DISTRACTION AND INATTENTION.--I know no one thing more offensive to a

company than that inattention and _distraction_. It is showing them

the utmost contempt; and people never forgive contempt. No man is

_distrait_ with the man he fears or the woman he loves; which is a

proof that every man can get the better of that _distraction_, when he

thinks it worth his while to do so; and, take my word for it, it is

always worth his while. For my own part, I would rather be in company

with a dead man than with an absent one; for if the dead man gives me

no pleasure, at least he shows me no contempt; whereas the absent man,

silently indeed, but very plainly, tells me that he does not think me

worth his attention. Besides, can an absent man make any observations

upon the characters, customs, and manners of the company? No. He may be

in the best companies all his lifetime (if they will admit him, which,

if I were they, I would not), and never be one jot the wiser. I never

will converse with an absent man; one may as well talk to a deaf one.

It is, in truth, a practical blunder to address ourselves to a man who,

we see plainly, neither hears, minds, nor understands us. Moreover,

I aver that no man is, in any degree, fit for either business or

conversation who cannot and does not direct and command his attention

to the present object, be that what it will. You know, by experience,

that I grudge no expense in your education, but I will positively not

keep you a flapper. You may read, in Dr. Swift, the description of

these flappers, and the use they were of to their friends.

DANCING.--Learn to dance, not so much for the sake of dancing, as for

coming into a room, and presenting yourself genteelly and gracefully.

Women, whom you ought to endeavor to please, cannot forgive a vulgar

and awkward air and gesture; _il leur faut du brillant_. The generality

of men are pretty like them, and are equally taken by the same exterior

graces. [_Same date._]

FINERY UNFIT FOR THE OLD.--I am very glad that you have received the

diamond buckles safe: all I desire in return for them is, that they may

be buckled upon your feet, and that your stockings may not hide them. I

should be sorry you were an egregious fop; but I protest that, of the

two, I would rather have you a fop than a sloven. I think negligence

in my own dress, even at my age, when certainly I expect no advantages

from my dress, would be indecent with regard to others. I have done

with fine clothes; but I will have my plain clothes fit me, and made

like other people’s. In the evenings I recommend to you the company

of women of fashion, who have a right to attention, and will be paid

it. Their company will smooth your manners, and give you a habit of

attention and respect; of which you will find the advantage among men.

My plan for you, from the beginning, has been to make you shine equally

in the learned and in the polite world; the former part is almost

completed to my wishes, and will, I am persuaded, in a little time more

be quite so. The latter part is still in your power to complete; and I

flatter myself that you will do it, or else the former part will avail

you very little; especially in your department, where the exterior

address and graces do half the business; they must be the harbingers of

your merit, or your merit will be very coldly received: all can and do

judge of the former, few of the latter.

Mr. Harte tells me that you have grown very much since your illness;

if you get up to five feet ten, or even nine inches, your figure will,

probably, be a good one. [_Same date._]

MIS-SENT LETTERS.--Our letters go, at best, so irregularly, and so

often miscarry totally, that, for greater security, I repeat the same

things. So, though I acknowledge by last post Mr. Harte’s letter of

the 8th September, N. S., I acknowledge it again by this to you.[41]

[_Same date._]

BEND TO CEREMONY.--_Apropos_ of the Pope, remember to be presented to

him before you leave Rome, and go through the necessary ceremonies for

it, whether of kissing his slipper or his breech; for I would never

deprive myself of anything that I wanted to do or see by refusing to

comply with an established custom. When I was in Catholic countries,

I never declined kneeling in their churches at the elevation, nor

elsewhere, when the host went by. It is a complaisance due to the

custom of the place, and by no means, as some silly people have

imagined, an implied approbation of their doctrine. Bodily attitudes

and situations are things so very indifferent in themselves, that I

would quarrel with nobody about them. It may, indeed, be improper for

Mr. Harte to pay that tribute of complaisance, upon account of his

character. [_Same date._]

THE VULGAR MAN--TRIFLES--VULGARISM.--A vulgar man is captious and

jealous; eager and impetuous about trifles. He suspects himself to be

slighted, thinks everything that is said meant at him; if the company

happens to laugh, he is persuaded they laugh at him; he grows angry

and testy, says something very impertinent, and draws himself into

a scrape, by showing what he calls a proper spirit, and asserting

himself. A man of fashion does not suppose himself to be either the

sole or principal object of the thoughts, looks, or words of the

company; and never suspects that he is either slighted or laughed at,

unless he is conscious that he deserves it. And if (which very seldom

happens) the company is absurd or ill-bred enough to do either, he

does not care twopence, unless the insult be so gross and plain as to

require satisfaction of another kind. As he is above trifles, he is

never vehement and eager about them; and, wherever they are concerned,

rather acquiesces than wrangles. A vulgar man’s conversation always

savors strongly of the lowness of his education and company. It turns

chiefly upon his domestic affairs, his servants, the excellent order he

keeps in his own family, and the little anecdotes of the neighborhood;

all which he relates with emphasis, as interesting matters. He is a man

gossip.

Vulgarism in language is the next and distinguishing characteristic of

bad company and a bad education. A man of fashion avoids nothing with

more care than that. Proverbial expressions, and trite sayings, are the

flowers of the rhetoric of a vulgar man. Would he say, that men differ

in their tastes, he both supports and adorns that opinion, by the good

old saying, as he respectfully calls it, that _what is one man’s meat

is another man’s poison_. If anybody attempts being _smart_, as he

calls it, upon him, he gives them _tit for tat_, ay, that he does. He

has always some favorite word for the time being, which, for the sake

of using often, he commonly abuses. Such as _vastly_ angry, _vastly_

kind, _vastly_ handsome, and _vastly_ ugly. Even his pronunciation of

proper words carries the mark of the beast along with it. He calls the

earth _yearth_; he is _obleiged_[42] not _obliged_ to you. He goes _to

wards_, and not towards such a place. He sometimes affects hard words,

by way of ornament, which he always mangles like a learned woman. A man

of fashion never has recourse to proverbs and vulgar aphorisms: uses

neither favorite words nor hard words, but takes great care to speak

very correctly and grammatically, and to pronounce properly; that is,

according to the usage of the best companies. [_Sept. 27, 1749._]

LEFT-HANDEDNESS.--An awkward address, ungraceful attitudes and actions,

and a certain left-handedness (if I may use that word) loudly proclaim

low education and low company; for it is impossible to suppose that a

man can have frequented good company without having catched something,

at least, of their air and motions. A new-raised man is distinguished

in a regiment by his awkwardness; but he must be impenetrably dull if,

in a month or two’s time, he cannot perform at least the common manual

exercise, and look like a soldier. The very accoutrements of a man of

fashion are grievous incumbrances to a vulgar man. He is at a loss

what to do with his hat, when it is not upon his head; his cane (if

unfortunately he wears one) is at perpetual war with every cup of tea

or coffee he drinks; destroys them first, and then accompanies them in

their fall.

A NOBLE EASE AND GRACE.--Do not imagine that these accomplishments

are only useful with women; they are much more so with men. In a

public assembly, what an advantage has a graceful speaker, with

genteel motions, a handsome figure, and a liberal air, over one, who

shall speak full as much sense, but destitute of these ornaments! In

business, how prevalent are the graces, how detrimental is the want

of them! By the help of these I have known some men refuse favors

less offensively than others granted them. The utility of them in

courts and negotiations is inconceivable. You gain the hearts, and

consequently the secrets, of nine in ten that you have to do with, in

spite even of their prudence; which will, nine times in ten, be the

dupe of their hearts and of their senses. Consider the importance of

these things as they deserve, and you will not lose one moment in the

pursuit of them. [_Same date._]

THE FRIBBLE AND THE VIRTUOSO.--No piping nor fiddling, I beseech you;

no days lost in poring upon almost imperceptible _intaglios_ and

_cameos_: and do not become a virtuoso of small wares. Form a taste

of painting, sculpture, and architecture, if you please, by a careful

examination of the works of the best ancient and modern artists; those

are liberal arts, and a real taste and knowledge of them become a man

of fashion very well. But, beyond certain bounds, the man of taste

ends, and the frivolous virtuoso begins.

Your friend Mendes, the good Samaritan, dined with me yesterday. He

has more good nature and generosity, than parts. However, I will show

him all the civilities that his kindness to you so justly deserves;

he tells me that you are taller than I am, which I am very glad of.

I desire you may excel me in everything else too; and, far from

repining, I shall rejoice at your superiority. [_Same date._]

FREQUENT LETTERS.--Indeed the irregularity and negligence of the post

provoke me, as they break the thread of the accounts I want to receive

from you, and of the instructions and orders which I send you almost

every post. Of these last twenty posts, I am sure that I have wrote

eighteen, either to you or to Mr. Harte, and it does not appear, by

your letter, that all, or even any of my letters have been received. I

desire, for the future, that both you and Mr. Harte will constantly, in

your letters, mention the dates of mine. [_Oct. 2, 1749._]

PROPER EXPENSES TO BE PAID.--As to the expense which you mention, I

do not regard it in the least; from your infancy to this day, I never

grudged any expense in your education, and still less do it now, that

it is become more important and decisive. I attend to the objects

of your expenses, but not to the sums. I will certainly not pay one

shilling for your losing your nose, your money, or your reason; that

is, I will not contribute to women, gaming, and drinking. But I will

most cheerfully supply, not only every necessary, but every decent

expense you can make. I do not care what the best masters cost. I would

have you as well dressed, lodged, and attended, as any reasonable man

of fashion in his travels. I would have you have that pocket-money that

should enable you to make the proper expense, _d’un honnête homme_.

In short, I bar no expense, that has neither vice nor folly for its

object; and under those two reasonable restrictions, draw and welcome.

[_Same date._]

A PORTRAIT.--So many of my letters have miscarried, and I know so

little which, that I am forced to repeat the same thing over and over

again eventually. This is one. I have wrote twice to Mr. Harte, to

have your picture drawn in miniature, while you were at Venice, and

to send it me in a letter: it is all one to me, whether in enamel or

in water-colors, provided it is but very like you. I would have you

drawn exactly as you are, and in no whimsical dress. I lay more stress

upon the likeness of the picture, than upon the taste and skill of the

painter. If this be not already done, I desire that you will have it

done forthwith, before you leave Venice; and enclose it in a letter

to me; which letter, for greater security, I would have you desire

Sir James Gray to enclose in his packet to the office; as I, for the

same reason, send this under his cover. If the picture be done upon

vellum, it will be the most portable. Send me, at the same time, a

thread or silk of your own length, exactly. I am solicitous about

your figure; convinced, by a thousand instances, that a good one is a

real advantage. _Mens sana in corpore sano_, is the first and greatest

blessing. I would add, _et pulchro_, to complete it. May you have that,

and every other! Adieu. [_Same date._]

A CENTURY AGO.--The papal power, founded originally upon the ignorance

and superstition of mankind, extended by the weakness of some princes,

and the ambition of others; is declining of late, in proportion as

knowledge has increased; and owing its present precarious security not

to the religion, the affection, or the fear, of the temporal powers,

but to their jealousy of each other. The Pope’s excommunications are no

longer dreaded; his indulgences little solicited, and sell very cheap;

and his territories, formidable to no power, are coveted by many, and

will, most undoubtedly, within a century, be scantled out among the

great powers, who have now a footing in Italy; whenever they can agree

upon the division of the bear’s skin. [_Oct. 9, 1749._]

THE JESUITS.--They have, by turns, been banished, and with infamy,

almost every country in Europe; and have always found means to be

restored, even with triumph. In short, I know no government in the

world that is carried on upon such deep principles of policy, I will

not add morality. Converse with them, frequent them, court them; _but

know them_.

Inform yourself too of that infernal court, the inquisition; which,

though not so considerable at Rome as in Spain and Portugal, will,

however, be a good sample to you of what the villainy of some men can

contrive, the folly of others receive, and both together establish; in

spite of the first natural principles of reason, justice, and equity.

[_Same date._]

MILITARY STUDY.--Go with some engineer or old officer, and view, with

care, the real fortifications of some strong place; and you will get

a clearer idea of bastions, half-moons, horn-works, ravelins, glacis,

etc., than all the masters in the world could give you upon paper.

And thus much I would, by all means, have you know of both civil and

military architecture. [_Oct. 17, 1749._]

A FATHER’S OBJECT.--DEAR BOY: From the time that you have had life,

it has been the principal and favorite object of mine, to make you as

perfect as the imperfections of human nature will allow; in this view

I have grudged no pains nor expense in your education; convinced that

education, more than nature, is the cause of that great difference

which we see in the characters of men. While you, were a child, I

endeavored to form your heart habitually to virtue and honor, before

your understanding was capable of showing you their beauty and utility.

Those principles, which you then got like your grammar rules, only

by rote, are now, I am persuaded, fixed and confirmed by reason. And

indeed they are so plain and clear, that they require but a very

moderate degree of understanding, either to comprehend or practice

them. Lord Shaftesbury says, very prettily, that he would be virtuous

for his own sake, though nobody were to know it; as he would be clean

for his own sake, though nobody were to see him. I have therefore,

since you have had the use of your reason, never written to you upon

those subjects; they speak best for themselves; and I should, now, just

as soon think of warning you gravely not to fall into the dirt or the

fire, as into dishonor or vice. [_Nov. 5, 1749._]

GOOD BREEDING.--A friend of yours and mine has very justly defined

good breeding to be _the result of much good sense, some good nature,

and a little self-denial for the sake of others, and with a view to

obtain the same indulgence from them_. Taking this for granted (as I

think it cannot be disputed), it is astonishing to me, that anybody,

who has good sense and good nature (and I believe you have both), can

essentially fail in good breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, they

vary according to persons, places, and circumstances; and are only to

be acquired by observation and experience; but the substance of it is

everywhere and eternally the same. Good-manners are, to particular

societies, what good morals are to society in general--their cement

and their security. And as laws are enacted to enforce good morals,

or at least to prevent the ill-effects of bad ones, so there are

certain rules of civility, universally implied and received, to enforce

good manners, and punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to be less

difference, both between the crimes and punishments, than at first one

would imagine. The immoral man, who invades another’s property, is

justly hanged for it; and the ill-bred man, who, by his ill-manners,

invades and disturbs the quiet comforts of private life, is by common

consent as justly banished from society. Mutual complaisances,

attentions, and sacrifices of little conveniences, are as natural an

implied compact between civilized people, as protection and obedience

are between kings and subjects; whoever, in either case, violates that

compact, justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own

part, I really think that, next to the consciousness of doing a good

action, that of doing a civil one is the most pleasing; and the epithet

which I should covet the most, next to that of Aristides, would be that

of well-bred. [_Same date._]

MIXED COMPANY--LEARNING--PEDANTS.--In mixed companies, whoever is

admitted to make part of them is, for the time at least, supposed to be

upon a footing of equality with the rest; and, consequently, as there

is no one principal object of awe and respect, people are apt to take

a greater latitude in their behavior, and to be less upon their guard;

and so they may, provided it be within certain bounds, which are upon

no occasion to be transgressed. But, upon these occasions, though no

one is entitled to distinguished marks of respect, every one claims,

and very justly, every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is

allowed, but carelessness and negligence are strictly forbidden. If

a man accosts you, and talks to you ever so dully or frivolously, it

is worse than rudeness, it is brutality, to show him, by a manifest

inattention to what he says, that you think him a fool or a blockhead,

and not worth hearing. It is much more so with regard to women; who, of

whatever rank they are, are entitled, in consideration of their sex,

not only to an attentive, but an officious good breeding from men.

NOT TOO MUCH FAMILIARITY.--The most familiar and intimate habitudes,

connections, and friendships require a degree of good breeding both

to preserve and cement them. If ever a man and his wife, or a man and

his mistress, who pass nights as well as days together, absolutely

lay aside all good breeding, their intimacy will soon degenerate into

a coarse familiarity, infallibly productive of contempt or disgust.

The best of us have our bad sides; and it is as imprudent, as it is

ill-bred, to exhibit them. I shall certainly not use ceremony with you;

it would be misplaced between us: but I shall certainly observe that

degree of good breeding with you, which is, in the first place, decent,

and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary to make us like one

another’s company long.

The deepest learning, without good breeding, is unwelcome and

tiresome pedantry, and of use nowhere but in a man’s own closet; and

consequently of little or no use at all.

A man, who is not perfectly well-bred, is unfit for good company, and

unwelcome in it; will consequently dislike it soon, afterward renounce

it; and be reduced to solitude, or, what is worse, low and bad company.

A man, who is not well-bred, is full as unfit for business as for

company.

Make then, my dear child, I conjure you, good breeding the great object

of your thoughts and actions at least half the day. Observe carefully

the behavior and manners of those who are distinguished by their

good breeding; imitate, nay, endeavor to excel, that you may at least

reach them; and be convinced that good breeding is, to all worldly

qualifications, what charity is to all Christian virtues. Observe how

it adorns merit, and how often it covers the want of it. May you wear

it to adorn, and not to cover you! Adieu. [_Same date._]

PERSONAL GRACES.--These personal graces are of very great consequence.

They anticipate the sentiments, before merit can engage the

understanding; they captivate the heart, and gave rise, I believe, to

the extravagant notions of charms and philters. Their efforts were so

surprising, that they were reckoned supernatural. The most graceful and

best-bred men, and the handsomest and genteelest women, give the most

philters; and, as I verily believe, without the least assistance of

the Devil. Pray be not only well dressed, but shining in your dress;

let it have _du brillant_: I do not mean by a clumsy load of gold and

silver, but by the taste and fashion of it. Women like and require it;

they think it an attention due to them. [_Nov. 14, 1749._]

DANCING YOUTH.--You danced pretty well here, and ought to dance very

well before you come home; for what one is obliged to do sometimes, one

ought to be able to do well. Besides, _la belle danse donne du brillant

à un jeune homme_. And you should endeavor to shine. A calm serenity,

negative merit and graces, do not become your age. You should be

_alerte_, _adroit_, _vif_; be wanted, talked of, impatiently expected,

and unwillingly parted with in company. I should be glad to hear half

a dozen women of fashion say: “_Où est donc le petit Stanhope? Que ne

vient-il? Il faut avouer qu’il est aimable._” All this I do not mean

singly with regard to women as the principal object; but with regard to

men, and with a view of your making yourself considerable. For, with

very small variations, the same things that please women please men.

[_Same date._]

ILL BREEDING.--My last was upon the subject of good breeding; but, I

think, it rather set before you the unfitness and disadvantages of

ill breeding, than the utility and necessity of good; it was rather

negative than positive. This, therefore, shall go further, and

explain to you the necessity, which you, of all people living, lie

under, not only of being positively and actively well-bred, but of

shining and distinguishing yourself by your good breeding. Consider

your own situation in every particular, and judge whether it is not

essentially your interest, by your own good breeding to others, to

secure theirs to you; and that, let me assure you, is the only way of

doing it; for people will repay, and with interest too, inattention

with inattention, neglect with neglect, and ill-manners with worse;

which may engage you in very disagreeable affairs. In the next place

your profession requires, more than any other, the nicest and most

distinguished good breeding. You will negotiate with very little

success, if you do not, previously, by your manners, conciliate and

engage the affections of those with whom you are to negotiate. Can

you ever get into the confidence and the secrets of the courts where

you may happen to reside, if you have not those pleasing, insinuating

manners, which alone can procure them? Upon my word, I do not say too

much, when I say that superior good breeding, insinuating manners, and

genteel address are half your business. Your knowledge will have but

very little influence upon the mind, if your manners prejudice the

heart against you; but, on the other hand, how easily will you _dupe_

the understanding, where you have first engaged the heart? and hearts

are, by no means, to be gained by that mere common civility which

everybody practises. Bowing again to those who bow to you, answering

dryly those who speak to you, and saying nothing offensive to anybody,

is such negative good breeding that it is only not being a brute; as it

would be but a very poor commendation of any man’s cleanliness to say

that he did not stink. It is an active, cheerful, officious, seducing

good breeding that must gain you the good-will and first sentiments

of the men, and the affections of the women. You must carefully watch

and attend to their passions, their tastes, their little humors

and weaknesses, and _aller au devant_. You must do it, at the same

time, with alacrity and _empressement_, and not as if you graciously

condescended to humor their weaknesses.

For instance; suppose you invited anybody to dine or sup with you,

you ought to recollect if you had observed that they had any favorite

dish, and take care to provide it for them: and, when it came, you

should say: “_You seemed to me, at such and such a place, to give this

dish a preference, and therefore I ordered it. This is the wine that I

observed you liked, and therefore I procured some._” The more trifling

these things are, the more they prove your attention for the person,

and are consequently the more engaging. Consult your own breast, and

recollect how these little attentions, when shown you by others,

flatter that degree of self-love and vanity, from which no man living,

is free. Reflect how they incline and attract you to that person, and

how you are propitiated afterward to all which that person says or

does. The same causes will have the same effects in your favor.

ATTENTIONS TO LADIES.--Women, in a great degree, establish or destroy

every man’s reputation of good breeding; you must, therefore, in a

manner, overwhelm them with the attentions of which I have spoken;

they are used to them, they expect them; and, to do them justice, they

commonly requite them. You must be sedulous, and rather over officious

than under, in procuring them their coaches, their chairs, their

conveniences in public places; not see what you should not see; and

rather assist, where you cannot help seeing. Opportunities of showing

these attentions present themselves perpetually; but if they do not,

make them. As Ovid advises his lover, when he sits in the _circus_ near

his mistress, to wipe the dust off her neck, even if there be none.

_Si nullus, tamen excute nullum._ Your conversation with women should

always be respectful; but, at the same time, _enjoué_, and always

addressed to their vanity. Everything you say or do should convince

them of the regard you have (whether you have it or not) for their

beauty, their wit, or their merit. Men have possibly as much vanity as

women, though of another kind; and both art and good breeding require

that, instead of mortifying, you should please and flatter it, by words

and looks of approbation. Suppose (which is by no means improbable)

that, at your return to England, I should place you near the person

of some one of the royal family; in that situation, good breeding,

engaging address, adorned with all the graces that dwell at courts,

would very probably make you a favorite, and from a favorite, a

minister; but all the knowledge and learning in the world, without

them, never would. The penetration of princes seldom goes deeper than

the surface. It is the exterior that always engages their hearts; and

I would never advise you to give yourself much trouble about their

understandings. Princes in general (I mean those _Porphyrogenets_

who are born and bred in purple) are about the pitch of women; bred

up like them, and are to be addressed and gained in the same manner.

They always see, they seldom weigh. Your lustre, not your solidity,

must take them; your inside will afterward support and secure what

your outside has acquired. With weak people (and they undoubtedly are

three parts in four of mankind) good breeding, address, and manners are

everything; they can go no deeper; but let me assure you that they are

a great deal, even with people of the best understandings. Where the

eyes are not pleased, the heart is not flattered, the mind will be apt

to stand out. Be this right or wrong, I confess I am so made myself.

Awkwardness and ill breeding shock me, to that degree, that where I

meet with them, I cannot find in my heart to inquire into the intrinsic

merit of that person; I hastily decide in myself that he can have none;

and am not sure I should not even be sorry to know that he had any. I

often paint you in my imagination, in your present _lontananza_; and,

while I view you in the light of ancient and modern learning, useful

and ornamental knowledge, I am charmed with the prospect; but when

I view you in another light, and represent you awkward, ungraceful,

ill-bred, with vulgar air and manners, shambling towards me with

inattention and _distractions_, I shall not pretend to describe to you

what I feel; but will do as a skilful painter did formerly, draw a veil

before the countenance of the father.

I dare say you know already enough of architecture, to know that the

Tuscan is the strongest and most solid of all the orders; but, at the

same time, it is the coarsest and clumsiest of them. Its solidity does

extremely well for the foundation and base floor of a great edifice;

but, if the whole building be Tuscan, it will attract no eyes, it will

stop no passengers, it will invite no interior examination; people

will take it for granted that the finishing and furnishing cannot

be worth seeing, where the front is so unadorned and clumsy. But

if, upon the solid Tuscan foundation, the Doric, the Ionic, and the

Corinthian orders, rise gradually with all their beauty, proportions,

and ornaments, the fabric seizes the most incurious eye, and stops the

most careless passenger; who solicits admission as a favor, nay, often

purchases it. Just so will it fare with your little fabric, which, at

present, I fear, has more of the Tuscan than the Corinthian order.

You must absolutely change the whole front, or nobody will knock at

the door. The several parts, which must compose this new front, are

elegant, easy, natural, superior good breeding; an engaging address;

genteel motions; an insinuating softness in your looks, words, and

actions; a spruce, lively air, and fashionable dress; and all the

glitter that a young fellow should have. [_No date._]

LEARNING AND POLITENESS.--I have often asserted, that the profoundest

learning, and the politest manners, were by no means incompatible,

though so seldom found united in the same person; and I have engaged

myself to exhibit you, as a proof of the truth of this assertion.

Should you, instead of that, happen to disprove me, the concern indeed

will be mine, but the loss will be yours. Lord Bolingbroke is a

strong instance on my side of the question; he joins, to the deepest

erudition, the most elegant politeness and good breeding that ever any

courtier and man of the world was adorned with. And Pope very justly

called him All Accomplished St. John, with regard to his knowledge

and his manners. He had, it is true, his faults; which proceeded from

unbounded ambition and impetuous passions; but they have now subsided

by age and experience; and I can wish you nothing better than to be,

what he is now, without being what he has been formerly. His address

pre-engages, his eloquence persuades, and his knowledge informs all

who approach him. Upon the whole, I do desire, and insist, that, from

after dinner till you go to bed, you make good breeding, address, and

manners your serious object and your only care. Without them, you will

be nobody; with them, you may be anything. [_No date._]

PROPER DISTINCTION.--Every rational being (I take it for granted)

proposes to himself some object more important than mere respiration

and obscure animal existence. He desires to distinguish himself among

his fellow-creatures; and _alicui negotio intentus, præclari facinoris,

aut artis bonæ, famam quærit_. Cæsar, when embarking, in a storm, said,

that it was not necessary he should live; but that it was absolutely

necessary he should get to the place to which he was going. And Pliny

leaves mankind this only alternative; either of doing what deserves to

be written, or of writing what deserves to be read. As for those who

do neither, _eorum vitam mortemque juxta æstumo; quoniam de utraque

siletur_. You have, I am convinced, one or both of these objects in

view; but you must know, and use the necessary means, or your pursuit

will be vain and frivolous. In either case, _capere est principium et

fons_; but it is by no means all. That knowledge must be adorned, it

must have lustre as well as weight, or it will be oftener taken for

lead than for gold. Knowledge you have, and will have; I am easy upon

that article. But my business, as your friend, is not to compliment you

upon what you have, but to tell you with freedom what you want; and I

must tell you plainly, that I fear you want everything but knowledge.

[_Nov. 24, 1749._]

STYLE.--It is not every understanding that can judge of matter; but

every ear can and does judge, more or less, of style; and were I

either to speak or write to the public, I should prefer moderate

matter, adorned with all the beauties and elegancies of style, to the

strongest matter in the world, ill worded and ill delivered. Your

business is, negotiation abroad, and oratory in the House of Commons

at home. What figure can you make in either case, if your style be

inelegant, I do not say bad? Imagine yourself writing an office-letter

to a secretary of state, which letter is to be read by the whole

cabinet council, and very possibly afterward, laid before parliament;

any one barbarism, solecism, or vulgarism in it would, in a very

few days, circulate through the whole kingdom, to your disgrace and

ridicule. For instance; I will suppose you had written the following

letter from The Hague to the secretary of state at London, and leave

you to suppose the consequences of it:

“MY LORD,--I _had_, last night, the honor of your lordship’s letter, of

the 24th; and will _set about doing_ the orders contained _therein_;

and _if so be_ that I can get that affair done by the next post, I will

not fail _for to_ give your lordship an account of it by _next post_.

I have told the French minister _as how_, _that if_ that affair be not

soon concluded, your lordship would think it _all long of him_; and

that he must have neglected _for to_ have wrote to his court about

it. I must beg leave to put your lordship in mind, _as how_, that I am

now full three quarters in arrear; and if _so be_ that I do not very

soon receive at least one half year, I shall _cut a very bad figure_;

for _this here_ place is very dear. I shall be _vastly beholden_ to

your lordship for _that there_ mark of your favor; and so I _rest_, or

_remain_, Yours,” etc.

You will tell me, possibly, that this is a _caricatura_ of an illiberal

and inelegant style; I will admit it; but assure you, at the same

time, that a dispatch with less than half these faults would blow you

up forever. It is by no means sufficient to be free from faults in

speaking and writing; you must do both correctly and elegantly. [_Same

date._]

MISPRONUNCIATION AND MISUSE OF WORDS.--A person of the House of

Commons, speaking two years ago upon naval affairs, asserted, that we

had then the finest navy _upon the face of the yearth_. This happy

mixture of blunder and vulgarism, you may easily imagine, was matter

of immediate ridicule; but I can assure you that it continues so

still, and will be remembered as long as he lives and speaks. Another,

speaking in defence of a gentleman, upon whom a censure was moved,

happily said that he thought that gentleman was more _liable_ to be

thanked and rewarded, than censured. You know, I presume, that _liable_

can never be used in a good sense. [_Same date._]

BOOKS FOR ORATORY.--You have read Quintilian--the best book in the

world to form an orator; pray read _Cicero, de Oratore_--the best book

in the world to finish one. Translate and retranslate, from and to

Latin, Greek, and English; make yourself a pure and elegant English

style: it requires nothing but application. I do not find that God has

made you a poet; and I am very glad that he has not; therefore, for

God’s sake, make yourself an orator, which you may do. Though I still

call you a boy, I consider you no longer as such; and when I reflect

upon the prodigious quantity of manure that has been laid upon you, I

expect you should produce more at eighteen, than uncultivated soils do

at eight and twenty. [_Same date._]

CHESTERFIELD A CENSOR-CRITIC.--While the Roman republic flourished,

while glory was pursued and virtue practised, and while even little

irregularities and indecencies, not cognizable by law, were, however,

not thought below the public care, censors were established,

discretionally to supply, in particular cases, the inevitable defects

of the law, which must, and can only be general. This employment I

assume to myself, with regard to your little republic, leaving the

legislative power entirely to Mr. Harte; I hope, and believe, that

he will seldom, or rather never, have occasion to exert his supreme

authority; and I do by no means suspect you of any faults that may

require that interposition. But, to tell you the plain truth, I am

of opinion, that my censorial power will not be useless to you, nor

a _sinecure_ to me. The sooner you make it both, the better for us

both. I can now exercise this employment only upon hearsay, or, at

most, written evidence; and therefore shall exercise it with great

lenity, and some diffidence; but when we meet, and that I can form

my judgment upon ocular and auricular evidence, I shall no more let

the least impropriety, indecorum, or irregularity pass uncensured,

than my predecessor Cato did. I shall read you with the attention of

a critic, not with the partiality of an author: different in this

respect, indeed, from most critics, that I shall seek for faults only

to correct, and not to expose them. [_Nov. 26, 1749._]

NICKNAMES.--The little defects in manners, elocution, address, and

air (and even of figure, though very unjustly), are the objects of

ridicule, and the causes of nicknames. You cannot imagine the grief

it would give me, and the prejudice it would do you, if, by way of

distinguishing you from others of your name, you should happen to be

called Muttering Stanhope, Absent Stanhope, Ill-bred Stanhope, or

Awkward, Left-legged Stanhope; therefore, take great care to put it out

of the power of ridicule itself to give you any of these ridiculous

epithets; for, if you get one, it will stick to you like the envenomed

shirt. The very first day that I see you, I shall be able to tell you,

and certainly shall tell you, what degree of danger you are in; and I

hope that my admonitions, as censor, may prevent the censures of the

public. [_Same date._]

YOUNG STANHOPE’S PORTRAIT.--I send you here a portrait, drawn by a

lady at Venice, by my orders: “In compliance to your orders, I have

examined young Stanhope carefully, and think I have penetrated into

his character. This is his portrait, which I take to be a faithful

one. His face is pleasing, his countenance sensible, and his look

clever. His figure is at present rather too square; but if he shoots

up, which he has matter and years for, he will then be of a good size.

He has, undoubtedly, a great fund of acquired knowledge; I am assured

that he is master of the learned languages. As for French, I know he

speaks it perfectly, and I am told German, as well. The questions he

asks are judicious, and denote a thirst after knowledge. I cannot

say that he appears equally desirous of pleasing, for he seems to

neglect attentions and the graces. He does not come into a room well,

nor has he that easy, noble carriage, which would be proper for him.

It is true, he is as yet young and inexperienced; one may therefore

reasonably hope that his exercises, which he has not yet gone through,

and good company, in which he is still a novice, will polish, and give

all that is wanting to complete him. What seems necessary for that

purpose, would be an attachment to some woman of fashion, and who knows

the world. Some Madame de L’Ursay would be the proper person. In short,

I can assure you that he has everything which Lord Chesterfield can

wish him, excepting that carriage, those graces, and the style used

in the best company; which he will certainly acquire in time, and by

frequenting the polite world. If he should not, it would be great pity,

since he so well deserves to possess them. You know their importance.

My lord, his father, knows it too, he being master of them all. To

conclude, if little Stanhope acquires the graces, I promise you he will

make his way; if not, he will be stopped in a course, the goal of which

he might attain with honor.”[43]

MAN UNRATIONAL, YET ALL MEN THE SAME IN FEELING.--Those who suppose

that men in general act rationally, because they are called rational

creatures, know very little of the world; and if they act themselves

upon that supposition, will, nine times in ten, find themselves

grossly mistaken. That man is, _animal bipes_, _implume_, _risibile_,

I entirely agree; but for the _rationale_, I can only allow it him in

_actu primo_ (to talk logic), and seldom _in actu secundo_. Thus, the

speculative, cloistered pedant, in his solitary cell, forms systems of

things, as they should be, not as they are; and writes as decisively

and absurdly upon war, politics, manners, and characters, as that

pedant talked, who was so kind as to instruct Hannibal in the art of

war. Such closet politicians never fail to assign the deepest motives

for the most trifling actions; instead of often ascribing the greatest

actions to the most trifling causes, in which they would be much

seldomer mistaken. They read and write of kings, heroes, and statesmen,

as never do anything but upon the deepest principles of sound policy.

But those who see and observe kings, heroes, and statesmen, discover

that they have headaches, indigestions, humors, and passions, just

like other people; every one of which, in their turns, determine their

wills, in defiance of their reason. [_Dec. 5, 1749._]

CHARM OF MANNER.--The late Lord Townshend always spoke materially,

with argument and knowledge, but never pleased. Why? His diction was

not only inelegant, but frequently ungrammatical, always vulgar; his

cadences false, his voice unharmonious, and his action ungraceful.

Nobody heard him with patience; and the young fellows used to joke

upon him, and repeat his inaccuracies. The late Duke of Argyle, though

the weakest reasoner, was the most pleasing speaker I ever knew in

my life. He charmed, he warmed, he forcibly ravished the audience;

not by his matter certainly, but by his manner of delivering it. A

most genteel figure, a graceful, noble air, an harmonious voice, an

elegancy of style, and a strength of emphasis, conspired to make him

the most affecting, persuasive, and applauded speaker I ever saw. I was

captivated like others; but when I came home, and coolly considered

what he had said, stripped of all those ornaments in which he had

dressed it, I often found the matter flimsy, the arguments weak,

and I was convinced of the power of those adventitious concurring

circumstances, which ignorance of mankind only, calls trifling ones.

[_Same date._]

TICKLING FOLLIES.--If you will please people, you must please them

in their own way; and, as you cannot make them what they should be,

you must take them as they are. I repeat it again, they are only to

be taken by _agrémens_, and by what flatters their senses and their

hearts. Rabelais first wrote a most excellent book, which nobody liked;

then, determined to conform to the public taste, he wrote “Gargantua

and Pantagruel,” which everybody liked, extravagant as it was. Adieu.

[_Same date._]

TRUE ELOCUTION.--What then does all this mighty heart and mystery of

speaking in Parliament amount to? Why, no more than this, that the man

who speaks in the House of Commons, speaks in that house, and to four

hundred people, that opinion, upon a given subject, which he would make

no difficulty of speaking in any house in England, round the fire, or

at table, to any fourteen people whatsoever; better judges, perhaps,

and severer critics of what he says, than any fourteen gentlemen of the

House of Commons.

I have spoken frequently in Parliament, and not always without some

applause; and therefore I can assure you, from my experience, that

there is very little in it. The elegancy of the style, and the turn of

the periods, make the chief impression upon the hearers. Give them but

one or two round and harmonious periods in a speech, which they will

retain and repeat, and they will go home as well satisfied, as people

do from an opera, humming all the way one or two favorite tunes that

have struck their ears and were easily caught. Most people have ears,

but few have judgment; tickle those ears, and, depend upon it, you will

catch their judgments, such as they are. [_Dec. 9, 1749._]

HAMPDEN A LESSON.--Lord Clarendon, in his history, says of Mr. John

Hampden, _that he had a head to contrive, a tongue to persuade, and a

hand to execute, any mischief_. I shall not now enter into the justness

of this character of Mr. Hampden, to whose brave stand against the

illegal demand of ship-money, we owe our present liberties; but I

mention it to you as the character, which, with the alteration of one

single word, _good_, instead of _mischief_, I would have you aspire

to, and use your utmost endeavors to deserve. The head to contrive,

God must to a certain degree have given you; but it is in your own

power greatly to improve it, by study, observation, and reflection.

As for the _tongue to persuade_, it wholly depends upon yourself; and

without it the best head will contrive to very little purpose. The hand

to execute depends, likewise, in my opinion, in a great measure upon

yourself. Serious reflection will always give courage in a good cause;

and the courage arising from reflection is of a much superior nature to

the animal and constitutional courage of a foot-soldier. The former is

steady and unshaken, where the _nodus_ is _dignus vindice_; the latter

is oftener improperly than properly exerted, but always brutally.

[_Dec. 12, 1749._]

THINGS OF CONSEQUENCE--BOLINGBROKE.--He thought all these things of

consequence, and he thought right; pray do you think so too? It is

of the utmost consequence to you to be of that opinion. If you have

the least defect in your elocution, take the utmost care and pains to

correct it. Do not neglect your style, whatever language you speak in,

or whomever you speak to, were it your footman. Seek always for the

best words and the happiest expressions you can find. Do not content

yourself with being barely understood; but adorn your thoughts, and

dress them as you would your person; which, however well proportioned

it might be, it would be very improper and indecent to exhibit naked,

or even worse dressed than people of your sort are.

I have sent you, in a packet which your Leipsic acquaintance, Duval,

sends to his correspondent at Rome, Lord Bolingbroke’s book,[44] which

he published about a year ago. I desire that you will read it over

and over again, with particular attention to the style, and to all

those beauties of oratory with which it is adorned. Till I read that

book, I confess I did not know all the extent and powers of the English

language. Lord Bolingbroke has both a tongue and a pen to persuade.

[_Same date._]

COMPLICATED MACHINES.--I have often told you (and it is most true)

that, with regard to mankind, we must not draw general conclusions

from certain particular principles, though, in the main, true ones. We

must not suppose that, because a man is a rational animal, he will,

therefore, always act rationally; or, because he has such or such a

predominant passion, that he will act invariably and consequentially in

the pursuit of it. No, we are complicated machines; and though we have

one main spring that gives motion to the whole, we have an infinity

of little wheels, which, in their turns, retard, precipitate, and

sometimes stop that motion. [_Dec. 19, 1749._]

AMBITION AND AVARICE.--There are two inconsistent passions, which,

however, frequently accompany each other, like man and wife; and

which, like man and wife too, are commonly clogs upon each other. I

mean ambition and avarice: the latter is often the true cause of

the former; and then is the predominant passion. It seems to have

been so in Cardinal Mazarin; who did anything, submitted to anything,

and forgave anything, for the sake of plunder. He loved and courted

power like a usurer; because it carried profit along with it. Whoever

should have formed his opinion, or taken his measures, singly, from

the ambitious part of Cardinal Mazarin’s character, would have found

himself often mistaken. Some, who had found this out, made their

fortunes by letting him cheat them at play. On the contrary, Cardinal

Richelieu’s prevailing passion seems to have been ambition, and

his immense riches, only the natural consequences of that ambition

gratified; and yet, I make no doubt but that ambition had now and then

its turn with the former, and avarice with the latter. Richelieu (by

the way) is so strong a proof of the inconsistency of human nature,

that I cannot help observing to you that, while he absolutely governed

both his king and his country, and was, in a great degree, the arbiter

of the fate of all Europe, he was more jealous of the great reputation

of Corneille, than of the power of Spain; and more flattered with being

thought (what he was not) the best poet, than with being thought (what

he certainly was) the greatest statesman in Europe; and affairs stood

still, while he was concerting the criticism upon the _Cid_. Could one

think this possible, if one did not know it to be true? [_Same date._]

WOMEN, VANITY, AND LOVE.--Women are much more like each other than men;

they have, in truth, but two passions, vanity and love: these are their

universal characteristics. An Agrippina may sacrifice them to ambition,

or a Messalina to lust; but such instances are rare; and, in general,

all they say, and all they do, tends to the gratification of their

vanity, or their love. He who flatters them most pleases them best; and

they are most in love with him who they think is the most in love with

them. No adulation is too strong for them; no assiduity too great; no

simulation of passion too gross; as, on the other hand, the least word

or action, that can possibly be construed into a slight or contempt, is

unpardonable, and never forgotten. Men are, in this respect, tender,

too, and will sooner forgive an injury than an insult. Some men are

more captious than others; some are always wrongheaded; but every man

living has such a share of vanity, as to be hurt by marks of slight and

contempt. Every man does not pretend to be a poet, a mathematician,

or a statesman, and considered as such; but every man pretends to

common-sense, and to fill his place in the world with common decency;

and, consequently, does not easily forgive those negligencies,

inattentions, and slights, which seem to call in question, or utterly

deny him, both these pretensions. [_Same date._]

TOO READY FRIENDS.--Be upon your guard against those who, upon very

slight acquaintance, obtrude their unasked and unmerited friendship

and confidence upon you; for they probably cram you with them only

for their own eating; but, at the same time, do not roughly reject

them upon that general supposition. Examine further, and see whether

those unexpected offers flow from a warm heart and a silly head, or a

designing head and a cold heart; for knavery and folly have often the

same symptoms. In the first case, there is no danger in accepting them,

_valeant quantum valere possunt_. In the latter case, it may be useful

to seem to accept them, and artfully to turn the battery upon him who

raised it.

There is an incontinency of friendship among young fellows, who are

associated by their mutual pleasures only; which has, very frequently,

bad consequences. A parcel of warm hearts, and unexperienced heads,

heated by convivial mirth, and possibly a little too much wine, vow,

and really mean at the time, eternal friendships to each other, and

indiscreetly pour out their whole souls in common, and without the

least reserve. These confidences are as indiscreetly repealed, as they

were made; for new pleasures, and new places, soon dissolve this ill

cemented connection; and then very ill uses are made of these rash

confidences. Bear your part, however, in young companies; nay, excel,

if you can, in all the social and convivial joy and festivity that

become youth. Trust them with your love tales, if you please; but keep

your serious views secret. [_Same date._]

THE GENTLER VIRTUES.--Cæsar had all the great vices, and Cato all

the great virtues, that men could have. But Cæsar had the _leniores

virtutes_, which Cato wanted; and which made him beloved, even by

his enemies, and gained him the hearts of mankind, in spite of their

reason; while Cato was not even beloved by his friends, notwithstanding

the esteem and respect which they could not refuse to his virtues; and

I am apt to think that if Cæsar had wanted, and Cato possessed, those

_leniores virtutes_, the former would not have attempted (at least with

success), and the latter could have protected, the liberties of Rome.

Mr. Addison, in his Cato, says of Cæsar (and I believe with truth):

“Curse on his virtues, they’ve undone his country.”

PRIDE AND PEDANTRY.--The costive liberality of a purse-proud man

insults the distresses it sometimes relieves; he takes care to make you

feel your own misfortunes, and the difference between your situation

and his; both which he insinuates to be justly merited: yours, by your

folly; his, by his wisdom. The arrogant pedant does not communicate,

but promulgates his knowledge. He does not give it to you, but he

inflicts it upon you; and is (if possible) more desirous to show you

your own ignorance, than his own learning. Such manners as these, not

only in the particular instances which I have mentioned, but likewise

in all others, shock and revolt that little pride and vanity, which

every man has in his heart; and obliterate in us the obligation for the

favor conferred, by reminding us of the motive which produced and the

manner which accompanied it. [_No date._]

GREETINGS AND GOOD WISHES.--The New Year is the season in which custom

seems more particularly to authorize civil and harmless lies, under the

name of compliments. People reciprocally profess wishes, which they

seldom form; and concern, which they seldom feel. That is not the case

between you and me, where truth leaves no room for compliments.

_Dii tibi dent annos, de te nam cætera sumes_, was said formerly to

one, by a man who certainly did not think it. With the variation of

one word only, I will with great truth say it to you. I will make the

first part conditional, by changing, in the second, the _nam_ into

_si_. May you live, as long as you are fit to live, but no longer! or,

may you rather die, before you cease to be fit to live, than after! My

true tenderness for you makes me think more of the manner than of the

length of your life, and forbids me to wish it prolonged, by a single

day, that should bring guilt, reproach, and shame upon you. I have not

malice enough in my nature to wish that to my greatest enemy. You are

the principal object of all my cares, the only object of all my hopes:

I have now reason to believe, that you will reward the former, and

answer the latter; in that case, may you live long, for you must live

happy; _de te nam cætera sumes_. Conscious virtue is the only solid

foundation of all happiness; for riches, power, rank, or whatever,

in the common acceptation of the word, is supposed to constitute

happiness, will never quiet, much less cure, the inward pangs of

guilt. To that main wish I will add those of the good old nurse of

Horace, in his Epistle to Tibullus: _Sapere_, you have it in a good

degree already. _Et fari ut possit quæ sentiat._ Have you that? More,

much more, is meant by it, than common speech, or mere articulation.

I fear that still remains to be wished for, and I earnestly wish it

you. _Gratia_ and _fama_ will inevitably accompany the above-mentioned

qualifications. The _valetudo_ is the only one that is not in your own

power, Heaven alone can grant it you, and may it do so abundantly! As

for the _mundus victus, non deficiente crumenâ_, do you deserve, and I

will provide them. [_Dec. 26, 1749._]

POETS AND ORATORS.--A man who is not born with a poetical genius can

never be a poet, or, at best, an extreme bad one: but every man, who

can speak at all, can speak elegantly and correctly, if he pleases,

by attending to the best authors and orators; and, indeed, I would

advise those who do not speak elegantly, not to speak at all; for, I am

sure, they will get more by their silence than by their speech. As for

politeness; whoever keeps good company, and is not polite, must have

formed a resolution, and taken some pains not to be so; otherwise he

would naturally and insensibly acquire the air, the address, and the

tone of those he converses with. [_Same date._]

METHOD OF STUDY--THE WORLD AND BOOKS.--Your first morning hours, I

would have you devote to your graver studies with Mr. Harte; the

middle part of the day, I would have employed in seeing things;

and the evenings, in seeing people. You are not, I hope, of a lazy,

inactive turn, in either body or mind; and, in that case, the day is

full long enough for everything; especially at Rome, where it is not

the fashion, as it is here and at Paris, to embezzle at least half of

it at table. But if, by accident, two or three hours are sometimes

wanting for some useful purpose, borrow them from your sleep. Six,

or at most seven hours’ sleep is, for a constancy, as much as you

or anybody can want: more is only laziness and dozing; and is, I

am persuaded, both unwholesome and stupefying. If, by chance, your

business, or your pleasures, should keep you up till four or five

o’clock in the morning, I would advise you, however, to rise exactly

at your usual time, that you may not lose the precious morning hours;

and that the want of sleep may force you to go to bed earlier the next

night. This is what I was advised to do when very young, by a very wise

man; and what, I assure you, I always did in the most dissipated part

of my life. I have very often gone to bed at six in the morning, and

rose, notwithstanding, at eight; by which means I got many hours, in

the morning, that my companions lost; and the want of sleep obliged

me to keep good hours the next, or at least the third night. To this

method I owe the greatest part of my reading; for, from twenty to

forty, I should certainly have read very little, if I had not been

up while my acquaintances were in bed. Know the true value of time;

snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it. No idleness, no laziness,

no procrastination: never put off till to-morrow what you can do

to-day. That was the rule of the famous and unfortunate pensionary De

Witt; who, by strictly following it, found time, not only to do the

whole business of the republic, but to pass his evenings at assemblies

and suppers, as if he had nothing else to do or think of. [_Same date._]

RELIGION, WHY SILENT ON.--I have seldom or never written to you upon

the subject of religion and morality: your own reason, I am persuaded,

has given you true notions of both; they speak best for themselves;

but, if they wanted assistance, you have Mr. Harte at hand, both for

precept and example: to your own reason, therefore, and to Mr. Harte,

shall I refer you, for the reality of both; and confine myself, in this

letter, to the decency, the utility, and the necessity of scrupulously

preserving the appearances of both. When I say the appearances of

religion, I do not mean that you should act or talk like a missionary,

or an enthusiast, nor that you should take up a controversial cudgel

against whoever attacks the sect you are of; this would be both

useless and unbecoming your age; but I mean that you should by no

means seem to approve, encourage, or applaud those libertine notions,

which strike at religions equally, and which are the poor, threadbare

topics of half wits and minute philosophers. Even those who are silly

enough to laugh at their jokes are still wise enough to distrust and

detest their characters; for, putting moral virtues at the highest,

and religion at the lowest, religion must still be allowed to be a

collateral security, at least, to virtue; and every prudent man will

sooner trust to two securities than to one. Whenever, therefore, you

happen to be in company with those pretended _esprits forts_, or with

thoughtless libertines, who laugh at all religion, to show their wit,

or disclaim it, to complete their riot, let no word or look of yours

indicate the least approbation; on the contrary, let a silent gravity

express your dislike: but enter not into the subject, and decline

such unprofitable and indecent controversies. Depend upon this truth,

that every man is the worse looked upon, and the less trusted, for

being thought to have no religion; in, spite of all the pompous and

specious epithets he may assume of _esprit fort_ free-thinker, or moral

philosopher; and a wise atheist (if such a thing there is) would,

for his own interest and character in this world, pretend to some

religion. [_Jan. 8, 1750._]

MORAL CHARACTER.--Your moral character must be not only pure, but,

like Cæsar’s wife, unsuspected. The least speck or blemish upon it is

fatal. Nothing degrades and vilifies more, for it excites and unites

detestation and contempt. There are, however, wretches in the world

profligate enough to explode all notions of moral good and evil; to

maintain that they are merely local, and depend entirely upon the

customs and fashions of different countries: nay, there are still,

if possible, more unaccountable wretches; I mean, those who affect

to preach and propagate such absurd and infamous notions, without

believing them themselves. These are the Devil’s hypocrites. Avoid, as

much as possible, the company of such people; who reflect a degree of

discredit and infamy upon all who converse with them. But as you may,

sometimes, by accident, fall into such company, take great care that no

complaisance, no good humor, no warmth of festal mirth, ever make you

seem even to acquiesce, much less to approve or applaud, such infamous

doctrines. On the other hand, do not debate, nor enter into serious

argument, upon a subject so much below it: but content yourself with

telling these _apostles_, that you know they are not serious, that

you have a much better opinion of them than they would have you have,

and that you are very sure they would not practise the doctrine they

preach. But put your private mark upon them, and shun them for ever

afterwards. [_Same date._]

VALUE OF CHARACTER.--Show yourself, upon all occasions, the advocate,

the friend, but not the bully, of virtue. Colonel Chartres,[45] whom

you have certainly heard of (who was, I believe, the most notorious

blasted rascal in the world, and who had, by all sorts of crimes,

amassed immense wealth), was so sensible of the disadvantage of a

bad character that I heard him once say, in his impudent, profligate

manner, that though he would not give one farthing for virtue, he would

give ten thousand pounds for a character, because he should get a

hundred thousand pounds by it; whereas he was so blasted that he had no

longer an opportunity of cheating people. Is it possible, then, that an

honest man can neglect what a wise rogue would purchase so dear? [_Same

date._]

A NICE DISTINCTION--EXAGGERATION.--Lord Bacon, very justly, makes a

distinction between simulation and dissimulation, and allows the latter

rather than the former; but still observes that they are the weaker

sort of politicians who have recourse to either. A man who has strength

of mind and strength of parts wants neither of them. “Certainly,”

says he, “the ablest men that ever were have all had an openness and

frankness of dealing, and a name of certainty and veracity; but then

they were like horses well managed, for they could tell, passing well,

when to stop or turn; and at such times, when they thought the case

indeed required some dissimulation, if then they used it, it came to

pass that the former opinion spread abroad, of their good faith and

clearness of dealing, made them almost invisible.” There are people who

indulge themselves in a sort of lying, which they reckon innocent, and

which in one sense is so; for it hurts nobody but themselves. This sort

of lying is the spurious offspring of vanity, begotten upon folly.

These people deal in the marvellous; they have seen some things that

never existed: they have seen other things which they never really saw,

though they did exist, only because they were thought worth seeing. Has

anything remarkable been said or done in any place, or in any company?

they immediately present and declare themselves eye or ear witnesses

of it. They have done feats themselves, unattempted, or at least

unperformed by others. They are always the heroes of their own fables,

and think that they gain consideration, or at least present attention,

by it. Whereas, in truth, all they get is ridicule and contempt, not

without a good degree of distrust: for one must naturally conclude that

he who will tell any lie from idle vanity will not scruple telling a

greater for interest. [_Same date._]

THE NOVICE IN SOCIETY.--I remember that when, with all the awkwardness

and rust of Cambridge about me, I was first introduced into good

company, I was frightened out of my wits. I was determined to be

what I thought civil; I made fine low bows, and placed myself below

everybody; but when I was spoken to, or attempted to speak myself,

_obstupui, steteruntque comæ et vox faucibus hæsit_. If I saw people

whisper, I was sure it was at me; and I thought myself the sole object

of either the ridicule or the censure of the whole company, who, God

knows, did not trouble their heads about me. In this way I suffered,

for some time, like a criminal at the bar; and should certainly have

renounced all polite company forever, if I had not been so convinced

of the absolute necessity of forming my manners upon those of the

best companies, that I determined to persevere, and suffer anything,

or everything, rather than not compass that point. Insensibly it grew

easier to me; and I began not to bow so ridiculously low, and to answer

questions without great hesitation or stammering; if, now and then,

some charitable people, seeing my embarrassment, and being _désœuvré_

themselves, came and spoke to me, I considered them as angels sent

to comfort me; and that gave me a little courage. I got more soon

afterward, and was intrepid enough to go up to a fine woman, and tell

her that I thought it a warm day; she answered me, very civilly, that

she thought so too; upon which the conversation ceased, on my part, for

some time, till she, good-naturedly resuming it, spoke to me thus: “I

see your embarrassment, and I am sure that the few words you said to

me cost you a great deal; but do not be discouraged for that reason,

and avoid good company. We see that you desire to please, and that is

the main point; you want only the manner, and you think that you want

it still more than you do. You must go through your noviciate before

you can profess good breeding; and, if you will be my novice, I will

present you to my acquaintance as such.” [_Jan. 11, 1750._]

THE CHAPERONE.--There is a sort of veteran women (_sic_) of condition,

who, having lived always in the _grand monde_, and having possibly had

some gallantries, together with the experience of five and twenty or

thirty years, form a young fellow better than all the rules that can be

given him. These women, being past their bloom, are extremely flattered

by the least attention from a young fellow; and they will point out

to him those manners and _attentions_ that pleased and engaged them,

when they were in the pride of their youth and beauty. Wherever you go,

make some of those women your friends, which a very little matter will

do. Ask their advice, tell them your doubts or difficulties as to your

behavior; but take great care not to drop one word of their experience;

for experience implies age, and the suspicion of age, no woman, let her

be ever so old, ever forgives. [_Same date._]

NECESSARY ACCOMPLISHMENTS.--I here subjoin a list of all those

necessary, ornamental accomplishments (without which no man living can

either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear you want,

and which only require your care and attention to possess.

To speak elegantly whatever language you speak in; without which nobody

will hear you with pleasure, and, consequently, you will speak to very

little purpose.

An agreeable and distinct elocution; without which nobody will hear

you with patience; this everybody may acquire who is not born with

some imperfection in the organs of speech. You are not; and therefore

it is wholly in your power. You need take much less pains for it than

Demosthenes did.

A distinguished politeness of manners and address; which common-sense,

observation, good company, and imitation will infallibly give you, if

you will accept of it.

A genteel carriage, and graceful motions, with the air of a man of

fashion. A good dancing master, with some care on your part, and some

imitation of those who excel, will soon bring this about.

To be extremely clean in your person, and perfectly well dressed,

according to the fashion, be that what it will. Your negligence of

dress, while you were a schoolboy, was pardonable, but would not be so

now.

Upon the whole, take it for granted, that, without these

accomplishments, all you know, and all you can do, will avail you very

little. Adieu. [_Jan. 18, 1750._]

TIME--ITS VALUE.--Very few people are good economists of their fortune,

and still fewer of their time; and yet, of the two, the latter is the

most precious. I heartily wish you to be a good economist of both;

and you are now of an age to begin to think seriously of these two

important articles. Young people are apt to think they have so much

time before them, that they may squander what they please of it, and

yet have enough left; as very great fortunes have frequently seduced

people to a ruinous profusion. Fatal mistakes, always repented of, but

always too late! Old Mr. Lowndes, the famous Secretary of the Treasury,

in the reigns of King William, Queen Anne, and King George the First,

used to say, “_Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of

themselves._” To this maxim, which he not only preached, but practised,

his two grandsons, at this time, owe the very considerable fortunes

that he left them. [_Feb. 5, 1750._]

LAZY PEOPLE--DISPATCH--HOW TO READ.--Many people lose a great deal of

their time by laziness; they loll and yawn in a great chair, tell

themselves that they have not time to begin anything then, and that it

will do as well another time. This is a most unfortunate disposition,

and the greatest obstruction to both knowledge and business. At your

age, you have no right nor claim to laziness; I have, if I please,

being _emeritus_. You are but just listed in the world, and must be

active, diligent, indefatigable. If ever you propose commanding with

dignity, you must serve up to it with diligence. Never put off till

to-morrow what you can do to-day.

Dispatch is the soul of business; and nothing contributes more to

dispatch than method. Lay down a method for everything, and stick to it

inviolably, as far as unexpected incidents may allow. Fix one certain

hour and day in the week for your accompts, and keep them together

in their proper order; by which means they will require very little

time, and you can never be much cheated. Whatever letters and papers

you keep, docket and tie them up in their respective classes, so that

you may instantly have recourse to any one. Lay down a method also for

your reading, for which you allot a certain share of your mornings;

let it be in a consistent and consecutive course, and not in that

desultory and immethodical manner, in which many people read scraps of

different authors, upon different subjects. Keep a useful and short

commonplace book of what you read, to help your memory only, and not

for pedantic quotations. Never read history without having maps, and a

chronological book, or tables, lying by you, and constantly recurred

to; without which history is only a confused heap of facts. One method

more I recommend to you, by which I have found great benefit, even in

the most dissipated part of my life; that is, to rise early, and at

the same hour every morning, how late soever you may have sat up the

night before. This secures you an hour or two, at least, of reading and

reflection, before the common interruptions of the morning begin; and

it will save your constitution, by forcing you to go to bed early, at

least one night in three. [_Feb. 5, 1750._]

DIGNITY IN PLEASURE.--There is a certain dignity to be kept up in

pleasures, as well as in business. In love, a man may lose his heart

with dignity; but if he loses his nose, he loses his character into the

bargain. At table, a man may with decency have a distinguishing palate;

but indiscriminate voraciousness degrades him to a glutton. A man may

play with decency; but if he games, he is disgraced. Vivacity and wit

make a man shine in company; but trite jokes and loud laughter reduce

him to a buffoon. Every virtue, they say, has its kindred vice; every

pleasure, I am sure, has its neighboring disgrace. Mark carefully,

therefore, the line that separates them, and carefully stop a yard

short, than step an inch beyond it.

I wish to God that you had as much pleasure in following my advice, as

I have in giving it you; and you may the easier have it, as I give you

none that is inconsistent with your pleasure. [_Same date._]

FALSE WIT.--To do justice to the best English and French authors;

they have not given in to that false taste; they allow no thoughts

to be good, that are not just, and founded upon truth. The age of

Louis XIV. was very like the Augustan; Boileau, Molière, La Fontaine,

Racine, etc., established the true, and exposed the false taste. The

reign of King Charles II. (meritorious in no other respect) banished

false tastes out of England, and proscribed puns, quibbles, acrostics,

etc. Since that, false wit has renewed its attacks, and endeavored

to recover its lost empire, both in England and France, but without

success; though, I must say, with more success in France than in

England: Addison, Pope and Swift, having vigorously defended the rights

of good-sense, which is more than can be said of their contemporary

French authors, who have of late had a great tendency to _le faux

brillant, le ranfiement, et l’entortillement_. And Lord Roscommon would

be more in the right now, than he was then, in saying, that

“The English bullion of one sterling line,

Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages shine.”

[_Same date._]

NO STOIC.--I confess, the pleasures of high life are not always

strictly philosophical; and I believe a stoic would blame my

indulgence; but I am yet no stoic, though turned of five-and-fifty;

and I am apt to think that you are rather less so, at eighteen. The

pleasures of the table, among people of the first fashion, may, indeed,

sometimes, by accident, run into excesses; but they will never sink

into a continued course of gluttony and drunkenness. The gallantry

of high life, though not strictly justifiable, carries, at least, no

external marks of infamy about it. [_March 8, 1750._]

ETIQUETTE.--I did not think that the present Pope[46] was a sort of man

to build seven modern little chapels at the expense of so respectable

a piece of antiquity as the _Coliseum_. However, let his holiness’

taste of _vertu_ be ever so bad, pray get somebody to present you to

him, before you leave Rome; and without hesitation kiss his slipper,

or whatever else the _etiquette_ of that court requires. I would have

you see all those ceremonies; and I presume that you are, by this time,

ready enough at Italian to understand and answer _il Santo Padre_ in

that language. [_March 19, 1750._]

BIBLIOMANIA.--When you return here, I am apt to think that you will

find something better to do than to run to Mr. Osborne’s at Gray’s-Inn,

to pick up scarce books. Buy good books, and read them; the best books

are the commonest, and the last editions are always the best, if the

editors are not blockheads; for they may profit of the former. But take

care not to understand editions and title-pages too well. It always

smells of pedantry, and not always of learning. What curious books

I have, they are indeed but few, shall be at your service. I have

some of the Old Collana, and the Macchiavel of 1550. Beware of the

_Bibliomanie_. [_Same date._]

CONSTITUTIONAL MONARCHY.--England is now the only monarchy in the world

that can properly be said to have a constitution; for the people’s

rights and liberties are secured by laws. I cannot reckon Sweden and

Poland to be monarchies. [_March 29, 1750._]

AIM HIGH.--Aim at perfection in everything, though in most things it

is unattainable; however, they who aim at it, and persevere, will come

much nearer it than those whose laziness and despondency, make them

give it up as unattainable. _Magnis tamen excidit ausis_ is a degree

of praise which will always attend a noble and shining temerity, and a

much better sign in a young fellow, than _serpere humi, tutus nimium

timidusque procellæ_, for men, as well as women. [_May 24, 1750._]

A DUE RETURN.--I heard with great satisfaction the other day, from one

who has been lately at Rome, that nobody was better received in the

best companies than yourself. The same thing, I dare say, will happen

to you at Paris, where they are particularly kind to all strangers who

will be civil to them and show a desire of pleasing. But they must be

flattered a little, not only by words, but by a seeming preference

given to their country, their manners, and their customs; which is but

a small price to pay for a very good reception. Were I in Africa, I

would pay it to a negro for his good-will. Adieu. [_June 5, 1750._]

USE OF ORATORY.--Your trade is to speak well, both in public and in

private. The manner of your speaking is full as important as the

matter, as more people have ears to be tickled than understandings

to judge. Be your productions ever so good, they will be of no use if

you stifle and strangle them in their birth. The best compositions of

Corelli, if ill executed, and played out of tune, instead of touching,

as they do when well performed, would only excite the indignation

of the hearers, when murdered by an unskilful performer. But to

murder your own productions, and that _coram populo_, is a _Medean

cruelty_, which Horace absolutely forbids. Remember of what importance

Demosthenes, and one of the Gracchi, thought _enunciation_; read what

stress Cicero and Quintilian lay upon it; even the herb-women at

Athens were correct judges of it. Oratory with all its graces, that of

enunciation in particular, is full as necessary in our government, as

it ever was in Greece or Rome. No man can make a fortune or a figure in

this country, without speaking, and speaking well in public. [_July 9,

1750._]

SPEAK WELL.--Recite pieces of eloquence, declaim scenes of tragedies

to Mr. Harte, as if he were a numerous audience. If there is any

particular consonant which you have a difficulty in articulating, as I

think you had with the _R_, utter it millions and millions of times,

till you have uttered it right. Never speak quick, till you have

first learned to speak well. In short, lay aside every book and every

thought, that does not directly tend to this great object, absolutely

decisive of your future fortune and figure. [_Same date._]

A TRUTH.--Pleasure is necessarily reciprocal; no one feels who does not

at the same time give it. To be pleased, one must please. What pleases

you in others, will in general please them in you. [_Same date._]

LEARNED IGNORANCE.--A man of the best parts, and the greatest learning,

if he does not know the world by his own experience and observation,

will be very absurd, and consequently very unwelcome in company. He

may say very good things; but they will probably be so ill-timed,

misplaced, or improperly addressed, that he had much better hold his

tongue. Full of his own matter, and uninformed of, or inattentive

to, the particular circumstances and situations of the company, he

vents it indiscriminately; he puts some people out of countenance; he

shocks others; and frightens all, who dread what may come out next.

The most general rule that I can give you for the world, and which

your experience will convince you of the truth of, is: Never to give

the tone to the company, but to take it from them; and to labor more

to put them in conceit with themselves, than to make them admire you.

Those whom you can make like themselves better, will, I promise you,

like you very well. [_Aug. 6, 1750._]

A PORTRAIT.--It is Lady Hervey,[47] whom I directed you to call upon

at Dijon; but who, to my great joy, because to your great advantage,

passes all this winter at Paris. She has been bred all her life at

courts; of which she has acquired all the easy good breeding and

politeness, without the frivolousness. She has all the reading that

a woman should have: and more than any woman need have; for she

understands Latin perfectly well, though she wisely conceals it. As

she will look upon you as her son, I desire that you will look upon

her as my delegate: trust, consult, and apply to her without reserve.

No woman ever had, more than she has, _le ton de la parfaitement bonne

compagnie, les manières engageantes et le je ne sais quoi qui plaît_.

Desire her to reprove and correct any, and every, the least error and

inaccuracy in your manners, air, addresses, etc. No woman in Europe can

do it so well; none will do it more willingly, or in a more proper and

obliging manner. [_Oct. 22, 1750._]

HISTORY.--While you are in France, I could wish that the hours you

allot for historical amusement should be entirely devoted to the

history of France. One always reads history to most advantage in that

country to which it is relative, not only books but persons being ever

at hand to solve the doubts and clear up difficulties. I do by no

means advise you to throw away your time in ransacking, like a dull

antiquarian, the minute and important parts of remote and fabulous

times. Let blockheads read what blockheads wrote. A general notion of

the history of France, from the conquest of that country by the Franks,

to the reign of Lewis the Eleventh, is sufficient for use, consequently

sufficient for you. There are, however, in those remote times, some

remarkable eras, that deserve more particular attention; I mean those

in which some notable alterations happened in the constitution and form

of government. [_Nov. 1, 1750._]

SMALL TALK.--I am far from meaning by this, that you should always

be talking wisely, in company, of books, history, and matters of

knowledge. There are many companies which you will and ought to keep,

where such conversations would be misplaced and ill-timed; your own

good sense must distinguish the company, and the time. You must trifle

with triflers, and be serious only with the serious, but dance to those

who pipe. _Cur in theatrum Cato severe venisti?_ was justly said to

an old man; how much more so would it be to one of your age? From the

moment that you are dressed, and go out, pocket all your knowledge

with your watch, and never pull it out in company unless desired: the

producing of the one unasked implies that you are weary of the company;

and the producing of the other unrequired will make the company weary

of you. Company is a republic too jealous of its liberties to suffer

a dictator even for a quarter of an hour; and yet in that, as in all

republics, there are some who really govern, but then it is by seeming

to disclaim, instead of attempting to usurp, the power; that is the

occasion in which manners, dexterity, address, and the undefinable _je

ne sais quoi_ triumph; if properly exerted, their conquest is sure, and

the more lasting for not being perceived. Remember, that this is not

only your first and greatest, but ought to be almost your only object,

while you are in France. [_Same date._]

A RAKE.--Having mentioned the word rake, I must say a word or two

more upon that subject, because young people too frequently, and

always fatally, are apt to mistake that character for that of a man

of pleasure; whereas, there are not in the world two characters more

different. A rake is a composition of all the lowest, most ignoble,

degrading, and shameful vices; they all conspire to disgrace his

character, and to ruin his fortune; while wine and disease contend

which shall soonest and most effectually destroy his constitution. A

dissolute, flagitious footman, or porter, makes full as good a rake as

a man of the first quality. By the by, let me tell you, that in the

wildest part of my youth I never was a rake, but, on the contrary,

always detested and despised the character.[48] [_Nov. 8, 1750._]

KEEP THE PEACE.--Keep carefully out of all scrapes and quarrels.

They lower a character extremely; and are particularly dangerous in

France; where a man is dishonored by not resenting an affront, and

utterly ruined by resenting it. The young Frenchmen are hasty, giddy,

and petulant; extremely national, and _avantageux_. Forbear from any

national jokes or reflections, which are always improper, and commonly

unjust. The colder northern nations generally look upon France as a

whistling, singing, dancing, frivolous nation; this notion is very far

from being a true one, though many _petits maîtres_ by their behavior

seem to justify it; but those very _petits maîtres_, when mellowed by

age and experience, very often turn out very able men. The number of

great generals and statesmen, as well as excellent authors, that France

has produced, is an undeniable proof, that it is not that frivolous,

unthinking, empty nation that the northern prejudices suppose it. [_No

date._]

A NEW CONSTITUTION.--This epigram in Martial:

“Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare,

Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te”--[49]

has puzzled a great many people; who cannot conceive how it

is possible not to love anybody, and yet not to know the reason why. I

think I conceive Martial’s meaning very clearly, though the nature of

epigram, which is to be short, would not allow him to explain it more

fully; and I take it to be this: “O Sabidis, you are a very worthy,

deserving man; you have a thousand good qualities, you have a great

deal of learning; I esteem, I respect, but for the soul of me, I cannot

love you, though I cannot particularly say why. You are not amiable;

you have not those engaging manners, those pleasing attentions, those

graces, and that address, which are absolutely necessary to please,

though impossible to define. I cannot say it is this or that particular

thing which hinders me from loving you, it is the whole together; and

upon the whole you are not agreeable.” How often have I, in the course

of my life, found myself in this situation, with regard to many of my

acquaintance, whom I have honored and respected, without being able

to love? I did not know why, because, when one is young, one does not

take the trouble, nor allow one’s self the time, to analyze one’s

sentiments, and to trace them up to their source. [_Feb. 28, 1751._]

CARRIAGE OF THE BODY.--It sounds ridiculously to bid you study with

your dancing master; and yet I do. The bodily carriage and graces are

of infinite consequence to everybody, and more particularly to you.

Adieu for this time, my dear child. Yours tenderly. [_No date._]

HOW TO PLEASE.--An air, a tone of voice, a composure of countenance to

mildness and softness, which are all easily acquired, do the business;

and without further examination, and possibly with the contrary

qualities, that man is reckoned the gentlest, the modestest, and the

best-natured man alive. Happy the man who, with a certain fund of

parts and knowledge, gets acquainted with the world early enough to

make it his bubble, at an age when most people are the bubbles of the

world! for that is the common case of youth. They grow wiser when it

is too late; and, ashamed and vexed at having been bubbles so long,

too often turn knaves at last. Do not, therefore, trust to appearances

and outside yourself, but pay other people with them, because you may

be sure that nine in ten of mankind do, and ever will, trust to them.

This is by no means a criminal or blamable simulation, if not used

with an ill intention. I am by no means blamable in desiring to have

other people’s good word, good-will, and affection, if I do not mean to

abuse them. Your heart, I know, is good, your sense is sound, and your

knowledge extensive. [_May 6, 1751._]

PICTURES.--I received yesterday, at the same time, your letters of the

4th and the 11th, N. S., and being much more careful of my commissions

than you are of yours, I do not delay one moment sending you my final

instructions concerning the pictures. The man, you allow to be a

Titian, and in good preservation; the woman is an indifferent and a

damaged picture; but, as I want them for furniture for a particular

room, companions are necessary; and therefore I am willing to take

the woman, for better for worse, upon account of the man; and if she

is not too much damaged, I can have her tolerably repaired, as many

a fine woman is, by a skilful hand here; but then I expect the lady

should be, in a manner, thrown into the bargain with the man; and in

this state of affairs, the woman being worth little or nothing, I will

not go above fourscore louis for the two together. As for the Rembrandt

you mention, though it is very cheap, if good, I do not care for it. I

love _la belle nature_; Rembrandt paints caricatures. Now for your own

commissions, which you seem to have forgotten. [_May 10, 1751._]

DANCING AND DEPORTMENT.--Lady Hervey, who is your puff and panegyrist,

writes me word, that she saw you lately dance at a ball, and that you

dance very genteelly. I am extremely glad to hear it; for (by the

maxim that _omne majus continet in se minus_) if you dance genteelly,

I presume you walk, sit, and stand genteelly too; things which are

much more easy, though much more necessary, than dancing well. I have

known many very genteel people, who could not dance well; but I never

knew anybody dance very well, who was not genteel in other things. You

will probably often have occasion to stand in circles, at the levees

of princes and ministers, when it is very necessary, _de payer de

sa personne, et d’être bien planté_, with your feet not too near nor

too distant from each other. More people stand and walk, than sit

genteelly. Awkward, ill-bred people, being ashamed, commonly sit up

bolt upright and stiff; others, too negligent and easy, _se vautrent

dans leur fauteuil_, which is ungraceful and ill-bred, unless where the

familiarity is extreme. [_June 10, 1751._]

LITTLE NOTHINGS.--I know a man, and so do you, who, without a grain of

merit, knowledge, or talents, has raised himself millions of degrees

above his level, simply by a good air and engaging manners; insomuch

that the very prince, who raised him so high, calls him, _mon aimable

vaurien_[50]: but of this do not open your lips, _pour cause_. I give

you this secret, as the strongest proof imaginable, of the efficacy of

air, address, _tournure, et tous ces petits riens_. [_Same date._]

EASE OF MANNER.--_Les bienséances_[51] are a most necessary part of

the knowledge of the world. They consist in the relations of persons,

things, time, and place; good sense points them out, good company

perfects them (supposing always an attention and a desire to please),

and good policy recommends them.

Were you to converse with a king, you ought to be as easy and

unembarrassed as with your own valet de chambre; but yet every look,

word, and action should imply the utmost respect. What would be proper

and well-bred with others much your superiors, would be absurd and

ill-bred with one so very much so. You must wait till you are spoken

to; you must receive, not give, the subject of conversation, and you

must even take care that the given subject of such conversation do not

lead you into any impropriety. [_June 13, 1751._]

SOCIAL RESPECT.--In mixed companies with your equals (for in mixed

companies all people are to a certain degree equal) greater ease

and liberty are allowed; but they too have their bounds within

_bienséance_. There is a social respect necessary; you may start your

own subject of conversation with modesty, taking great care, however,

_de ne jamais parler de cordes dans la maison d’un pendu_. Your words,

gestures, and attitudes have a greater degree of latitude, though by

no means an unbounded one. You may have your hands in your pockets,

take snuff, sit, stand, or occasionally walk, as you like; but I

believe you would not think it very _bienséant_ to whistle, put on

your hat, loosen your garters or your buckles, lie down upon a couch,

or go to bed, and welter in an easy chair. These are negligences and

freedoms which one can only take when quite alone; they are injurious

to superiors, shocking and offensive to equals, brutal and insulting to

inferiors. That easiness of carriage and behavior, which is exceedingly

engaging, widely differs from negligence and inattention, and by no

means implies that one may do whatever one pleases. [_Same date._]

RESPECT DUE TO WOMAN.--To women you should always address yourself with

great outward respect and attention, whatever you feel inwardly; their

sex is by long prescription entitled to it; and it is among the duties

of _bienséance_; at the same time that respect is very properly, and

very agreeably, mixed with a degree of _enjouement_, if you have it;

but then, that _badinage_ must either directly or indirectly tend to

their praise, and even not be liable to a malicious construction to

their disadvantage. But here, too, great attention must be had to the

difference of age, rank, and situation. A _maréchale_ of fifty must not

be played with like a young coquette of fifteen; respect and _serious

enjouement_, if I may couple those two words, must be used with the

former, and mere _badinage, zesté même d’un peu de polissonerie_, is

pardonable with the latter. [_Same date._]

HORSE-LAUGHTER.--Loud laughter is extremely inconsistent with _les

bienséances_, as it is only the illiberal and noisy testimony of the

joy of the mob, at some very silly thing. A gentleman is often seen,

but very seldom heard, to laugh. Nothing is more contrary to _les

bienséances_ than horse-play, or _jeux de main_ of any kind whatever,

and has often very serious, sometimes very fatal consequences. Romping,

struggling, throwing things at one another’s head, are the becoming

pleasantries of the mob, but degrade a gentleman; _giuoco di mano,

giuoco di villano_, is a very true saying, among the few true sayings

of the Italians.

There is a _bienséance_ also with regard to people of the lowest

degree; a gentleman observes it with his footman, even with the beggar

in the street. He considers them as objects of compassion, not of

insult; he speaks to neither _d’un ton brusque_, but corrects the one

coolly, and refuses the other with humanity. There is no one occasion

in the world in which _le ton brusque_ is becoming a gentleman. In

short, _les bienséances_ are another word for _manners_. [_Same date._]

THE TWO AGES.--Now that all tumultuous passions and quick sensations

have subsided with me, and that I have no tormenting cares nor

boisterous pleasures to agitate me, my greatest joy is to consider the

fair prospect you have before you, and to hope and believe you will

enjoy it. You are already in the world, at an age when others have

hardly heard of it. Your character is hitherto not only unblemished

in its moral part, but even unsullied by any low, dirty, and

ungentlemanlike vice; and will, I hope, continue so. Your knowledge

is sound, extensive, and avowed, especially in everything relative to

your destination. With such materials to begin, what then is wanting?

Not fortune, as you have found by experience. You have had, and shall

have, fortune sufficient to assist your merit and your industry; and,

if I can help it, you never shall have enough to make you negligent

of either. You have, too, _mens sana in corpore sano_, the greatest

blessing of all. All, therefore, that you want is as much in your power

to acquire, as to eat your breakfast when set before you; it is only

that knowledge of the world, that elegancy of manners, that universal

politeness, and those graces, which keeping good company, and seeing

variety of places and characters, must inevitably, with the least

attention on your part, give you. Your foreign destination leads to

the greatest things, and your parliamentary situation will facilitate

your progress; consider then this pleasing prospect as attentively for

yourself, as I consider it for you. Labor on your part to realize it,

as I will on mine to assist and enable you to do it. _Nullum numen

abest, si sit prudentia._ [_Same date._]

A REFERENCE AT COURT.--I would wish you to be able to talk upon all

these things, better and with more knowledge than other people;

insomuch that, upon those occasions, you should be applied to, and that

people should say, _I dare say Mr. Stanhope can tell us_. Second-rate

knowledge, and middling talents, carry a man farther at courts, and

in the busy part of the world, than superior knowledge and shining

parts. Tacitus very justly accounts for a man’s having always kept in

favor, and enjoyed the best employments, under the tyrannical reigns

of three or four of the very worst emperors, by saying that it was

not _propter aliquam eximiam artem, sed quia par negotiis neque supra

erat_. Discretion is the great article; all those things are to be

learned and only learned by keeping a great deal of the best company.

Frequent those good houses where you have already a footing, and

wriggle yourself somehow or other into every other. Haunt the courts

particularly, in order to get that _routine_. [_June 20, 1751._]

FRENCH AND ENGLISH HUNTING.--Our abbé writes me word that you were gone

to Compiègne; I am very glad of it; other courts must form you for your

own. He tells me, too, that you have left off riding at the _manège_; I

have no objection to that, it takes up a great deal of the morning; and

if you have got a genteel and firm seat on horseback, it is enough for

you, now that tilts and tournaments are laid aside. I suppose you have

hunted at Compiègne. The king’s hunting there, I am told, is a fine

sight. The French manner of hunting is gentlemanlike; ours is only for

bumpkins and boobies. The poor beasts here are pursued and run down by

much greater beasts than themselves; and the true British fox-hunter is

most undoubtedly a species appropriated and peculiar to this country,

which no other part of the globe produces. [_June 30, 1751._]

POLITE AFFECTION.--Remember to bring your mother some little presents;

they need not be of value, but only marks of your affection and duty

for one who has always been tenderly fond of you. You may bring Lady

Chesterfield a little Martin snuff-box, of about five louis; and you

need bring over no other presents; you and I not wanting _les petits

présens pour entretenir l’amitié_. [_July 8, 1751._]

INATTENTION.--Laziness of mind, or inattention, are as great enemies

to knowledge, as incapacity; for, in truth, what difference is there

between a man who will not, and a man who cannot, be informed? This

difference only, that the former is justly to be blamed, and the latter

to be pitied. And yet how many are there, very capable of receiving

knowledge, who, from laziness, inattention, and incuriousness, will not

so much as ask for it, much less take the least pains to acquire it.

Our young English travellers generally distinguish themselves by a

voluntary privation of all that useful knowledge for which they are

sent abroad; and yet, at that age, the most useful knowledge is the

most easy to be acquired; conversation being the book, and the best

book, in which it is contained. [_Jan. 2, 1752._]

THE DRAMA.--I could wish there were a treaty made between the

French and the English theatres, in which both parties should make

considerable concessions. The English ought to give up their notorious

violations of all the unities; and all their massacres, racks, dead

bodies, and mangled carcasses, which they so frequently exhibit upon

their stage. The French should engage to have more action, and less

declamation; and not to cram and crowd things together to almost a

degree of impossibility, from a too scrupulous adherence to the

unities. The English should restrain the licentiousness of their

poets, and the French enlarge the liberty of theirs: their poets are

the greatest slaves in their country, and that is a bold word; ours

are the most tumultuous subjects in England, and that is saying a

good deal. Under such regulations, one might hope to see a play, in

which one should not be lulled to sleep by the length of a monotonical

declamation, nor frightened and shocked by the barbarity of the

action. The unity of time extended occasionally to three or four days,

and the unity of place broke into, as far as the same street, or

sometimes the same town; both which, I will affirm, are as probable, as

four-and-twenty hours, and the same room.

More indulgence, too, in my mind, should be shown, than the French are

willing to allow, to bright thoughts, and to shining images; for though

I confess, it is not very natural for a hero or a princess to say fine

things, in all the violence of grief, love, rage, etc., yet I can as

well suppose that, as I can that they should talk to themselves for

half an hour; which they must necessarily do, or no tragedy could be

carried on, unless they had recourse to a much greater absurdity, the

choruses of the ancients. Tragedy is of a nature, that one must see it

with a degree of self-deception; we must lend ourselves, a little, to

the delusion; and I am very willing to carry that complaisance a little

further than the French do.

Tragedy must be something bigger than life, or it would not affect us.

In nature the most violent passions are silent; in tragedy they must

speak, and speak with dignity, too. Hence the necessity of their being

written in verse, and, unfortunately for the French, from the weakness

of their language, in rhymes. And for the same reason, Cato, the Stoic,

expiring at Utica, rhymes masculine and feminine,[52] at Paris; and

fetches his last breath at London, in most harmonious and correct blank

verse.

It is quite otherwise with comedy, which should be mere common life,

and not one jot bigger. Every character should speak upon the stage,

not only what it would utter in the situation there represented, but

in the same manner in which it would express it. For which reason, I

cannot allow rhymes in comedy, unless they were put into the mouth and

came out of the mouth of a mad poet. But it is impossible to deceive

one’s self enough (nor is it the least necessary in comedy) to suppose

a dull rogue of a usurer cheating, or _gros Jean_ blundering, in the

finest rhymes in the world.

As for operas, they are essentially too absurd and extravagant to

mention: I look upon them as a magic scene, contrived to please the

eyes and the ears, at the expense of the understanding; and I consider

singing, rhyming, and chiming heroes, and princesses, and philosophers,

as I do the hills, the trees, the birds, and the beasts, who amicably

joined in one common country dance, to the irresistible tune of

Orpheus’s lyre. Whenever I go to an opera, I leave my sense and reason

at the door with my half guinea, and deliver myself up to my eyes and

my ears. [_Jan. 23, 1752._]

RIDICULE.--It is commonly said, and more particularly by Lord

Shaftesbury, that ridicule is the best test of truth; for that it will

not stick where it is not just. I deny it.[53] A truth learned in a

certain light, and attacked in certain words by men of wit and humor,

may, and often doth, become ridiculous, at least so far, that the

truth is only remembered and repeated for the sake of the ridicule. The

overturn of Mary of Medicis into a river, where she was half drowned,

would never have been remembered, if Madame de Vernueil, who saw

it, had not said _la Reine boit_. Pleasure or malignity often gives

ridicule a weight, which it does not deserve. [_Same date._]

COMEDIES.--I chiefly mind dialogue and character in comedies. Let

dull critics feed the carcasses of plays; give me the taste and the

dressing. [_Feb. 6, 1752._]

THE WEIGHT OF LOW PEOPLE.--In courts a universal gentleness and

_douceur dans les manières_ is most absolutely necessary: an offended

fool, or a slighted _valet de chambre_, may, very possibly, do more

hurt at court, than ten men of merit can do you good. Fools, and low

people, are always jealous of their dignity; and never forget nor

forgive what they reckon a slight. [_Same date._]

AT COURT.--There is a court garment, as well as a wedding garment,

without which you will not be received. That garment is the _volto

sciolto_: an imposing air, an elegant politeness, easy and engaging

manners, universal attention, an insinuating gentleness, and all those

_je ne sais quoi_ that compose the _grâces_. [_Same date._]

PERFECTION.--In all systems whatsoever, whether of religion,

government, morals, etc., perfection is the object always proposed,

though possibly unattainable; hitherto, at least, certainly

unattained. However, those who aim carefully at the mark itself,

will unquestionably come nearer to it than those who, from despair,

negligence, or indolence, leave to chance the work of skill. This maxim

holds equally true in common life; those who aim at perfection will

come infinitely nearer it than those desponding or indolent spirits,

who foolishly say to themselves, nobody is perfect; perfection is

unattainable; to attempt it is chimerical; I shall do as well as

others; why then should I give myself trouble to be what I never can,

and what, according to the common course of things, I need not be,

_perfect_? [_Feb. 20, 1752._]

OMNIS HOMO.--I would have him have lustre as well as weight. Did you

ever know anybody that reunited all these talents? Yes, I did; Lord

Bolingbroke joined all the politeness, the manners, and the graces

of a courtier, to the solidity of a statesman, and to the learning

of a pedant. He was _omnis homo_; and pray what should hinder my

boy of doing so too, if he hath, as I think he hath, all the other

qualifications that you allow him? [_Same date._]

KNOWLEDGE OF LITERATURE.--A gentleman should know those which I call

classical works, in every language: such as Boileau, Corneille, Racine,

Molière, etc., in French; Milton, Dryden, Pope, Swift, etc., in

English; and the three authors above mentioned[54] in Italian: whether

you have any such in German I am not quite sure, nor, indeed, am I

inquisitive. These sort of books adorn the mind, improve the fancy, are

frequently alluded to by, and are often the subjects of conversations

of, the best companies. As you have languages to read, and memory to

retain them, the knowledge of them is very well worth the little pains

it will cost you, and will enable you to shine in company. It is not

pedantic to quote and allude to them, which it would be with regard to

the ancients. [_March 2, 1752._]

NOTHING BY HALVES.--Whatever business you have, do it the first moment

you can; never by halves, but finish it without interruption, if

possible. Business must not be sauntered and trifled with; and you must

not say to it, as Felix did to Paul, “at a more convenient season I

will speak to thee.” The most convenient season for business is the

first; but study and business, in some measure, point out their own

times to a man of sense; time is much oftener squandered away in the

wrong choice and improper methods of amusement and pleasures. [_March

5, 1752._]

FORMATION OF MANNERS.--Nothing forms a young man so much as being used

to keep respectable and superior company, where a constant regard and

attention is necessary. It is true, this is at first a disagreeable

state of restraint; but it soon grows habitual, and consequently easy;

and you are amply paid for it, by the improvement you make, and the

credit it gives you. [_Same date._]

THE BEST SCHOOL.--Company, various company, is the only school for this

knowledge. You ought to be, by this time, at least in the third form of

that school, from whence the rise to the uppermost is easy and quick;

but then you must have application and vivacity, you must not only bear

with, but even seek, restraint in some companies, instead of stagnating

in one or two only, where indolence and love of ease may be indulged.

[_March 16, 1752._]

CHESTERFIELD’S PROPHECY.--I do not know what the Lord’s anointed, His

vicegerent upon earth, divinely appointed by Him, and accountable to

none but Him for his actions, will either think or do, upon these

symptoms of reason and good sense, which seem to be breaking out all

over France; but this I foresee, that before the end of this century,

the trade of both king and priest will not be half so good a one as it

has been. Du Clos, in his reflections, hath observed, and very truly,

_qu’il y a un germe de raison qui commence à se développer en France_.

A _développement_ that must prove fatal to regal and papal pretensions.

Prudence may, in many cases, recommend an occasional submission to

either; but when that ignorance, upon which an implicit faith in both

could only be founded, is once removed, God’s vicegerent, and Christ’s

vicar, will only be obeyed and believed, as far as what the one orders,

and the other says, is conformable to reason and to truth. [_April 13,

1752._]

SMALL CHANGE.--In common life, one much oftener wants small money,

and silver, than gold. Give me a man who has ready cash about him for

present expenses, shillings, half-crowns, and crowns, which circulate

easily; but a man who has only an ingot of gold about him is much above

common purposes, and his riches are not handy nor convenient. Have as

much gold as you please in one pocket, but take care always to keep

change in the other; for you will much oftener have occasion for a

shilling than for a guinea. [_Sept, 19, 1752._]

MAXIMS.--My dear friend,--I never think my time so well employed, as

when I think it employed to your advantage. In that view, I have thrown

together, for your use, the enclosed maxims[55]; or, to speak more

properly, observations of men and things; for I have no merit as to

the invention; I am no system-monger; and, instead of giving way to my

imagination, I have only consulted my memory; and my conclusions are

all drawn from facts, not from fancy. Most maxim-mongers have preferred

the prettiness to the justness of a thought, and the turn to the truth;

but I have refused myself to everything that my own experience did not

justify and confirm. [_Jan. 15, 1753._]

A WET SUMMER.--There never was so wet a summer as this has been, in the

memory of man; we have not had one single day, since March, without

some rain; but most days a great deal. I hope that does not affect your

health, as great cold does; for, with all these inundations, it has

not been cold. God bless you! [_Aug. 1, 1766._]

THE LAST GREETING.--Poor Harte is in a miserable condition, is

paralyzed in his left side, and can hardly speak intelligibly. I was

with him yesterday. He inquired after you with great affection, and was

in the utmost concern when I showed him your letter.

My own health is, as it has been ever since I was here last year. I am

neither well nor ill, but _unwell_. I have, in a manner, lost the use

of my legs; for though I can make a shift to crawl upon even ground for

a quarter of an hour, I cannot go up or down stairs, unless supported

by a servant.