LONDON, September 27, O. S. 1748.
DEAR BOY: I have received your Latin “Lecture upon War,” which though it
is not exactly the same Latin that Caesar, Cicero, Horace, Virgil, and
Ovid spoke, is, however, as good Latin as the erudite Germans speak or
write. I have always observed that the most learned people, that is,
those who have read the most Latin, write the worst; and that
distinguishes the Latin of gentleman scholar from that of a pedant. A
gentleman has, probably, read no other Latin than that of the Augustan
age; and therefore can write no other, whereas the pedant has read much
more bad Latin than good, and consequently writes so too. He looks upon
the best classical books, as books for school-boys, and consequently
below him; but pores over fragments of obscure authors, treasures up the
obsolete words which he meets with there, and uses them upon all
occasions to show his reading at the expense of his judgment. Plautus is
his favorite author, not for the sake of the wit and the vis comica of
his comedies, but upon account of the many obsolete words, and the cant
of low characters, which are to be met with nowhere else. He will rather
use ‘olli’ than ‘illi’, ‘optume’ than ‘optima’, and any bad word rather
than any good one, provided he can but prove, that strictly speaking, it
is Latin; that is, that it was written by a Roman. By this rule, I might
now write to you in the language of Chaucer or Spenser, and assert that I
wrote English, because it was English in their days; but I should be a
most affected puppy if I did so, and you would not understand three words
of my letter. All these, and such like affected peculiarities, are the
characteristics of learned coxcombs and pedants, and are carefully
avoided by all men of sense.
I dipped accidentally, the other day, into Pitiscus’s preface to his
“Lexicon,” where I found a word that puzzled me, and which I did not
remember ever to have met with before. It is the adverb ‘praefiscine’,
which means, IN A GOOD HOUR; an expression which, by the superstition of
it, appears to be low and vulgar. I looked for it: and at last I found
that it is once or twice made use of in Plautus, upon the strength of
which this learned pedant thrusts it into his preface. Whenever you write
Latin, remember that every word or phrase which you make use of, but
cannot find in Caesar, Cicero, Livy, Horace, Virgil; and Ovid, is bad,
illiberal Latin, though it may have been written by a Roman.
I must now say something as to the matter of the “Lecture,” in which I
confess there is one doctrine laid down that surprises me: It is this,
‘Quum vero hostis sit lenta citave morte omnia dira nobis minitans
quocunque bellantibus negotium est; parum sane interfuerit quo modo eum
obruere et interficere satagamus, si ferociam exuere cunctetur. Ergo
veneno quoque uti fas est’, etc., whereas I cannot conceive that the use
of poison can, upon any account, come within the lawful means of
self-defense. Force may, without doubt, be justly repelled by force, but
not by treachery and fraud; for I do not call the stratagems of war, such
as ambuscades, masked batteries, false attacks, etc., frauds or
treachery: They are mutually to be expected and guarded against; but
poisoned arrows, poisoned waters, or poison administered to your enemy
(which can only be done by treachery), I have always heard, read, and
thought, to be unlawful and infamous means of defense, be your danger
ever so great: But ‘si ferociam exuere cunctetur’; must I rather die than
poison this enemy? Yes, certainly, much rather die than do a base or
criminal action; nor can I be sure, beforehand, that this enemy may not,
in the last moment, ‘ferociam exuere’. But the public lawyers, now, seem
to me rather to warp the law, in order to authorize, than to check, those
unlawful proceedings of princes and states; which, by being become
common, appear less criminal, though custom can never alter the nature of
good and ill.
Pray let no quibbles of lawyers, no refinements of casuists, break into
the plain notions of right and wrong, which every man’s right reason and
plain common sense suggest to him. To do as you would be done by, is the
plain, sure, and undisputed rule of morality and justice. Stick to that;
and be convinced that whatever breaks into it, in any degree, however
speciously it may be turned, and however puzzling it may be to answer it,
is, notwithstanding, false in itself, unjust, and criminal. I do not know
a crime in the world, which is not by the casuists among the Jesuits
(especially the twenty-four collected, I think, by Escobar) allowed, in
some, or many cases, not to be criminal. The principles first laid down
by them are often specious, the reasonings plausible, but the conclusion
always a lie: for it is contrary, to that evident and undeniable rule of
justice which I have mentioned above, of not doing to anyone what you
would not have him do to you. But, however, these refined pieces of
casuistry and sophistry, being very convenient and welcome to people’s
passions and appetites, they gladly accept the indulgence, without
desiring to detect the fallacy or the reasoning: and indeed many, I might
say most people, are not able to do it; which makes the publication of
such quibblings and refinements the more pernicious. I am no skillful
casuist nor subtle disputant; and yet I would undertake to justify and
qualify the profession of a highwayman, step by step, and so plausibly,
as to make many ignorant people embrace the profession, as an innocent,
if not even a laudable one; and puzzle people of some degree of
knowledge, to answer me point by point. I have seen a book, entitled
‘Quidlibet ex Quolibet’, or the art of making anything out of anything;
which is not so difficult as it would seem, if once one quits certain
plain truths, obvious in gross to every understanding, in order to run
after the ingenious refinements of warm imaginations and speculative
reasonings. Doctor Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, a very worthy, ingenious,
and learned man, has written a book, to prove that there is no such thing
as matter, and that nothing exists but in idea: that you and I only fancy
ourselves eating, drinking, and sleeping; you at Leipsig, and I at
London: that we think we have flesh and blood, legs, arms, etc., but that
we are only spirit. His arguments are, strictly speaking, unanswerable;
but yet I am so far from being convinced by them, that I am determined to
go on to eat and drink, and walk and ride, in order to keep that MATTER,
which I so mistakenly imagine my body at present to consist of, in as
good plight as possible. Common sense (which, in truth, very uncommon) is
the best sense I know of: abide by it, it will counsel you best. Read and
hear, for your amusement, ingenious systems, nice questions subtilly
agitated, with all the refinements that warm imaginations suggest; but
consider them only as exercitations for the mind, and turn always to
settle with common sense.
I stumbled, the other day, at a bookseller’s, upon “Comte Gabalis,” in
two very little volumes, which I had formerly read. I read it over again,
and with fresh astonishment. Most of the extravagances are taken from the
Jewish Rabbins, who broached those wild notions, and delivered them in
the unintelligible jargon which the Caballists and Rosicrucians deal in
to this day. Their number is, I believe, much lessened, but there are
still some; and I myself have known two; who studied and firmly believed
in that mystical nonsense. What extravagancy is not man capable of
entertaining, when once his shackled reason is led in triumph by fancy
and prejudice! The ancient alchemists give very much into this stuff, by
which they thought they should discover the philosopher’s stone; and some
of the most celebrated empirics employed it in the pursuit of the
universal medicine. Paracelsus, a bold empiric and wild Caballist,
asserted that he had discovered it, and called it his ‘Alkahest’. Why or
wherefore, God knows; only that those madmen call nothing by an
intelligible name. You may easily get this book from The Hague: read it,
for it will both divert and astonish you, and at the same time teach you
‘nil admirari’; a very necessary lesson.
Your letters, except when upon a given subject, are exceedingly laconic,
and neither answer my desires nor the purpose of letters; which should be
familiar conversations, between absent friends. As I desire to live with
you upon the footing of an intimate friend, and not of a parent, I could
wish that your letters gave me more particular accounts of yourself, and
of your lesser transactions. When you write to me, suppose yourself
conversing freely with me by the fireside. In that case, you would
naturally mention the incidents of the day; as where you had been, who
you had seen, what you thought of them, etc. Do this in your letters:
acquaint me sometimes with your studies, sometimes with your diversions;
tell me of any new persons and characters that you meet with in company,
and add your own observations upon them: in short, let me see more of you
in your letters. How do you go on with Lord Pulteney, and how does he go
on at Leipsig? Has he learning, has he parts, has he application? Is he
good or ill-natured? In short, What is he? at least, what do you think
him? You may tell me without reserve, for I promise you secrecy. You are
now of an age that I am desirous to begin a confidential correspondence
with you; and as I shall, on my part, write you very freely my opinion
upon men and things, which I should often be very unwilling that anybody
but you and Mr. Harte should see, so, on your part, if you write me
without reserve, you may depend upon my inviolable secrecy. If you have
ever looked into the “Letters” of Madame de Sevigne to her daughter,
Madame de Grignan, you must have observed the ease, freedom, and
friendship of that correspondence; and yet, I hope and I believe, that
they did not love one another better than we do. Tell me what books you
are now reading, either by way of study or amusement; how you pass your
evenings when at home, and where you pass them when abroad. I know that
you go sometimes to Madame Valentin’s assembly; What do you do there? Do
you play, or sup, or is it only ‘la belle conversation?’ Do you mind your
dancing while your dancing-master is with you? As you will be often under
the necessity of dancing a minuet, I would have you dance it very well.
Remember, that the graceful motion of the arms, the giving your hand, and
the putting on and pulling off your hat genteelly, are the material parts
of a gentleman’s dancing. But the greatest advantage of dancing well is,
that it necessarily teaches you to present yourself, to sit, stand, and
walk, genteelly; all of which are of real importance to a man of fashion.
I should wish that you were polished before you go to Berlin; where, as
you will be in a great deal of good company, I would have you have the
right manners for it. It is a very considerable article to have ‘le ton
de la bonne compagnie’, in your destination particularly. The principal
business of a foreign minister is, to get into the secrets, and to know
all ‘les allures’ of the courts at which he resides; this he can never
bring about but by such a pleasing address, such engaging manners, and
such an insinuating behavior, as may make him sought for, and in some
measure domestic, in the best company and the best families of the place.
He will then, indeed, be well informed of all that passes, either by the
confidences made him, or by the carelessness of people in his company,
who are accustomed to look upon him as one of them, and consequently are
not upon their guard before him. For a minister who only goes to the
court he resides at, in form, to ask an audience of the prince or the
minister upon his last instructions, puts them upon their guard, and will
never know anything more than what they have a mind that he should know.
Here women may be put to some use. A king’s mistress, or a minister’s
wife or mistress, may give great and useful informations; and are very
apt to do it, being proud to show that they have been trusted. But then,
in this case, the height of that sort of address, which, strikes women,
is requisite; I mean that easy politeness, genteel and graceful address,
and that ‘exterieur brilliant’ which they cannot withstand. There is a
sort of men so like women, that they are to be taken just in the same
way; I mean those who are commonly called FINE MEN; who swarm at all
courts; who have little reflection, and less knowledge; but, who by their
good breeding, and ‘train-tran’ of the world, are admitted into all
companies; and, by the imprudence or carelessness of their superiors,
pick up secrets worth knowing, which are easily got out of them by proper
address. Adieu.