life of the day, my exertions have hitherto been
chiefly directed to the suppression of that fatal
politeness and urbanity which every one must
observe to be developed in your character in an
excessive degree. I have tried hard to show you
that, unless these qualities be suppressed, you
will never make any great advance in the world,
for the simple reason that no one will be afraid of
you. On this point I have insisted strongly, and,
for the present, sufficiently. Let us turn to
something else.

Captain Newmarch tells me that, on more than
one occasion during your stay at Weirsley, he
has heard you speak with enthusiasm. I hope
from the bottom of my reason—I was going to
say heart—but what has a collection of blood-
vessels to do with one's convictions?—I hope, I
say, that this is not true. Yet Newmarch's
evidence is clear and convincing. He says that,
on a certain day at dinner-time, some person
in company—a very young man, I believe—
happened to speak in a disparaging tone of Sir
Walter Scott's novels, said they were tedious,
that the descriptions were long-winded, the
dialogues interminable, the historical digressions
insufferable; that, in short, he could not read
those works, and that this was not only his own
case, but the case of the greater part of his
acquaintance; upon which it appears that you
started forward and entered into a warm and
almost violent defence of the works in question,
using very strong expressions, and displaying,
I am afraid, some degree of excitement. You
appear to have stated that Sir Walter Scott was
the Shakespeare of fiction. This may be the
case. I cannot say myself, not being well
acquainted with the works of either of these
authors. You appear to have added that his
knowledge of human nature, his power of developing
character, of telling a story, of interesting and
charming his readers, and of winning a kind of
personal affection from them, were as far beyond
all praise as his reputation and fame were
beyond the reach of modem criticism, and the
cold-blooded censure of those who could neither
understand nor feel.

Now really this is a pity, you know. It is a pity
that you should run the risk of losing credit for
the fine natural qualities you possess, by using
what I cannot but call intemperate language
about what is, after all, only a matter of opinion.
It seems to me that you have erred in more ways
than one in thus " flaring up"—if you will pardon
the expression—about Sir Walter Scott. In the
first place, you have flared up, and this is never
done now in society. It is an entirely obsolete
practice. It is pretty generally admitted in these
days that there is nothing worth flaring up
about; besides, it is decidedly not good TON. It
won't do. If you flare up in society, you get
stared at. You must have remarked how very
unusual it is, now, for any one to show temper
when arguing, or, indeed, under any
circumstances whatsoever. Warmth on any subject has
become unfashionable. It is possible that a man
may still show temper when he is quite alone,
when he makes a blot upon an important letter
which there is no time to re-write, when he drops
his slippers into his bath, or cuts himself in
shaving; but in the world he is calm, and his
temper must not be ruffled.

Over and above, you take the position of
asserting that right is right, and wrong is wrong,
and that a thing must be either right or wrong.
Not at all. This is a period of modifications
and compromises. Everybody is right, and
everybody is wrong, dear sir, a little.

But the worst feature of all, in connexion with
this unhappy business, is, that you have, I very
much fear, been betrayed into a display of
enthusiasm. Oh, my dear but misguided parent, let me
entreat you to beware of enthusiasm. There is
nothing so little valued among us in the present
day. The world has found out that it is a quality
not adapted to the period. There is nothing to
be done now but by coolness; no movement to
be made but by calm and well-considered steps.
Look at the world of politics and see how the
enthusiast is laughed at, and how his calm and
phlegmatic opponent parries his thrusts and
conquers. The rash and impassioned man bruises
himself in vain against the rocks, whilst the
negative man waits, keeps quiet, is slow to act,
and, in the end, triumphs. Never act or speak,
my dear sir, under the influence of feeling, nor
even of righteous indignation. Whenever you
find yourself about to speak strongly—don't.
Indeed, upon the whole, I think that word
"don't" might be worn with advantage as a
motto on your shield.

To sum up. After you have duly received
and studied this letter I shall expect you, dear
sir, to be fully prepared for any social emergency.
If you hear your once most cherished principles
attacked, your dearest friend denounced as a
malefactor, your favourite author, your most
cherished artist, your trusted medical adviser,
set down as worthless, be perfectly calm and
unmoved.

One word more, before I conclude this letter.
I wish to refer to a little matter, apparently
unimportant, but not really so, to which my
attention has been called by Newmarch. Newmarch
—I hope you liked Newmarch, he is an excellent
specimen of a man of the time—told me that
one day, when your old friend Colonel Stopper
made one of the company at Weirsley, at a
certain moment, when dinner was nearly over, you,
being at the time in an especially gay and
cheery mood—a dangerous state in itself—did
suddenly, and moved by no apparent cause,
address Colonel Stopper in these words: " A
glass of wine, old boy!" bestowing on him a
look of benevolence as you spoke. It appears
further, that you then directed the servant who
stood behind you, to fill your glass, and
subsequently to perform the same office for the colonel,
and that you then nodded familiarly to your
friend, that your friend nodded familiarly to you,
and that you both drank off the wine contained