AWKWARD SPEECH.--Good God! if this ungraceful and disagreeable manner
of speaking had, either by your negligence or mine, become habitual
to you, as in a couple of years more it would have been, what a figure
would you have made in company, or in a public assembly? Who would
have liked you in the one, or have attended to you in the other? Read
what Cicero and Quintilian say of enunciation, and see what a stress
they lay upon the gracefulness of it; nay, Cicero goes further, and
even maintains that a good figure is necessary for an orator; and,
particularly, that he must not be _vastus_; that is, overgrown and
clumsy. He shows by it that he knew mankind well, and knew the powers
of an agreeable figure and a graceful manner. [_June 21, 1748._]
ENUNCIATION--ELOQUENCE.--Your figure is a good one; you have no natural
defect in the organs of speech; your address may be engaging, and your
manner of speaking graceful, if you will; so that, if they are not
so, neither I nor the world can ascribe it to any thing but your want
of parts. What is the constant and just observation as to all actors
upon the stage? Is it not, that those who have the best sense always
speak the best, though they may happen not to have the best voices?
They will speak plainly, distinctly, and with the proper emphasis,
be their voices ever so bad. Had Roscius spoken _quick_, _thick_,
and _ungracefully_, I will answer for it that Cicero would not have
thought him worth the oration which he made in his favor. Words were
given us to communicate our ideas by; and there must be something
inconceivably absurd in uttering them in such a manner as that either
people cannot understand them, or will not desire to understand them. I
tell you truly and sincerely that I shall judge of your parts by your
speaking gracefully or ungracefully. If you have parts, you will never
be at rest till you have brought yourself to a habit of speaking most
gracefully; for I aver that it is in your power. [_Same date._]
ARTICULATION.--You will take care to open your teeth when you speak; to
articulate every word distinctly; and to beg of Mr. Harte, Mr. Eliot,
or whomever you speak to, to remind and stop you, if ever you fall
into the rapid and unintelligible mutter. You will even read aloud to
yourself, and tune your utterance to your own ear; and read at first
much slower than you need to do, in order to correct yourself of that
shameful trick of speaking faster than you ought.
PROPER CARRIAGE.--Next to graceful speaking, a genteel carriage and a
graceful manner of presenting yourself are extremely necessary, for
they are extremely engaging; and carelessness in these points is much
more unpardonable in a young fellow than affectation. It shows an
offensive indifference about pleasing. I am told by one here, who has
seen you lately, that you are awkward in your motions, and negligent
of your person. I am sorry for both; and so will you, when it will be
too late, if you continue so some time longer. Awkwardness of carriage
is very alienating, and a total negligence of dress and air is an
impertinent insult upon custom and fashion. [_Same date._]
DESERT AND REWARD.--Deserve a great deal, and you shall have a great
deal; deserve little, and you shall have but a little; and be good for
nothing at all, and I assure you, you shall have nothing at all.
Solid knowledge, as I have often told you, is the first and great
foundation of your future fortune and character; for I never mention
to you the two much greater points of religion and morality, because I
cannot possibly suspect you as to either of them. [_July 1, 1748._]
NO ONE CONTEMPTIBLE.--Be convinced that there are no persons so
insignificant and inconsiderable, but may some time or other, and in
something or other, have it in their power to be of use to you; which
they certainly will not, if you have once shown them contempt. [_Same
date._]
THE FOLLY OF CONTEMPT.--Wrongs are often given, but contempt never is.
Our pride remembers it forever. It implies a discovery of weaknesses,
which we are much more careful to conceal than crimes. Many a man will
confess his crimes to a common friend, but I never knew a man who would
tell his silly weaknesses to his most intimate one. As many a friend
will tell us our faults without reserve, who will not so much as hint
at our follies; that discovery is too mortifying to our self-love,
either to tell another, or to be told of, one’s self. You must,
therefore, never expect to hear of your weaknesses, or your follies,
from anybody but me; those I will take pains to discover, and whenever
I do, I shall tell you of them. [_Same date._]
GOOD NATURE.--Your school-fellow, Lord Pulteney, set out last week for
Holland, and will, I believe, be at Leipsic soon after this letter.
You will take care to be extremely civil to him, and to do him any
service that you can, while you stay there; let him know that I wrote
you to do so. As being older, he should know more than you; in that
case, take pains to get up to him; but if he does not, take care not
to let him feel his inferiority. He will find it out of himself,
without your endeavors; and that cannot be helped; but nothing is more
insulting, more mortifying, and less forgiven, than avowedly to take
pains to make a man feel a mortifying inferiority in knowledge, rank,
fortune, etc. In the two last articles it is unjust, they not being in
his power; and in the first it is both ill-bred and ill-natured. Good
breeding and good nature do incline us rather to help and raise people
up to ourselves, than to mortify and depress them, and, in truth, our
own private interest concurs in it, as it is making ourselves so many
friends, instead of so many enemies. [_July 6, 1748._]
LES ATTENTIONS.--The constant practice of what the French call _les
attentions_ is a most necessary ingredient in the art of pleasing; they
flatter the self-love of those to whom they are shown; they engage,
they captivate, more than things of much greater importance. The duties
of social life every man is obliged to discharge; but these attentions
are voluntary acts, the free-will offerings of good breeding and good
nature; they are received, remembered, and returned as such. Women,
particularly, have a right to them; and any omission in that respect is
downright ill breeding. [_Same date._]
AN EDUCATIONAL TEST.--Tell me what Greek and Latin books you can now
read with ease. Can you open Demosthenes at a venture, and understand
him? Can you get through an oration of Cicero, or a satire of Horace,
without difficulty? What German book do you read to make yourself
master of that language? And what French books do you read for your
amusement? Pray give me a particular and true account of all this; for
I am not indifferent as to any one thing that relates to you. [_Same
date._]
LAZY MINDS.--There are two sorts of understandings; one of which
hinders a man from ever being considerable, and the other commonly
makes him ridiculous; I mean the lazy mind, and the trifling, frivolous
mind. Yours, I hope, is neither. The lazy mind will not take the
trouble of going to the bottom of anything; but, discouraged by the
difficulties (and everything worth knowing or having is attended with
some), stops short, contents itself with easy and, consequently,
superficial knowledge, and prefers a great degree of ignorance to
a small degree of trouble. These people either think or represent
most things as impossible; whereas few things are so to industry and
activity. [_July 26, 1748._]
RESOLUTION.--But difficulties seem to them (lazy people)
impossibilities, or at least they pretend to think them so, by way of
excuse for their laziness. An hour’s attention to the same object is
too laborious for them; they take everything in the light in which it
first presents itself, never considering it in all its different views;
and, in short, never think it thorough. The consequence of this is,
that when they come to speak upon these subjects before people who have
considered them with attention, they only discover their own ignorance
and laziness, and lay themselves open to answers that put them in
confusion. Do not then be discouraged by the first difficulties, but
_contra audentior ito_; and resolve to go to the bottom of all those
things which every gentleman ought to know well. [_Same date._]
CONVERSATION.--When you are in company, bring the conversation to some
useful subject, but _à portée_ of that company. Points of history,
matters of literature, the customs of particular countries, the several
orders of knighthood, as Teutonic, Maltese, etc., are surely better
subjects of conversation than the weather, dress, or fiddle-faddle
stories, that carry no information along with them. The characters of
kings and great men are only to be learned in conversation; for they
are never fairly written during their lives. [_Same date._]
ALWAYS ASK.--Never be ashamed nor afraid of asking questions; for if
they lead to information, and if you accompany them with some excuse,
you will never be reckoned an impertinent or rude questioner. All those
things, in the common course of life, depend entirely upon the manner;
and in that respect the vulgar saying is true, “That one man may better
steal a horse, than another look over the hedge.” [_Same date._]
TWO HEADS.--I am very glad that Mr. Lyttelton approves of my new house,
and particularly of my _Canonical_[33] pillars. My bust of Cicero is a
very fine one, and well preserved; it will have the best place in my
library, unless, at your return, you bring me over as good a modern
head of your own, which I should like still better. I can tell you that
I shall examine it as attentively as ever antiquary did an old one.
[_Same date._]
A PICTURE.--Duval, the jeweler, is arrived, and was with me three or
four days ago. You will easily imagine that I asked him a few questions
concerning you; and I will give you the satisfaction of knowing that,
upon the whole, I was very well pleased with the account he gave me.
But, though he seemed to be much in your interest, yet he fairly
owned to me that your utterance was rapid, thick, and ungraceful. I
can add nothing to what I have already said upon this subject; but I
can and do repeat the absolute necessity of speaking distinctly and
gracefully.[34] [_Aug. 2, 1748._]
DIET.--He tells me that you are pretty fat for one of your age; this
you should attend to in a proper way; for if, while very young, you
should grow fat, it would be troublesome, unwholesome, and ungraceful;
you should therefore, when you have time, take very strong exercise,
and in your diet avoid fattening things. All malt liquors fatten, or at
least bloat; and I hope you do not deal much in them. [_Same date._]
BE NATURAL.--I have this moment received your letter of the 4th, N.
S., and have only time to tell you, that I can by no means agree to
your cutting off your hair. I am very sure that your headaches cannot
proceed from thence. And as for the pimples upon your head, they are
only owing to the heat of the season; and consequently will not last
long. But your own hair is, at your age, such an ornament, and a wig,
however well made, such a disguise, that I will upon no account
whatsoever have you cut off your hair. Nature did not give it you for
nothing, still less to cause you the headache. Mr. Eliot’s hair grew so
ill and bushy, that he was in the right to cut it off; but you have not
the same reason. [_Same date._]
BUYING BOOKS.--Mr. Harte wrote me word some time ago, and Mr. Eliot
confirms it now, that you employ your pin-money in a very different
manner from that in which pin-money[35] is commonly lavished. Not in
gewgaws and baubles, but in buying good and useful books. This is an
excellent symptom, and gives me very good hopes. Go on thus, my dear
boy, but for these two next years, and I ask no more. You must then
make such a figure, and such a fortune in the world, as I wish you, and
as I have taken all these pains to enable you to do. After that time, I
allow you to be as idle as ever you please; because I am sure that you
will not then please to be so at all. The ignorant and the weak only
are idle; but those, who have once acquired a good stock of knowledge,
always desire to increase it. Knowledge is like power, in this respect,
that those who have the most, are most desirous of having more. It does
not clog, by possession, but increases desires; which is the case of
very few pleasures. [_Aug. 23, 1748._]
GRATITUDE TO A TUTOR.--Upon receiving this congratulatory letter,
and reading your own praises, I am sure that it must naturally occur
to you, how great a share of them you owe to Mr. Harte’s care and
attention; and, consequently, that your regard and affection for him
must increase, if there be room for it, in proportion as you reap,
which you do daily, the fruits of his labors. [_Same date._]
HISTORICAL FAITH.--Take nothing for granted, upon the bare authority of
the author; but weigh and consider, in your own mind, the probability
of the facts, and the justness of the reflections. Consult different
authors upon the same facts, and form your opinion upon the greater or
lesser degree of probability arising from the whole, which, in my mind,
is the utmost stretch of historical faith, certainty (I fear) not being
to be found. [_Aug. 30, 1748._]
GOOD AND BAD MIXED.--The best have something bad, and something little;
the worst have something good, and sometimes something great; for I do
not believe what Valleius Paterculus (for the sake of saying a pretty
thing) says of Scipio, “Qui nihil non laudandum aut fecit, aut dixit,
aut sensit.” [_Same date._]
THE RULING PASSION.--Seek for their particular merit, their predominant
passion, or their prevailing weakness, and you will then know what to
bait your hook with, to catch them. Man is a composition of so many
and such various ingredients, that it requires both time and care to
analyze him: for though we have, all, the same ingredients in our
general composition, as reason, will, passions, and appetites, yet the
different proportions and combinations of them, in each individual,
produce that infinite variety of characters, which, in some particular
or other, distinguishes every individual from another. Reason ought to
direct the whole, but seldom does. [_Sept. 5, 1748._]
BRUYÈRE AND ROCHEFOUCAULT.--I will recommend to your attentive perusal,
now you are going into the world, two books, which will let you as much
into the characters of men as books can do. I mean “Les Réflexions
Morales de Monsieur de la Rochefoucault,” and “Les Caractères de la
Bruyère”: but remember, at the same time, that I only recommend them to
you as the best general maps, to assist you in your journey, and not as
marking out every particular turning and winding that you will meet
with. There, your own sagacity and observation must come to their aid.
La Rochefoucault is, I know, blamed, but I think without reason, for
deriving all our actions from the source of self-love. For my own part,
I see a great deal of truth, and no harm at all, in that opinion.
The reflection which is the most censured in Monsieur de la
Rochefoucault’s book, as a very ill-natured one, is this: “On trouve
dans le malheur de son meilleur ami, quelque chose qui ne déplaît pas.”
And why not? Why may I not feel a very tender and real concern for
the misfortune of my friend, and yet at the same time feel a pleasing
consciousness at having discharged my duty to him, by comforting and
assisting him to the utmost of my power in that misfortune? Give me but
virtuous actions, and I will not quibble and chicane about the motives.
And I will give anybody their choice of these two truths, which amount
to the same thing: He who loves himself best is the honestest man; or,
The honestest man loves himself best. [_Same date._]
WOMAN.--As women are a considerable, or at least a pretty numerous part
of company, and as their suffrages go a great way toward establishing
a man’s character, in the fashionable part of the world (which is of
great importance to the fortune and figure he proposes to make in it),
it is necessary to please them. I will, therefore, upon this subject,
let you into certain _arcana_ that will be very useful for you to know,
but which you must, with the utmost care, conceal; and never seem to
know. Women, then, are only children of a larger growth; they have
an entertaining tattle, and sometimes wit; but for solid, reasoning
good sense, I never in my life knew one that had it, or who reasoned
or acted consequentially for four-and-twenty hours together. Some
little passion or humor always breaks in upon their best resolutions.
Their beauty neglected or controverted, their age increased, or their
supposed understandings depreciated, instantly kindles their little
passions, and overturns any system of consequential conduct, that in
their most reasonable moments they might have been capable of forming.
A man of sense only trifles with them, plays with them, humors and
flatters them, as he does with a sprightly, forward child; but he
neither consults them about, nor trusts them with, serious matters;
though he often makes them believe that he does both, which is the
thing in the world that they are proud of, for they love mightily to be
dabbling in business (which, by the way, they always spoil); and being
justly distrustful, that men in general look upon them in a trifling
light, they almost adore that man who talks more seriously to them, and
who seems to consult and trust them--I say, who seems--for weak men
really do, but wise ones only seem to do it. No flattery is either too
high or too low for them. They will greedily swallow the highest, and
gracefully accept of the lowest; and you may safely flatter any woman,
from her understanding down to the exquisite taste of her fan. Women,
who are either indisputably beautiful or indisputably ugly, are best
flattered upon the score of their understandings; but those who are in
a state of mediocrity are best flattered upon their beauty, or at least
their graces, for every woman who is not absolutely ugly thinks herself
handsome, but not hearing often that she is so, is the more grateful
and the more obliged to the few who tell her so; whereas a decided and
conscious beauty looks upon every tribute paid to her beauty only as
her due, but wants to shine, and to be considered on the side of her
understanding; and a woman, who is ugly enough to know that she is so,
knows that she has nothing left for it but her understanding, which is
consequently, (and probably in more senses than one) her weak side. But
these are secrets which you must keep inviolably, if you would not,
like Orpheus, be torn to pieces by the whole sex. On the contrary, a
man who thinks of living in the great world must be gallant, polite,
and attentive to please the women. They have from the weakness of men,
more or less influence in all courts; they absolutely stamp every man’s
character in the _beau monde_, and make it either current, or cry it
down, and stop it in payments. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary
to manage, please, and flatter them; and never to discover the least
marks of contempt, which is what they never forgive; but in this they
are not singular, for it is the same with men; who will much sooner
forgive an injustice than an insult. [_Same date_.]
CONTEMPT.--Every man is not ambitious, or covetous, or passionate;
but every man has pride enough in his composition to feel and resent
the least slight and contempt. Remember, therefore, most carefully to
conceal your contempt, however just, wherever you would not make an
implacable enemy. Men are much more unwilling to have their weaknesses
and their imperfections known, than their crimes; and, if you hint to
a man that you think him silly, ignorant or even ill-bred or awkward,
he will hate you more and longer than if you tell him, plainly, that
you think him a rogue. Never yield to that temptation, which, to most
young men, is very strong, of exposing other people’s weaknesses
and infirmities, for the sake either of diverting the company, or of
showing your own superiority. You may get the laugh on your side by
it, for the present; but you will make enemies by it for ever; and
even those who laugh with you then, will, upon reflection, fear, and
consequently hate you; besides that, it is ill-natured; and a good
heart desires rather to conceal, than expose, other people’s weaknesses
or misfortunes. If you have wit, use it to please, and not to hurt; you
may shine, like the sun in the temperate zones, without scorching. Here
it is wished for; under the line it is dreaded. [_Same date._]
CALIGULA.--Another very just observation of the Cardinal’s[36] is, that
the things which happen in our own times, and which we see ourselves,
do not surprise us near so much as the things which we read of in times
past, though not in the least more extraordinary; and adds that he is
persuaded that, when Caligula made his horse a consul, the people of
Rome at that time were not greatly surprised at it, having necessarily
been in some degree prepared for it, by an insensible gradation of
extravagancies from the same quarter. [_Sept. 13, 1748._]
ANTIQUITY IS STRANGE.--We read every day, with astonishment, things
which we see every day without surprise. We wonder at the intrepidity
of a Leonidas, a Codrus, and a Curtius; and are not the least surprised
to hear of a sea captain who has blown up his ship, his crew, and
himself, that they might not fall into the hands of the enemies of his
country. I cannot help reading of Porsenna and Regulus with surprise
and reverence; and yet I remember that I saw, without either, the
execution of Shepherd, a boy of eighteen years old, who intended to
shoot the late king, and who would have been pardoned if he would
have expressed the least sorrow for his intended crime; but, on the
contrary, he declared, that, if he was pardoned, he would attempt it
again; that he thought it a duty which he owed his country; and that he
died with pleasure for having endeavored to perform it. Reason equals
Shepherd to Regulus; but prejudice, and the recency of the fact, make
Shepherd a common malefactor, and Regulus a hero. [_Same date._]
SECRETS.--The last observation that I shall now mention of the
Cardinal’s is, “That a secret is more easily kept by a good many people
than one commonly imagines.” By this he means a secret of importance
among people interested in the keeping of it. And it is certain that
people of business know the importance of secrecy, and will observe
it where they are concerned in the event. To go and tell any friend,
wife, or mistress, any secret with which they have nothing to do, is
discovering to them such an unretentive weakness as must convince them
that you will tell it to twenty others, and consequently that they may
reveal it without the risk of being discovered. But a secret properly
communicated only to those who are to be concerned in the thing in
question, will probably be kept by them, though they should be a good
many. Little secrets are commonly told again, but great ones generally
kept. Adieu. [_Same date._]
TRIFLES.--How trifling soever these things may seem, or really be, in
themselves, they are no longer so, when above half the world thinks
them otherwise. And, as I would have you _omnibus ornatum--excellere
rebus_, I think nothing above or below my pointing out to you, or your
excelling in. You have the means of doing it, and time before you to
make use of them. Take my word for it, I ask nothing now but what you
will, twenty years hence, most heartily wish that you had done. [_Sept.
20, 1748._]
THE PEDANT AND THE SCHOLAR.--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 schoolboys, 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_, _optumè_ than _optimè_, 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. [_Sept. 27, 1748._]
A DETESTABLE DOCTRINE.--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-defence. 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 defence, 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 any one 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 of 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 skilful 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 to
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 any thing out of any thing; which is not so difficult as it
would seem, if once one quits certain plain truths, obvious in growth
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 Leipsic, 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, is 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, subtlely
agitated, with all the refinements that warm imaginations suggest; but
consider them only as exercitations for the mind, and return always to
settle with common sense. [_Same date._]
LETTERS.--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, whom 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. [_Same
date._]
GOOD COMPANY.--To keep good company, especially at your first setting
out, is the way to receive good impressions. If you ask me what I mean
by good company, I will confess to you that it is pretty difficult to
define; but I will endeavor to make you understand it as well as I can.
Good company is not what respective sets of company are pleased
either to call or think themselves; but it is that company which all
the people of the place call, and acknowledge to be good company,
notwithstanding some objections which they may form to some of the
individuals who compose it. It consists chiefly (but by no means
without exception) of people of considerable birth, rank, and
character: for people of neither birth nor rank are frequently and
very justly admitted into it, if distinguished by any peculiar merit,
or eminency in any liberal art or science. Nay, so motley a thing is
good company, that many people without birth, rank, or merit, intrude
into it by their own forwardness; and others slide into it by the
protection of some considerable person; and some even of indifferent
characters and morals make part of it. But, in the main, the good part
preponderates, and people of infamous and blasted characters are never
admitted. In this fashionable good company the best manners and the
best language of the place are most unquestionably to be learnt; for
they establish and give the tone to both, which are therefore called
the language and manners of good company; there being no legal tribunal
to ascertain either.
A company consisting wholly of people of the first quality cannot,
for that reason, be called good company, in the common acceptation of
the phrase, unless they are, into the bargain, the fashionable and
accredited company of the place; for people of the very first quality
can be as silly, as ill-bred, and as worthless, as people of the
meanest degree. On the other hand, a company consisting entirely of
people of very low condition, whatever their merits or parts may be,
can never be called good company; and consequently, should not be much
frequented, though by no means despised.
A company wholly composed of men of learning, though greatly to be
valued and respected, is not meant by the words _good company_: they
cannot have the easy manners and _tournure_ of the world, as they do
not live in it. If you can bear your part well in such a company, it
is extremely right to be in it sometimes, and you will be but more
esteemed, in other companies, for having a place in that. But then do
not let it engross you; for if you do, you will be only considered as
one of the _litterati_ by profession; which is not the way either to
shine or rise in the world.
The company of professed wits and poets is extremely inviting to most
young men; who, if they have wit themselves, are pleased with it, and
if they have none, are sillily proud of being one of it: but it should
be frequented with moderation and judgment, and you should by no means
give yourself up to it. A wit is a very unpopular denomination, as it
carries terror along with it; and people in general are as much afraid
of a live wit, in company, as a woman is of a gun, which she thinks
may go off of itself, and do her a mischief. Their acquaintance is,
however, worth seeking, and their company worth frequenting; but not
exclusively of others, nor to such a degree as to be considered only as
one of that particular set.
But the company, which of all others you should most carefully avoid,
is that low company, which in every sense of the word, is low indeed;
low in rank, low in parts, low in manners, and low in merit [_Oct. 12,
1748._]
ASSOCIATES.--There is good sense in the Spanish saying, “Tell me whom
you live with, and I will tell you who you are.” Make it therefore your
business, wherever you are, to get into that company which everybody
of the place allows to be the best company, next to their own: which
is the best definition that I can give you of good company. But here,
too, one caution is very necessary; for want of which many young men
have been ruined, even in good company. Good company (as I have
before observed) is composed of a great variety of fashionable people,
whose characters and morals are very different, though their manners
are pretty much the same. When a young man, now in the world, first
gets into that company, he very rightly determines to conform to and
imitate it. But then he too often, and fatally, mistakes the objects
of his imitation. He has often heard that absurd term of genteel and
fashionable vices. [_Same date._]
BEHAVIOR.--Imitate, then, with discernment and judgment, the real
perfections of the good company into which you may get; copy their
politeness, their carriage, their address, and the easy and well-bred
turn of their conversation; but remember that, let them shine ever so
bright, their vices, if they have any, are so many spots which you
would no more imitate than you would make an artificial wart upon your
face, because some very handsome man had the misfortune to have a
natural one upon his; but, on the contrary, think how much handsomer he
would have been without it. [_Same date._]
TALKING.--Talk often, but never long; in that case, if you do not
please, at least you are sure not to tire your hearers. Pay your own
reckoning, but do not treat the whole company; this being one of the
very few cases in which people do not care to be treated, every one
being fully convinced that he has wherewithal to pay.
Tell stories seldom, and absolutely never but where they are very apt
and very short. Omit every circumstance that is not material, and
beware of digressions. To have frequent recourse to narrative betrays
great want of imagination.
Never hold anybody by the button or the hand, in order to be heard out;
for if people are not willing to hear you, you had much better hold
your tongue than them.
Most long talkers single out some one unfortunate man in company
(commonly him whom they observe to be the most silent, or their next
neighbor) to whisper, or at least, in a half voice, to convey a
continuity of words to. This is excessively ill-bred, and, in some
degree, a fraud; conversation stock being a joint and common property.
But, on the other hand, if one of these unmerciful talkers lays hold
of you, hear him with patience (and at least seeming attention) if he
is worth obliging; for nothing will oblige him more than a patient
hearing, as nothing would hurt him more than either to leave him in
the midst of his discourse or to discover your impatience under your
affliction.
Take rather than give the tone of the company you are in. If you have
parts you will show them more or less upon every subject; and if you
have not, you had better talk sillily upon a subject of other people’s
than of your own choosing.
Avoid as much as you can in mixed companies, argumentative, polemical
conversations; which, though they should not, yet certainly do,
indispose, for a time, the contending parties towards each other; and
if the controversy grows warm and noisy, endeavor to put an end to it
by some genteel levity or joke. I quieted such a conversation hubbub
once by presenting to them that, though I was persuaded none there
present would repeat out of company what passed in it, yet I could not
answer for the discretion of the passengers in the street, who must
necessarily hear all that was said.
Above all things, and upon all occasions, avoid speaking of yourself if
it be possible. Such is the natural pride and vanity of our hearts that
it perpetually breaks out, even in people of the best parts, in all the
various modes and figures of the egotism. [_Oct. 19, 1748._]
SILLY VANITY.--This principle of vanity and pride is so strong in human
nature that it descends even to the lowest objects; and one often sees
people angling for praise, where, admitting all they say to be true
(which, by the way, it seldom is), no just praise is to be caught.
One man affirms that he has rode post a hundred miles in six hours;
probably it is a lie; but supposing it to be true, what then? Why, he
is a very good postboy, that is all. Another asserts, and probably not
without oaths, that he has drunk six or eight bottles of wine at a
sitting; out of charity I will believe him a liar; for if I do not, I
must think him a beast. [_Same date._]
YOURSELF.--The only sure way of avoiding these evils is never to speak
of yourself at all. But when historically you are obliged to mention
yourself, take care not to drop one single word that can directly or
indirectly be construed as fishing for applause. Be your character
what it will, it will be known; and nobody will take it upon your own
word. Never imagine that anything you can say yourself will varnish
your defects or add lustre to your perfections; but on the contrary,
it may, and nine times in ten will, make the former more glaring and
the latter obscure. If you are silent upon your own subject, neither
envy, indignation, nor ridicule will obstruct or allay the applause
which you may really deserve; but if you publish your own panegyric
upon any occasion or in any shape whatsoever, and however artfully
dressed or disguised, they will all conspire against you, and you will
be disappointed of the very end you aim at. [_Same date._]
SCANDAL--MIMICRY--SWEARING--LAUGHTER.--Neither retail nor receive
scandal willingly; for though the defamation of others may for the
present gratify the malignity of the pride of our hearts, cool
reflection will draw very disadvantageous conclusions from such a
disposition; and in the case of scandal, as in that of robbery, the
receiver is always thought as bad as the thief.
Mimicry, which is the common and favorite amusement of little, low
minds, is in the utmost contempt with great ones. It is the lowest
and most illiberal of all buffoonery. Pray neither practise it
yourself, nor applaud it in others. Besides that, the person mimicked
is insulted; and as I have often observed to you before, an insult is
never forgiven.
I need not (I believe) advise you to adapt your conversation to the
people you are conversing with; for I suppose you would not, without
this caution, have talked upon the same subject and in the same manner
to a minister of state, a bishop, a philosopher, a captain, and a
woman. A man of the world must, like the chameleon (_sic_), be able to
take every different hue; which is by no means a criminal or abject,
but a necessary complaisance, for it relates only to manners, and not
to morals.
One word only as to swearing; and that I hope and believe is more
than is necessary. You may sometimes hear some people in good company
interlard their discourse with oaths by way of embellishment, as they
think; but you must observe, too, that those who do so are never those
who contribute in any degree to give that company the denomination of
good company. They are always subalterns or people of low education;
for that practice, besides that it has no one temptation to plead, is
as silly and as illiberal as it is wicked.
Loud laughter is the mirth of the mob, who are only pleased with silly
things; for true wit or good sense never excited a laugh since the
creation of the world. A man of parts and fashion is therefore only
seen to smile, but never heard to laugh.
But to conclude this long letter; all the above-mentioned rules,
however carefully you may observe them, will lose half their effect
if unaccompanied by the Graces. Whatever you say, if you say it with
a supercilious, cynical face, or an embarrassed countenance, or a
silly, disconcerted grin, will be ill received. If, into the bargain,
_you mutter it, or utter it indistinctly and ungracefully_, it will be
still worse received. If your air and address are vulgar, awkward,
and _gauche_, you may be esteemed indeed, if you have great intrinsic
merit; but you will never please, and, without pleasing, you will rise
but heavily. Venus, among the ancients, was synonymous with the Graces,
who were always supposed to accompany her; and Horace tells us that
even Youth and Mercury, the god of arts and eloquence, would not do
without her.
“--Parùm comis _sine te Juventas,
Mercuriusque_.”
They are not inexorable ladies, and may be had if properly and
diligently pursued. Adieu. [_Same date._]
THE DUTY OF A MENTOR.--I have long since done mentioning your great
religious and moral duties; because I could not make your understanding
so bad a compliment, as to suppose that you wanted, or could receive,
any new instructions upon those two important points. Mr. Harte, I am
sure, has not neglected them; besides, they are so obvious to common
sense and reason, that commentators may (as they often do) perplex, but
cannot make them clearer. My province, therefore, is to supply, by my
experience, your, hitherto, inevitable inexperience in the ways of the
world. People at your age are in a state of natural ebriety; and want
rails, and _gardefous_, wherever they go, to hinder them from breaking
their necks. This drunkenness of youth is not only tolerated, but even
pleases, if kept within certain bounds of discretion and decency. Those
bounds are the point which it is difficult for the drunken man himself
to find out; and there it is that the experience of a friend may not
only serve but save him.
Carry with you, and welcome, into company, all the gaiety and spirits,
but as little of the giddiness, of youth as you can. The former will
charm; but the latter will often, though innocently, implacably offend.
Inform yourself of the characters and situations of the company, before
you give way to what your imagination may prompt you to say. There are,
in all companies, more wrong heads than right ones, and many more who
deserve than who like censure. [_Oct. 29, 1748._]
EGOTISM.--Cautiously avoid talking of either your own or other people’s
domestic affairs.[37] Yours are nothing to them, but tedious; theirs
are nothing to you. The subject is a tender one; and it is odds but
you touch somebody or other’s sore place; for, in this case, there is
no trusting to specious appearances; which may be, and often are, so
contrary to the real situation of things, between men and their wives,
parents and their children, seeming friends, etc., that, with the best
intentions in the world, one often blunders disagreeably.
Remember, that the wit, humor, and jokes of most mixed companies are
local. They thrive in that particular soil, but will not often bear
transplanting. Every company is differently circumstanced, has its
particular cant, and jargon; which may give occasion to wit and mirth,
within that circle, but would seem flat and insipid in any other, and
therefore will not bear repeating. [_Same date._]
GOOD FELLOWS.--You will find, in most good company, some people who
only keep their place there by a contemptible title enough; these
are what we call _very good-natured fellows_, and the French _bons
diables_. The truth is, they are people without any parts or fancy, and
who, having no will of their own, readily assent to, concur in, and
applaud, whatever is said or done in the company; and adopt, with the
same alacrity, the most virtuous or the most criminal, the wisest or
the silliest scheme, that happens to be entertained by the majority of
the company. This foolish, and often criminal, complaisance flows from
a foolish cause; the want of any other merit. I hope you will hold your
place in company by a nobler tenure, and that you will hold it (you
can bear a quibble, I believe, yet) _in capite_. Have a will and an
opinion of your own, and adhere to them steadily; but then do it with
good humor, good breeding, and (if you have it) with urbanity; for you
have not yet beard enough either to preach or censure. [_Same date._]
THE FINE GENTLEMAN.--What the French justly call _les manières
nobles_, are only to be acquired in the very best companies. They
are the distinguishing characteristics of men of fashion: people of
low education never wear them so close, but that some part or other
of the original vulgarism appears. _Les manières nobles_ equally
forbid insolent contempt, or low envy and jealousy. Low people, in
good circumstances, fine clothes, and equipage, will insolently show
contempt for all those who cannot afford as fine clothes, as good an
equipage, and who have not (as they term it) as much money in their
pockets: on the other hand, they are gnawed with envy, and cannot help
discovering it, of those who surpass them in any of these articles;
which are far from being sure criterions of merit. They are, likewise,
jealous of being slighted; and, consequently, suspicious and captious:
they are eager and hot about trifles; because trifles were, at first,
their affairs of consequence. _Les manières nobles_ imply exactly
the reverse of all this. Study them early; you cannot make them too
habitual and familiar to you. [_Same date._]
I like the description of your _pic-nic_;[38] where, I take it for
granted, that your cards are only to break the formality of a circle,
and your symposium intended more to promote conversation than drinking.
Such an _amicable collision_, as Lord Shaftesbury very prettily calls
it, rubs off and smooths those rough corners, which mere nature has
given to the smoothest of us. I hope some part, at least, of the
conversation is in German. [_Same date._]
THE GRACES.--I send you Mr. Locke’s book upon education, in which you
will find the stress he lays upon the graces, which he calls (and very
truly) good breeding. I have marked all the parts of that book which
are worth your attention; for as he begins with the child, almost from
its birth, the parts relative to its infancy would be useless to you.
Germany is, still less than England, the seat of the graces; however
you had as good not to say so while you are there. [_Nov. 18, 1748._]
THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.--Of all the men that ever I knew in my life
(and I knew him extremely well), the late Duke of Marlborough possessed
the graces in the highest degree, not to say engrossed them; and indeed
he got the most by them; for I will venture (contrary to the custom of
profound historians, who always assign deep causes for great events)
to ascribe the better half of the Duke of Marlborough’s greatness and
riches to those graces. He was eminently illiterate; wrote bad English,
and spelled it still worse. He had no share of what is commonly called
_parts_; that is, he had no brightness, nothing shining in his genius.
He had, most undoubtedly, an excellent good plain understanding, with
sound judgment. But these alone would probably have raised him but
something higher than they found him; which was page to King James
the Second’s Queen. There the graces protected and promoted him; for,
while he was an ensign of the Guards, the Duchess of Cleveland, then
favorite mistress to King Charles the Second, struck by those very
graces, gave him five thousand pounds, with which he immediately
bought an annuity for his life, of five hundred pounds a year, of
my grandfather, Halifax, which was the foundation of his subsequent
fortune. His figure was beautiful, but his manner was irresistible,
to either man or woman. It was by this engaging, graceful manner
that he was enabled, during all his war, to connect the various and
jarring powers of the Grand Alliance, and to carry them on to the main
object of the war, notwithstanding their private and separate views,
jealousies, and wrongheadedness. Whatever court he went to (and he
was often obliged to go himself to some testy and refractory ones),
he as constantly prevailed, and brought them into his measures. The
Pensionary Heinsius, a venerable old minister, grown gray in business,
and who had governed the Republic of the United Provinces for more than
forty years, was absolutely governed by the Duke of Marlborough, as
that republic feels to this day. He was always cool; and nobody ever
observed the least variation in his countenance; he could refuse more
gracefully than other people could grant; and those who went away from
him the most dissatisfied, as to the substance of their business, were
yet personally charmed with him, and, in some degree, comforted by his
manner. With all his gentleness and gracefulness, no man living was
more conscious of his situation, nor maintained his dignity better.
[_Same date._]
A FATHER’S ANXIETY.--This subject is inexhaustible, as it extends to
everything that is to be said or done; but I will leave it for the
present, as this letter is already pretty long. Such is my desire, my
anxiety for your perfection, that I never think I have said enough,
though you may possibly think I have said too much; and though, in
truth, if your own good sense is not sufficient to direct you, in many
of these plain points, all that I or anybody else can say will be
insufficient. But, where you are concerned, I am the insatiable man in
Horace, who covets still a little corner more, to complete the figure
of his field. I dread every little corner that may deform mine, in
which I would have (if possible) no one defect. [_Same date._]
MOURNING.--I am at present under very great concern for the loss of a
most affectionate brother, with whom I had always lived in the closest
friendship. My brother John died last Friday night, of a fit of the
gout, which he had had for about a month in his hands and feet, and
which fell at last upon his stomach and head. As he grew, towards the
last, lethargic, his end was not painful to himself. At the distance
which you are from hence, you need not go into mourning upon this
occasion, as the time of your mourning would be near over before you
could put it on. [_Dec. 6, 1748._]
FRIVOLITY.--Little minds mistake little objects for great ones, and
lavish away upon the former that time and attention which only the
latter deserve. To such mistakes we owe the numerous and frivolous
tribe of insect-mongers, shell-mongers, and pursuers and driers of
butterflies, etc. The strong mind distinguishes, not only between
the useful and the useless, but likewise between the useful and the
curious. He applies himself intensely to the former; he only amuses
himself with the latter. Of this little sort of knowledge, which I
have just hinted at, you will find, at least, as much as you need wish
to know, in a superficial but pretty French book, entitled “Spectacle
de la Nature,” which will amuse you while you read it, and give you a
sufficient notion of the various parts of nature; I would advise you to
read it at leisure hours. [_Same date._]
ASTRONOMY.--But that part of nature which, Mr. Harte tells me, you
have begun to study, with the _Rector magnificus_, is of much greater
importance, and deserves much more attention; I mean astronomy.
The vast and immense planetary system, the astonishing order and
regularity of those innumerable worlds, will open a scene to you
which not only deserves your attention as a matter of curiosity, or
rather astonishment; but, still more, as it will give you greater
and consequently juster ideas of that eternal and omnipotent Being,
who contrived, made, and still preserves that universe, than all the
contemplation of this, comparatively, very little orb, which we at
present inhabit, could possibly give you. Upon this subject, Monsieur
Fontenelle’s “Pluralité des Mondes,” which you may read in two hours’
time, will both inform and please you. God bless you! Yours. [_Same
date._]
The whole morning, if diligently and attentively devoted to solid
studies, will go a great way at the year’s end; and the evenings spent
in the pleasures of good company will go as far in teaching you a
knowledge not much less necessary than the other--I mean the knowledge
of the world. Between these two necessary studies, that of books in
the morning, and that of the world in the evening, you see that you
will not have one minute to squander or slattern away. Nobody ever
lent themselves more than I did, when I was young, to the pleasures
and dissipation of good company; I even did it too much. But then,
I can assure you that I always found time for serious studies; and
when I could find it no other way, I took it out of my sleep, for I
resolved always to rise early in the morning, however late I went to
bed at night; and this resolution I have kept so sacred that, unless
when I have been confined to my bed by illness, I have not for more
than forty years ever been in bed at nine o’clock in the morning, but
commonly up before eight. [_Dec. 13, 1748._]
WRITING.--Why do you not form your Roman characters better? for
I maintain that it is in every man’s power to write what hand he
pleases; and consequently that he ought to write a good one. You
form, particularly, your ee and your ll in zigzag, instead of making
them straight, as thus, _ee_, _ll_; a fault very easily mended. You
will not, I believe, be angry with this little criticism, when I tell
you that, by all the accounts I have had of late, from Mr. Harte and
others, this is the only criticism that you give me occasion to make.
[_Dec. 20, 1748._]
A PORTRAIT.--Consider what lustre and _éclat_ it will give you when you
return here, to be allowed to be the best scholar, of a gentleman, in
England; not to mention the real pleasure and solid comfort which such
knowledge will give you throughout your whole life. Mr. Harte tells me
another thing which, I own, I did not expect; it is that, when you read
aloud, or repeat part of plays, you speak very properly and distinctly.
This relieves me from great uneasiness, which I was under upon account
of your former bad enunciation. Go on, and attend most diligently to
this important article. It is, of all the graces (and they are all
necessary), the most necessary one. [_Same date._]
THE DESIRE OF PRAISE.--But here let me, as an old stager upon the
theatre of the world, suggest one consideration to you, which is, to
extend your desire of praise a little beyond the strictly praiseworthy;
or else you may be apt to discover too much contempt for at least
three parts in the five of the world, who will never forgive it you.
In the mass of mankind, I fear, there is too great a majority of fools
and knaves; who, singly from their number, must to a certain degree
be respected, though they are by no means respectable. And a man, who
will show every knave or fool that he thinks him such, will engage in
a most ruinous war, against numbers much superior to those that he and
his allies can bring into the field. Abhor a knave, and pity a fool in
your heart, but let neither of them, unnecessarily, see that you do so.
Some complaisance and attention to fools is prudent, and not mean; as
a silent abhorrence of individual knaves is often necessary, and not
criminal. [_Same date._]
A COMPLIMENT.--Lady Chesterfield bids me tell you that she decides
entirely in your favor,[39] against Mr. Grevenkop, and even against
herself; for she does not think that she could, at this time, write
either so good a character, or so good German. Pray write her a German
letter upon that subject; in which you may tell her that, like the rest
of the world, you approve of her judgment, because it is in your favor;
and that you true Germans cannot allow Danes to be competent judges of
your language, etc. [_Same date._]
AFFECTATION.--Any affectation whatsoever in dress implies, in my
mind, a flaw in the understanding. Most of our young fellows here
display some character or other by their dress: some affect the
tremendous, and wear a great and fiercely cocked hat, an enormous
sword, a short waistcoat, and a black cravat; these I should be almost
tempted to swear the peace against, in my own defence, if I were not
convinced that they are but meek asses in lions’ skins. Others go in
brown frocks, leather breeches, great oaken cudgels in their hands,
their hats uncocked, and their hair unpowdered; and imitate grooms,
stage-coachmen, and country bumpkins, so well in their outsides, that I
do not make the least doubt of their resembling them equally in their
insides. A man of sense carefully avoids any particular character in
his dress; he is accurately clean for his own sake; but all the rest
is for other people’s. He dresses as well, and in the same manner, as
the people of sense and fashion of the place where he is. If he dresses
better, as he thinks, that is, more than they, he is a fop; if he
dresses worse, he is unpardonably negligent; but, of the two, I would
rather have a young fellow too much than too little dressed; the excess
on that side will wear off, with a little age and reflection; but if
he is negligent at twenty, he will be a sloven at forty, and stink at
fifty years old. Dress yourself fine, where others are fine; and plain,
where others are plain; but take care, always, that your clothes are
well made and fit you, for otherwise they will give you a very awkward
air. When you are once well dressed for the day, think no more of it
afterwards; and, without any stiffness for fear of discomposing that
dress, let all your motions be as easy and natural as if you had no
clothes on at all. So much for dress, which I maintain to be a thing of
consequence in the polite world. [_Dec. 30, 1748._]
A HAPPY NEW YEAR.--I send you, my dear child (and you will not doubt),
very sincerely, the wishes of the season. May you deserve a great
number of happy new years; and, if you deserve, may you have them! Many
new years, indeed, you may see, but happy ones you cannot see without
deserving them. These, virtue, honor, and knowledge, alone can merit,
alone can procure. “Dii tibi dent annos de te nam cætera sumes,” was a
pretty piece of poetical flattery, where it was said; I hope that in
time it may be no flattery when said to you. But, I assure you, that,
whenever I cannot apply the latter part of the line to you with truth,
I shall neither say, think, nor wish the former. Adieu. [_Same date._]
RATIONAL PLEASURES.--Now that you are going a little more into the
world, I will take this occasion to explain my intentions as to your
future expenses, that you may know what you have to expect from me,
and make your plan accordingly. I shall neither deny nor grudge you
any money that may be necessary for either your improvement or your
pleasures; I mean, the pleasures of a rational being. Under the head
of improvement, I mean the best books, and the best masters, cost what
they will; I also mean all the expense of lodgings, coach, dress,
servants, etc., which, according to the several places where you may
be, shall be respectively necessary, to enable you to keep the best
company. Under the head of rational pleasures, I comprehend, first,
proper charities, to real and compassionate objects of it; secondly,
proper presents, to those to whom you are obliged, or whom you
desire to oblige; thirdly, a conformity of expense to that of the
company which you keep--as in public spectacles, your share of little
entertainments, a few pistoles at games of mere commerce, and other
incidental calls of good company. The only two articles which I will
never supply, are the profusion of low riot and the idle lavishness
of negligence and laziness. A fool squanders away, without credit or
advantage to himself, more than a man of sense spends with both. The
latter employs his money as he does his time, and neither spends a
shilling of the one, nor a minute of the other, but in something that
is either useful or rationally pleasing to himself or others. The
former buys whatever he does not want, and does not pay for what he
does want. He cannot withstand the charms of a toy-shop; snuff-boxes,
watches, heads of canes, etc., are his destruction. His servants and
tradesmen conspire with his own indolence, to cheat him; and, in a
little time, he is astonished, in the midst of all the ridiculous
superfluities, to find himself in want of all the real comforts and
necessaries of life. Without care and method the largest fortune will
not, and with them, almost the smallest will, supply all necessary
expenses. As far as you can possibly, pay ready money for everything
you buy, and avoid bills. Pay that money too, yourself, and not
through the hands of any servant, who always either stipulates
poundage, or requires a present for his good word, as they call it.
Where you must have bills (as for meat and drink, clothes, etc.) pay
them regularly every month, and with your own hand. Never, from a
mistaken economy, buy a thing you do not want, because it is cheap; or,
from a silly pride, because it is dear. Keep an account, in a book, of
all that you receive, and of all that you pay; for no man, who knows
what he receives, and what he pays, ever runs out. I do not mean that
you should keep an account of the shillings and half-crowns which you
may spend in chair-hire, operas, etc., they are unworthy of the time,
and of the ink, that they would consume; leave such _minutiæ_ to dull,
pennywise fellows; but remember, in economy, as well as in every other
part of life, to have the proper attention to proper objects, and the
proper contempt for little ones. A strong mind sees things in their
true proportions: a weak one views them through a magnifying medium;
which, like the microscope, makes an elephant of a flea; magnifies
all little objects, but cannot receive great ones. I have known many
a man pass for a miser, by saving a penny, and wrangling for two
pence, who was undoing himself, at the same time, by living above his
income, and not attending to essential articles, which were above his
_portée_. The sure characteristic of a sound and strong mind is, to
find, in everything, those certain bounds, _quos ultra citrave nequit
consistere rectum_. These boundaries are marked out by a very fine
line, which only good sense and attention can discover; it is much too
fine for vulgar eyes. In manners, this line is good breeding; beyond
it, is troublesome ceremony; short of it, is unbecoming negligence
and inattention. In morals, it divides ostentatious Puritanism from
criminal relaxation; in religion, superstition from impiety; and, in
short, every virtue from its kindred vice or weakness. I think you have
sense enough to discover the line; keep it always in your eye, and
learn to walk upon it; rest upon Mr. Harte, and he will poise you till
you are able to go alone. By the way, there are fewer people who walk
well upon that line, than upon the slack rope; and therefore a good
performer shines so much the more. [_Jan. 10, 1749._]
DANCING.--Remember to take the best dancing master at Berlin, more to
teach you to sit, stand, and walk gracefully, than to dance finely. The
Graces, the Graces; remember the Graces! Adieu. [_Same date._]
THE CLASSICS--THEIR VALUE.--My first prejudice (for I do not mention
the prejudices of boys and women, such as hobgoblins, ghosts, dreams,
spilling salt, etc.) was my classical enthusiasm, which I received
from the books I read, and the masters who explained them to me. I was
convinced there had been no common sense nor common honesty in the
world for these last fifteen hundred years; but that they were totally
extinguished with the ancient Greek and Roman governments. Homer and
Virgil could have no faults, because they were ancient; Milton and
Tasso could have no merit, because they were modern. And I could almost
have said, with regard to the ancients, what Cicero, very absurdly and
unbecomingly for a philosopher, says with regard to Plato, “Cum quo
errare malim; quam cum aliis rectè sentire.” Whereas now, without any
extraordinary effort of genius, I have discovered that nature was the
same three thousand years ago as it is at present; that men were but
men then as well as now; that modes and customs vary often, but that
human nature is always the same. And I can no more suppose, that men
were better, braver, or wiser, fifteen hundred or three thousand years
ago, than I can suppose that the animals or vegetables were better
then than they are now. I dare assert too, in defiance of the favorers
of the ancients, that Homer’s hero, Achilles, was both a brute and
a scoundrel, and consequently an improper character for the hero of
an epic poem; he had so little regard for his country, that he would
not act in defence of it, because he had quarrelled with Agamemnon
about a w----e; and then afterward, animated by private resentment
only, he went about killing people basely, I will call it, because he
knew himself invulnerable; and yet, invulnerable as he was, he wore
the strongest armor in the world; which I humbly apprehend to be a
blunder; for a horseshoe clapped to his vulnerable heel would have
been sufficient. On the other hand, with submission to the favorers of
the moderns, I assert with Mr. Dryden, that the Devil is in truth the
hero of Milton’s poem: his plan, which he lays, pursues, and at last
executes, being the subject of the poem. From all which considerations,
I impartially conclude, that the ancients had their excellencies and
their defects, their virtues and their vices, just like the moderns:
pedantry and affectation of learning decide clearly in favor of the
former; vanity and ignorance, as peremptorily, in favor of the latter.
Religious prejudices kept pace with my classical ones; and there was a
time when I thought it impossible for the honestest man in the world
to be saved, out of the pale of the Church of England: not considering
that matters of opinion do not depend upon the will; and that it is as
natural, and as allowable, that another man should differ in opinion
from me, as that I should differ from him; and that, if we are both
sincere, we are both blameless: and should consequently have mutual
indulgence for each other. [_Feb. 7, 1749._]
REFLECTION--ITS USE.--Use and assert your own reason; reflect,
examine, and analyze everything, in order to form a sound and mature
judgment; let no ουτος ἔφα impose upon your understanding, mislead
your actions, or dictate your conversation. Be early, what, if you are
not, you will, when too late, wish you had been. Consult your reason
betimes: I do not say that it will always prove an unerring guide; for
human reason is not infallible: but it will prove the least erring
guide that you can follow. Books and conversation may assist it; but
adopt neither, blindly and implicitly; try both by that best rule
which God has given to direct us, Reason. Of all the troubles do not
decline, as many people do, that of thinking. The herd of mankind can
hardly be said to think; their notions are almost all adoptive; and, in
general, I believe it is better that it should be so; as such common
prejudices contribute more to order and quiet, than their own separate
reasonings would do, uncultivated and unimproved as they are. We have
many of those useful prejudices in this country, which I should be very
sorry to see removed. The good Protestant conviction, that the Pope
is both Antichrist, and the Whore of Babylon, is a more effectual
preservative, in this country, against popery, than all the solid and
unanswerable arguments of Chillingworth.
The idle story of the Pretender’s having been introduced in a
warming-pan, into the queen’s bed, though as destitute of all
probability as of all foundation, has been much more prejudicial to
the cause of Jacobitism, than all that Mr. Locke and others have
written, to show the unreasonableness and absurdity of the doctrines
of indefeasible hereditary right and unlimited passive obedience. And
that silly, sanguine notion, which is firmly entertained here, that
one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen, encourages, and has sometimes
enabled one Englishman, in reality, to beat two. [_Same date._]
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS.--Can an author with reason complain that he is
cramped and shackled if he is not at liberty to publish blasphemy,
bawdry, or sedition? all which are equally prohibited in the freest
governments, if they are wise and well regulated ones. This is the
present general complaint of the French authors; but, indeed, chiefly
of the bad ones. No wonder, say they, that England produces so many
great geniuses; people there may think as they please, and publish
what they think. Very true, but who hinders them from thinking as they
please? If, indeed, they think in a manner destructive of all religion,
morality, or good manners, or to the disturbance of the state; an
absolute government will certainly more effectually prohibit them from,
or punish them for publishing such thoughts, than a free one could do.
But how does that cramp the genius of an epic, dramatic, or lyric poet?
Or how does it corrupt the eloquence of an orator, in the pulpit or at
the bar? [_Same date._]
GRACEFUL BEHAVIOR.--There is another object that must keep pace with
and accompany knowledge; I mean, manners, politeness, and the graces;
in which Sir Charles Williams, though very much your friend, owns you
are very deficient. The manners of Leipsic must be shook off; and in
that respect you must put on the new man. No scrambling at your meals,
as at a German ordinary; no awkward overturns of glasses, plates, and
salt-cellars; no horse-play. On the contrary, a gentleness of manners,
a graceful carriage, and an insinuating address, must take their place.
I repeat, and shall never cease repeating to you, _the Graces, the
Graces_. [_April 12, 1749._]
A GENTLEMAN’S PLEASURES.--DEAR BOY: This letter will, I believe, still
find you at Venice, in all the dissipation of masquerades, ridottos,
operas, etc.: with all my heart; they are decent evening amusements,
and very properly succeed that serious application to which I am sure
you devote your mornings. There are liberal and illiberal pleasures,
as well as liberal and illiberal arts. There are some pleasures, that
degrade a gentleman, as much as some trades could do. Sottish drinking,
indiscriminate gluttony, driving coaches, rustic sports, such as
fox-chases, horse-races, etc., are, in my opinion, infinitely below the
honest and industrious professions of a tailor, and a shoemaker, which
are said to _déroger_. [_April 19, 1749._]
MUSIC--FIDDLING.--I cannot help cautioning you against giving into
those (I will call them illiberal) pleasures (though music is commonly
reckoned one of the liberal arts) to the degree that most of your
countrymen do when they travel in Italy. If you love music, hear it;
go to operas, concerts, and pay fiddlers to play to you; but I insist
upon your neither piping nor fiddling yourself. It puts a gentleman in
a very frivolous, contemptible light; brings him into a great deal of
bad company; and takes up a great deal of time, which might be much
better employed. Few things would mortify me more than to see you
bearing a part in a concert, with a fiddle under your chin, or a pipe
in your mouth. [_Same date._]
MANIÈRES.--By _manières_, I do not mean bare common civility; everybody
must have that, who would not be kicked out of company; but I mean
engaging, insinuating, shining manners; a distinguished politeness, an
almost irresistible address; a superior gracefulness in all you say and
do. It is this alone that can give all your other talents their full
lustre and value; and consequently, it is this which should now be the
principal object of your attention. Observe minutely, wherever you go,
the allowed and established morals of good breeding, and form yourself
upon them. Whatever pleases you most, in others, will infallibly please
others, in you. I have often repeated this to you; now is your time of
putting it in practice. [_Same date._]
LITTLE PRINCES.--In general, I believe that little princes are more
likely to be great men than those whose more extensive dominions, and
superior strength, flatter them with security; which commonly produces
negligence and indolence. A little prince, in the neighborhood of
great ones, must be alert, and look out sharp, if he would secure his
own dominions; much more still, if he would enlarge them. He must
watch for conjunctures, or endeavor to make them. No princes have ever
possessed this art better than those of the House of Savoy, who have
enlarged their dominions prodigiously within a century, by profiting of
conjunctures. [_Same date._]
ATTENTIONS.--A young man should never be wanting in these attentions;
they cost little and bring in a great deal, by getting you people’s
good word and affection. They gain the heart, to which I have always
advised you to apply yourself particularly; it guides ten thousand for
one that reason influences.
I cannot end this letter, or (I believe) any other, without repeating
my recommendation of _the Graces_. They are to be met with at Turin;
for God’s sake, sacrifice to them, and they will be propitious. People
mistake grossly, to imagine that the least awkwardness, in either
matter or manner, mind or body, is an indifferent thing, and not worthy
of attention. It may possibly be a weakness in me (but in short we are
all so made). I confess to you fairly, that when you shall come home,
and that I first see you, if I find you ungraceful in your address, and
awkward in your person and dress, it will be impossible for me to love
you half so well as I should otherwise do, let your intrinsic merit and
knowledge be ever so great. [_Same date._]
ENGLISH ABROAD.--I am informed there are now many English at the
Academy at Turin, and I fear those are just so many dangers for you to
encounter. Who they are, I do not know; but I well know the general ill
conduct, the indecent behavior, and the illiberal views of my young
countrymen abroad; especially wherever they are in numbers together.
Ill example is of itself dangerous enough; but those who give it seldom
stop there; they add their infamous exhortations and invitations; and,
if these fail, they have recourse to ridicule, which is harder for one
of your age and inexperience to withstand than either of the former.
Be upon your guard, therefore, against these batteries, which will all
be played upon you. You are not sent abroad to converse with your own
countrymen; among them, in general, you will get little knowledge, no
languages, and, I am sure, no manners. I desire that you will form no
connections, nor (what they impudently call) friendships, with these
people; which are, in truth, only combinations and conspiracies
against good morals and good manners. [_May 15, 1749._]
VICES SHOULD BE ORIGINAL.--If people had no vices but their own, few
would have so many as they have. For my own part, I would sooner wear
other people’s clothes than their vices; and they would sit upon me
just as well. I hope you will have none; but, if ever you have, I beg,
at least, they may be all your own. Vices of adoption are, of all
others, the most disgraceful and unpardonable. There are degrees in
vices, as well as in virtues; and I must do my countrymen the justice
to say, they generally take their vices in the lowest degree. Their
gallantry is the infamous mean debauchery of stews, justly attended and
rewarded by the loss of their health as well as their character. Their
pleasures of the table end in beastly drunkenness, low riot, broken
windows, and very often (as they well deserve) broken bones. They game
for the sake of the vice, not of the amusement; and therefore carry it
to excess; undo, or are undone by, their companions. By such conduct,
and in such company abroad, they come home the unimproved, illiberal,
and ungentlemanlike creatures that one daily sees them; that is, in the
park, and in the streets, for one never meets them in good company;
where they have neither manners to present themselves, nor merit to
be received. But, with the manners of footmen and grooms, they assume
their dress too; for you must have observed them in the streets here,
in dirty blue frocks, with oaken sticks in their hands, and their hair
greasy and unpowdered, tucked up under their hats of an enormous size.
Thus finished and adorned by their travels, they become the disturbers
of playhouses; they break the windows, and commonly the landlords,
of the taverns where they drink; and are at once the support, the
terror, and the victims of the bawdy-houses they frequent. These poor
mistaken people think they shine, and so they do indeed; but it is as
putrefaction shines, in the dark.
I am not now preaching to you, like an old fellow, upon either
religious or moral texts; I am persuaded you do not want the best
instructions of that kind; but I am advising you as a man, as a friend
of the world, as one who would not have you old while you are young,
but would have you take all the pleasures that reason points out, and
that decency warrants. [_Same date._]
FOOLISH SAYINGS.--There are some expressions, both in French and
English, and some characters, both in those two and in other countries,
which have, I dare say, misled many young men to their ruin. _Une
honnête débauche, une jolie débauche: an agreeable rake, a man of
pleasure._ Do not think that this means debauchery and profligacy;
nothing like it. It means, at most, the accidental and unfrequent
irregularities of youth and vivacity, in opposition to dulness,
formality, and want of spirit. [_Same date._]
HOW TO PLEASE.--You must not neglect your dress neither, but take
care to be _bien mis_. Pray send for the best operator for the teeth
at Turin, where I suppose there is some famous one, and let him put
yours in perfect order; and then take care to keep them so afterwards
yourself. You had very good teeth, and I hope they are so still; but
even those who have bad ones should keep them clean; for a dirty
mouth is, to my mind, ill-manners. In short, neglect nothing that can
possibly please. A thousand nameless little things, which nobody can
describe but which everybody feels, conspire to form that _whole_ of
pleasing; as the several pieces of a mosaic work, though separately
of little beauty or value, when properly joined form those beautiful
figures which please everybody. A look, a gesture, an attitude, a tone
of voice, all bear their parts in the great work of pleasing. The art
of pleasing is more particularly necessary in your intended profession
than perhaps in any other; it is, in truth, the first half of your
business; for if you do not please the court you are sent to, you will
be of very little use to the court you are sent from. Please the eyes
and the ears, they will introduce you to the heart; and, nine times in
ten, the heart governs the understanding.
Make your court particularly, and show distinguished attentions, to
such men and women as are best at court, highest in the fashion and in
the opinion of the public; speak advantageously of them behind their
backs, in companies who you have reason to believe will tell them
again. Express your admiration of the many great men that the house of
Savoy has produced; observe, that nature, instead of being exhausted
by those efforts, seems to have redoubled them in the persons of the
present king, and the Duke of Savoy; wonder at this rate where it will
end, and conclude that it will end in the government of all Europe.
Say this, likewise, where it will probably be repeated; but say it
unaffectedly, and the last, especially, with a kind of _enjouement_.
These little arts are very allowable, and must be made use of in the
course of the world; they are pleasing to one party, useful to the
other, and injurious to nobody. [_Same date._]
FLATTERY.--I recommended to you, in my last, an innocent piece of art;
that of flattering people behind their backs, in presence of those who,
to make their own court, much more than for your sake, will not fail to
repeat, and even amplify the praise to the party concerned. This is of
all flattery the most pleasing, and consequently the most effectual.
There are other, and many other inoffensive arts of this kind, which
are necessary in the course of the world, and which he who practises
the earliest, will please the most, and rise the soonest. [_May 22,
1749._]
TEMPER.--The principal of these things, is the mastery of one’s
temper, and that coolness of mind, and serenity of countenance, which
hinders us from discovering, by words, actions, or even looks, those
passions or sentiments, by which we are inwardly moved or agitated; and
the discovery of which, gives cooler and abler people such infinite
advantages over us, not only in business, but in all the most common
occurrences of life. A man who does not possess himself enough to
hear disagreeable things, without visible marks of anger and change
of countenance, or agreeable ones without sudden bursts of joy and
expansion of countenance, is at the mercy of every artful knave, or
pert coxcomb; the former will provoke or please you by design, to
catch unguarded words or looks, by which he will easily decipher the
secrets of your heart, of which you should keep the key yourself, and
trust it with no man living. [_Same date._]
IMMOBILITY.--Determine, too, to keep your countenance as unmoved and
unembarrassed as possible which steadiness you may get a habit of, by
constant attention. I should desire nothing better, in any negotiation,
than to have to do with one of these men of warm, quick passions;
which I would take care to set in motion. By artful provocations, I
would extort rash and unguarded expressions; and, by hinting at all
the several things that I could suspect, infallibly discover the true
one, by the alteration it occasioned in the countenance of the person.
_Vólto sciolto con pensieri stretti_,[40] is a most useful maxim in
business. [_Same date._]
DISSIMULATION.--It may be objected, that I am now recommending
dissimulation to you; I both own and justify it. It has been long
said: _Qui nescit dissimulare nescit regnare_: I go still farther,
and say, that without some dissimulation, no business can be carried
on at all. It is _simulation_ that is false, mean and criminal; that
is the cunning which Lord Bacon calls crooked or left-handed wisdom,
and which is never made use of but by those who have not true wisdom.
And the same great man says, that dissimulation is only to hide our
own cards; whereas simulation is put on in order to look into other
people’s. Lord Bolingbroke in his “Idea of a Patriot King,” which
he has lately published, and which I will send you by the first
opportunity, says, very justly, that simulation is a _stiletto_; not
only an unjust but an unlawful weapon, and the use of it very rarely
to be excused, never justified. Whereas dissimulation is a shield, as
secrecy is armor; and it is no more possible to preserve secrecy in
business, without some degree of dissimulation, than it is to succeed
in business without secrecy. [_Same date._]
THE FACE.--Make yourself absolute master, therefore, of your temper,
and your countenance, so far, at least, as that no visible change
do appear in either, whatever you may feel inwardly. This may be
difficult, but it is by no means impossible; and, as a man of sense
never attempts impossibilities on one hand, on the other he is never
discouraged by difficulties. [_Same date._]
THE EASY MOMENT.--Some people are to be reasoned, some flattered,
some intimidated, and some teased into a thing; but, in general, all
are to be brought into it at last, if skilfully applied to, properly
managed, and indefatigably attacked in their several weak places. The
time should likewise be judiciously chosen: every man has his _mollia
tempora_, but that is far from being all day long; and you would choose
your time very ill, if you applied to a man about one business, when
his head was full of another, or when his heart was full of grief,
anger, or any other disagreeable sentiments. [_Same date._]
JUDGE OF OTHERS BY YOURSELF.--In order to judge of the inside of
others, study your own; for men in general are very much alike; and
though one has one prevailing passion, and another has another, yet
their operations are much the same; and whatever engages or disgusts,
pleases or offends you, in others, will, _mutatis mutandis_, engage,
disgust, please, or offend others, in you. [_Same date._]
SMART SAYINGS.--The temptation of saying a smart and witty thing,
or _bon mot_, and the malicious applause with which it is commonly
received, have made people who can say them, and, still oftener,
people who think they can, but cannot and yet try, more enemies,
and implacable ones too, than any one other thing that I know of.
When such things, then, shall happen to be said at your expense (as
sometimes they certainly will) reflect seriously upon the sentiments
of uneasiness, anger, and resentment, which they excite in you; and
consider whether it can be prudent, by the same means, to excite the
same sentiments in others against you. It is a decided folly to lose
a friend for a jest; but, in my mind, it is not a much less degree of
folly, to make an enemy of an indifferent and neutral person for the
sake of a _bon mot_. When things of this kind happen to be said of you
the most prudent way is to seem not to suppose that they are meant at
you, but to dissemble and conceal whatever degree of anger you may
feel inwardly; and should they be so plain that you cannot be supposed
ignorant of their meaning, to join in the laugh of the company against
yourself; acknowledge the hit to be a fair one, and the jest a good
one, and play off the whole thing in seeming good humor; but by no
means reply in the same way; which only shows that you are hurt, and
publishes the victory which you might have concealed. Should the thing
said, indeed, injure your honor, or moral character, there is but one
proper reply; which I hope you will never have occasion to make. [_Same
date._]
WOMEN OF FASHION.--They are a numerous and loquacious body; their
hatred would be more prejudicial than their friendship can be
advantageous to you. A general complaisance and attention to that
sex is, therefore, established by custom, and certainly necessary.
But where you would particularly please any one, whose situation,
interest, or connections can be of use to you, you must show particular
preference. The least attentions please, the greatest charm them.
The innocent but pleasing flattery of their persons, however gross,
is greedily swallowed, and kindly digested, but a seeming regard for
their understandings, a seeming desire of, and deference for, their
advice, together with a seeming confidence in their moral virtues,
turns their head entirely in your favor. Nothing shocks them so much as
the least appearance of that contempt, which they are apt to suspect
men of entertaining of their capacities; and you may be very sure of
gaining their friendship, if you seem to think it worth gaining. Here
dissimulation is very often necessary, and even simulation sometimes
allowable; which, as it pleases them, may be useful to you and is
injurious to nobody. [_Same date._]
VENETIAN ART.--The time you will probably pass at Venice will allow
you to make yourself master of that intricate and singular form of
government, which few of our travellers know anything of. Read, ask,
and see everything that is relative to it. There are, likewise, many
valuable remains of the remotest antiquity, and many fine pieces of
the _antico moderno_, all which deserve a different sort of attention
from that which your countrymen commonly give them. They go to see
them as they go to see the lions, and kings on horseback, at the Tower
here, only to say that they have seen them. You will, I am sure, view
them in another light; you will consider them as you would a poem, to
which indeed they are akin. You will observe whether the sculptor has
animated his stone, or the painter his canvas, into the just expression
of those sentiments and passions which should characterize and mark
their several figures. [_June 22, 1749._]
SCULPTURE AND PAINTING.--You will examine, likewise, whether, in their
groups there be a unity of action or proper relation; a truth of dress
and manners. Sculpture and painting are very justly called liberal
arts; a lively and strong imagination, together with a just observation
being absolutely necessary to excel in either, which, in my opinion, is
by no means the case of music, though called a liberal art, and now in
Italy placed even above the other two--a proof of the decline of that
country. A taste of sculpture and painting is, in my mind, as becoming
as a taste of fiddling and piping is unbecoming a man of fashion. The
former is connected with history and poetry; the latter, with nothing
that I know of, but bad company. [_Same date._]
AMIABILITY.--There is a certain concurrence of various little
circumstances, which compose what the French call _l’amiable_; and
which, now you are entering into the world, you ought to make it your
particular study to acquire. Without them, your learning will be
pedantry, your conversation often improper, always unpleasant, and
your figure, however good in itself, awkward and unengaging. A diamond
while rough has indeed its intrinsic value; but till polished is of
no use, and would neither be sought for nor worn. Its great lustre,
it is true, proceeds from its solidity and strong cohesion of parts;
but without the last polish, it would remain forever a dirty, rough
mineral in the cabinets of some few curious collectors. You have, I
hope, that solidity and cohesion of parts; take now as much pains to
get the lustre. Good company, if you make the right use of it, will
cut you into shape, and give you the true brilliant polish. _Apropos_
of diamonds, I have sent you, by Sir James Gray, the king’s minister,
who will be at Venice about the middle of September, my own diamond
buckles, which are fitter for your young feet than for my old ones;
they will properly adorn you; they would only expose me. [_Same date._]
TRIFLES.--Great merit or great failings will make you respected or
despised; but trifles, little attentions, mere nothings, either done or
neglected, will make you either liked or disliked, in the general run
of the world. Examine yourself, why you like such and such people, and
dislike such and such others; and you will find that those different
sentiments proceed from very slight causes. Moral virtues are the
foundation of society in general, and of friendship in particular; but
attentions, manners, and graces both adorn and strengthen them. [_July
20, 1749._]
YOUTH ARMED BY EXPERIENCE.--Your youth and talents, armed with my
experience, may go a great way; and that armor is very much at your
service, if you please to wear it. I premise that it is not my
imagination, but my memory, that gives you these rules; I am not
writing pretty, useful reflections. A man of sense soon discovers,
because he carefully observes where and how long he is welcome; and
takes care to leave the company, at least, as soon as he is wished out
of it. Fools never perceive whether they are ill-timed or ill-placed.
[_Same date._]
IDLENESS.--But indeed I do not suspect you of one single moment’s
idleness in the whole day. Idleness is only the refuge of weak minds,
and the holiday of fools. I do not call good company and liberal
pleasures idleness; far from it; I recommend to you a good share of
both. [_Same date._]
BATHING.--I am very glad that my letter, with Dr. Shaw’s opinion, has
lessened your bathing; for, since I was born, I never heard of bathing
four hours a day, which would surely be too much, even in Medea’s
kettle, if you wanted (as you do not yet) new boiling. [_July 30,
1749._]
ARCHITECTURE--A SIMILE.--To carry on the metaphor of building, I would
wish you to be a Corinthian edifice, upon a Tuscan foundation; the
latter having the utmost strength and solidity to support, and the
former all possible ornaments to decorate. The Tuscan column is coarse,
clumsy, and unpleasant; nobody looks at it twice: the Corinthian fluted
column is beautiful and attractive; but without a solid foundation,
can hardly be seen twice, because it must soon tumble down. Yours
affectionately. [_Same date._]
EARN YOUR PLEASURES.--No man tastes pleasures truly who does not earn
them by previous business; and few people do business well who do
nothing else. Remember, that when I speak of pleasures I always mean
the elegant pleasures of a rational being, and not the brutal ones of
a swine. I mean _la bonne chere_, short of gluttony; wine, infinitely
short of drunkenness; play, without the least gaming; and gallantry,
without debauchery. There is a line in all these things which men of
sense, for greater security, take care to keep a good deal on the right
side of; for sickness, pain, contempt, and infamy lie immediately on
the other side of it. Men of sense and merit in all other respects may
have had some of these failings; but then those few examples, instead
of inviting us to imitation, should only put us the more upon our guard
against such weaknesses. Whoever thinks them fashionable will not be so
himself. I have often known a fashionable man to have some one vice,
but I never, in my life, knew a vicious man a fashionable man. Vice is
as degrading as it is criminal. God bless you, my dear child! [_Aug. 7,
1749._]
DIGNITY OF MANNERS.--There is a certain dignity of manners absolutely
necessary, to make even the most valuable character either respected
or respectable. Horse-play, romping, frequent and loud fits of
laughter, jokes, waggery, and indiscriminate familiarity, will sink
both merit and knowledge into a degree of contempt. They compose at
most a merry fellow; and a merry fellow was never yet a respectable
man. Indiscriminate familiarity either offends your superiors, or else
dubs you their dependent, and led captain. It gives your inferiors just
but troublesome and improper claims of equality. A joker is near akin
to a buffoon; and neither of them is the least related to wit. Whoever
is admitted or sought for in company upon any account than that of his
merit and manners, is never respected there, but only made use of. We
will have such-a-one, for he sings prettily; we will invite such-a-one
to a ball, for he dances well; we will have such-a-one at supper, for
he is always joking and laughing; we will ask another, because he plays
deep at all games, or because he can drink a great deal. These are
vilifying distinctions, mortifying preferences, and exclude all ideas
of esteem and regard. Whoever _is had_ (as it is called) in company,
for the sake of any one thing singly, is singly that thing, and will
never be considered in any other light, consequently never respected,
let his merits be what they will. [_Aug. 10, 1749._]
FOOLS AND THEIR FLATTERY.--Abject flattery and indiscriminate
assentation degrade, as much as indiscriminate contradiction and noisy
debate disgust. But a modest assertion of one’s own opinion, and a
complaisant acquiescence in other people’s, preserve dignity.
Vulgar, low expressions, awkward motions and address, vilify, as
they imply either a very low turn of mind, or low education, and low
company. [_Same date._]
A TRIFLER.--Cardinal de Retz, very sagaciously marked out Cardinal
Chigi for a little mind, from the moment that he told him he had wrote
(_sic_) three years with the same pen, and that it was an excellent
good one still.
A certain degree of exterior seriousness, in looks and motions, gives
dignity, without excluding wit and decent cheerfulness, which are
always serious themselves. A constant smirk upon the face, and a
whiffling activity of the body, are strong indications of futility.
Whoever is in a hurry shows that the thing he is about is too big for
him. Haste and hurry are very different things. [_Same date._]
THE PRETENDER--POLITICAL CAUTION.--You will, in many parts of Italy,
meet with numbers of the Pretender’s people (English, Scotch, and Irish
fugitives) especially at Rome; and probably the Pretender himself. It
is none of your business to declare war on these people; as little as
it is your interest, or, I hope, your inclination to connect yourself
with them: and therefore I recommend to you a perfect neutrality. Avoid
them as much as you can with decency and good manners; but, when you
cannot avoid any political conversation or debates with them, tell them
that you do not concern yourself with political matters; that you are
neither a maker nor a deposer of kings; that, when you left England,
you left a king in it, and have not since heard either of his death,
or of any revolution that has happened, and that you take kings and
kingdoms as you find them; but enter no farther into matters with them,
which can be of no use, and might bring on heat and quarrels. When you
speak of the old Pretender you will call him only, the Chevalier de
St. George; but mention him as seldom as possible. Should he chance to
speak to you at any assembly (as, I am told, he sometimes does to the
English) be sure that you seem not to know him; and answer him civilly,
but always either in French or in Italian; and give him, in the former,
the appellation of _Monsieur_, and in the latter of _Signore_. Should
you meet with the Cardinal of York, you will be under no difficulty,
for he has, as Cardinal, an undoubted right to _Eminenza_. Upon the
whole, see any of those people as little as possible; when you do
see them be civil to them, upon the footing of strangers; but never
be drawn into any altercations with them about the imaginary right of
their king, as they call him.
It is to no sort of purpose to talk to those people of the natural
rights of mankind and particular constitution of this country. Blinded
by prejudices, soured by misfortunes, and tempted by their necessities,
they are as incapable of reasoning rightly, as they have hitherto been
of acting wisely. The late Lord Pembroke never would know anything
that he had not a mind to know; and, in this case, I advise you to
follow his example. Never know either the father or the two sons, any
otherwise than as foreigners; and so not knowing their pretensions you
have no occasion to dispute them. [_Sept. 5, 1749._]
A FATHER’S ANXIETY.--It seems extraordinary, but it is very true, that
my anxiety for you increases in proportion to the good accounts which I
receive of you from all hands. I promise myself so much from you, that
I dread the least disappointment. You are now so near the port, which I
have so long wished and labored to bring you safe into, that my concern
would be doubled, should you be shipwrecked within sight of it. The
object, therefore, of this letter is (laying aside all the authority
of the parent), to conjure you as a friend, by the affection you have
for me (and surely you have reason to have some), and by the regard you
have for yourself, to go on with assiduity and attention, to complete
that work, which, of late, you have carried on so well, and which is
now so near being finished. My wishes, and my plan, were to make you
shine, and distinguish yourself equally in the learned and the polite
world. Few have been able to do it. [_Sept. 12, 1749._]
THE STUDENT OF LIFE AND THE TRIFLER: A DIALOGUE.--I will suppose you
at Rome, studying six hours uninterruptedly with Mr. Harte, every
morning, and passing your evenings with the best company of Rome,
observing their manners and forming your own; and I will suppose a
number of idle, sauntering, illiterate English, as there commonly is
there, living entirely with one another, supping, drinking, and sitting
up late at each other’s lodgings; commonly in riots and scrapes when
drunk, and never in good company when sober. I will take one of these
pretty fellows, and give you the dialogue between him and yourself;
such as I dare say it will be on his side, and such as I hope it will
be on yours.
_Englishman._ Will you come and breakfast with me to-morrow; there will
be four or five of our countrymen; we have provided chaises, and we
will drive somewhere out of town after breakfast?
_Stanhope._ I am very sorry I cannot; but I am obliged to be at home
all the morning.
_Englishman._ Why then we will come and breakfast with you.
_Stanhope._ I can’t do that neither, I am engaged.
_Englishman._ Well, then, let it be the next day.
_Stanhope._ To tell you the truth, it can be no day in the morning; for
I neither go out, nor see anybody at home before twelve.
_Englishman._ And what the devil do you do with yourself till twelve
o’clock?
_Stanhope._ I am not by myself, I am with Mr. Harte.
_Englishman._ Then what the devil do you do with him?
_Stanhope._ We study different things; we read, we converse.
_Englishman._ Very pretty amusement indeed! Are you to take orders then?
_Stanhope._ Yes, my father’s orders, I believe, I must take.
_Englishman._ Why, hast thou no more spirit than to mind an old fellow
a thousand miles off?
_Stanhope._ If I don’t mind his orders he won’t mind my draughts.
_Englishman._ What, does the old prig threaten, then? Threatened folks
live long; never mind threats.
_Stanhope._ No, I can’t say that he has ever threatened me in his life;
but I believe I had best not provoke him.
_Englishman._ Pooh! you would have one angry letter from the old
fellow, and there would be an end of it.
_Stanhope._ You mistake him mightily; he always does more than he says.
He has never been angry with me yet, that I remember, in his life; but
if I were to provoke him, I am sure he would never forgive me; he would
be coolly immovable, and I might beg and pray, and write my heart out
to no purpose.
_Englishman._ Why then, he is an old dog, that’s all I can say:
and pray, are you to obey your dry-nurse too, this same what’s his
name--Mr. Harte?
_Stanhope._ Yes.
_Englishman._ So he stuffs you all morning with Greek, and Latin, and
logic, and all that. Egad, I have a dry-nurse too, but I never looked
into a book with him in my life; I have not so much as seen the face of
him this week, and don’t care a louse if I never see it again.
_Stanhope._ My dry-nurse never desires anything of me that is not
reasonable, and for my own good; and therefore I like to be with him.
_Englishman._ Very sententious and edifying, upon my word! at this rate
you will be reckoned a very good young man.
_Stanhope._ Why, that will do me no harm.
_Englishman._ Will you be with us to-morrow in the evening, then? We
shall be ten with you; and I have got some excellent good wine; and
we’ll be very merry.
_Stanhope._ I am very much obliged to you but I am engaged for all the
evening, to-morrow; first at Cardinal Albani’s; and then to sup at the
Venetian Embassadress’s.
_Englishman._ How the devil can you like being always with these
foreigners? I never go amongst them, with all their formalities and
ceremonies. I am never easy in company with them, and I don’t know why,
but I am ashamed.
_Stanhope._ I am neither ashamed nor afraid; I am very easy with
them; they are very easy with me; I get the language, and I see their
characters, by conversing with them; and that is what we are sent
abroad for. Is it not?
_Englishman._ I hate your modest women’s company; your women of
fashion, as they call ’em. I don’t know what to say to them, for my
part.
_Stanhope._ Have you ever conversed with them?
_Englishman._ No, I never conversed with them; but I have been
sometimes in their company, though much against my will.
_Stanhope._ But at least they have done you no hurt; which is,
probably, more than you can say of the women you do converse with.
_Englishman._ That’s true, I own; but for all that, I would rather keep
company with my surgeon half the year, than with your women of fashion
the year round.
_Stanhope._ Tastes are different, you know, and every man follows his
own.
_Englishman._ That’s true; but thine’s a devilish odd one, Stanhope.
All morning with thy dry-nurse; all the evening in formal fine company;
and all day long afraid of old Daddy in England. Thou art a queer
fellow, and I am afraid there’s nothing to be made of thee.
_Stanhope._ I am afraid so, too.
_Englishman._ Well, then, good-night to you; you have no objection, I
hope, to my being drunk to-night, which I certainly will be?
_Stanhope._ Not in the least; nor to your being sick to-morrow, which
you as certainly will be; and so good-night too.
You will observe, that I have not put into your mouth those good
arguments, which upon such an occasion would, I am sure, occur to you;
as piety and affection towards me; regard and friendship for Mr. Harte;
respect for your own moral character, and for all the relative duties
of man, son, pupil and citizen. Such solid arguments would be thrown
away upon such shallow puppies. Leave them to their ignorance, and to
their dirty, disgraceful vices. They will severely feel the effects
of them, when it will be too late. Without the comfortable refuge of
learning, and with all the sickness and pains of a ruined stomach,
and a rotten carcass, if they happen to arrive at old age, it is an
uneasy and ignominious one. The ridicule which such fellows endeavor to
throw upon those who are not like them is, in the opinion of all men
of sense, the most authentic panegyric. Go on, then, my dear child,
in the way you are in, only for a year and a half more; that is all I
ask of you. After that, I promise that you shall be your own master,
and that I will pretend to no other title than that of your best and
truest friend. You shall receive advice, but no orders, from me; and in
truth you will want no other advice, but such as youth and inexperience
must necessarily require. You shall certainly want nothing that is
requisite, not only for your conveniency, but also for your pleasures,
which I always desire should be gratified. You will suppose that I mean
the pleasures _d’un honnête homme_. [_Same date._]
A PANEGYRIST.--If I had faith in philters and love potions, I should
suspect that you had given Sir Charles Williams some, by the manner in
which he speaks of you, not only to me, but to everybody else. I will
not repeat to you what he says of the extent and correctness of your
knowledge, as it might either make you vain, or persuade you that you
had already enough of what nobody can have too much. You will easily
imagine how many questions I asked, and how narrowly I sifted him upon
your subject; he answered me, and I dare say with truth, just as I
could have wished. [_Sept. 22, 1749._]
NECESSITY OF ATTENTION.--Sir Charles Williams told me then, that in
company you were frequently most _provokingly_ inattentive, absent,
_and distrait_. That you came into a room and presented yourself very
awkwardly; that at table you constantly threw down knives, forks,
napkins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your person and dress to a
degree unpardonable at any age, and much more so at yours.