volume of Cowley, and, in a fit of mingled poetry
and melancholy, strolled idly into the park. I came to the margin of the
stream, and to the very spot on which I had stood with my uncle on the
evening when he had first excited my emulation to scholastic rather than
manual contention with my brother; I seated myself by the water-side,
and, feeling indisposed to read, leaned my cheek upon my hand, and
surrendered my thoughts as prisoners to the reflections which I could
not resist.

I continued I know not how long in my meditation, till I was roused by a
gentle touch upon my shoulder; I looked up, and saw St. John.

"Pardon me, Count," said he, smiling, "I should not have disturbed
your reflections had not your neglect of an old friend emboldened me
to address you upon his behalf." And St. John pointed to the volume of
Cowley which he had taken up without my perceiving it.

"Well," added he, seating himself on the turf beside me, "in my younger
days, poetry and I were better friends than we are now. And if I had
had Cowley as a companion, I should not have parted with him as you have
done, even for my own reflections."

"You admire him then?" said I.

"Why, that is too general a question. I admire what is fine in him, as
in every one else, but I do not love him the better for his points and
his conceits. He reminds m