this day, my ordinary breakfast, when I was accosted by the following
speech from my uncle.

"Henry, your success has opened to you a new career: I trust you intend
to pursue it?"

"Certainly," was my answer.

"But you know, my dear Henry, that though you have great talents, which,
I confess, I was surprised in the course of the election to discover, yet
they want that careful cultivation, which, in order to shine in the House
of Commons, they must receive. Entre nous, Henry; a litle reading would
do you no harm."

"Very well," said I, "suppose I begin with Walter Scott's novels; I am
told they are extremely entertaining."

"True," answered my uncle, "but they don't contain the most accurate
notions of history, or the soundest principles of political philosophy in
the world. What did you think of doing to-day, Henry?"

"Nothing!" said I very innocently.

"I should conceive that to be an usual answer of yours, Henry, to any
similar question."

"I think it is," replied I, with great naivete.

"Well, then, let us have the breakfast things taken away, and do
something this morning."