Now, really, how can you be so foolish! I _won't_ tell you of your faults, because I don't know them.

What a creature would that be, who, after receiving an affectionate and kind letter from a beloved friend, should sit down and write a catalogue of defects by way of answer! Imagine me doing so, and then consider what epithets you would bestow on me.

Conceited, dogmatical, hypocritical, little humbug, I should think, would be the mildest.

Why, child! I've neither time nor inclination to reflect on your _faults_ when you are so far from me, and when, besides, kind letters and presents, and so forth, are continually bringing forth your goodness in the most prominent light.
Then, too, there are judicious relations always round you, who can much better discharge that unpleasant office.

I have no doubt their advice is completely at your service; why then should I intrude mine?
If you will not hear them, it will be vain though one should rise from the dead to instruct you.