they would be just as well pleased if you differed from them civilly, and with respect."
"No, Lucy," said Brandon, still sneering; "to be liked, it is not necessary to be any thing but compliant; lie, cheat, make every word a snare, and every act a forgery—but never contradict. Agree with people, and they make a couch for you in their hearts. You know the story of Dante and the buffoon. Both were entertained at the court of the vain pedant, who called himself Prince Scaliger; the former poorly, the latter sumptuously.—'How comes it,' said the buffoon to the Poet, 'that I am so rich and you so poor.'—'I shall be as rich as you,' was the stinging and true reply—'whenever I can find a patron as like myself as Prince Scaliger is like you!'"
"Yet my birds," said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch, which nestled to her bosom, "are not like me, and I love them. Nay, I often think I could love those better who differ from me the most. I feel it so in books;—when, for instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I like almost in
