"That is an instance of morbid development," said my father, smiling, "not in point."
"You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him," said Mr. Ricardo, glancing at my father.
"But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo," said I, "may be constantly enjoyed; and they are some of the purest, and most satisfying, and most unmixed that we have."
"And, I maintain, of the most useful," said my father.
"To the character," said Mr. Ricardo. "But I do not believe that, where they most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or the most hopeful class of our population."
"My good sir," said my father, "do not confound things that have nothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally true of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the usages of polite society, Mocha coffee and fine broadcloth,—none of which, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind."
"Well, go on," said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, "let us hear how you make out your case."
"Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of difference, becoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and delicate influences, the mind acquires a habit of being which will discover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty of nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in one department alone, without being applied more or less generally to other subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse and relations of social and domestic life, and the tendency will be to the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of proprieties, that quick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact."
"But tact cannot be given, papa," said I.