“My friend,” quoth the parson, with a touch of human conceit, “I have ridden on horseback, and I know that some horses should be guided by the bridle, and some should be urged by the spur.”
“Cospetto!” said Riccabocca, “you contrive to put every experience of yours to some use,—even your journey on Mr. Hazeldean’s pad. And I now see why, in this little world of a village, you have picked up so general an acquaintance with life.”
“Did you ever read White’s’ Natural History of Selborne’?”
“No.”
“Do so, and you will find that you need not go far to learn the habits of birds, and know the difference between a swallow and a swift. Learn the difference in a village, and you know the difference wherever swallows and swifts skim the air.”
“Swallows and swifts!—true; but men—”
“Are with us all the year round,—which is more than we can say of swallows and swifts.”
“Mr. Dale,” said Riccabocca, taking off his hat with great formality, “if ever again I find myself in a dilemma, I will come to you instead of to Machiavelli.”
“Ah!” cried the parson, “if I could but have a calm hour’s talk with you on the errors of the Papal relig—”
Riccabocca was off like a shot.