_A FATHER’S LETTERS._
If this memoir is to do for you, his sons and nephews, what I hope it
may, you must be told of his weak points. You have seen already that he
had to leave school half a year sooner than he would otherwise have left,
because he was too easy-going as a sixth-form boy, and would not exert
himself to keep order; and he had a constitutional indolence, which led
him to shirk trouble in small matters, and to leave things to manage
themselves. This fault used to annoy your grandfather, who was always
exceedingly particular as to business habits, such as answering letters,
and putting things in their right places. When we first were allowed to
use guns, he gave us special instructions never to bring them into the
house loaded. At the end of the Christmas holidays, just after George
was made a præpostor, we brought our guns in loaded, and left them in
the servants’ hall during luncheon. After lunch, when we went to take
them out again, by some carelessness George’s went off, and he narrowly
escaped being shot, and the charge went through two floors. Your
grandfather said nothing at the moment, but, soon afterwards, George’s
neglect to answer some questions on business matters produced from him
the first of a series of letters, which certainly did us much good at the
time, and I think may be just as useful to you. Most boys have the same
kind of faults, and I cannot see that any of you need such advice less
than we did.
“Three questions I put to you in recent letters. These,
supposing me simply a common acquaintance, and in a position
to ask the questions, should have been promptly answered, and
it is but reasonable to claim what is due to any Mr. Jones or
Mr. Jobson. Without self-command enough to be punctual and
methodical, you cannot realize your plans as to more serious
things than I now write about; nor, indeed, can you do anything
_effective_ in study without it. Read as much as you will, it
will be like filling the sieve of the Danaids. But to drop fine
metaphors and come to plain English, in heaven’s name begin to
be wide awake to the common exigencies and observances of life.
You can see distant and abstracted things well enough; but in
such common things as are understood and practised by every boy
behind a counter who is worth his salt, you are in the state of
a blind puppy in the straw. I do not speak with the least anger
on the subject; but, as a man of common worldly sense, I cannot
too pointedly and forcibly urge on you, that without a complete
alteration in this respect, everything of real importance
which you attempt in the business of life will be an absolute
failure. You swear by Scott. Recollect Athelstan the Unready.
He gives ample proof of both high valour and sound sense,
and, when roused from his ruminative state, is even forcibly
eloquent (where he floors the insolence of De Bracy). Yet he is
the butt of the whole piece, because he is always ten minutes
after time in thought and action; albeit he is by nature a
finer character than Cedric, and twice as big and well-born.
But everyone minds Cedric because he knows his own will and
purpose, and carries it out promptly, with the power of seeing
such things as are directly before his nose.”
George’s reply appears to have contained some statement as to his
intentions in the matter of reading, as well as satisfactory answers to
the neglected questions. Your grandfather, however, returns to the charge
again:—
“I fully believe you have every desire and intention to follow
up the course I wish, though your own experience in the
vacation must have shown you that this desire is not enough
unless backed by determination and method. I should not wish
you to debar yourself of the full portion of healthy exercise
desirable at your age, which is like ‘the meat and mass which
hindereth no man,’ as our quaint old English expresses it.
But I certainly wish you to recollect that the present year”
[1838—he was seventeen] “is one of the most important in your
life, as you are just of the age when the character forms
itself one way or the other, and when time becomes valuable in
a double degree. You told me of your own accord that your wish
was to distinguish yourself at Oxford. If you are as certain
as I am that this wish is a wise and desirable one, the next
point is, to let it become one of those determinations which
are only qualified by ‘Deo volente.’ With the foundation which
has been already laid, the thing is undoubtedly in your
power, with life and health; and, if these fail us, the fault
lies not in ourselves. The secret of attaining any point is,
not so much in the quantity of time bestowed on it at regular
and stated intervals, as in the strong will and inclination
which makes it a matter of curiosity and interest, recurring
to us at odds and ends of time, and never out of the mind; a
labour of inclination rather than a matter of duty—a chase,
as it were, of a wild duck” [we lived close to a river where
wild ducks bred], “instead of a walk for the promotion of
health and appetite. This sort of interest anyone may create
on anything he pleases: for it is an artificial taste, not
perhaps so easily understood at your time of life.... Industry
in one’s vocation, when an honest and creditable one, is a
Christian duty, although followed by persons indifferent to
anything but self-interest. And it usually pleases God so to
dispose of the course of events, that those best qualified to
be useful to others in their generation have the best prospect
of success in it.... The knowledge of history, divinity, and
the dead languages, which you are now acquiring, are the basis
of a liberal education, and play into each other as naturally
as the hilt of a weapon fits the blade: these therefore are
the points of leading interest in your life, in which your
push should be made. Composition also is a valuable thing,
in order to impart clearly to others what you know yourself,
and prevent your candle from being hid under a bushel; and
nothing bears a higher value in the world than this faculty.
Mathematics are good, as they strengthen the attention and
clear the head. In these I see you took a first class, and as
I think you have a turn for them, I trust you will hold your
present footing without sacrificing things which hereafter may
be more essential. A fair progress in modern languages is not
to be neglected; but the great points of interest are such as I
have laid down, viz. knowledge of the connexion, and leading
features, of sacred and profane history; a true digestion of
it in your head, and the power of clearly expressing whatever
thoughts arise from it; and a critical acquaintance with the
original languages from which the knowledge is derived. This,
I have no doubt, will correspond with Dr. Arnold’s ideas as
to the objects and direction of study in your case. In short,
make up your mind what you will do, what you will be, and what
portion of success you may fairly hope for by fairly pointing
your nose to the desirable end; then keep it pointed there as
steadily as the pin of the dial (‘_gnomon_’ if you want to be
learned). And remember, that _the more irksome any habit is in
its formation, the more pleasantly and satisfactorily it sticks
to you when formed_. Order and clockwork in small things is
what you want. _Exempli gratia_, the key of the pew-box gave us
a long hunt the other day, till in going to church we found it
sticking in the lock. Then, none of you ever put a book in its
place again. N. S—— _does_, because he learned the habit from
compulsion, and it has become second nature.”
“DONNINGTON, _1839_.
“Your mother and grandmother are both anxious that some
destination should be early fixed for all of you; but on this
I, who am more answerable, am rather cautious; feeling that
much depends on what your own habits and predilections may
be. At all events the right basis of every one’s education is
this—to love God and your neighbour, and do your duty with
diligence in whatever state of life circumstances may place
you. No one can live in vain acting on these principles, and
whatever tends not to their establishment is of very trifling
importance. I have no time to pursue the subject further at
present, as this is a busy morning, and your mother will want a
good share of this paper. I have begun another folio to Jack.
N.B. You always have luck when I begin a letter, as I take
a folio sheet in the spirit of foresight. Wat never brought
his fishing-rod in; he is old enough now to cultivate orderly
habits, and _es_chew (not chew) mouse pie. N.B. Eschew comes
from Teutonic _schauern_, to shudder at.”
Again in 1840, referring to this indolent, easy-going habit, your
grandfather writes:—
“The temper of mind which I mean is often allied (and in your
case I trust and believe it is) to certain qualities, good
in a social and Christian sense: candour, good nature, and a
contented spirit; just as certain peculiar weeds are frequently
the indication of a sound and wholesome staple of soil: but
then they _are_ weeds, and it is a Christian duty to eradicate
them in the labourer responsible for the care of the soil. In
this respect the children of this world are the wisest in their
generation. We may safely take examples of skill, activity,
and abiding interest in a purpose, from the worst and most
selfish men; and those who are wise, as well as good, do take
the example, and profit by it. Not but that young persons
constitutionally indolent, if they are also conscientious in
their duty to their friends, and correct in the general notion
that industry in a calling is a duty, do complete their stated
hours of study in an honest and competent manner. And this is
precisely your case; a case which has put me in an awkward
position in pointing out your deficiencies. It is an ungracious
thing to tease and spur a tractable, good-tempered horse, who
trots his seven miles an hour of his own accord, even when you
know that he has the blood and power in him to go up to the
best hounds with due training, and it is hard to treat one’s
son worse than one’s horse (or than one’s servants, for your
mother truly taxes me with not keeping my household tightly up
to their duties). These deficiencies nevertheless exist, and
are indicated by many small traits. Now, indolence in my sense,
and as applied to you, is exactly in the correct sense of the
word—‘in’ (_non_) and ‘_doleo_,’ viz., as the Scots say, ‘canna
be fashed’—cannot, unless led by some moral duty, or exigence
of society, jump upon my legs and go about some little,
teasing, but necessary five minutes’ errand, or turn my mind
for the same time, by a sudden jerk, to something which breaks
up the prevailing train of thought. This is a constitutional
failing of my own, and I have been forced to establish rules in
some things to break it through. But I never was tempted by it
so as to leave anything to chance where any favourite project
was concerned; _here_ I expended perhaps too much accuracy and
double diligence. Hence I fear the evil is more deeply seated
in you. The last example is this:—On inspecting and laying up
the two double guns, I found the inside of one rusty, the other
black from careless cleaning. Now, no thoroughbred sportsman
ever contents himself, when laying up his tools in ordinary,
with trusting to his servant’s care, and not his own eye, in
cleaning. Yet you are a good shot—doubtless because you like
shooting, and employ while in the field all the power of your
mind and body to attain your purpose. What is wanting is, the
submission to dry detail (_id quod dolet_). But no one can be
a thorough and efficient master of anything who cannot see to
details. Pump away with all your might, and welcome, but your
labour will be thrown away if you won’t submit to stop the
leaks in your tub. It is exactly from the same temper that
I have seen you take up a book in company when rather dull.
True, the book is the more sensible companion, but the time
and place prescribes ‘_quod dolet_,’ though not so agreeable,
or edifying. Thus it is in fifty things, all arguing a want of
that order, and exactness, resulting from the due division of
the mind. I could even argue it from the trifling trait of your
never carrying a tassel to wipe your arrows with, and leaving
your books open on the table for the maids to spill ink or dust
on. I can prescribe for you in future in these respects, if you
will trust yourself to me cheerfully, and not look aguish and
woe-begone when spurred up to the mark by a word in season.”
And again in 1842:—
“As an illustration is necessary to a theme, suppose two garden
engines of equal capacity, one leaky and loosely constructed,
the other well staunched, which does not waste a drop of water.
You may cobble and plug up the first _pro tem._, and by working
it with a strong arm make it play well: anon it leaketh again,
and without a strong and troublesome effort it is no go. The
second is tight and compact at a moment’s notice, and throws
its stream with precision, just as much as is wanted, and where
it is wanted—
φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.
“I think there has been some improvement this year in your
briskness and precision, but there is room for more. Straws
show which way the wind blows. _Videlicet_, the not having
looked in the calendar.[9] Then you keep your watch with your
razors, and never can tell me what’s o’clock. With respect to
your capacity for giving your might and main to a subject, when
you are at it, I know enough to be well satisfied, and have no
criticism to make.”
[9] As to sending in prize exercises at Oxford. A copy of his
was too late.
The last reference of this kind which I find in your grandfather’s
letters, which we’re always carefully preserved by George, occurs in
1846. After referring to an omission to notice the transfer of some money
to his account, your grandfather goes on:—
“By the bye, I certainly am under the impression that you
shrink from the trouble of details and cares of this kind; the
same impression which I entertained five or six years ago. You
must yourself know best whether I am right or not, and it is
_now_ of importance that you should candidly ask yourself the
question, and, if self-convicted, turn completely over a new
leaf, on account of having others soon to act and manage for,
as master of a house. I need hardly tell you I suppose that,
in all points of paramount importance, your character has
formed in a manner which has given me thorough satisfaction,
and that your friends and relatives have just reason for
appreciating you highly as a member of society. I will also
add, and with truth, that I know no man of your age, who, if
placed in a difficult situation, would in my opinion act with
more sense, firmness, and discretion; and this is much indeed.
But the possession of a naturally decisive and influential
character is just what requires digested method in small and
necessary things; otherwise the defect is more ridiculously
anomalous than in a scatter-brained fellow, whom no one looks
up to, or consults. It is a godsend if a beggar is any better
than barefoot, but what would you say to a well-dressed
man otherwise, who had forgotten his feet, and came into a
drawing-room with a pair of greasy slippers? Without buttering
you up, yours happens to be a character which, to round it
off consistently and properly, demands accuracy in small and
irksome things. In some respects I really think you have
acquired this; in others, are acquiring it; and have no doubt
that when ten years older, you will have progressed in a
suitable degree. Meantime, if you are conscious that anything
is wanting in these respects, it is high time now to put on the
steam.”
As a slight illustration of the effect of these letters, I may add here,
that to the end of his life, when he came in from shooting, my brother
never rested until he had cleaned his gun with his own hands. When asked
why he did not leave it to the keeper, he said he preferred its being
done at once, and thoroughly; and the only way of being sure of that,
was to do it himself. In some respects, however, he never got over his
constitutional love of taking things easily, and avoiding bother and
trouble.