But let not the reader mistake me for a Nero.  The claims of a certain degree of blood-relationship I not only admit, but welcome as a sacred joy.  Their experience is unhappy for whom the bonds of parentage, of sisterhood and brotherhood, will not always have a sort of involuntary religion.  If a man should not exactly be tied to his mother’s apron-string, he should all his life remain tied to her by that other mysterious cord which no knife can sever.  Uncles and aunts may, under certain circumstances, be regarded as sacred, and meet for occasional burnt-offerings; but beyond them I hold that the knot of blood-relationship may be regarded as Gordian, and ruthlessly cut.  Cousins have no claims.  Indeed, the scale of the legacy duties, like few legalities, follows the natural law.  The further removed, the greater tax should our blood-relations pay for our love, or our legacy; but the heart-relation, the brain-relation (’the stranger in blood’), he alone should go untaxed altogether!  Alas, the Inland Revenue Commissioners would charge him more than any, which shows that their above-mentioned touch of nature was but a fluke, after all.

It is impossible to classify the multitude of remaining irrelevancies, who, were one to permit them, would fall upon our leisure like locusts; but possibly ‘friends of the family,’ ‘friends from the country,’ and ‘casuals’ would include the most able-bodied.  Sentiment apart, old schoolfellows should, if possible, be avoided; and no one who merely knew us when we were babies (really a very limited elementary acquaintance) and has mistaken us ever since should be admitted within the gates—­though we might introduce him to our own baby as the nearest match.  The child is not father to the man.  It was a merely verbal paradox, which shows Wordsworth’s ignorance of humanity.  Let me especially warn the reader, particularly the newly-married reader, against the type of friend from the country who, so soon as they learn you have set up house in London, suddenly discovers an interest in your fortunes which, like certain rivers, has run underground further than you can remember.  They write and tell you that they are thinking of coming to town, and would like to spend a few days with you.  They leave their London address vague.  It has the look of a blank which you are expected to fill up.  You shrewdly surmise that, so to say, they meditate paying a visit to Euston, and spending a fortnight with you on the way.  But if you are wise and subtle and strong, you cut this acquaintance ruthlessly, as you lop a branch.  Such are the dead wood of your life.  Cut it away and cast it into the oven of oblivion.  Don’t fear to hurt it.  These people care as little for you, as you for them.  All they want is board and lodging, and if you give in to them, you may be an amateur hotel-keeper all your days.