What is wanting is, the submission to dry detail (_id quod dolet_). But no one can be a thorough and efficient master of anything who cannot see to details. Pump away with all your might, and welcome, but your labour will be thrown away if you won’t submit to stop the leaks in your tub. It is exactly from the same temper that I have seen you take up a book in company when rather dull. True, the book is the more sensible companion, but the time and place prescribes ‘_quod dolet_,’ though not so agreeable, or edifying. Thus it is in fifty things, all arguing a want of that order, and exactness, resulting from the due division of the mind. I could even argue it from the trifling trait of your never carrying a tassel to wipe your arrows with, and leaving your books open on the table for the maids to spill ink or dust on. I can prescribe for you in future in these respects, if you will trust yourself to me cheerfully, and not look aguish and woe-begone when spurred up to the mark by a word in season.” And again in 1842:— “As an illustration is necessary to a theme, suppose two garden engines of equal capacity, one leaky and loosely constructed, the other well staunched, which does not waste a drop of water. You may cobble and plug up the first _pro tem._, and by working it with a strong arm make it play well: anon it leaketh again, and without a strong and troublesome effort it is no go. The second is tight and compact at a moment’s notice, and throws its stream with precision, just as much as is wanted, and where it is wanted— φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν. “I think there has been some improvement this year in your briskness and precision, but there is room for more. Straws show which way the wind blows. _Videlicet_, the not having looked in the calendar.[9] Then you keep your watch with your razors, and never can tell me what’s o’clock. With respect to your capacity for giving your might and main to a subject, when you are at it, I know enough to be well satisfied, and have no criticism to make.” [9] As to sending in prize exercises at Oxford. A copy of his was too late. The last reference of this kind which I find in your grandfather’s letters, which we’re always carefully preserved by George, occurs in 1846. After referring to an omission to notice the transfer of some money to his account, your grandfather goes on:—