'Upon my honour,' he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling
with the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what he had
read; 'upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate
thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly
sentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind
by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject
that could possibly arise between us!'
This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty
air: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone.
'My Lord Chesterfield,' he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the
book as he laid it down, 'if I could but have profited by your genius
soon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left to all
wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was
undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Bacon
deep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his country's
pride, is my Lord Chesterfield.'
He became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition.
'I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world,' he
continued, 'I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all
those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from
boors and peasants, and separate their character from those intensely
vulgar sentiments which are called the national character.
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