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 me of what Cardinal Pallavicino said of
Seneca, that he 'perfumes his conceits with civet and ambergris.'
However, Count, I have opened upon a beautiful motto for you:--

"'Here 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.'

"What say you to that wish? If you have a germ of poetry in you such
verse ought to bring it into flower."

"Ay," answered I, though not exactly in accordance with the truth; "but