Devereux โ Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best interesting books to read txt) ๐
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โCertainly, he is the greatest man in England;โ and I mentally remarked, โThere 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.โ
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.
โPardon me, Count,โ said he, smiling, โI should not have disturbed your reflections had not your neglect of an old friend emboldened me to address you upon his behalf.โ And St. John pointed to the volume of Cowley which he had taken up without my perceiving it.
โWell,โ added he, seating himself on the turf beside me, โin 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.โ
โYou admire him then?โ said I.
โWhy, 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 me of what Cardinal Pallavicino said of Seneca, that he โperfumes his conceits with civet and ambergris.โ However, Count, I have opened upon a beautiful motto for you:โ
โโHere let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying; Nor be myself too mute.โโWhat say you to that wish? If you have a germ of poetry in you such verse ought to bring it into flower.โ
โAy,โ answered I, though not exactly in accordance with the truth; โbut I have not that germ. I destroyed it four years ago. Reading the dedications of poets cured me of the love for poetry. What a pity that the Divine Inspiration should have for its oracles such mean souls!โ
โYes, and how industrious the good gentlemen are in debasing themselves! Their ingenuity is never half so much shown in a simile as in a compliment; I know nothing in nature more melancholy than the discovery of any meanness in a great man. There is so little to redeem the dry mass of follies and errors from which the materials of this life are composed, that anything to love or to reverence becomes, as it were, the sabbath for the mind. It is better to feel, as we grow older, how the respite is abridged, and how the few objects left to our admiration are abased. What a foe not only to life, but to all that dignifies and ennobles it, is Time! Our affections and our pleasures resemble those fabulous trees described by Saint Oderic: the fruits which they bring forth are no sooner ripened into maturity than they are transformed into birds and fly away. But these reflections cannot yet be familiar to you. Let us return to Cowley. Do you feel any sympathy with his prose writings? For some minds they have a great attraction.โ
โThey have for mine,โ answered I: โbut then I am naturally a dreamer; and a contemplative egotist is always to me a mirror in which I behold myself.โ
โThe world,โ answered St. John, with a melancholy smile, โwill soon dissolve, or forever confirm, your humour for dreaming; in either case, Cowley will not be less a favourite. But you must, like me, have long toiled in the heat and travail of business, or of pleasure, which is more wearisome still, in order fully to sympathize with those beautiful panegyrics upon solitude which make perhaps the finest passages in Cowley. I have often thought that he whom God hath gifted with a love of retirement possesses, as it were, an extra sense. And among what our poet so eloquently calls โthe vast and noble scenes of Nature,โ we find the balm for the wounds we have sustained among the โpitiful shifts of policy;โ for the attachment to solitude is the surest preservative from the ills of life: and I know not if the Romans ever instilled, under allegory, a sublimer truth than when they inculcated the belief that those inspired by Feronia, the goddess of woods and forests, could walk barefoot and uninjured over burning coals.โ
At this part of our conference, the bell swinging hoarsely through the long avenues, and over the silent water, summoned us to the grand occupation of civilized life; we rose and walked slowly towards the house.
โDoes not,โ said I, โthis regular routine of petty occurrence, this periodical solemnity of trifles, weary and disgust you? For my part, I almost long for the old days of knight-errantry, and would rather be knocked on the head by a giant, or carried through the air by a flying griffin, than live in this circle of dull regularities,โthe brute at the mill.โ
โYou may live even in these days,โ answered St. John, โwithout too tame a regularity. Women and politics furnish ample food for adventure, and you must not judge of all life by country life.โ
โNor of all conversation,โ said I, with a look which implied a compliment, โby the insipid idlers who fill our saloons. Behold them now, gathered by the oriel window, yonder; precious distillers of talk,โsentinels of society with certain set phrases as watchwords, which they never exceed; sages, who follow Faceโs advice to Dapper,โ
โโHum thrice, and buzz as often.โโCHAPTER VII.
A CHANGE OF PROSPECTS.โA NEW INSIGHT INTO THE CHARACTER OF THE HERO.โA CONFERENCE BETWEEN TWO BROTHERS.
A DAY or two after the conversation recorded in my last chapter, St. John, to my inexpressible regret, left us for London; however, we had enjoyed several conferences together during his stay, and when we parted it was with a pressing invitation on his side to visit him in London, and a most faithful promise on mine to avail myself of the request.
No sooner was he fairly gone than I went to seek my uncle; I found him reading one of Farquharโs comedies. Despite my sorrow at interrupting him in so venerable a study, I was too full of my new plot to heed breaking off that in the comedy. In very few words I made the good knight understand that his descriptions had infected me, and that I was dying to ascertain their truth; in a word, that his hopeful nephew was fully bent on going
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