Political education is like the keystone to the arch—the strength of the whole depends upon it.—Encycl. Britt. Sup. Art. “Education.”
I was sitting in the library of Glenmorris Castle, about a week after all the bustle of contest and the eclat of victory had began to subside, and quietly dallying with the dry toast, which constituted then, and does to 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.