LONDON, November 27, O. S. 1749.
DEAR BOY: While the Roman Republic flourished, while glory was pursued,
and virtue practiced, and while even little irregularities and
indecencies, not cognizable by law, were, however, not thought below the
public care, censors were established, discretionally to supply, in
particular cases, the inevitable defects of the law, which must and can
only be general. This employment I assume to myself with regard to your
little republic, leaving the legislative power entirely to Mr. Harte; I
hope, and believe, that he will seldom, or rather never, have occasion to
exert his supreme authority; and I do by no means suspect you of any
faults that may require that interposition. But, to tell you the plain
truth, I am of opinion that my censorial power will not be useless to
you, nor a sinecure to me. The sooner you make it both, the better for us
both. I can now exercise this employment only upon hearsay, or, at most,
written evidence; and therefore shall exercise it with great lenity and
some diffidence; but when we meet, and that I can form my judgment upon
ocular and auricular evidence, I shall no more let the least impropriety,
indecorum, or irregularity pass uncensured, than my predecessor Cato did.
I shall read you with the attention of a critic, not with the partiality
of an author: different in this respect, indeed, from most critics, that
I shall seek for faults only to correct and not to expose them. I have
often thought, and still think, that there are few things which people in
general know less, than how to love and how to hate. They hurt those they
love by a mistaken indulgence, by a blindness, nay, often by a partiality
to their faults. Where they hate they hurt themselves, by ill-timed
passion and rage. Fortunately for you, I never loved you in that mistaken
manner. From your infancy, I made you the object of my most serious
attention, and not my plaything. I consulted your real good, not your
humors or fancies; and I shall continue to do so while you want it, which
will probably be the case during our joint lives; for, considering the
difference of our ages, in the course of nature, you will hardly have
acquired experience enough of your own, while I shall be in condition of
lending you any of mine. People in general will much better bear being,
told of their vices or crimes, than of their little failings and
weaknesses. They, in some degree, justify or excuse (as they think) the
former, by strong passions, seductions, and artifices of others, but to
be told of, or to confess, their little failings and weaknesses, implies
an inferiority of parts, too mortifying to that self-love and vanity,
which are inseparable from our natures. I have been intimate enough with
several people to tell them that they had said or done a very criminal
thing; but I never was intimate enough with any man, to tell him, very
seriously, that he had said or done a very foolish one. Nothing less than
the relation between you and me can possibly authorize that freedom; but
fortunately for you, my parental rights, joined to my censorial powers,
give it me in its fullest extent, and my concern for you will make me
exert it. Rejoice, therefore, that there is one person in the world who
can and will tell you what will be very useful to you to know, and yet
what no other man living could or would tell you. Whatever I shall tell
you of this kind, you are very sure, can have no other motive than your
interest; I can neither be jealous nor envious of your reputation or
fortune, which I must be both desirous and proud to establish and
promote; I cannot be your rival either in love or in business; on the
contrary, I want the rays of your rising to reflect new lustre upon my
setting light. In order to this, I shall analyze you minutely, and
censure you freely, that you may not (if possible) have one single spot,
when in your meridian.
There is nothing that a young fellow, at his first appearance in the
world, has more reason to dread, and consequently should take more pains
to avoid, than having any ridicule fixed upon him. It degrades him with
the most reasonable part of mankind; but it ruins him with the rest; and
I have known many a man undone by acquiring a ridiculous nickname: I
would not, for all the riches in the world, that you should acquire one
when you return to England. Vices and crimes excite hatred and reproach;
failings, weaknesses, and awkwardnesses, excite ridicule; they are laid
hold of by mimics, who, though very contemptible wretches themselves,
often, by their buffoonery, fix ridicule upon their betters. The little
defects in manners, elocution, address, and air (and even of figure,
though very unjustly), are the objects of ridicule, and the causes of
nicknames. You cannot imagine the grief it would give me, and the
prejudice it would do you, if, by way of distinguishing you from others
of your name, you should happen to be called Muttering Stanhope, Absent
Stanhope, Ill-bred Stanhope, or Awkward, Left-legged Stanhope: therefore,
take great care to put it out of the power of Ridicule itself to give you
any of these ridiculous epithets; for, if you get one, it will stick to
you, like the envenomed shirt. The very first day that I see you, I shall
be able to tell you, and certainly shall tell you, what degree of danger
you are in; and I hope that my admonitions, as censor, may prevent the
censures of the public. Admonitions are always useful; is this one or
not? You are the best judge; it is your own picture which I send you,
drawn, at my request, by a lady at Venice: pray let me know how far, in
your conscience, you think it like; for there are some parts of it which
I wish may, and others, which I should be sorry were. I send you,
literally, the copy of that part of her letter, to her friend here, which
relates to you.--[In compliance to your orders, I have examined young
Stanhope carefully, and think I have penetrated into his character. This
is his portrait, which I take to be a faithful one. His face is pleasing,
his countenance sensible, and his look clever. His figure is at present
rather too square; but if he shoots up, which he has matter and years
for, he will then be of a good size. He has, undoubtedly, a great fund of
acquired knowledge; I am assured that he is master of the learned
languages. As for French, I know he speaks it perfectly, and, I am told,
German as well. The questions he asks are judicious; and denote a thirst
after knowledge. I cannot say that he appears equally desirous of
pleasing, for he seems to neglect attentions and the graces. He does not
come into a room well, nor has he that easy, noble carriage, which would
be proper for him. It is true, he is as yet young and inexperienced; one
may therefore reasonably hope that his exercises, which he has not yet
gone through, and good company, in which he is still a novice, will
polish, and give all that is wanting to complete him. What seems
necessary for that purpose, would, be an attachment to some woman of
fashion, and who knows the world. Some Madame de l’Ursay would be the
proper person. In short, I can assure you, that he has everything which
Lord Chesterfield can wish him, excepting that carriage, those graces,
and the style used in the best company; which he will certainly acquire
in time, and by frequenting the polite world. If he should not, it would
be great pity, since he so well deserves to possess them. You know their
importance. My Lord, his father, knows it too, he being master of them
all. To conclude, if little Stanhope acquires the graces, I promise you
he will make his way; if not, he will be stopped in a course, the goal of
which he might attain with honor.]
Tell Mr. Harte that I have this moment received his letter of the 22d, N.
S., and that I approve extremely of the long stay you have made at
Venice. I love long residences at capitals; running post through
different places is a most unprofitable way of traveling, and admits of
no application. Adieu.
You see, by this extract, of what consequence other people think these
things. Therefore, I hope you will no longer look upon them as trifles.
It is the character of an able man to despise little things in great
business: but then he knows what things are little, and what not. He does
not suppose things are little, because they are commonly called so: but
by the consequences that may or may not attend them. If gaining people’s
affections, and interesting their hearts in your favor, be of
consequence, as it undoubtedly is, he knows very well that a happy
concurrence of all those, commonly called little things, manners, air,
address, graces, etc., is of the utmost consequence, and will never be at
rest till he has acquired them. The world is taken by the outside of
things, and we must take the world as it is; you nor I cannot set it
right. I know, at this time, a man of great quality and station, who has
not the parts of a porter; but raised himself to the station he is in,
singly by having a graceful figure, polite manners, and an engaging
address; which, by the way, he only acquired by habit; for he had not
sense enough to get them by reflection. Parts and habit should conspire
to complete you. You will have the habit of good company, and you have
reflection in your power.