going to the play, and pressed me very much to go too, but I had something I wished to write, and remained at home.  On their return my father appeared to me much excited, and I was informed that having unluckily come across Mr. Westmacott, his wrath had got the better of his self-command, and he had bestowed a severe beating upon that individual.  I could not help looking very grave at this; for though I should have been very well satisfied if it could have rained a good thrashing upon Mr. Westmacott from the sky, yet as I do not approve of returning injuries by injuries, I could not rejoice that my father had done so.  I suppose he saw that I had no great satisfaction in the event, for he said, “The law affords no redress against such attacks as this paper makes on people, and I thought it time to take justice in my own hands when my daughter is insulted.”  He then repeated some of the language made use of with reference to me in the Age, and I could not help blushing with indignation to my fingers’ ends.

Perhaps, under the circumstances, it is not surprising that my father has done what he has, but I think I should have admired him more if he had not.  Mr. Westmacott means to bring an action against him, and I am afraid he will have to pay dearly for his momentary indulgence of temper.

I must have done writing, though I had a good deal more to say.  God
bless you, dear.  If you answer this letter directly, I will write
you a better next time.

Ever yours,
F. A. K.

The majority of parents—­mothers, I believe I ought to say—­err in one or other excess with regard to their children.  Love either blinds them absolutely to their defects, or makes them so terribly alive to them as to exaggerate every imperfection.  It is hard to say which of the errors is most injurious in its effects.  I suppose according as the temperament is desponding and diffident, or sanguine and self-sufficient, the one system or the other is likely to do most harm.

My mother’s intensely nervous organization, acute perceptions, and exacting taste made her in everything most keenly alive to our faults and deficiencies.  The unsparing severity of the sole reply or comment she ever vouchsafed to our stupidity, want of sense, or want of observation—­“I hate a fool”—­has remained almost like a cut with a lash across my memory.  Her wincing sensitiveness of ear made it all but impossible for me to practice either the piano or singing within hearing of her exclamations of impatient anguish at my false chords and flat intonations; and I suppose nothing but my sister’s unquenchable musical genius would have sustained her naturally timid, sensitive disposition under such discipline.