superciliousness, or from some infirmity, some weakness of character.
Most men try to be punctual in any appointment with a man of rank
superior to themselves, especially if they have any object, any
interest, in conciliating his favour. And, on the other hand, too many
persons seem to feel themselves at liberty to be unpunctual in an
appointment with an inferior. It is not worth while, they think, to care
about being exact with one so much beneath them. "Let him wait till I am
at leisure to attend to him," exclaims such a man, in the proud
consciousness of superiority; and, perhaps, some trifle, or mere
indolence, is all that he has to plead for his neglect.
You, my dear nephew, have, I trust, long since learned, that you have no
right to treat any man, however low his rank may be, with
disrespect,--with any thing approaching to contempt. You well know, that
both reason and religion require us to regard all men as our brothers,
and that one of the golden rules of the latter is, _in lowliness of
mind, let each esteem others better than himself_. Whatever a man's rank
in life may be, he has a right to punctuality as he has a right to
truth; and you have no right, by your unpunctuality, to rob him either
of his time or his patience. Certainly you have no right to give him by
such means the painful feeling that he is neglected, and neglected
because he is despised.
And thus, also, with men of your own age and your own rank in life; in
all the little engagements and appointments, whether of business or of
pleasure, which occur in the common intercourse of society, endeavour
still to maintain the habit of punctuality. As every man wishes to have
the character of being true to his word, so it will be to your credit to
have the character of being true to your engagements, whether those
engagements relate to great matters or to small.
But though want of punctuality is sometimes occasioned by pride, it
must more frequently proceed from a certain degree of weakness of
character, or from mere indolence. A man acknowledges punctuality to be
right and desirable, but cannot muster up sufficient energy and
resolution. He cannot prevail upon himself to quit his bed, or his easy
chair, or his fire-side, or the employment by which he chances to be
occupied, till the time fixed on has passed away. His friends are kept
waiting; those who have business to transact with him lose their temper;
they, again, are perhaps disappointing others, and all because he had
not sufficient decision of character, sufficient command of himself, to
be punctual.
You may remember seeing at my house my friend Mr. M.[78:1] He was at
Oxford a very good-humoured fellow, and every body liked him; but he
never could contrive to be in time for any thing. He got imposition upon
imposition for being too late for chapel; he came to dine in hall when
other men were going away; and his friends were almost afraid of making
an appointment with him, either for business or for amusement, because
they knew beforehand that he would not keep it. When, after leaving
Oxford, he established himself as a country gentleman in his paternal
mansion, the same habit still clung to him. No time was fixed for any
thing, or if it was fixed, it was never kept. Neither his guests nor his
servants knew at what hour either breakfast, or dinner, or any other
domestic arrangement, would take place. Consequently, their time and
their spirits were wasted in uncertainty. When engaged to dine at a
neighbour's, perhaps he would forget the engagement altogether; or, if
he chanced to remember it, would not arrive till the master of the feast
had given him up in despair, after allowing possibly an extra half hour,
during which, the solemn pause which sometimes takes place before
dinner, had become more solemn, from the annoyance of seeing a whole
party kept waiting by the unpunctuality of one person. The servants,
meanwhile, were yawning and fidgetting backwards and forwards in the
listlessness of expectation; the cook perplexed with the sore dilemma of
seeing all the productions of her skill, either chilled with cold from
being kept back, or burnt to a cinder; and the temper even of the lady
of the house a little out of tune, from the certainty that the dinner
would be spoiled. Of all these various vexations, the sole cause was to
be found in Mr. M.'s want of energy. He could not bring himself,
perhaps, either to shorten a pleasant ride, or to lay down a book which
interested him, or to quit his own chair by the fire-side, in order to
dress. The convenience and comfort, and for a time the good humour, of a
whole company, were to be sacrificed to his indolence, his _vis
inertiæ_, and unpunctuality.
Never permit yourself, my dear nephew, thus to trifle with the time or
the temper of any persons, whether high or low, with whom you have any
intercourse. Make a point of always being in time. I think it is said of
Lord Nelson (though I cannot hit upon the passage in his life), that
when some friend was fixing an appointment of importance at a certain
hour, the hero added, "Say a quarter _before_--to that quarter _before_,
I have owed all my success in life." I do not advise you actually to be
_before_ the time of an engagement, which some people will complain of
as being worse than being too late, but be so much beforehand as to be
master of your time, or to have it in your power to be punctual almost
to a minute. When you are received as a guest in a friend's house,
consider compliance with the hours and habits of the family, as a
natural return for the hospitality which is shown to you. There is
something incongruous in seeing a young person deranging, by his
unpunctuality, the economy and regularity of a whole household. And do
not suffer the kindness and indulgence of your parents to induce you,
when with them, to be less attentive to punctuality than you are, when
with other persons of superior age or rank to yourself. Never let them
wait for you; make a point of being always ready. An excellent friend of
mine lays it down as a maxim, that _habitual unpunctuality is positive
incivility_.
I have alluded to the unpunctuality of one of my college friends: I will
contrast it with the punctuality of another. The latter when at Oxford
was distinguished for lively talents, and for an exuberance of spirits
bursting forth into every possible variety of fun. He is now the owner
of a spacious and splendid mansion, with a large establishment of
servants, and often a considerable number of guests, attracted by his
many amiable and excellent qualities. He still retains his playfulness
of wit, but his domestic arrangements are a model of punctuality. Family
prayers, and every meal, are to a minute. His guests and servants,
consequently, know exactly what they have to depend on, the arrangements
of the day, whether for business or for amusement, can be made with
precision, and every thing is done at its proper time. This is
punctuality on a greater scale. You and I, my dear nephew, must attend
to it in smaller matters.
I remain,
My dear Nephew,
Your affectionate Uncle.
FOOTNOTES:
[78:1] Mr. M. is imaginary.
LETTER VII.
AMUSEMENTS.
MY DEAR NEPHEW,
In a former letter I recommended to you certain modes of relaxation,
having some connection with intellectual improvement. You will, perhaps,
tell me that you want relaxation more entire and complete; that the
intellect requires perfect rest; that you must have _amusement_ in the
strict etymological sense of the word. You may be right. I have already
advised you to take sufficient time for _exercise_, and the exercise of
the body will generally give rest and refreshment to the mind.
In your choice of amusement, however--amusement, I mean, as combined
with exercise--you must have strict regard to economy, both of money and
of time. Do not think me an old woman, if I add, that regard for _both_
should keep you from any excessive bodily exertion, such as will unfit
you for study, or seriously affect your health. I am told that the
latter effect has of late, not unfrequently, been the result of over
fatigue in _rowing_; that many young men have died at an early age; that
others live on with all their powers debilitated, from having
overstrained their nerves, and their whole muscular system, in
boat-races. Rowing is in itself a salutary and delightful species of
exercise; and the facility of practising it, is one among the many
advantages of Oxford; but when carried to the excess which I have
alluded to, it is foolish and culpable.
I would have a young man regardless of danger, willing to risk limbs,
health, or life itself, for the benefit of his fellow-creatures. He
should, like Hamlet, "hold his life at a pin's fee," when any adequate
object is to be answered by putting it in jeopardy. But a man has _no
right_ to risk either his life or his limbs for a bravado, in mere idle
vanity and ostentation. Such wanton risk is cruelty to his parents and
friends, and a presumptuous tempting of Providence.
_Riding_, for riding's sake, must, with your finances, be out of the
question. The utmost that you ought to allow yourself, is a hack once or
twice a term, for some specific purpose--to visit a distant friend,
perhaps, or to see some interesting object lying beyond the range of a
walk. What I have said of riding, applies, with ten-fold force, to
hunting, which entails expense--(the hire of a hunter, the hire of a
hack probably to take you to cover, sundry ostlers and helpers, and very
likely a jovial dinner at an inn)--utterly inconsistent with an average
allowance; which entails, also, a waste of time, which, in the short
period of an Oxford residence, can ill be spared.
What shall I say of _cricket_? I have great respect for cricket, as a
national and a manly game. The demand which it makes upon your Oxford
time is confined to the short term between Easter and the long vacation,
and it does not require a very large portion of the day. It is not
_necessarily_ attended with any expense. Whether the incidental expenses
of _uniform_ (if you belong to a club), tent, dinner, &c. &c. are such
as you can fairly afford, is for your consideration. They need not be
high, and, in my good will to the game, I am anxious that they should
be kept down.
_Tennis_ is an animated game, of much variety in itself, and requiring
great variety of muscular exertion. It is connected with many historical
and chivalrous recollections, and carries the mind back to our Henry the
Fifth and the "mocking Dauphin" of France. As it cannot be played
without a spacious and expensive edifice, it is altogether an
aristocratic game, and demands an aristocratic purse. It is a game which
requires a good deal of practice, and, consequently, a good deal of
expenditure, in order to acquire a tolerable degree of skill; and your
skill will seldom have an opportunity of showing itself after you have
quitted Oxford, as you will seldom fall in with a tennis-court. I have
no hesitation in saying, that you, my dear nephew, have no money that
you have a right to spend upon yourself in this manner.
You will never, I trust, annoy any of the neighbouring country
gentlemen, by attacking their game. You know how tender a point this is,
and how susceptible most landed proprietors are upon the subject; and
your own good feeling, and sense of propriety, and common fairness, will
prevent you from trespassing in this manner. You can imagine how
indignant you would yourself feel at such an invasion, and will not be
guilty towards another of a wrong, of which you would complain loudly
if it were offered to yourself.
After all, _walking_ is the cheapest exercise, and, perhaps, the best.
If you wish to give it variety, you will find plenty of ditches to leap,
steeps to ascend, and hills to run up or down. And, dull as are most of
the great roads leading into Oxford, the country round abounds in
interesting objects within reach of a walk. There is much natural
scenery, possessed of a good deal of variety and picturesque character;
and there are many buildings, and remains of buildings, which either
from something in themselves, or from adventitious circumstances, well
deserve to be looked at. The church at Cumnor, for instance, not only
has within itself much to interest a man fond of architectural or
antiquarian investigation, but, in common with the remains or site of
Cumnor hall, and the village of Dry Sandford, have acquired a sort of
classical notoriety from the magical pen of Sir Walter Scott. The
picturesque ruins of the kitchen, and other buildings at Stanton
Harcourt, the slight vestiges of Godston Nunnery, the Town Hall, the
Gaol, and the two churches at Abingdon, may all become, each in its
turn, the object of a pedestrian expedition. The residence of the
Speaker, Lenthall, at Bessilsleigh, may deserve notice, from historical
recollections, though for no other reason. The Saxon church in Iffley I
have already mentioned. The recently-built Saxon chapel at Kennington is
done in excellent taste, and is a most gratifying instance of the
munificence and piety of an individual clergyman, devoting, I believe,
almost all his resources to the work. The church at Wytham will show you
that a church very lately erected may, by correct judgment, be made to
present the appearance of having been built five hundred years ago. But
I must not go on in this way, or you will think that you have got hold
of an Oxford guide. Most of the villages and village churches in the
neighbourhood, have some character of their own worth examining.
So much for amusements connected with exercise, which has led me into
something like a repetition of some of the sentiments in a former
letter.
A few words on sedentary amusements.
If you read _in earnest_, and are bent upon making the most of your
time, you will have little of it left for amusements of a sedentary
nature.
The less you have to do with cards the better. Young men can have no
occasion for the assistance of cards in order to pass their time; and
there seems to be something almost incongruous in the idea of _their_
sitting down to a rubber. Nor do they need the excitement: if they wish
for it, that very wish is a reason why they ought not to have it. If
they play for money--or, at all events, if they play for such sums as
make the winning or losing an object of any degree of consequence--they
become gamblers; and of the many bad passions which gambling sometimes
calls into activity, and of the destructive consequences which it
entails, no one is ignorant. If you once get into the habit of playing,
you will, perhaps, not know when to stop. Cards are very seductive, and
you may find yourself become a gambler almost before you are aware of
it. Perhaps the best plan is _not to know_ how to play, which furnishes
an answer always ready.
Chess is a game of elegance and interest, and the being a good
chess-player, carries with it a certain impression of general ability
and of intellectual activity and resource. Perhaps I may allow that
playing at chess adds a certain degree of interest to the perusal of the
history of a campaign, whether ancient or modern, with its various
moves, its checks and counter-checks, its retreats and _castlings_. But
chess is a fascinating game, and will be apt to make larger demands upon
your time than you can afford. If you indulge in it at all, you must be
peremptory with yourself in resisting its tendency to incroach either
upon your time or your _temper_. Sometimes, too, it requires so much
exertion of thought,--is such a strain upon the mind,--that it hardly
can answer the purposes of relaxation. If you play, by all means read
Franklin's Essay on the Morals of Chess. For clearness of head, for
truth-telling simplicity and honesty of purpose, and for perspicuity and
liveliness of style, Franklin has, perhaps, no superior.
Always recollect that improvement, moral and intellectual, is the great
object for which you were sent to Oxford. With that object nothing must
be suffered to interfere.
I remain, &c. &c.
LETTER VIII.
EXPENSES, AND RUNNING IN DEBT.
MY DEAR NEPHEW,
I do not know exactly what allowance your father has been able to give
you, but whatever it may be, I trust that you are resolutely determined
to keep within it. This will, of course, require a good deal of care and
attention. Many young men, when, upon going to the University, they find
in their pockets a much larger sum than they ever possessed before,
fancy themselves rich, and at liberty to allow themselves various
unnecessary indulgences. The consequence is, that they become entangled
in debts, from which they can never extricate themselves during their
continuance at Oxford. Be on your guard against getting thus hampered.
Take it for granted, that the regular and necessary claims upon your
finances will leave but little over for the indulgence of pleasure or
fancy.
The expenses of an University education are often most unfairly
exaggerated by writers and speakers, who are fond of running down all
old institutions. These carpers affect to set down to the score of the
University all the money that is spent by the young men who reside in
it. They seem to forget that, wherever a young man may be, he must eat
and drink, and must purchase clothes suitable to his station in society.
I was myself, as you probably know, at Christ Church, where I took my
degree, and afterwards became a Fellow of Oriel. At Oriel, (which may
probably be taken as a fair average of the rest of the University,) the
_necessary_ annual expenses of a commoner are from 70l. to 80l., or
thereabouts[101:1]. This includes room-rent, batels, (that is,
breakfast, dinner, &c. _exclusive_ of tea and sugar), tuition,
University and College dues, coals, letters, washing, servants. The
University dues are less than 1l. per annum. There are, perhaps, few
places in England, where a gentleman can be comfortably lodged and
boarded at a much cheaper rate. Still there will always be many
incidental expenses, and you must put in practice a pretty severe
economy in order to meet them.
In the manner in which you spend your money, as in every thing else,
accustom yourself to a certain degree of self-denial. Do not buy any
thing merely because it hits your fancy, and you think you should _like
to have it_, but consider whether you cannot easily _do without it_. Be
as liberal as you can reasonably afford to be in assisting others,
especially the poor, but spend as little as you can help upon yourself.
Above all, never buy, or order, any thing which you are unable to pay
for.
The habit of running in debt is pregnant with evil and misery of every
description. It often--perhaps generally--amounts to positive
dishonesty. The money which you owe a tradesman is really his property.
The articles, which you have received from him, are hardly your own,
until you have paid for them. If you keep them, without paying for them
when the seller wishes and asks for payment, you deprive a man of that
which belongs to him; and is not that something approaching to robbery?
To a man possessed of proper feeling and a nice sense of honour, it must
be very painful to suffer a tradesman to ask twice for what is clearly
his right. To affect to be offended with such an application, and to
meet it with superciliousness and insolence, is injustice carried to its
height.
The manner in which some men, who would be ready to shoot any one who
disputed their claims to be considered as gentlemen, treat their
creditors, whom they choose to call _duns_, would, from its contrariety
to any thing like reason, be almost ludicrous, if it were not so
culpable, so cruel, and so dishonest.
A tradesman, from not being able to recover the money owed to him, sees
himself in danger of losing his credit, and, together with his credit,
the means of getting a maintenance; he sees his wife and children
perhaps upon the very verge of misery, and yet, if he civilly asks for
what is his due, he is considered as troublesome and impertinent,
perhaps reproached and insulted!
Upon this subject I shall allow myself to quote the words of Delany, the
friend of Dean Swift, one of the most animated and sensible of our
sermon writers.
"Running in debt with tradesmen, and neglecting to pay them in due time,
is utterly ruinous to the whole business of trade and commerce, and
absolutely destructive of the very principles upon which it is built,
and by which it subsists; and yet this is a crime every day committed by
men of fortune and quality, with as little remorse as they eat and
drink; and if the tradesman demands his money, it is odds but he is
either threatened or turned into a jest. The son of Sirach's wise
observation is here every day verified, merely substituting the words
_rich_ and _poor_, for the words _debtor_ and _creditor_. _The debtor
hath done wrong, and yet he threateneth; the creditor is wronged, and
yet he must entreat also._ If threats will not rid these men of their
importunate creditors, then are they to be deluded with fair words and
plausible excuses, to pay attendance from day to day, to the loss of
more time, and neglect of more business, than perhaps the debt is worth;
and so the first injury, instead of being repaired is doubled. And yet
the _gentleman_ debtor, the author of this evil, is so far from
repenting of it, that it is odds but he vaunts his wit and dexterity in
doing it. _As a mad man_ (saith Solomon) _who casteth firebrands,
arrows, and death: so is the man that deceiveth his neighbour, and
saith, Am I not in jest?_ And, indeed, it is scarce to be conceived how
any man can deal more destruction and ruin around him, than by deceiving
and breaking faith with the fair trader; for it is well known, his
credit, his whole subsistence, depends upon keeping his word, and being
strictly punctual in his payments and his promises; and, if he fail in
these, he is undone at once. And how is it possible he should not fail,
if the gentlemen he deals with fail him? He hath no way of raising money
but by sale of his goods; and if those to whom they are trusted will not
pay him, it is impossible he can pay his creditors; and, if he do not
pay them, it is impossible but he must be ruined, and, perhaps, many
more with him. For traders are linked and dependent on one another; and
one man's fall throws down many more with him: the shop-keeper is in
debt to the maker or the merchant; and these again to the journeyman,
the farmer, or the foreign correspondent; and so the ruin becomes
complicated, and extended beyond imagination!"
"Credit is to a tradesman what honour is to a gentleman: to a man that
is truly such, (a gentleman,) his honour is as dear as his life: to the
trader, credit is as life itself; for he cannot live without it."
You, my dear nephew, will never, I trust, stoop so low as to be guilty
of such dishonesty. But then you must keep a vigilant eye upon your
expenses. Paying ready money for every thing may be sometimes
inconvenient, and may, perhaps, occasion mistakes; but never leave
Oxford for a vacation without clearing off every thing that you owe.
Take receipts, and keep them. The most honest and respectable tradesman
may sometimes, in the hurry of business, omit to cross a charge out of
his book, and will feel a satisfaction in having any doubt as to payment
removed. Have such receipts tied up and docketed, so that you may refer
to any one of them readily.
Never suffer yourself to be led into needless expense by the example of
your companions, and never be ashamed of saying that you cannot afford
it.
We sometimes see weak young men vying with each other in the expensive
elegance of their furniture and dress, or in the luxury of their
entertainments. A man of large fortune produces at his table a variety
of costly wines, abundance of ice, and a splendid dessert. Others, from
a silly vanity, affect to do the same, although such expensive luxuries
are altogether inconsistent with their finances, and with the general
habits of men in their rank of life. The more such expenses and foolish
ostentation can be checked by the college _authorities_ the better. At
all events, do not _you_ be so weak as to fall into them. There is no
disgrace in being poor, but there is disgrace and dishonesty too, in
contracting debts which you are unable to discharge.
Some young Oxonians, I am afraid, after spending the larger portion of
their allowance upon amusements and self-indulgence, drive off the
payment of what they regard as their more _creditable_ debts till they
take their degree, under the idea that they will then be paid by their
fathers. This is a most unwarrantable,--sometimes a _cruel_,--drain upon
parental kindness. Poets may well speak of university expenses "pinching
parents black and blue[112:1]," when this is the case.