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Title: Letters to His Son, 1749

Author: The Earl of Chesterfield

Release Date: August, 2002  [Etext #3353]
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Letters to His Son, 1749

by The Earl of Chesterfield




                           LETTERS TO HIS SON
                      By the EARL OF CHESTERFIELD

                     on the Fine Art of becoming a

                            MAN OF THE WORLD

                                 and a

                               GENTLEMAN


LETTER LXII

LONDON, January 10, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I have received your letter of the 31st December, N. S.  Your
thanks for my present, as you call it, exceed the value of the present;
but the use, which you assure me that you will make of it, is the thanks
which I desire to receive.  Due attention to the inside of books, and due
contempt for the outside, is the proper relation between a man of sense
and his books.

Now that you are going a little more into the world; I will take this
occasion to explain my intentions as to your future expenses, that you
may know what you have to expect from me, and make your plan accordingly.
I shall neither deny nor grudge you any money, that may be necessary for
either your improvement or your pleasures: I mean the pleasures of a
rational being.  Under the head of improvement, I mean the best books,
and the best masters, cost what they will; I also mean all the expense of
lodgings, coach, dress; servants, etc., which, according to the several
places where you may be, shall be respectively necessary to enable you to
keep the best company.  Under the head of rational pleasures,
I comprehend, first, proper charities, to real and compassionate objects
of it; secondly, proper presents to those to whom you are obliged, or
whom you desire to oblige; thirdly, a conformity of expense to that of
the company which you keep; as in public spectacles; your share of little
entertainments; a few pistoles at games of mere commerce; and other
incidental calls of good company.  The only two articles which I will
never supply, are the profusion of low riot, and the idle lavishness of
negligence and laziness.  A fool squanders away, without credit or
advantage to himself, more than a man of sense spends with both.  The
latter employs his money as he does his time, and never spends a shilling
of the one, nor a minute of the other, but in something that is either
useful or rationally pleasing to himself or others.  The former buys
whatever he does not want, and does not pay for what he does want.  He
cannot withstand the charms of a toyshop; snuff-boxes, watches, heads of
canes, etc., are his destruction.  His servants and tradesmen conspire
with his own indolence to cheat him; and, in a very little time, he is
astonished, in the midst of all the ridiculous superfluities, to find
himself in want of all the real comforts and necessaries of life.
Without care and method, the largest fortune will not, and with them,
almost the smallest will, supply all necessary expenses.  As far as you
can possibly, pay ready money for everything you buy and avoid bills.
Pay that money, too, yourself, and not through the hands of any servant,
who always either stipulates poundage, or requires a present for his good
word, as they call it.  Where you must have bills (as for meat and drink,
clothes, etc.), pay them regularly every month, and with your own hand.
Never, from a mistaken economy, buy a thing you do not want, because it
is cheap; or from a silly pride, because it is dear.  Keep an account in
a book of all that you receive, and of all that you pay; for no man who
knows what he receives and what he pays ever runs out.  I do not mean
that you should keep an account of the shillings and half-crowns which
you may spend in chair-hire, operas, etc.: they are unworthy of the time,
and of the ink that they would consume; leave such minutia to dull,
penny-wise fellows; but remember, in economy, as well as in every other
part of life, to have the proper attention to proper objects, and the
proper contempt for little ones.  A strong mind sees things in their true
proportions; a weak one views them through a magnifying medium, which,
like the microscope, makes an elephant of a flea: magnifies all little
objects, but cannot receive great ones.  I have known many a man pass for
a miser, by saving a penny and wrangling for twopence, who was undoing
himself at the same time by living above his income, and not attending to
essential articles which were above his 'portee'.  The sure
characteristic of a sound and strong mind, is to find in everything those
certain bounds, 'quos ultra citrave nequit consistere rectum'.  These
boundaries are marked out by a very fine line, which only good sense and
attention can discover; it is much too fine for vulgar eyes.  In manners,
this line is good-breeding; beyond it, is troublesome ceremony; short of
it, is unbecoming negligence and inattention.  In morals, it divides
ostentatious puritanism from criminal relaxation; in religion,
superstition from impiety: and, in short, every virtue from its kindred
vice or weakness.  I think you have sense enough to discover the line;
keep it always in your eye, and learn to walk upon it; rest upon Mr.
Harte, and he will poise you till you are able to go alone.  By the way,
there are fewer people who walk well upon that line, than upon the slack
rope; and therefore a good performer shines so much the more.

Your friend Comte Pertingue, who constantly inquires after you, has
written to Comte Salmour, the Governor of the Academy at Turin, to
prepare a room for you there immediately after the Ascension: and has
recommended you to him in a manner which I hope you will give him no
reason to repent or be ashamed of.  As Comte Salmour's son, now residing
at The Hague, is my particular acquaintance, I shall have regular and
authentic accounts of all that you do at Turin.

During your stay at Berlin, I expect that you should inform yourself
thoroughly of the present state of the civil, military, and
ecclesiastical government of the King of Prussia's dominions;
particularly of the military, which is upon a better footing in that
country than in any other in Europe.

You will attend at the reviews, see the troops exercised, and inquire
into the numbers of troops and companies in the respective regiments of
horse, foot, and dragoons; the numbers and titles of the commissioned and
non-commissioned officers in the several troops and companies; and also
take care to learn the technical military terms in the German language;
for though you are not to be a military man, yet these military matters
are so frequently the subject of conversation, that you will look very
awkwardly if you are ignorant of them.  Moreover, they are commonly the
objects of negotiation, and, as such, fall within your future profession.
You must also inform yourself of the reformation which the King of
Prussia has lately made in the law; by which he has both lessened the
number, and shortened the duration of law-suits; a great work, and worthy
of so great a prince!  As he is indisputably the ablest prince in Europe,
every part of his government deserves your most diligent inquiry, and
your most serious attention.  It must be owned that you set out well, as
a young politician, by beginning at Berlin, and then going to Turin,
where you will see the next ablest monarch to that of Prussia; so that,
if you are capable of making political reflections, those two princes
will furnish you with sufficient matter for them.

I would have you endeavor to get acquainted with Monsieur de Maupertuis,
who is so eminently distinguished by all kinds of learning and merit,
that one should be both sorry and ashamed of having been even a day in
the same place with him, and not to have seen him.  If you should have no
other way of being introduced to him, I will send you a letter from
hence.  Monsieur Cagenoni, at Berlin, to whom I know you are recommended,
is a very able man of business, thoroughly informed of every part of
Europe; and his acquaintance, if you deserve and improve it as you should
do, may be of great use to you.

Remember to take the best dancing-master at Berlin, more to teach you to
sit, stand, and walk gracefully, than to dance finely.  The Graces, the
Graces; remember the Graces! Adieu!




LETTER LXIII

LONDON, January 24, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I have received your letter of the l2th, N. S., in which I was
surprised to find no mention of your approaching journey to Berlin,
which, according to the first plan, was to be on the 20th, N. S., and
upon which supposition I have for some time directed my letters to you,
and Mr. Harte, at Berlin.  I should be glad that yours were more minute
with regard to your motions and transactions; and I desire that, for the
future, they may contain accounts of what and who you see and hear, in
your several places of residence; for I interest myself as much in the
company you keep, and the pleasures you take, as in the studies you
pursue; and therefore, equally desire to be informed of them all.
Another thing I desire, which is, that you will acknowledge my letters by
their dates, that I may know which you do, and which you do not receive.

As you found your brain considerably affected by the cold, you were very
prudent not to turn it to poetry in that situation; and not less
judicious in declining the borrowed aid of a stove, whose fumigation,
instead of inspiration, would at best have produced what Mr. Pope calls a
souterkin of wit.  I will show your letter to Duval, by way of
justification for not answering his challenge; and I think he must allow
the validity of it; for a frozen brain is as unfit to answer a challenge
in poetry, as a blunt sword is for a single combat.

You may if you please, and therefore I flatter myself that you will,
profit considerably by your stay at Berlin, in the article of manners and
useful knowledge.  Attention to what you will see and hear there,
together with proper inquiries, and a little care and method in taking
notes of what is more material, will procure you much useful knowledge.
Many young people are so light, so dissipated, and so incurious, that
they can hardly be said to see what they see, or hear what they hear:
that is, they hear in so superficial and inattentive a manner, that they
might as well not see nor hear at all.  For instance, if they see a
public building, as a college, an hospital, an arsenal, etc., they
content themselves with the first 'coup d'oeil', and neither take the
time nor the trouble of informing themselves of the material parts of
them; which are the constitution, the rules, and the order and economy in
the inside.  You will, I hope, go deeper, and make your way into the
substance of things.  For example, should you see a regiment reviewed at
Berlin or Potsdam, instead of contenting yourself with the general
glitter of the collective corps, and saying, 'par maniere d'acquit', that
is very fine, I hope you will ask what number of troops or companies it
consists of; what number of officers of the Etat Major, and what number
of subalternes; how many 'bas officiers', or non-commissioned officers,
as sergeants, corporals, 'anspessades, frey corporals', etc., their pay,
their clothing, and by whom; whether by the colonels, or captains, or
commissaries appointed for that purpose; to whom they are accountable;
the method of recruiting, completing, etc.

The same in civil matters: inform yourself of the jurisdiction of a court
of justice; of the rules and numbers and endowments of a college, or an
academy, and not only of the dimensions of the respective edifices; and
let your letters to me contain these informations, in proportion as you
acquire them.

I often reflect, with the most flattering hopes, how proud I shall be of
you, if you should profit, as you may, of the opportunities which you
have had, still have, and will have, of arriving at perfection; and,
on the other hand, with dread of the grief and shame you will give me
if you do not.  May the first be the case! God bless you!




LETTER LXIV

LONDON, February 7, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: You are now come to an age capable of reflection, and I hope
you will do, what, however, few people at your age do, exert it for your
own sake in the search of truth and sound knowledge.  I will confess (for
I am not unwilling to discover my secrets to you) that it is not many
years since I have presumed to reflect for myself.  Till sixteen or
seventeen I had no reflection; and for many years after that, I made no
use of what I had.  I adopted the notions of the books I read, or the
company I kept, without examining whether they were just or not; and I
rather chose to run the risk of easy error, than to take the time and
trouble of investigating truth.  Thus, partly from laziness, partly from
dissipation, and partly from the 'mauvaise honte' of rejecting
fashionable notions, I was (as I have since found) hurried away by
prejudices, instead of being guided by reason; and quietly cherished
error, instead of seeking for truth.  But since I have taken the trouble
of reasoning for myself, and have had the courage to own that I do so,
you cannot imagine how much my notions of things are altered, and in how
different a light I now see them, from that in which I formerly viewed
them, through the deceitful medium of prejudice or authority.  Nay, I may
possibly still retain many errors, which, from long habit, have perhaps
grown into real opinions; for it is very difficult to distinguish habits,
early acquired and long entertained, from the result of our reason and
reflection.

My first prejudice (for I do not mention the prejudices of boys, and
women, such as hobgoblins, ghosts, dreams, spilling salt, etc.) was my
classical enthusiasm, which I received from the books I read, and the
masters who explained them to me.  I was convinced there had been no
common sense nor common honesty in the world for these last fifteen
hundred years; but that they were totally extinguished with the ancient
Greek and Roman governments.  Homer and Virgil could have no faults,
because they were ancient; Milton and Tasso could have no merit, because
they were modern.  And I could almost have said, with regard to the
ancients, what Cicero, very absurdly and unbecomingly for a philosopher,
says with regard to Plato, 'Cum quo errare malim quam cum aliis recte
sentire'.  Whereas now, without any extraordinary effort of genius, I
have discovered that nature was the same three thousand years ago as it
is at present; that men were but men then as well as now; that modes and
customs vary often, but that human nature is always the same.  And I can
no more suppose that men were better, braver, or wiser, fifteen hundred
or three thousand years ago, than I can suppose that the animals or
vegetables were better then than they are now.  I dare assert too, in
defiance of the favorers of the ancients, that Homer's hero, Achilles,
was both a brute and a scoundrel, and consequently an improper character
for the hero of an epic poem; he had so little regard for his country,
that he would not act in defense of it, because he had quarreled with
Agamemnon about a w---e; and then afterward, animated by private
resentment only, he went about killing people basely, I will call it,
because he knew himself invulnerable; and yet, invulnerable as he was,
he wore the strongest armor in the world; which I humbly apprehend to be
a blunder; for a horse-shoe clapped to his vulnerable heel would have
been sufficient.  On the other hand, with submission to the favorers of
the moderns, I assert with Mr. Dryden, that the devil is in truth the
hero of Milton's poem; his plan, which he lays, pursues, and at last
executes, being the subject of the poem.  From all which considerations
I impartially conclude that the ancients had their excellencies and their
defects, their virtues and their vices, just like the moderns; pedantry
and affectation of learning decide clearly in favor of the former; vanity
and ignorance, as peremptorily in favor of the latter.  Religious
prejudices kept pace with my classical ones; and there was a time when I
thought it impossible for the honestest man in the world to be saved out
of the pale of the Church of England, not considering that matters of
opinion do not depend upon the will; and that it is as natural, and as
allowable, that another man should differ in opinion from me, as that I
should differ from him; and that if we are both sincere, we are both
blameless; and should consequently have mutual indulgence for each other.

The next prejudices that I adopted were those of the 'beau monde', in
which as I was determined to shine, I took what are commonly called the
genteel vices to be necessary.  I had heard them reckoned so, and without
further inquiry I believed it, or at least should have been ashamed to
have denied it, for fear of exposing myself to the ridicule of those whom
I considered as the models of fine gentlemen.  But I am now neither
ashamed nor afraid to assert that those genteel vices, as they are
falsely called, are only so many blemishes in the character of even a man
of the world and what is called a fine gentleman, and degrade him in the
opinions of those very people, to whom he, hopes to recommend himself by
them.  Nay, this prejudice often extends so far, that I have known people
pretend to vices they had not, instead of carefully concealing those they
had.

Use and assert your own reason; reflect, examine, and analyze everything,
in order to form a sound and mature judgment; let no (authority) impose
upon your understanding, mislead your actions, or dictate your
conversation.  Be early what, if you are not, you will when too late wish
you had been.  Consult your reason betimes: I do not say that it will
always prove an unerring guide; for human reason is not infallible; but
it will prove the least erring guide that you can follow.  Books and
conversation may assist it; but adopt neither blindly and implicitly; try
both by that best rule, which God has given to direct us, reason.  Of all
the troubles, do not decline, as many people do, that of thinking.  The
herd of mankind can hardly be said to think; their notions are almost all
adoptive; and, in general, I believe it is better that it should be so,
as such common prejudices contribute more to order and quiet than their
own separate reasonings would do, uncultivated and unimproved as they
are.  We have many of those useful prejudices in this country, which I
should be very sorry to see removed.  The good Protestant conviction,
that the Pope is both Antichrist and the Whore of Babylon, is a more
effectual preservative in this country against popery, than all the solid
and unanswerable arguments of Chillingworth.

The idle story of the pretender's having been introduced in a warming pan
into the queen's bed, though as destitute of all probability as of all
foundation, has been much more prejudicial to the cause of Jacobitism
than all that Mr. Locke and others have written, to show the
unreasonableness and absurdity of the doctrines of indefeasible
hereditary right, and unlimited passive obedience.  And that silly,
sanguine notion, which is firmly entertained here, that one Englishman
can beat three Frenchmen, encourages, and has sometimes enabled, one
Englishman in reality to beat two.

A Frenchman ventures, his life with alacrity 'pour l'honneur du Roi';
were you to change the object, which he has been taught to have in view,
and tell him that it was 'pour le bien de la Patrie', he would very
probably run away.  Such gross local prejudices prevail with the herd of
mankind, and do not impose upon cultivated, informed, and reflecting
minds.  But then they are notions equally false, though not so glaringly
absurd, which are entertained by people of superior and improved
understandings, merely for want of the necessary pains to investigate,
the proper attention to examine, and the penetration requisite to
determine the truth.  Those are the prejudices which I would have you
guard against by a manly exertion and attention of your reasoning
faculty.  To mention one instance of a thousand that I could give you: It
is a general prejudice, and has been propagated for these sixteen hundred
years, that arts and sciences cannot flourish under an absolute
government; and that genius must necessarily be cramped where freedom is
restrained.  This sounds plausible, but is false in fact.  Mechanic arts,
as agriculture, etc., will indeed be discouraged where the profits and
property are, from the nature of the government, insecure.  But why the
despotism of a government should cramp the genius of a mathematician,
an astronomer, a poet, or an orator, I confess I never could discover.
It may indeed deprive the poet or the orator of the liberty of treating
of certain subjects in the manner they would wish, but it leaves them
subjects enough to exert genius upon, if they have it.  Can an author
with reason complain that he is cramped and shackled, if he is not at
liberty to publish blasphemy, bawdry, or sedition? all which are equally
prohibited in the freest governments, if they are wise and well regulated
ones.  This is the present general complaint of the French authors; but
indeed chiefly of the bad ones.  No wonder, say they, that England
produces so many great geniuses; people there may think as they please,
and publish what they think.  Very true, but what hinders them from
thinking as they please?  If indeed they think in manner destructive of
all religion, morality, or good manners, or to the disturbance of the
state, an absolute government will certainly more effectually prohibit
them from, or punish them for publishing such thoughts, than a free one
could do.  But how does that cramp the genius of an epic, dramatic, or
lyric poet? or how does it corrupt the eloquence of an orator in the
pulpit or at the bar?  The number of good French authors, such as
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, and La Fontaine, who seemed to
dispute it with the Augustan age, flourished under the despotism of Lewis
XIV.; and the celebrated authors of the Augustan age did not shine till
after the fetters were riveted upon the Roman people by that cruel and
worthless Emperor.  The revival of letters was not owing, neither, to any
free government, but to the encouragement and protection of Leo X.  and
Francis I; the one as absolute a pope, and the other as despotic a
prince, as ever reigned.  Do not mistake, and imagine that while I am
only exposing a prejudice, I am speaking in favor of arbitrary power;
which from my soul I abhor, and look upon as a gross and criminal
violation of the natural rights of mankind.  Adieu.




LETTER LXV

LONDON, February 28, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY:  I was very much pleased with the account that you gave me of
your reception at Berlin; but I was still better pleased with the account
which Mr. Harte sent me of your manner of receiving that reception; for
he says that you behaved yourself to those crowned heads with all the
respect and modesty due to them; but at the same time, without being any
more embarrassed than if you had been conversing with your equals.  This
easy respect is the perfection of good-breeding, which nothing but
superior good sense, or a long usage of the world, can produce, and as in
your case it could not be the latter, it is a pleasing indication to me
of the former.

You will now, in the course of a few months, have been rubbed at three of
the considerable courts of Europe,-Berlin, Dresden, and Vienna; so that I
hope you will arrive at Turin tolerably smooth and fit for the last
polish.  There you may get the best, there being no court I know of that
forms more well-bred, and agreeable people.  Remember now, that good-
breeding, genteel carriage, address, and even dress (to a certain
degree), are become serious objects, and deserve a part of your
attention.

The day, if well employed, is long enough for them all.  One half of it
bestowed upon your studies and your exercises, will finish your mind and
your body; the remaining part of it, spent in good company, will form
your manners, and complete your character.  What would I not give to have
you read Demosthenes critically in the morning, and understand him better
than anybody; at noon, behave yourself better than any person at court;
and in the evenings, trifle more agreeably than anybody in mixed
companies?  All this you may compass if you please; you have the means,
you have the opportunities.  Employ them, for God's sake, while you may,
and make yourself that all-accomplished man that I wish to have you.  It
entirely depends upon these two years; they are the decisive ones.

I send you here inclosed a letter of recommendation to Monsieur Capello,
at Venice, which you will deliver him immediately upon your arrival,
accompanying it with compliments from me to him and Madame, both of whom
you have seen here.  He will, I am sure, be both very civil and very
useful to you there, as he will also be afterward at Rome, where he is
appointed to go ambassador.  By the way, wherever you are, I would advise
you to frequent, as much as you can, the Venetian Ministers; who are
always better informed of the courts they reside at than any other
minister; the strict and regular accounts, which they are obliged to give
to their own government, making them very diligent and inquisitive.

You will stay at Venice as long as the Carnival lasts; for though I am
impatient to have you at Turin, yet I would wish you to see thoroughly
all that is to be seen at so singular a place as Venice, and at so
showish a time as the Carnival.  You will take also particular care to
view all those meetings of the government, which strangers are allowed to
see; as the Assembly of the Senate, etc., and also to inform yourself of
that peculiar and intricate form of government.  There are books which
give an account of it, among which the best is Amelot de la Houssaye,
which I would advise you to read previously; it will not only give you a
general notion of that constitution, but also furnish you with materials
for proper questions and oral informations upon the place, which are
always the best.  There are likewise many very valuable remains, in
sculpture and paintings, of the best masters, which deserve your
attention.

I suppose you will be at Vienna as soon as this letter will get thither;
and I suppose, too, that I must not direct above one more to you there.
After which, my next shall be directed to you at Venice, the only place
where a letter will be likely to find you, till you are at Turin; but you
may, and I desire that you will write to me, from the several places in
your way, from whence the post goes.

I will send you some other letters for Venice, to Vienna, or to your
banker at Venice, to whom you will, upon your arrival there, send for
them: For I will take care to have you so recommended from place to
place, that you shall not run through them, as most of your countrymen
do, without the advantage of seeing and knowing what best deserves to be
seen and known; I mean the men and the manners.

God bless you, and make you answer my wishes: I will now say, my hopes!
Adieu.




LETTER LXVI

DEAR BOY: I direct this letter to your banker at Venice, the surest place
for you to meet with it, though I suppose that it will be there some time
before you; for, as your intermediate stay anywhere else will be short,
and as the post from hence, in this season of easterly winds is
uncertain, I direct no more letters to Vienna; where I hope both you and
Mr. Harte will have received the two letters which I sent you
respectively; with a letter of recommendation to Monsieur Capello, at
Venice, which was inclosed in mine to you.  I will suppose too, that the
inland post on your side of the water has not done you justice; for I
received but one single letter from you, and one from Mr. Harte, during
your whole stay at Berlin; from whence I hoped for, and expected very
particular accounts.

I persuade myself, that the time you stay at Venice will be properly
employed, in seeing all that is to be seen in that extraordinary place:
and in conversing with people who can inform you, not of the raree-shows
of the town, but of the constitution of the government; for which purpose
I send you the inclosed letters of recommendation from Sir James Grey,
the King's Resident at Venice, but who is now in England.  These, with
mine to Monsieur Capello, will carry you, if you will go, into all the
best company at Venice.

But the important point; and the important place, is Turin; for there I
propose your staying a considerable time, to pursue your studies, learn
your exercises, and form your manners.  I own, I am not without my
anxiety for the consequence of your stay there, which must be either very
good or very bad.  To you it will be entirely a new scene.  Wherever you
have hitherto been, you have conversed, chiefly, with people wiser and
discreeter than yourself; and have been equally out of the way of bad
advice or bad example; but in the Academy at Turin you will probably meet
with both, considering the variety of young fellows about your own age;
among whom it is to be expected that some will be dissipated and idle,
others vicious and profligate.  I will believe, till the contrary
appears, that you have sagacity enough to distinguish the good from the
bad characters; and both sense and virtue enough to shun the latter, and
connect yourself with the former: but however, for greater security, and
for your sake alone, I must acquaint you that I have sent positive orders
to Mr. Harte to carry you off, instantly, to a place which I have named
to him, upon the very first symptom which he shall discover in you,
of drinking, gaming, idleness, or disobedience to his orders; so that,
whether Mr. Harte informs me or not of the particulars, I shall be able
to judge of your conduct in general by the time of your stay at Turin.
If it is short, I shall know why; and I promise you, that you shall soon
find that I do; but if Mr. Harte lets you continue there, as long as I
propose that you should, I shall then be convinced that you make the
proper use of your time; which is the only thing I have to ask of you.
One year is the most that I propose you should stay at Turin; and that
year, if you employ it well, perfects you.  One year more of your late
application, with Mr. Harte, will complete your classical studies.  You
will be likewise master of your exercises in that time; and will have
formed yourself so well at that court, as to be fit to appear
advantageously at any other.  These will be the happy effects of your
year's stay at Turin, if you behave, and apply yourself there as you have
done at Leipsig; but if either ill advice, or ill example, affect and
seduce you, you are ruined forever.  I look upon that year as your
decisive year of probation; go through it well, and you will be all
accomplished, and fixed in my tenderest affection forever; but should the
contagion of vice of idleness lay hold of you there, your character, your
fortune, my hopes, and consequently my favor are all blasted, and you are
undone.  The more I love you now, from the good opinion I have of you,
the greater will be my indignation if I should have reason to change it.
Hitherto you have had every possible proof of my affection, because you
have deserved it; but when you cease to deserve it, you may expect every
possible mark of my resentment.  To leave nothing doubtful upon this
important point I will tell you fairly, beforehand, by what rule I shall
judge of your conduct--by Mr. Harte's accounts.  He will not I am sure,
nay, I will say more, he cannot be in the wrong with regard to you.  He
can have no other view but your good; and you will, I am sure, allow that
he must be a better judge of it than you can possibly be at your age.
While he is satisfied, I shall be so too; but whenever he is dissatisfied
with you, I shall be much more so.  If he complains, you must be guilty;
and I shall not have the least regard for anything that you may allege in
your own defense.

I will now tell you what I expect and insist upon from you at Turin:
First, that you pursue your classical and other studies every morning
with Mr. Harte, as long and in whatever manner Mr. Harte shall be pleased
to require; secondly, that you learn, uninterruptedly, your exercises of
riding, dancing, and fencing; thirdly, that you make yourself master of
the Italian language; and lastly, that you pass your evenings in the best
company.  I also require a strict conformity to the hours and rules of
the Academy.  If you will but finish your year in this manner at Turin,
I have nothing further to ask of you; and I will give you everything that
you can ask of me.  You shall after that be entirely your own master;
I shall think you safe; shall lay aside all authority over you, and
friendship shall be our mutual and only tie.  Weigh this, I beg of you,
deliberately in your own mind; and consider whether the application and
the degree of restraint which I require but for one year more, will not
be amply repaid by all the advantages, and the perfect liberty, which you
will receive at the end of it.  Your own good sense will, I am sure, not
allow you to hesitate one moment in your choice.  God bless you! Adieu.

P. S.  Sir James Grey's letters not being yet sent to me, as I thought
they would, I shall inclose them in my next, which I believe will get to
Venice as soon as you.




LETTER LXVII

LONDON, April 12, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I received, by the last mail, a letter from Mr. Harte, dated
Prague, April the 1st, N. S., for which I desire you will return him my
thanks, and assure him that I extremely approve of what he has done, and
proposes eventually to do, in your way to Turin.  Who would have thought
you were old enough to have been so well acquainted with the heroes of
the 'Bellum Tricennale', as to be looking out for their great-grandsons
in Bohemia, with that affection with which, I am informed, you seek for
the Wallsteins, the Kinskis, etc.  As I cannot ascribe it to your age,
I must to your consummate knowledge of history, that makes every country,
and every century, as it were, your own.  Seriously, I am told, that you
are both very strong and very correct in history; of which I am extremely
glad.  This is useful knowledge.

Comte du Perron and Comte Lascaris are arrived here: the former gave me a
letter from Sir Charles Williams, the latter brought me your orders.
They are very pretty men, and have both knowledge and manners; which,
though they always ought, seldom go together.  I examined them,
particularly Comte Lascaris, concerning you; their report is a very
favorable one, especially on the side of knowledge; the quickness of
conception which they allow you I can easily credit; but the attention
which they add to it pleases me the more, as I own I expected it less.
Go on in the pursuit and the increase of knowledge; nay, I am sure you
will, for you now know too much to stop; and, if Mr. Harte would let you
be idle, I am convinced you would not.  But now that you have left
Leipsig, and are entered into the great world, remember there is another
object that must keep pace with, and accompany knowledge; I mean manners,
politeness, and the Graces; in which Sir Charles Williams, though very
much your friend, owns that you are very deficient.  The manners of
Leipsig must be shook off; and in that respect you must put on the new
man.  No scrambling at your meals, as at a German ordinary; no awkward
overturns of glasses, plates, and salt-cellars; no horse play.  On the
contrary, a gentleness of manners, a graceful carriage, and an
insinuating address, must take their place.  I repeat, and shall never
cease repeating to you, THE GRACES, THE GRACES.

I desire that as soon as ever you get to Turin you will apply yourself
diligently to the Italian language; that before you leave that place,
you may know it well enough to be able to speak tolerably when you get to
Rome; where you will soon make yourself perfectly master of Italian, from
the daily necessity you will be under of speaking it.  In the mean time,
I insist upon your not neglecting, much less forgetting, the German you
already know; which you may not only continue but improve, by speaking it
constantly to your Saxon boy, and as often as you can to the several
Germans you will meet in your travels.  You remember, no doubt, that you
must never write to me from Turin, but in the German language and
character.

I send you the inclosed letter of recommendation to Mr. Smith the King's
Consul at Venice; who can, and I daresay will, be more useful to you
there than anybody.  Pray make your court, and behave your best, to
Monsieur and Madame Capello, who will be of great use to you at Rome.
Adieu!  Yours tenderly.




LETTER LXVIII

LONDON, April 19, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: This letter will, I believe, still find you at Venice in all
the dissipation of masquerades, ridottos, operas, etc.  With all my
heart; they are decent evening's amusements, and very properly succeed
that serious application to which I am sure you devote your mornings.
There are liberal and illiberal pleasures as well as liberal and
illiberal arts: There are some pleasures that degrade a gentleman as much
as some trades could do.  Sottish drinking, indiscriminate gluttony,
driving coaches, rustic sports, such as fox-chases, horse-races, etc.,
are in my opinion infinitely below the honest and industrious profession
of a tailor and a shoemaker, which are said to 'deroger'.

As you are now in a musical country, where singing, fiddling, and piping,
are not only the common topics of conversation, but almost the principal
objects of attention, I cannot help cautioning you against giving in to
those (I will call them illiberal) pleasures (though music is commonly
reckoned one of the liberal arts) to the degree that most of your
countrymen do, when they travel in Italy.  If you love music, hear it; go
to operas, concerts, and pay fiddlers to play to you; but I insist upon
your neither piping nor fiddling yourself.  It puts a gentleman in a very
frivolous, contemptible light; brings him into a great deal of bad
company; and takes up a great deal of time, which might be much better
employed.  Few things would mortify me more, than to see you bearing a
part in a concert, with a fiddle under your chin, or a pipe in your
mouth.

I have had a great deal of conversation with Comte du Perron and Comte
Lascaris upon your subject: and I will tell you, very truly, what Comte
du Perron (who is, in my opinion, a very pretty man) said of you: 'Il a
de l'esprit, un savoir peu commun a son age, une grande vivacite, et
quand il aura pris des manieres il sera parfait; car il faut avouer qu'il
sent encore le college; mars cela viendra'.  I was very glad to hear,
from one whom I think so good a judge, that you wanted nothing but 'des
manieres', which I am convinced you will now soon acquire, in the company
which henceforward you are likely to keep.  But I must add, too, that if
you should not acquire them, all the rest will be of little use to you.
By 'manieres', I do not mean bare common civility; everybody must have
that who would not be kicked out of company; but I mean engaging,
insinuating, shining manners; distinguished politeness, an almost
irresistible address; a superior gracefulness in all you say and do.
It is this alone that can give all your other talents their full lustre
and value; and, consequently, it is this which should now be thy
principal object of your attention.  Observe minutely, wherever you go,
the allowed and established models of good-breeding, and form yourself
upon them.  Whatever pleases you most in others, will infallibly please
others in you.  I have often repeated this to you; now is your time of
putting it in practice.

Pray make my compliments to Mr. Harte, and tell him I have received his
letter from Vienna of the 16th N. S., but that I shall not trouble him
with an answer to it till I have received the other letter which he
promises me, upon the subject of one of my last.  I long to hear from him
after your settlement at Turin: the months that you are to pass there
will be very decisive ones for you.  The exercises of the Academy, and
the manners of courts must be attended to and acquired; and, at the same
time, your other studies continued.  I am sure you will not pass, nor
desire, one single idle hour there: for I do not foresee that you can, in
any part of your life, put out six months to greater interest, than those
next six at Turin.

We will talk hereafter about your stay at Rome and in other parts of
Italy.  This only I will now recommend to you; which is, to extract the
spirit of every place you go to.  In those places which are only
distinguished by classical fame, and valuable remains of antiquity, have
your classics in your hand and in your head; compare the ancient
geography and descriptions with the modern, and never fail to take notes.
Rome will furnish you with business enough of that sort; but then it
furnishes you with many other objects well deserving your attention, such
as deep ecclesiastical craft and policy.  Adieu.




LETTER LXIX

LONDON, April 27, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I have received your letter from Vienna, of the 19th N. S.,
which gives me great uneasiness upon Mr. Harte's account.  You and I have
reason to interest ourselves very particularly in everything that relates
to him.  I am glad, however, that no bone is broken or dislocated; which
being the case, I hope he will have been able to pursue his journey to
Venice.  In that supposition I direct this letter to you at Turin; where
it will either find, or at least not wait very long for you, as I
calculate that you will be there by the end of next month, N. S.  I hope
you reflect how much you have to do there, and that you are determined to
employ every moment of your time accordingly.  You have your classical
and severer studies to continue with Mr. Harte; you have your exercises
to learn; the turn and manners of a court to acquire; reserving always
some time for the decent amusements and pleasures of a gentleman.  You
see I am never against pleasures; I loved them myself when I was of your
age, and it is as reasonable that you should love them now.  But I insist
upon it that pleasures are very combinable with both business and
studies, and have a much better relish from the mixture.  The man who
cannot join business and pleasure is either a formal coxcomb in the one,
or a sensual beast in the other.  Your evenings I therefore allot for
company, assemblies, balls, and such sort of amusements, as I look upon
those to be the best schools for the manners of a gentleman; which
nothing can give but use, observation, and experience.  You have,
besides, Italian to learn, to which I desire you will diligently apply;
for though French is, I believe, the language of the court at Turin, yet
Italian will be very necessary for you at Rome, and in other parts of
Italy; and if you are well grounded in it while you are at Turin (as you
easily may, for it is a very easy language), your subsequent stay at Rome
will make you perfect in it.  I would also have you acquire a general
notion of fortification; I mean so far as not to be ignorant of the
terms, which you will often hear mentioned in company, such as ravelin,
bastion; glacis, contrescarpe, etc.  In order to this, I do not propose
that you should make a study of fortification, as if you were to be an
engineer, but a very easy way of knowing as much as you need know of
them, will be to visit often the fortifications of Turin, in company with
some old officer or engineer, who will show and explain to you the
several works themselves; by which means you will get a clearer notion of
them than if you were to see them only upon paper for seven years
together.  Go to originals whenever you can, and trust to copies and
descriptions as little as possible.  At your idle hours, while you are at
Turin, pray read the history of the House of Savoy, which has produced a
great many very great men.  The late king, Victor Amedee, was undoubtedly
one, and the present king is, in my opinion, another.  In general, I
believe that little princes are more likely to be great men than those
whose more extensive dominions and superior strength flatter them with a
security, which commonly produces negligence and indolence.  A little
prince, in the neighborhood of great ones, must be alert and look out
sharp, if he would secure his own dominions: much more still if he would
enlarge them.  He must watch for conjunctures or endeavor to make them.
No princes have ever possessed this art better than those of the House of
Savoy; who have enlarged their dominions prodigiously within a century by
profiting of conjunctures.

I send you here inclosed a letter from Comte Lascaris, who is a warm
friend of yours: I desire that you will answer it very soon and
cordially, and remember to make your compliments in it to Comte du
Perron.  A young man should never be wanting in those attentions; they
cost little and bring in a great deal, by getting you people's good word
and affection.  They gain the heart, to which I have always advised you
to apply yourself particularly; it guides ten thousand for one that,
reason influences.

I cannot end this letter or (I believe) any other, without repeating my
recommendation of THE GRACES.  They are to be met with at Turin: for
God's sake, sacrifice to them, and they will be propitious.  People
mistake grossly, to imagine that the least awkwardness, either in matter
or manner, mind or body, is an indifferent thing and not worthy of
attention.  It may possibly be a weakness in me, but in short we are all
so made: I confess to you fairly, that when you shall come home and that
I first see you, if I find you ungraceful in your address, and awkward in
your person and dress, it will be impossible for me to love you half so
well as I should otherwise do, let your intrinsic merit and knowledge be
ever so great.  If that would be your case with me, as it really would,
judge how much worse it might be with others, who have not the same
affection and partiality for you, and to whose hearts you must make your
own way.

Remember to write to me constantly while you are in Italy, in the German
language and character, till you can write to me in Italian; which will
not be till you have been some time at Rome.

Adieu, my dear boy: may you turn out what Mr. Harte and I wish you.  I
must add that if you do not, it will be both your own fault and your own
misfortune.




LETTER LXX

LONDON, May 15, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: This letter will, I hope, find you settled to your serious
studies, and your necessary exercises at Turin, after the hurry and the
dissipation of the Carnival at Venice.  I mean that your stay at Turin
should, and I flatter myself that it will, be an useful and ornamental
period of your education; but at the same time I must tell you, that all
my affection for you has never yet given me so much anxiety, as that
which I now feel.  While you are in danger, I shall be in fear; and you
are in danger at Turin.  Mr. Harte will by his care arm you as well as he
can against it; but your own good sense and resolution can alone make you
invulnerable.  I am informed, there are now many English at the Academy
at Turin; and I fear those are just so many dangers for you to encounter.
Who they are, I do not know; but I well know the general ill conduct, the
indecent behavior, and the illiberal views, of my young countrymen.
abroad; especially wherever they are in numbers together.  Ill example is
of itself dangerous enough; but those who give it seldom stop there;
they add their infamous exhortations and invitations; and, if they fail,
they have recourse to ridicule, which is harder for one of your age and
inexperience to withstand than either of the former.  Be upon your guard,
therefore, against these batteries, which will all be played upon you.
You are not sent abroad to converse with your own countrymen: among them,
in general, you will get, little knowledge, no languages, and, I am sure,
no manners.  I desire that you will form no connections, nor (what they
impudently call) friendships with these people; which are, in truth,
only combinations and conspiracies against good morals and good manners.
There is commonly, in young people, a facility that makes them unwilling
to refuse anything that is asked of them; a 'mauvaise honte' that makes
them ashamed to refuse; and, at the same time, an ambition of pleasing
and shining in the company they keep: these several causes produce the
best effect in good company, but the very worst in bad.  If people had no
vices but their own, few would have so many as they have.  For my own
part, I would sooner wear other people's clothes than their vices; and
they would sit upon me just as well.  I hope you will have none; but if
ever you have, I beg, at least, they may be all your own.  Vices of
adoption are, of all others, the most disgraceful and unpardonable.
There are degrees in vices, as well as in virtues; and I must do my
countrymen the justice to say, that they generally take their vices in
the lower degree.  Their gallantry is the infamous mean debauchery of
stews, justly attended and rewarded by the loss of their health, as well
as their character.  Their pleasures of the table end in beastly
drunkenness, low riot, broken windows, and very often (as they well
deserve), broken bones.  They game for the sake of the vice, not of the
amusement; and therefore carry it to excess; undo, or are undone by their
companions.  By such conduct, and in such company abroad, they come home,
the unimproved, illiberal, and ungentlemanlike creatures that one daily
sees them, that is, in the park and in the streets, for one never meets
them in good company; where they have neither manners to present
themselves, nor merit to be received.  But, with the manners of footmen
and grooms, they assume their dress too; for you must have observed them
in the streets here, in dirty blue frocks, with oaken sticks in their
ends, and their hair greasy and unpowdered, tucked up under their hats of
an enormous size.  Thus finished and adorned by their travels, they
become the disturbers of play-houses; they break the windows, and
commonly the landlords, of the taverns where they drink; and are at once
the support, the terror, and the victims, of the bawdy-houses they
frequent.  These poor mistaken people think they shine, and so they do
indeed; but it is as putrefaction shines in the dark.

I am not now preaching to you, like an old fellow, upon their religious
or moral texts; I am persuaded that you do not want the best instructions
of that kind: but I am advising you as a friend, as a man of the world,
as one who would not have you old while you are young, but would have you
to take all the pleasures that reason points out, and that decency
warrants.  I will therefore suppose, for argument's sake (for upon no
other account can it be supposed), that all the vices above mentioned
were perfectly innocent in themselves: they would still degrade, vilify,
and sink those who practiced them; would obstruct their rising in the
world by debasing their characters; and give them low turn of mind, and
manners absolutely inconsistent with their making any figure in upper
life and great business.

What I have now said, together with your own good sense, is, I hope,
sufficient to arm you against the seduction, the invitations, or the
profligate exhortations (for I cannot call them temptations) of those
unfortunate young people.  On the other hand, when they would engage you
in these schemes, content yourself with a decent but steady refusal;
avoid controversy upon such plain points.  You are too young to convert
them; and, I trust, too wise to be converted by them.  Shun them not only
in reality, but even in appearance, if you would be well received in good
company; for people will always be shy of receiving a man who comes from
a place where the plague rages, let him look ever so healthy.  There are
some expressions, both in French and English, and some characters, both
in those two and in other countries, which have, I dare say, misled many
young men to their ruin.  'Une honnete debauche, une jolie debauche; "An
agreeable rake, a man of pleasure."  Do not think that this means
debauchery and profligacy; nothing like it.  It means, at most, the
accidental and unfrequent irregularities of youth and vivacity, in
opposition to dullness, formality, and want of spirit.  A 'commerce
galant', insensibly formed with a woman of fashion; a glass of wine or
two too much, unwarily taken in the warmth and joy of good company; or
some innocent frolic, by which nobody is injured, are the utmost bounds
of that life of pleasure, which a man of sense and decency, who has a
regard for his character, will allow himself, or be allowed by others.
Those who transgress them in the hopes of shining, miss their aim, and
become infamous, or at least, contemptible.

The length or shortness of your stay at Turin will sufficiently inform me
(even though Mr. Harte should not) of your conduct there; for, as I have
told you before, Mr. Harte has the strictest orders to carry you away
immediately from thence, upon the first and least symptom of infection
that he discovers about you; and I know him to be too conscientiously
scrupulous, and too much your friend and mine not to execute them
exactly.  Moreover, I will inform you, that I shall have constant
accounts of your behavior from Comte Salmour, the Governor of the
Academy, whose son is now here, and my particular friend.  I have, also,
other good channels of intelligence, of which I do not apprise you.  But,
supposing that all turns out well at Turin, yet, as I propose your being
at Rome for the jubilee, at Christmas, I desire that you will apply
yourself diligently to your exercises of dancing, fencing, and riding at
the Academy; as well for the sake of your health and growth, as to
fashion and supple you.  You must not neglect your dress neither, but
take care to be 'bien mis'.  Pray send for the best operator for the
teeth at Turin, where I suppose there is some famous one; and let him put
yours in perfect order; and then take care to keep them so, afterward,
yourself.  You had very good teeth, and I hope they are so still; but
even those who have bad ones, should keep them clean; for a dirty mouth
is, in my mind, ill manners.  In short, neglect nothing that can possibly
please.  A thousand nameless little things, which nobody can describe,
but which everybody feels, conspire to form that WHOLE of pleasing; as
the several pieces of a Mosaic work though, separately, of little beauty
or value, when properly joined, form those beautiful figures which please
everybody.  A look, a gesture, an attitude, a tone of voice, all bear
their parts in the great work of pleasing.  The art of pleasing is more
particularly necessary in your intended profession than perhaps in any
other; it is, in truth, the first half of your business; for if you do
not please the court you are sent to, you will be of very little use to
the court you are sent from.  Please the eyes and the ears, they will
introduce you to the heart; and nine times in ten, the heart governs the
understanding.

Make your court particularly, and show distinguished attentions to such
men and women as are best at court, highest in the fashion, and in the
opinion of the public; speak advantageously of them behind their backs,
in companies whom you have reason to believe will tell them again.
Express your admiration of the many great men that the House of Savoy has
produced; observe that nature, instead of being exhausted by those
efforts, seems to have redoubled them, in the person of the present King,
and the Duke of Savoy; wonder, at this rate, where it will end, and
conclude that it must end in the government of all Europe.  Say this,
likewise, where it will probably be repeated; but say it unaffectedly,
and, the last especially, with a kind of 'enjouement'.  These little arts
are very allowable, and must be made use of in the course of the world;
they are pleasing to one party, useful to the other, and injurious to
nobody.

What I have said with regard to my countrymen in general, does not extend
to them all without exception; there are some who have both merit and
manners.  Your friend, Mr. Stevens, is among the latter; and I approve of
your connection with him.  You may happen to meet with some others, whose
friendship may be of great use to you hereafter, either from their
superior talents, or their rank and fortune; cultivate them; but then I
desire that Mr. Harte may be the judge of those persons.

Adieu my dear child!  Consider seriously the importance of the two next
years to your character, your figure, and your fortune.




LETTER LXXI

LONDON, May 22, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I recommended to you, in my last, an innocent piece of art;
that of flattering people behind their backs, in presence of those who,
to make their own court, much more than for your sake, will not fail to
repeat and even amplify the praise to the party concerned.  This is, of
all flattery, the most pleasing, and consequently the most effectual.
There are other, and many other, inoffensive arts of this kind, which are
necessary in the course of the world, and which he who practices the
earliest, will please the most, and rise the soonest.  The spirits and
vivacity of youth are apt to neglect them as useless, or reject them as
troublesome.  But subsequent knowledge and experience of the world
reminds us of their importance, commonly when it is too late.  The
principal of these things is the mastery of one's temper, and that
coolness of mind, and serenity of countenance, which hinders us from
discovering by words, actions, or even looks, those passions or
sentiments by which we are inwardly moved or agitated; and the discovery
of which gives cooler and abler people such infinite advantages over us,
not only in great business, but in all the most common occurrences of
life.  A man who does not possess himself enough to hear disagreeable
things without visible marks of anger and change of countenance, or
agreeable ones, without sudden bursts of joy and expansion of
countenance, is at the mercy of every artful knave or pert coxcomb; the
former will provoke or please you by design, to catch unguarded words or
looks by which he will easily decipher the secrets of your heart, of
which you should keep the key yourself, and trust it with no man living.
The latter will, by his absurdity, and without intending it, produce the
same discoveries of which other people will avail themselves.  You will
say, possibly, that this coolness must be constitutional, and
consequently does not depend upon the will: and I will allow that
constitution has some power over us; but I will maintain, too, that
people very often, to excuse themselves, very unjustly accuse their
constitutions.  Care and reflection, if properly used, will get the
better: and a man may as surely get a habit of letting his reason prevail
over his constitution, as of letting, as most people do, the latter
prevail over the former.  If you find yourself subject to sudden starts
of passion or madness (for I see no difference between them but in their
duration), resolve within yourself, at least, never to speak one word
while you feel that emotion within you.  Determine, too, to keep your
countenance as unmoved and unembarrassed as possible; which steadiness
you may get a habit of, by constant attention.  I should desire nothing
better, in any negotiation, than to have to do with one of those men of
warm, quick passions; which I would take care to set in motion.  By
artful provocations I would extort rash unguarded expressions; and,
by hinting at all the several things that I could suspect, infallibly
discover the true one, by the alteration it occasioned in the countenance
of the person.  'Volto sciolto con pensieri stretti', is a most useful
maxim in business.  It is so necessary at some games, such as 'Berlan
Quinze', etc., that a man who had not the command of his temper and
countenance, would infallibly be outdone by those who had, even though
they played fair.  Whereas, in business, you always play with sharpers;
to whom, at least, you should give no fair advantages.  It may be
objected, that I am now recommending dissimulation to you; I both own and
justify it.  It has been long said, 'Qui nescit dissimulare nescit
regnare': I go still further, and say, that without some dissimulation no
business can be carried on at all.  It is SIMULATION that is false, mean,
and criminal: that is the cunning which Lord Bacon calls crooked or left-
handed wisdom, and which is never made use of but by those who have not
true wisdom.  And the same great man says, that dissimulation is only to
hide our own cards, whereas simulation is put on, in order to look into
other people's.  Lord Bolingbroke, in his "Idea of a Patriot King," which
he has lately published, and which I will send you by the first
opportunity, says very justly that simulation is a STILETTO,--not only an
unjust but an unlawful weapon, and the use of it very rarely to be
excused, never justified.  Whereas dissimulation is a shield, as secrecy
is armor; and it is no more possible to preserve secrecy in business,
without same degree of dissimulation, than it is to succeed in business
without secrecy.  He goes on, and says, that those two arts of
dissimulation and secrecy are like the alloy mingled with pure ore: a
little is necessary, and will not debase the coin below its proper
standard; but if more than that little be employed (that is, simulation
and cunning), the coin loses its currency, and the coiner his credit.

Make yourself absolute master, therefore, of your temper and your
countenance, so far, at least, as that no visible change do appear in
either, whatever you may feel inwardly.  This may be difficult, but it is
by no means impossible; and, as a man of sense never attempts
impossibilities on one hand, on the other, he is never discouraged by
difficulties: on the contrary, he redoubles his industry and his
diligence; he perseveres, and infallibly prevails at last.  In any point
which prudence bids you pursue, and which a manifest utility attends, let
difficulties only animate your industry, not deter you from the pursuit.
If one way has failed, try another; be active, persevere, and you will
conquer.  Some people are to be reasoned, some flattered, some
intimidated, and some teased into a thing; but, in general, all are to be
brought into it at last, if skillfully applied to, properly managed, and
indefatigably attacked in their several weak places.  The time should
likewise be judiciously chosen; every man has his 'mollia tempora', but
that is far from being all day long; and you would choose your time very
ill, if you applied to a man about one business, when his head was full
of another, or when his heart was full of grief, anger, or any other
disagreeable sentiment.

In order to judge of the inside of others, study your own; for men in
general are very much alike; and though one has one prevailing passion,
and another has another, yet their operations are much the same; and
whatever engages or disgusts, pleases or offends you, in others will,
'mutatis mutandis', engage, disgust, please, or offend others, in you.
Observe with the utmost attention all the operations of your own mind,
the nature of your passions, and the various motives that determine your
will; and you may, in a great degree, know all mankind.  For instance, do
you find yourself hurt and mortified when another makes you feel his
superiority, and your own inferiority, in knowledge, parts, rank, or
fortune?  You will certainly take great care not to make a person whose
good will, good word, interest, esteem, or friendship, you would gain,
feel that superiority in you, in case you have it.  If disagreeable
insinuations, sly sneers, or repeated contradictions, tease and irritate
you, would you use them where you wish to engage and please?  Surely not,
and I hope you wish to engage and please, almost universally.  The
temptation of saying a smart and witty thing, or 'bon mot'; and the
malicious applause with which it is commonly received, has made people
who can say them, and, still oftener, people who think they can, but
cannot, and yet try, more enemies, and implacable ones too, than any one
other thing that I know of: When such things, then, shall happen to be
said at your expense (as sometimes they certainly will), reflect
seriously upon the sentiments of uneasiness, anger, and resentment which
they excite in you; and consider whether it can be prudent, by the same
means, to excite the same sentiments in others against you.  It is a
decided folly to lose a friend for a jest; but, in my mind, it is not a
much less degree of folly to make an enemy of an indifferent and neutral
person, for the sake of a 'bon mot'.  When things of this kind happen to
be said of you, the most prudent way is to seem not to suppose that they
are meant at you, but to dissemble and conceal whatever degree of anger
you may feel inwardly; but, should they be so plain that you cannot be
supposed ignorant of their meaning, to join in the laugh of the company
against yourself; acknowledge the hit to be a fair one, and the jest a
good one, and play off the whole thing in seeming good humor; but by no
means reply in the same way; which only shows that you are hurt, and
publishes the victory which you might have concealed.  Should the thing
said, indeed injure your honor or moral character, there is but one
proper reply; which I hope you never will have occasion to make.

As the female part of the world has some influence, and often too much,
over the male, your conduct with regard to women (I mean women of
fashion, for I cannot suppose you capable of conversing with any others)
deserves some share in your reflections.  They are a numerous and
loquacious body: their hatred would be more prejudicial than their
friendship can be advantageous to you.  A general complaisance and
attention to that sex is therefore established by custom, and certainly
necessary.  But where you would particularly please anyone, whose
situation, interest, or connections, can be of use to you, you must show
particular preference.  The least attentions please, the greatest charm
them.  The innocent but pleasing flattery of their persons, however
gross, is greedily swallowed and kindly digested: but a seeming regard
for their understandings, a seeming desire of, and deference for, their
advice, together with a seeming confidence in their moral virtues, turns
their heads entirely in your favor.  Nothing shocks them so much as the
least appearance of that contempt which they are apt to suspect men of
entertaining of their capacities; and you may be very sure of gaining
their friendship if you seem to think it worth gaining.  Here
dissimulation is very often necessary, and even simulation sometimes
allowable; which, as it pleases them, may, be useful to you, and is
injurious to nobody.

This torn sheet, which I did not observe when I began upon it, as it
alters the figure, shortens, too, the length of my letter.  It may very
well afford it: my anxiety for you carries me insensibly to these
lengths.  I am apt to flatter myself, that my experience, at the latter
end of my life, may be of use to you at the beginning of yours; and I do
not grudge the greatest trouble, if it can procure you the least
advantage.  I even repeat frequently the same things, the better to
imprint them on your young, and, I suppose, yet giddy mind; and I shall
think that part of my time the best employed, that contributes to make
you employ yours well.  God bless you, child!




LETTER LXXII

LONDON, June 16, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I do not guess where this letter will find you, but I hope it
will find you well: I direct it eventually to Laubach; from whence I
suppose you have taken care to have your letters sent after you.  I
received no account from Mr. Harte by last post, and the mail due this
day is not yet come in; so that my informations come down no lower than
the 2d June, N. S., the date of Mr, Harte's last letter.  As I am now
easy about your health, I am only curious about your motions, which I
hope have been either to Inspruck or Verona; for I disapprove extremely
of your proposed long and troublesome journey to Switzerland.  Wherever
you may be, I recommend to you to get as much Italian as you can, before
you go either to Rome or Naples: a little will be of great use to you
upon the road; and the knowledge of the grammatical part, which you can
easily acquire in two or three months, will not only facilitate your
progress, but accelerate your perfection in that language, when you go to
those places where it is generally spoken; as Naples, Rome, Florence,
etc.

Should the state of your health not yet admit of your usual application
to books, you may, in a great degree, and I hope you will, repair that
loss by useful and instructive conversations with Mr. Harte:  you may,
for example, desire him to give you in conversation the outlines, at
least, of Mr. Locke's logic; a general notion of ethics, and a verbal
epitome of rhetoric; of all which Mr. Harte will give you clearer ideas
in half an hour, by word of mouth, than the books of most of the dull
fellows who have written upon those subjects would do in a week.

I have waited so long for the post, which I hoped would come, that the
post, which is just going out, obliges me to cut this letter short.  God
bless you, my dear child! and restore you soon to perfect health!

My compliments to Mr. Harte; to whose care your life is the least thing
that you owe.




LETTER LXXIII

LONDON, June 22, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: The outside of your letter of the 7th N. S., directed by your
own hand, gave me more pleasure than the inside of any other letter ever
did.  I received it yesterday at the same time with one from Mr. Harts of
the 6th.  They arrived at a very proper time, for they found a
consultation of physicians in my room, upon account of a fever which I
had for four or five days, but which has now entirely left me.  As Mr.
Harte Says THAT YOUR LUNGS NOW AND THEN GIVE YOU A LITTLE PAIN, and that
YOUR SWELLINGS COME AND GO VARIABLY, but as he mentions nothing of your
coughing, spitting, or sweating, the doctors take it for granted that you
are entirely free from those three bad symptoms: and from thence
conclude, that, the pain which you sometimes feel upon your lungs is only
symptomatical of your rheumatic disorder, from the pressure of the
muscles which hinders the free play of the lungs.  But, however, as the
lungs are a point of the utmost importance and delicacy, they insist upon
your drinking, in all events, asses' milk twice a day, and goats' whey as
often as you please, the oftener the better: in your common diet, they
recommend an attention to pectorals, such as sago, barley, turnips, etc.
These rules are equally good in rheumatic as in consumptive cases; you
will therefore, I hope, strictly observe them; for I take it for granted
that you are above the silly likings or dislikings, in which silly people
indulge their tastes, at the expense of their health.

I approve of your going to Venice, as much as I disapproved of your going
to Switzerland.  I suppose that you are by this time arrived; and, in
that supposition, I direct this letter there.  But if you should find the
heat too great, or the water offensive, at this time of the year, I would
have you go immediately to Verona, and stay there till the great heats
are over, before you return to Venice.

The time which you will probably pass at Venice will allow you to make
yourself master of that intricate and singular form of government, of
which few of our travelers know anything.  Read, ask, and see everything
that is relative to it.  There are likewise many valuable remains of the
remotest antiquity, and many fine pieces of the Antico-moderno, all which
deserve a different sort of attention from that which your countrymen
commonly give them.  They go to see them, as they go to see the lions,
and kings on horseback, at the Tower here, only to say that they have
seen them.  You will, I am sure, view them in another light; you will
consider them as you would a poem, to which indeed they are akin.  You
will observe whether the sculptor has animated his stone, or the painter
his canvas, into the just expression of those sentiments and passions
which should characterize and mark their several figures.  You will
examine, likewise, whether in their groups there be a unity of action,
or proper relation; a truth of dress and manners.  Sculpture and painting
are very justly called liberal arts; a lively and strong imagination,
together with a just observation, being absolutely necessary to excel in
either; which, in my opinion, is by no means the case of music, though
called a liberal art, and now in Italy placed even above the other two;
a proof of the decline of that country.  The Venetian school produced
many great painters, such as Paul Veronese, Titian, Palma, etc., of whom
you will see, as well in private houses as in churches, very fine pieces.
The Last Supper, of Paul Veronese, in the church of St. George, is
reckoned his capital performance, and deserves your attention; as does
also the famous picture of the Cornaro Family, by Titian.  A taste for
sculpture and painting is, in my mind, as becoming as a taste for
fiddling and piping is unbecoming, a man of fashion.  The former is
connected with history and poetry; the latter, with nothing that I know
of but bad company.

Learn Italian as fast as ever you can, that you may be able to understand
it tolerably, and speak it a little before you go to Rome and Naples:
There are many good historians in that language, and excellent
translations of the ancient Greek and Latin authors; which are called the
Collana; but the only two Italian poets that deserve your acquaintance
are Ariosto and Tasso; and they undoubtedly have great merit.

Make my compliments to Mr. Harte, and tell him that I have consulted
about his leg, and that if it was only a sprain, he ought to keep a tight
bandage about the part, for a considerable time, and do nothing else to
it.  Adieu!  'Jubeo te bene valere'.




LETTER LXXIV

LONDON, July 6, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: As I am now no longer in pain about your health, which I trust
is perfectly restored; and as, by the various accounts I have had of you,
I need not be in pain about your learning, our correspondence may, for
the future, turn upon less important points, comparatively; though still
very important ones: I mean, the knowledge of the world, decorum,
manners, address, and all those (commonly called little) accomplishments,
which are absolutely necessary to give greater accomplishments their
full, value and lustre.

Had I the admirable ring of Gyges, which rendered the wearer invisible;
and had I, at the same time, those magic powers, which were very common
formerly, but are now very scarce, of transporting myself, by a wish, to
any given place, my first expedition would be to Venice, there to
RECONNOITRE you, unseen myself.  I would first take you in the morning,
at breakfast with Mr. Harte, and attend to your natural and unguarded
conversation with him; from whence, I think, I could pretty well judge of
your natural turn of mind.  How I should rejoice if I overheard you
asking him pertinent questions upon useful subjects! or making judicious
reflections upon the studies of that morning, or the occurrences of the
former day! Then I would follow you into the different companies of the
day, and carefully observe in what manner you presented yourself to, and
behaved yourself with, men of sense and dignity; whether your address was
respectful, and yet easy; your air modest, and yet unembarrassed; and I
would, at the same time, penetrate into their thoughts, in order to know
whether your first 'abord' made that advantageous impression upon their
fancies, which a certain address, air, and manners, never fail doing.
I would afterward follow you to the mixed companies of the evening; such
as assemblies, suppers, etc., and there watch if you trifled gracefully
and genteelly: if your good-breeding and politeness made way for your
parts and knowledge.  With what pleasure should I hear people cry out,
'Che garbato cavaliere, com' e pulito, disinvolto, spiritoso'! If all
these things turned out to my mind, I would immediately assume my own
shape, become visible, and embrace you: but if the contrary happened, I
would preserve my invisibility, make the best of my way home again, and
sink my disappointment upon you and the world.  As, unfortunately, these
supernatural powers of genii, fairies, sylphs, and gnomes, have had the
fate of the oracles they succeeded, and have ceased for some time, I must
content myself (till we meet naturally, and in the common way) with Mr.
Harte's written accounts of you, and the verbal ones which I now and then
receive from people who have seen you.  However, I believe it would do
you no harm, if you would always imagine that I were present, and saw and
heard everything you did and said.

There is a certain concurrence of various little circumstances which
compose what the French call 'l'aimable'; and which, now that you are
entering into the world, you ought to make it your particular study to
acquire.  Without them, your learning will be pedantry, your conversation
often improper, always unpleasant, and your figure, however good in
itself, awkward and unengaging.  A diamond, while rough, has indeed its
intrinsic value; but, till polished, is of no use, and would neither be
sought for nor worn.  Its great lustre, it is true, proceeds from its
solidity and strong cohesion of parts; but without the last polish, it
would remain forever a dirty, rough mineral, in the cabinets of some few
curious collectors.  You have; I hope, that solidity and cohesion of
parts; take now as much pains to get the lustre.  Good company, if you
make the right use of it, will cut you into shape, and give you the true
brilliant polish.  A propos of diamonds: I have sent you by Sir James
Gray, the King's Minister, who will be at Venice about the middle of
September, my own diamond buckles; which are fitter for your young feet
than for my old ones: they will properly adorn you; they would only
expose me.  If Sir James finds anybody whom he can trust, and who will be
at Venice before him, he will send them by that person; but if he should
not, and that you should be gone from Venice before he gets there, he
will in that case give them to your banker, Monsieur Cornet, to forward
to you, wherever you may then be.  You are now of an age, at which the
adorning your person is not only not ridiculous, but proper and becoming.
Negligence would imply either an indifference about pleasing, or else an
insolent security of pleasing, without using those means to which others
are obliged to have recourse.  A thorough cleanliness in your person is
as necessary for your own health, as it is not to be offensive to other
people.  Washing yourself, and rubbing your body and limbs frequently
with a fleshbrush, will conduce as much to health as to cleanliness.  A
particular attention to the cleanliness of your mouth, teeth, hands, and
nails, is but common decency, in order not to offend people's eyes and
noses.

I send you here inclosed a letter of recommendation to the Duke of
Nivernois, the French Ambassador at Rome; who is, in my opinion, one of
the prettiest men I ever knew in my life.  I do not know a better model
for you to form yourself upon; pray observe and frequent him as much as
you can.  He will show you what manners and graces are.  I shall, by
successive posts, send you more letters, both for Rome and Naples, where
it will be your own fault entirely if you do not keep the very best
company.

As you will meet swarms of Germans wherever you go, I desire that you
will constantly converse with them in their own language, which will
improve you in that language, and be, at the same time, an agreeable
piece of civility to them.

Your stay in Italy will, I do not doubt, make you critically master of
Italian; I know it may, if you please, for it is a very regular, and
consequently a very easy language.  Adieu! God bless you!




LETTER LXXV

LONDON, July 20, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I wrote to Mr. Harte last Monday, the 17th, O. S., in answer to
his letter of the 20th June, N. S., which I had received but the day
before, after an interval of eight posts; during which I did not know
whether you or he existed, and indeed I began to think that you did not.
By that letter you ought at this time to be at Venice; where I hope you
are arrived in perfect health, after the baths of Tiefler, in case you
have made use of them.  I hope they are not hot baths, if your lungs are
still tender.

Your friend, the Comte d'Einsiedlen, is arrived here: he has been at my
door, and I have been at his; but we have not yet met.  He will dine with
me some day this week.  Comte Lascaris inquires after you very
frequently, and with great affection; pray answer the letter which I
forwarded to you a great while ago from him.  You may inclose your answer
to me, and I will take care to give it him.  Those attentions ought never
to be omitted; they cost little, and please a great deal; but the neglect
of them offends more than you can yet imagine.  Great merit, or great
failings, will make you be respected or despised; but trifles, little
attentions, mere nothings, either done, or neglected, will make you
either liked or disliked, in the general run of the world.  Examine
yourself why you like such and such people, and dislike such and such
others; and you will find, that those different sentiments proceed from
very slight causes.  Moral virtues are the foundation of society in
general, and of friendship in particular; but attentions, manners, and
graces, both adorn and strengthen them.  My heart is so set upon your
pleasing, and consequently succeeding in the world, that possibly I have
already (and probably shall again) repeat the same things over and over
to you.  However, to err, if I do err, on the surer side, I shall
continue to communicate to you those observations upon the world which
long experience has enabled me to make, and which I have generally found
to hold true.  Your youth and talents, armed with my experience, may go a
great way; and that armor is very much at your service, if you please to
wear it.  I premise that it is not my imagination, but my memory, that
gives you these rules: I am not writing pretty; but useful reflections.
A man of sense soon discovers, because he carefully observes, where, and
how long, he is welcome; and takes care to leave the company, at least as
soon as he is wished out of it.  Fools never perceive where they are
either ill-timed or illplaced.

I am this moment agreeably stopped, in the course of my reflections, by
the arrival of Mr. Harte's letter of the 13th July, N. S., to Mr.
Grevenkop, with one inclosed for your Mamma.  I find by it that many of
his and your letters to me must have miscarried; for he says that I have
had regular accounts of you: whereas all those accounts have been only
his letter of the 6th and yours of the 7th June, N. S.; his of the 20th
June, N. S., to me; and now his of the 13th July, N. S., to Mr.
Grevenkop.  However, since you are so well, as Mr. Harte says you are,
all is well.  I am extremely glad that you have no complaint upon your
lungs; but I desire that you will think you have, for three or four
months to come.  Keep in a course of asses' or goats' milk, for one is as
good as the other, and possibly ,the latter is the best; and let your
common food be as pectoral as you can conveniently make it.  Pray tell
Mr. Harte that, according to his desire, I have wrote a letter of thanks
to Mr. Firmian.  I hope you write to him too, from time to time.  The
letters of recommendation of a man of his merit and learning will, to be
sure, be of great use to you among the learned world in Italy; that is,
provided you take care to keep up to the character he gives you in them;
otherwise they will only add to your disgrace.

Consider that you have lost a good deal of time by your illness; fetch it
up now that you are well.  At present you should be a good economist of
your moments, of which company and sights will claim a considerable
share; so that those which remain for study must be not only attentively,
but greedily employed.  But indeed I do not suspect you of one single
moment's idleness in the whole day.  Idleness is only the refuge of weak
minds, and the holiday of fools.  I do not call good company and liberal
pleasures, idleness; far from it: I recommend to you a good share of
both.

I send you here inclosed a letter for Cardinal Alexander Albani, which
you will give him, as soon as you get to Rome, and before you deliver any
others; the Purple expects that preference; go next to the Duc de
Nivernois, to whom you are recommended by several people at Paris, as
well as by myself.  Then you may carry your other letters occasionally.

Remember to pry narrowly into every part of the government of Venice:
inform yourself of the history of that republic, especially of its most
remarkable eras; such as the Ligue de eambray, in 1509, by which it had
like to have been destroyed; and the conspiracy formed by the Marquis de
Bedmar, the Spanish Ambassador, to subject it to the Crown of Spain.  The
famous disputes between that republic and the Pope are worth your
knowledge; and the writings of the celebrated and learned Fra Paolo di
Sarpi, upon that occasion, worth your reading.  It was once the greatest
commercial power in Europe, and in the 14th and 15th centuries made a
considerable figure; but at present its commerce is decayed, and its
riches consequently decreased; and, far from meddling now with the
affairs of the Continent, it owes its security to its neutrality and
inefficiency; and that security will last no longer than till one of the
great Powers in Europe engrosses the rest of Italy; an event which this
century possibly may, but which the next probably will see.

Your friend Comte d'Ensiedlen and his governor, have been with me this
moment, and delivered me your letter from Berlin, of February the 28th,
N. S.  I like them both so well that I am glad you did; and still gladder
to hear what they say of you.  Go on, and continue to deserve the praises
of those who deserve praises themselves.  Adieu.

I break open this letter to acknowledge yours of the 30th June, N. S.,
which I have but this instant received, though thirteen days antecedent
in date to Mr. Harte's last.  I never in my life heard of bathing four
hours a day; and I am impatient to hear of your safe arrival at Venice,
after so extraordinary an operation.




LETTER LXXVI

LONDON, July 30, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: Mr. Harte's letters and yours drop in upon me most irregularly;
for I received, by the last post, one from Mr. Harte, of the 9th, N. S.,
and that which Mr. Grevenkop had received from him, the post before, was
of the 13th; at last, I suppose, I shall receive them all.

I am very glad that my letter, with Dr. Shaw's opinion, has lessened your
bathing; for since I was born, I never heard of bathing four hours a-day;
which would surely be too much, even in Medea's kettle, if you wanted (as
you do not yet) new boiling.

Though, in that letter of mine, I proposed your going to Inspruck, it was
only in opposition to Lausanne, which I thought much too long and painful
a journey for you; but you will have found, by my subsequent letters,
that I entirely approved of Venice; where I hope you have now been some
time, and which is a much better place for you to reside at, till you go
to Naples, than either Tieffer or Laubach.  I love capitals extremely; it
is in capitals that the best company is always to be found; and
consequently, the best manners to be learned.  The very best provincial
places have some awkwardness, that distinguish their manners from those
of the metropolis.  'A propos' of capitals, I send you here two letters
of recommendation to Naples, from Monsieur Finochetti, the Neapolitan
Minister at The Hague; and in my next I shall send you two more, from the
same person, to the same place.

I have examined Comte d'Einsiedlen so narrowly concerning you, that I
have extorted from him a confession that you do not care to speak German,
unless to such as understand no other language.  At this rate, you will
never speak it well, which I am very desirous that you should do, and of
which you would, in time, find the advantage.  Whoever has not the
command of a language, and does not speak it with facility, will always
appear below himself when he converses in that language; the want of
words and phrases will cramp and lame his thoughts.  As you now know
German enough to express yourself tolerably, speaking it very often will
soon make you speak it very well: and then you will appear in it whatever
you are.  What with your own Saxon servant and the swarms of Germans you
will meet with wherever you go, you may have opportunities of conversing
in that language half the day; and I do very seriously desire that you
will, or else all the pains that you have already taken about it are
lost.  You will remember likewise, that, till you can write in Italian,
you are always to write to me in German.

Mr. Harte's conjecture concerning your distemper seems to be a very
reasonable one; it agrees entirely with mine, which is the universal rule
by which every man judges of another man's opinion.  But, whatever may
have been the cause of your rheumatic disorder, the effects are still to
be attended to; and as there must be a remaining acrimony in your blood,
you ought to have regard to that, in your common diet as well as in your
medicines; both which should be of a sweetening alkaline nature, and
promotive of perspiration.  Rheumatic complaints are very apt to return,
and those returns would be very vexatious and detrimental to you; at your
age, and in your course of travels.  Your time is, now particularly,
inestimable; and every hour of it, at present, worth more than a year
will be to you twenty years hence.  You are now laying the foundation of
your future character and fortune; and one single stone wanting in that
foundation is of more consequence than fifty in the superstructure; which
can always be mended and embellished if the foundation is solid.  To
carry on the metaphor of building: I would wish you to be a Corinthian
edifice upon a Tuscan foundation; the latter having the utmost strength
and solidity to support, and the former all possible ornaments to
decorate.  The Tuscan column is coarse, clumsy, and unpleasant; nobody
looks at it twice; the Corinthian fluted column is beautiful and
attractive; but without a solid foundation, can hardly be seen twice,
because it must soon tumble down.  Yours affectionately.




LETTER LXXVII

LONDON, August 7, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: By Mr. Harte's letter to me of the 18th July N. S., which I
received by the last post, I am at length informed of the particulars
both of your past distemper, and of your future motions.  As to the
former, I am now convinced, and so is Dr. Shaw, that your lungs were only
symptomatically affected; and that the rheumatic tendency is what you are
chiefly now to guard against, but (for greater security) with due
attention still to your lungs, as if they had been, and still were, a
little affected.  In either case, a cooling, pectoral regimen is equally
good.  By cooling, I mean cooling in its consequences, not cold to the
palate; for nothing is more dangerous than very cold liquors, at the very
time that one longs for them the most; which is, when one is very hot.
Fruit, when full ripe, is very wholesome; but then it must be within
certain bounds as to quantity; for I have known many of my countrymen die
of bloody-fluxes, by indulging in too great a quantity of fruit, in those
countries where, from the goodness and ripeness of it, they thought it
could do them no harm.  'Ne quid nimis', is a most excellent rule in
everything; but commonly the least observed, by people of your age, in
anything.

As to your future motions, I am very well pleased with them, and greatly
prefer your intended stay at Verona to Venice, whose almost stagnating
waters must, at this time of the year, corrupt the air.  Verona has a
pure and clear air, and, as I am informed, a great deal of good company.
Marquis Maffei, alone, would be worth going there for.  You may, I think,
very well leave Verona about the middle of September, when the great
heats will be quite over, and then make the best of your way to Naples;
where, I own, I want to have you by way of precaution (I hope it is
rather over caution) in case of the last remains of a pulmonic disorder.
The amphitheatre at Verona is worth your attention; as are also many
buildings there and at Vicenza, of the famous Andrea Palladio, whose
taste and style of buildings were truly antique.  It would not be amiss,
if you employed three or four days in learning the five orders of
architecture, with their general proportions; and you may know all that
you need know of them in that time.  Palladio's own book of architecture
is the best you can make use of for that purpose, skipping over the
mechanical part of it, such as the materials, the cement, etc.

Mr. Harte tells me, that your acquaintance with the classics is renewed;
the suspension of which has been so short, that I dare say it has
produced no coldness.  I hope and believe, you are now so much master of
them, that two hours every day, uninterruptedly, for a year or two more,
will make you perfectly so; and I think you cannot now allot them a
greater share than that of your time, considering the many other things
you have to learn and to do.  You must know how to speak and write
Italian perfectly; you must learn some logic, some geometry, and some
astronomy; not to mention your exercises, where they are to be learned;
and, above all, you must learn the world, which is not soon learned; and
only to be learned by frequenting good and various companies.

Consider, therefore, how precious every moment of time is to you now.
The more you apply to your business, the more you will taste your
pleasures.  The exercise of the mind in the morning whets the appetite
for the pleasures of the evening, as much as the exercise of the body
whets the appetite for dinner.  Business and pleasure, rightly
understood, mutually assist each other, instead of being enemies, as
silly or dull people often think them.  No man tastes pleasures truly,
who does not earn them by previous business, and few people do business
well, who do nothing else.  Remember that when I speak of pleasures, I
always mean the elegant pleasures of a rational being, and, not the
brutal ones of a swine.  I mean 'la bonne Chere', short of gluttony;
wine, infinitely short of drunkenness; play, without the least gaming;
and gallantry without debauchery.  There is a line in all these things
which men of sense, for greater security, take care to keep a good deal
on the right side of; for sickness, pain, contempt and infamy, lie
immediately on the other side of it.  Men of sense and merit, in all
other respects, may have had some of these failings; but then those few
examples, instead of inviting us to imitation, should only put us the
more upon our guard against such weaknesses: and whoever thinks them
fashionable, will not be so himself; I have often known a fashionable man
have some one vice; but I never in my life knew a vicious man a
fashionable man.  Vice is as degrading as it is criminal.  God bless you,
my dear child!




LETTER LXXVIII

LONDON, August 20, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: Let us resume our reflections upon men, their characters, their
manners, in a word, our reflections upon the world.  They may help you to
form yourself, and to know others; a knowledge very useful at all ages,
very rare at yours.  It seems as if it were nobody's business to
communicate it to young men.  Their masters teach them, singly, the
languages or the sciences of their several departments; and are indeed
generally incapable of teaching them the world: their parents are often
so too, or at least neglect doing it, either from avocations,
indifference, or from an opinion that throwing them into the world (as
they call it) is the best way of teaching it them.  This last notion is
in a great degree true; that is, the world can doubtless never be well
known by theory: practice is absolutely necessary; but surely it is of
great use to a young man, before he sets out for that country full of
mazes, windings, and turnings, to have at least a general map of it, made
by some experienced traveler.

There is a certain dignity of manners absolutely necessary, to make even
the most valuable character either respected or respectable.--[Meaning
worthy of respect.]

Horse-play, romping, frequent and loud fits of laughter, jokes, waggery,
and indiscriminate familiarity, will sink both merit and knowledge into a
degree of contempt.  They compose at most a merry fellow; and a merry
fellow was never yet a respectable man.  Indiscriminate familiarity
either offends your superiors, or else dubbs you their dependent and led
captain.  It gives your inferiors just, but troublesome and improper
claims of equality.  A joker is near akin to a buffoon; and neither of
them is the least related to wit.  Whoever is admitted or sought for, in
company, upon any other account than that of his merit and manners, is
never respected there, but only made use of.  We will have such-a-one,
for he sings prettily; we will invite such-a-one to a ball, for he dances
well; we will have such-a-one at supper, for he is always joking and
laughing; we will ask another, because he plays deep at all games, or
because he can drink a great deal.  These are all vilifying distinctions,
mortifying preferences, and exclude all ideas of esteem and regard.
Whoever is HAD (as it is called) in company for the sake of any one thing
singly, is singly that thing and will never be considered in any other
light; consequently never respected, let his merits be what they will.

This dignity of manners, which I recommend so much to you, is not only as
different from pride, as true courage is from blustering, or true wit
from joking; but is absolutely inconsistent with it; for nothing vilifies
and degrades more than pride.  The pretensions of the proud man are
oftener treated with sneer and contempt, than with indignation; as we
offer ridiculously too little to a tradesman, who asks ridiculously too
much for his goods; but we do not haggle with one who only asks a just
and reasonable price.

Abject flattery and indiscriminate assentation degrade as much as
indiscriminate contradiction and noisy debate disgust.  But a modest
assertion of one's own opinion, and a complaisant acquiescence to other
people's, preserve dignity.

Vulgar, low expressions, awkward motions and address, vilify, as they
imply either a very low turn of mind, or low education and low company.

Frivolous curiosity about trifles, and a laborious attention to little
objects which neither require nor deserve a moment's thought, lower a
man; who from thence is thought (and not unjustly) incapable of greater
matters.  Cardinal de Retz, very sagaciously, marked out Cardinal Chigi
for a little mind, from the moment that he told him he had wrote three
years with the same pen, and that it was an excellent good one still.

A certain degree of exterior seriousness in looks and motions gives
dignity, without excluding wit and decent cheerfulness, which are always
serious themselves.  A constant smirk upon the face, and a whifing
activity of the body, are strong indications of futility.  Whoever is in
a hurry, shows that the thing he is about is too big for him.  Haste and
hurry are very different things.

I have only mentioned some of those things which may, and do, in the
opinion of the world, lower and sink characters, in other respects
valuable enough,--but I have taken no notice of those that affect and
sink the moral characters.  They are sufficiently obvious.  A man who has
patiently been kicked may as well pretend to courage, as a man blasted by
vices and crimes may to dignity of any kind.  But an exterior decency and
dignity of manners will even keep such a man longer from sinking, than
otherwise he would be: of such consequence is the [****], even though
affected and put on!  Pray read frequently, and with the utmost
attention, nay, get by heart, if you can, that incomparable chapter in
Cicero's "Offices," upon the [****], or the Decorum.  It contains
whatever is necessary for the dignity of manners.

In my next I will send you a general map of courts; a region yet
unexplored by you, but which you are one day to inhabit.  The ways are
generally crooked and full of turnings, sometimes strewed with flowers,
sometimes choked up with briars; rotten ground and deep pits frequently
lie concealed under a smooth and pleasing surface; all the paths are
slippery, and every slip is dangerous.  Sense and discretion must
accompany you at your first setting out; but, notwithstanding those, till
experience is your guide, you will every now and then step out of your
way, or stumble.

Lady Chesterfield has just now received your German letter, for which she
thanks you; she says the language is very correct; and I can plainly see
that the character is well formed, not to say better than your English
character.  Continue to write German frequently, that it may become quite
familiar to you.  Adieu.




LETTER LXXIX

LONDON, August 21, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: By the last letter that I received from Mr. Harte, of the 31st
July, N. S., I suppose you are now either at Venice or Verona, and
perfectly re covered of your late illness: which I am daily more and more
convinced had no consumptive tendency; however, for some time still,
'faites comme s'il y en avoit', be regular, and live pectorally.

You will soon be at courts, where, though you will not be concerned, yet
reflection and observation upon what you see and hear there may be of use
to you, when hereafter you may come to be concerned in courts yourself.
Nothing in courts is exactly as it appears to be; often very different;
sometimes directly contrary.  Interest, which is the real spring of
everything there, equally creates and dissolves friendship, produces and
reconciles enmities: or, rather, allows of neither real friendships nor
enmities; for, as Dryden very justly observes, POLITICIANS NEITHER LOVE
NOR HATE.  This is so true, that you may think you connect yourself with
two friends to-day, and be obliged tomorrow to make your option between
them as enemies; observe, therefore, such a degree of reserve with your
friends as not to put yourself in their power, if they should become your
enemies; and such a degree of moderation with your enemies, as not to
make it impossible for them to become your friends.

Courts are, unquestionably, the seats of politeness and good-breeding;
were they not so, they would be the seats of slaughter and desolation.
Those who now smile upon and embrace, would affront and stab each other,
if manners did not interpose; but ambition and avarice, the two
prevailing passions at courts, found dissimulation more effectual than
violence; and dissimulation introduced that habit of politeness, which
distinguishes the courtier from the country gentleman.  In the former
case the strongest body would prevail; in the latter, the strongest mind.

A man of parts and efficiency need not flatter everybody at court; but he
must take great care to offend nobody personally; it being in the power
of every man to hurt him, who cannot serve him.  Homer supposes a chain
let down from Jupiter to the earth, to connect him with mortals.  There
is, at all courts, a chain which connects the prince or the minister with
the page of the back stairs, or the chamber-maid.  The king's wife, or
mistress, has an influence over him; a lover has an influence over her;
the chambermaid, or the valet de chambre, has an influence over both, and
so ad infinitum.  You must, therefore, not break a link of that chain, by
which you hope to climb up to the prince.

You must renounce courts if you will not connive at knaves, and tolerate
fools.  Their number makes them considerable.  You should as little
quarrel as connect yourself with either.

Whatever you say or do at court, you may depend upon it, will be known;
the business of most of those, who crowd levees and antichambers, being
to repeat all that they see or hear, and a great deal that they neither
see nor hear, according as they are inclined to the persons concerned, or
according to the wishes of those to whom they hope to make their court.
Great caution is therefore necessary; and if, to great caution, you can
join seeming frankness and openness, you will unite what Machiavel
reckons very difficult but very necessary to be united; 'volto sciolto e
pensieri stretti'.

Women are very apt to be mingled in court intrigues; but they deserve
attention better than confidence; to hold by them is a very precarious
tenure.

I am agreeably interrupted in these reflections by a letter which I have
this moment received from Baron Firmian.  It contains your panegyric, and
with the strongest protestations imaginable that he does you only
justice.  I received this favorable account of you with pleasure, and I
communicate it to you with as much.  While you deserve praise, it is
reasonable you should know that you meet with it; and I make no doubt,
but that it will encourage you in persevering to deserve it.  This is one
paragraph of the Baron's letter: Ses moeurs dans un age si tendre,
reglees selon toutes les loix d'une morale exacte et sensee; son
application (that is what I like) a tout ce qui s'appelle etude serieuse,
et Belles Lettres,---- ["Notwithstanding his great youth, his manners are
regulated by the most unexceptionable rules of sense and of morality.
His application THAT IS WHAT I LIKE to every kind of serious study, as
well as to polite literature, without even the least appearance of
ostentatious pedantry, render him worthy of your most tender affection;
and I have the honor of assuring you, that everyone cannot but be pleased
with the acquisition of his acquaintance or of his friendship.  I have
profited of it, both here and at Vienna; and shall esteem myself very
happy to make use of the permission he has given me of continuing it by
letter."   Reputation, like health, is preserved and increased by the
same means by which it is acquired.  Continue to desire and deserve
praise, and you will certainly find it.  Knowledge, adorned by manners,
will infallibly procure it.  Consider, that you have but a little way
further to get to your journey's end; therefore, for God's sake, do not
slacken your pace; one year and a half more of sound application, Mr.
Harte assures me, will finish this work; and when this work is finished
well, your own will be very easily done afterward.  'Les Manieres et les
Graces' are no immaterial parts of that work; and I beg that you will
give as much of your attention.  to them as to your books.  Everything
depends upon them; 'senza di noi ogni fatica e vana'.  The various
companies you now go into will procure them you, if you will carefully
observe, and form yourself upon those who have them.

Adieu! God bless you! and may you ever deserve that affection with which
I am now, Yours.




LETTER LXXX

LONDON, September 5, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY : I have received yours from Laubach, of the 17th of August,
N. S., with the inclosed for Comte Lascaris; which I have given him, and
with which he is extremely pleased, as I am with your account of
Carniola.  I am very glad that you attend to, and inform yourself of, the
political objects of the country you go through.  Trade and manufactures
are very considerable, not to say the most important ones; for, though
armies and navies are the shining marks of the strength of countries,
they would be very ill paid, and consequently fight very ill, if
manufactures and commerce did not support them.  You have certainly
observed in Germany the inefficiency of great powers, with great tracts
of country and swarms of men; which are absolutely useless, if not paid
by other powers who have the resources of manufactures and commerce.
This we have lately experienced to be the case of the two empresses of
Germany and Russia: England, France, and Spain, must pay their respective
allies, or they may as well be without them.

I have not the least objection to your taking, into the bargain, the
observation of natural curiosities; they are very welcome, provided they
do not take up the room of better things.  But the forms of government,
the maxims of policy, the strength or weakness, the trade and commerce,
of the several countries you see or hear of are the important objects,
which I recommend to your most minute inquiries, and most serious
attention.  I thought that the republic of Venice had by this time laid
aside that silly and frivolous piece of policy, of endeavoring to conceal
their form of government; which anybody may know, pretty nearly, by
taking the pains to read four or five books, which explain all the great
parts of it; and as for some of the little wheels of that machine, the
knowledge of them would be as little useful to others as dangerous to
themselves.  Their best policy (I can tell them) is to keep quiet, and to
offend no one great power, by joining with another.  Their escape, after
the Ligue of Cambray, should prove a useful lesson to them.

I am glad you frequent the assemblies at Venice.  Have you seen Monsieur
and Madame Capello, and how did they receive you?  Let me know who are
the ladies whose houses you frequent the most.  Have you seen the
Comptesse d'Orselska, Princess of Holstein?  Is Comte Algarotti, who was
the TENANT there, at Venice?

You will, in many parts of Italy, meet with numbers of the Pretender's
people (English, Scotch, and Irish fugitives), especially at Rome;
probably the Pretender himself.  It is none of your business to declare
war to these people, as little as it is your interest, or, I hope, your
inclination, to connect yourself with them; and therefore I recommend to
you a perfect neutrality.  Avoid them as much as you can with decency and
good manners; but when you cannot, avoid any political conversation or
debates with them; tell them that you do not concern yourself with
political matters: that you are neither maker nor a deposer of kings;
that when you left England, you left a king in it, and have not since
heard either of his death, or of any revolution that has happened; and
that you take kings and kingdoms as you find them; but enter no further
into matters with them, which can be of no use, and might bring on heats
and quarrels.  When you speak of the old Pretender, you will call him
only the Chevalier de St. George;--but mention him as seldom as possible.
Should he chance to speak to you at any assembly (as, I am told, he
sometimes does to the English), be sure that you seem not to know him;
and answer him civilly, but always either in French or in Italian; and
give him, in the former, the appellation of Monsieur, and in the latter,
of Signore.  Should you meet with the Cardinal of York, you will be under
no difficulty; for he has, as Cardinal, an undoubted right to 'Eminenza'.
Upon the whole, see any of those people as little as possible; when you
do see them, be civil to them, upon the footing of strangers; but never
be drawn into any altercations with them about the imaginary right of
their king, as they call him.

It is to no sort of purpose to talk to those people of the natural rights
of mankind, and the particular constitution of this country.  Blinded by
prejudices, soured by misfortunes, and tempted by their necessities, they
are as incapable of reasoning rightly, as they have hitherto been of
acting wisely.  The late Lord Pembroke never would know anything that he
had not a mind to know; and, in this case, I advise you to follow his
example.  Never know either the father or the two sons, any otherwise
than as foreigners; and so, not knowing their pretensions, you have no
occasion to dispute them.

I can never help recommending to you the utmost attention and care, to
acquire 'les Manieres, la Tournure, et les Graces, d'un galant homme, et
d'un homme de cour'.  They should appear in every look, in every action;
in your address, and even in your dress, if you would either please or
rise in the world.  That you may do both (and both are in your power) is
most ardently wished you, by Yours.

P. S.  I made Comte Lascaris show me your letter, which I liked very
well; the style was easy and natural, and the French pretty correct.
There were so few faults in the orthography, that a little more
observation of the best French authors would make you a correct master of
that necessary language.

I will not conceal from you, that I have lately had extraordinary good
accounts of you, from an unexpected and judicious person, who promises me
that, with a little more of the world, your manners and address will
equal your knowledge.  This is the more pleasing to me, as those were the
two articles of which I was the most doubtful.  These commendations will
not, I am persuaded, make you vain and coxcomical, but only encourage you
to go on in the right way.




LETTER LXXXI

LONDON, September 12, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: It seems extraordinary, but it is very true, that my anxiety
for you increases in proportion to the good accounts which I receive of
you from all hands.  I promise myself so much from you, that I dread the
least disappointment.  You are now so near the port, which I have so long
wished and labored to bring you safe into, that my concern would be
doubled, should you be shipwrecked within sight of it.  The object,
therefore, of this letter is (laying aside all the authority of a parent)
to conjure you as a friend, by the affection you have for me (and surely
you have reason to have some), and by the regard you have for yourself,
to go on, with assiduity and attention, to complete that work which, of
late, you have carried on so well, and which is now so near being
finished.  My wishes and my plan were to make you shine and distinguish
yourself equally in the learned and the polite world.  Few have been able
to do it.  Deep learning is generally tainted with pedantry, or at least
unadorned by manners: as, on the other hand, polite manners and the turn
of the world are too often unsupported by knowledge, and consequently end
contemptibly, in the frivolous dissipation of drawing-rooms and ruelles.
You are now got over the dry and difficult parts of learning; what
remains requires much more time than trouble.  You have lost time by your
illness; you must regain it now or never.  I therefore most earnestly
desire, for your own sake, that for these next six months, at least six
hours every morning, uninterruptedly, may be inviolably sacred to your
studies with Mr. Harte.  I do not know whether he will require so much;
but I know that I do, and hope you will, and consequently prevail with
him to give you that time; I own it is a good deal: but when both you and
he consider that the work will be so much better, and so much sooner
done, by such an assiduous and continued application, you will, neither
of you, think it too much, and each will find his account in it.  So much
for the mornings, which from your own good sense, and Mr. Harte's
tenderness and care of you, will, I am sure, be thus well employed.
It is not only reasonable, but useful too, that your evenings should be
devoted to amusements and pleasures: and therefore I not only allow, but
recommend, that they should be employed at assemblies, balls, SPECTACLES,
and in the best companies; with this restriction only, that the
consequences of the evening's diversions may not break in upon the
morning's studies, by breakfastings, visits, and idle parties into the
country.  At your age, you need not be ashamed, when any of these morning
parties are proposed, to say that you must beg to be excused, for you are
obliged to devote your mornings to Mr. Harte; that I will have it so; and
that you dare not do otherwise.  Lay it all upon me; though I am
persuaded it will be as much your own inclination as it is mine.  But
those frivolous, idle people, whose time hangs upon their own hands, and
who desire to make others lose theirs too, are not to be reasoned with:
and indeed it would be doing them too much honor.  The shortest civil
answers are the best; I CANNOT, I DARE NOT, instead of I WILL NOT; for if
you were to enter with them into the necessity of study end the
usefulness of knowledge, it would only furnish them with matter for silly
jests; which, though I would not have you mind, I would not have you
invite.  I will suppose you at Rome studying six hours uninterruptedly
with Mr. Harte, every morning, and passing your evenings with the best
company of Rome, observing their manners and forming your own; and I will
suppose a number of idle, sauntering, illiterate English, as there
commonly is there, living entirely with one another, supping, drinking,
and sitting up late at each other's lodgings; commonly in riots and
scrapes when drunk, and never in good company when sober.  I will take
one of these pretty fellows, and give you the dialogue between him and
yourself; such as, I dare say, it will be on his side; and such as, I
hope, it will be on yours:--

Englishman.  Will you come and breakfast with me tomorrow?  there will be
four or five of our countrymen; we have provided chaises, and we will
drive somewhere out of town after breakfast.

Stanhope.  I am very sorry I cannot; but I am obliged to be at home all
morning.

Englishman.  Why, then, we will come and breakfast with you.

Stanhope.  I can't do that neither; I am engaged.

Englishman.  Well, then, let it be the next day.

Stanhope.  To tell you the truth, it can be no day in the morning; for I
neither go out, nor see anybody at home before twelve.

Englishman.  And what the devil do you do with yourself till twelve
o'clock?

Stanhope.  I am not by myself; I am with Mr. Harte.

Englishman.  Then what the devil do you do with him?

Stanhope.  We study different things; we read, we converse.

Englishman.  Very pretty amusement indeed! Are you to take orders then?

Stanhope.  Yes, my father's orders, I believe I must take.

Englishman.  Why hast thou no more spirit, than to mind an old fellow a
thousand miles off?

Stanhope.  If I don't mind his orders he won't mind my draughts.

Englishman.  What, does the old prig threaten then? threatened folks live
long; never mind threats.

Stanhope.  No, I can't say that he has ever threatened me in his life;
but I believe I had best not provoke him.

Englishman.  Pooh! you would have one angry letter from the old fellow,
and there would be an end of it.

Stanhope.  You mistake him mightily; he always does more than he says.
He has never been angry with me yet, that I remember, in his life; but if
I were to provoke him, I am sure he would never forgive me; he would be
coolly immovable, and I might beg and pray, and write my heart out to no
purpose.

Englishman.  Why, then, he is an old dog, that's all I can say; and pray
are you to obey your dry-nurse too, this same, and what's his name--Mr.
Harte?

Stanhope.  Yes.

Englishman.  So he stuffs you all morning with Greek, and Latin, and
Logic, and all that.  Egad I have a dry-nurse too, but I never looked
into a book with him in my life; I have not so much as seen the face of
him this week, and don't care a louse if I never see it again.

Stanhope.  My dry-nurse never desires anything of me that is not
reasonable, and for my own good; and therefore I like to be with him.

Englishman.  Very sententious and edifying, upon my word! at this rate
you will be reckoned a very good young man.

Stanhope.  Why, that will do me no harm.

Englishman.  Will you be with us to-morrow in the evening, then?  We
shall be ten with you; and I have got some excellent good wine; and we'll
be very merry.

Stanhope.  I am very much obliged to you, but I am engaged for all the
evening, to-morrow; first at Cardinal Albani's; and then to sup at the
Venetian Ambassadress's.

Englishman.  How the devil can you like being always with these
foreigners?  I never go among them with all their formalities and
ceremonies.  I am never easy in company with them, and I don't know why,
but I am ashamed.

Stanhope.  I am neither ashamed nor afraid; I am very, easy with them;
they are very easy with me; I get the language, and I see their
characters, by conversing with them; and that is what we are sent abroad
for, is it not?

Englishman.  I hate your modest women's company; your women of fashion as
they call 'em; I don't know what to say to them, for my part.

Stanhope.  Have you ever conversed with them?

Englishman.  No; I never conversed with them; but have been sometimes in
their company, though much against my will.

Stanhope.  But at least they have done you no hurt; which is, probably,
more than you can say of the women you do converse with.

Englishman.  That's true, I own; but for all that, I would rather keep
company with my surgeon half the year, than with your women of fashion
the year round.

Stanhope.  Tastes are different, you know, and every man follows his own.

Englishman.  That's true; but thine's a devilish odd one, Stanhope.  All
morning with thy dry-nurse; all the evening in formal fine company; and
all day long afraid of Old Daddy in England.  Thou art a queer fellow,
and I am afraid there is nothing to be made of thee.

Stanhope.  I am afraid so too.

Englishman.  Well, then, good night to you; you have no objection, I
hope, to my being drunk to-night, which I certainly will be.

Stanhope.  Not in the least; nor to your being sick tomorrow, which you
as certainly will be; and so good night, too.


You will observe, that I have not put into your mouth those good
arguments which upon such an occasion would, I am sure, occur to you;
as piety and affection toward me; regard and friendship for Mr. Harte;
respect for your own moral character, and for all the relative duties of
man, son, pupil, and citizen.  Such solid arguments would be thrown away
upon such shallow puppies.  Leave them to their ignorance and to their
dirty, disgraceful vices.  They will severely feel the effects of them,
when it will be too late.  Without the comfortable refuge of learning,
and with all the sickness and pains of a ruined stomach, and a rotten
carcass, if they happen to arrive at old age, it is an uneasy and
ignominious one.  The ridicule which such fellows endeavor to throw upon
those who are not like them, is, in the opinion of all men of sense, the
most authentic panegyric.  Go on, then, my dear child, in the way you are
in, only for a year and a half more: that is all I ask of you.  After
that, I promise that you shall be your own master, and that I will
pretend to no other title than that of your best and truest friend.  You
shall receive advice, but no orders, from me; and in truth you will want
no other advice but such as youth and inexperience must necessarily
require.  You shall certainly want nothing that is requisite, not only
for your conveniency, but also for your pleasures; which I always desire
shall be gratified.  You will suppose that I mean the pleasures 'd'un
honnete homme'.

While you are learning Italian, which I hope you do with diligence, pray
take care to continue your German, which you may have frequent
opportunities of speaking.  I would also have you keep up your knowledge
of the 'Jus Publicum Imperii', by looking over, now and then, those
INESTIMABLE MANUSCRIPTS which Sir Charles Williams, who arrived here last
week, assures me you have made upon that subject.  It will be of very
great use to you, when you come to be concerned in foreign affairs; as
you shall be (if you qualify yourself for them) younger than ever any
other was: I mean before you are twenty.  Sir Charles tells me, that he
will answer for your learning; and that, he believes, you will acquire
that address, and those graces, which are so necessary to give it its
full lustre and value.  But he confesses, that he doubts more of the
latter than of the former.  The justice which he does Mr. Harte, in his
panegyrics of him, makes me hope that there is likewise a great deal of
truth in his encomiums of you.  Are you pleased with, and proud of the
reputation which you have already acquired?  Surely you are, for I am
sure I am.  Will you do anything to lessen or forfeit it?  Surely you
will not.  And will you not do all you can to extend and increase it?
Surely you will.  It is only going on for a year and a half longer, as
you have gone on for the two years last past, and devoting half the day
only to application; and you will be sure to make the earliest figure and
fortune in the world, that ever man made.  Adieu.




LETTER LXXXII

LONDON, September 22, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: If I had faith in philters and love potions, I should suspect
that you had given Sir Charles Williams some, by the manner in which he
speaks of you, not only to me, but to everybody else.  I will not repeat
to you what he says of the extent and correctness of your knowledge, as
it might either make you vain, or persuade you that you had already
enough of what nobody can have too much.  You will easily imagine how
many questions I asked, and how narrowly I sifted him upon your subject;
he answered me, and I dare say with truth, just as I could have wished;
till satisfied entirely with his accounts of your character and learning,
I inquired into other matters, intrinsically indeed of less consequence,
but still of great consequence to every man, and of more to you than to
almost any man: I mean, your address, manners, and air.  To these
questions, the same truth which he had observed before, obliged him to
give me much less satisfactory answers.  And as he thought himself, in
friendship both to you and me, obliged to tell me the disagreeable as
well as the agreeable truths, upon the same principle I think myself
obliged to repeat them to you.

He told me then, that in company you were frequently most PROVOKINGLY
inattentive, absent; and distrait; that you came into a room, and
presented yourself, very awkwardly; that at table you constantly threw
down knives, forks, napkins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your
person and dress, to a degree unpardonable at any age, and much more so
at yours.

These things, howsoever immaterial they may seem to people who do not
know the world, and the nature of mankind, give me, who know them to be
exceedingly material, very great concern.  I have long distrusted you,
and therefore frequently admonished you, upon these articles; and I tell
you plainly, that I shall not be easy till I hear a very different
account of them.  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, or 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 your friends the Laputans; whose minds (Gulliver says) are so
taken up with intense speculations, that they neither can speak nor
attend to the discourses of others, without being roused by some external
traction upon the organs of speech and hearing; for which reason, those
people who are able to afford it, always keep a flapper in their family,
as one of their domestics; nor ever walk about, or make visits without
him.  This flapper is likewise employed diligently to attend his master
in his walks; and, upon occasion, to give a soft flap upon his eyes,
because he is always so wrapped up in cogitation, that he is in manifest
danger of falling down every precipice, and bouncing his head against
every post, and, in the streets, of jostling others, or being jostled
into the kennel himself.  If CHRISTIAN will undertake this province into
the bargain, with all my heart; but I will not allow him any increase of
wages upon that score.  In short, I give you fair warning, that, when we
meet, if you are absent in mind, I will soon be absent in body; for it
will be impossible for me to stay in the room; and if at table you throw
down your knife, plate, bread, etc., and hack the wing of a chicken for
half an hour, without being able to cut it off, and your sleeve all the
time in another dish, I must rise from the table to escape the fever you
would certainly give me.  Good God! how I should be shocked, if you came
into my room, for the first time, with two left legs, presenting yourself
with all the graces and dignity of a tailor, and your clothes hanging
upon you, like those in Monmouth street, upon tenter-hooks! whereas, I
expect, nay, require, to see you present yourself with the easy and
genteel air of a man of fashion, who has kept good company.  I expect you
not only well dressed but very well dressed; I expect a gracefulness in
all your motions, and something particularly engaging in your address,
All this I expect, and all this it is in your power, by care and
attention, to make me find; but to tell you the plain truth, if I do not
find it, we shall not converse very much together; for I cannot stand
inattention and awkwardness; it would endanger my health.  You have often
seen, and I have as often made you observe L----'s distinguished
inattention and awkwardness.  Wrapped up, like a Laputan, in intense
thought, and possibly sometimes in no thought at all (which, I believe,
is very often the case with absent people), he does not know his most
intimate acquaintance by sight, or answers them as if he were at cross
purposes.  He leaves his hat in one room, his sword in another, and would
leave his shoes in a third, if his buckles, though awry, did not save
them: his legs and arms, by his awkward management of them, seem to have
undergone the question extraordinaire; and his head, always hanging upon
one or other of his shoulders, seems to have received the first stroke
upon a block.  I sincerely value and esteem him for his parts, learning,
and virtue; but, for the soul of me, I cannot love him in company.  This
will be universally the case, in common life, of every inattentive,
awkward man, let his real merit and knowledge be ever so great.  When I
was of your age, I desired to shine, as far as I was able, in every part
of life; and was as attentive to my manners, my dress, and my air, in
company of evenings, as to my books and my tutor in the mornings.  A
young fellow should be ambitious to shine in everything--and, of the two,
always rather overdo than underdo.  These things are by no means trifles:
they are of infinite consequence to those who are to be thrown into the
great world, and who would make a figure or a fortune in it.  It is not
sufficient to deserve well; one must please well too.  Awkward,
disagreeable merit will never carry anybody far.  Wherever you find a
good dancing-master, pray let him put you upon your haunches; 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 vulgar and awkward air and gestures; 'il leur faut
du brillant'.  The generality of men are pretty like them, and are
equally taken by the same exterior graces.

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 even upon your
feet, and that your stockings may not hide them.  I should be sorry that
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; and if well dressed and genteel, will probably
please; which is a much greater advantage to a man than people commonly
think.  Lord Bacon calls it a letter of recommendation.

I would wish you to be the omnis homo, 'l'homme universel'.  You are
nearer it, if you please, than ever anybody was at your age; and if you
will but, for the course of this next year only, exert your whole
attention to your studies in the morning, and to your address, manners,
air and tournure in the evenings, you will be the man I wish you, and the
man that is rarely seen.

Our letters go, at best, so irregularly, and so often miscarry totally,
that for greater security I repeat the same things.  So, though I
acknowledged by last post Mr. Harte's letter of the 8th September, N. S.,
I acknowledge it again by this to you.  If this should find you still at
Verona, let it inform you that I wish you would set out soon for Naples;
unless Mr. Harte should think it better for you to stay at Verona, or any
other place on this side Rome, till you go there for the Jubilee.  Nay,
if he likes it better, I am very willing that you should go directly from
Verona to Rome; for you cannot have too much of Rome, whether upon
account of the language, the curiosities, or the company.  My only reason
for mentioning Naples, is for the sake of the climate, upon account of
your health; but if Mr. Harte thinks that your health is now so well
restored as to be above climate, he may steer your course wherever he
thinks proper: and, for aught I know, your going directly to Rome, and
consequently staying there so much the longer, may be as well as anything
else.  I think you and I cannot put our affairs in better hands than in
Mr. Harte's; and I will stake his infallibility against the Pope's, with
some odds on his side.  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 b---h; 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.

This letter is a very long, and possibly a very tedious one; but my
anxiety for your perfection is so great, and particularly at this
critical and decisive period of your life, that I am only afraid of
omitting, but never of repeating, or dwelling too long upon anything that
I think may be of the least use to you.  Have the same anxiety for
yourself, that I have for you, and all will do well.  Adieu! my dear
child.




LETTER LXXXIII

LONDON, September 27, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY:  A vulgar, ordinary way of thinking, acting, or speaking,
implies a low education, and a habit of low company.  Young people
contract it at school, or among servants, with whom they are too often
used to converse; but after they frequent good company, they must want
attention and observation very much, if they do not lay it quite aside;
and, indeed, if they do not, good company will be very apt to lay them
aside.  The various kinds of vulgarisms are infinite; I cannot pretend to
point them out to you; but I will give some samples, by which you may
guess at the rest.

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 P01SON.  If anybody attempts being SMART, as he calls it,
upon him, he gives them TIT FOR TAT, aye, 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, 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.

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 encumbrances 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.  His sword
is formidable only to his own legs, which would possibly carry him fast
enough out of the way of any sword but his own.  His clothes fit him so
ill, and constrain him so much, that he seems rather, their prisoner
than their proprietor.  He presents himself in company like a criminal in
a court of justice; his very air condemns him; and people of fashion will
no more connect themselves with the one, than people of character will
with the other.  This repulse drives and sinks him into low company; a
gulf from whence no man, after a certain age, ever emerged.

'Les manieres nobles et aisees, la tournure d'un homme de condition, le
ton de la bonne compagnie, les graces, le jeune sais quoi, qui plait',
are as necessary to adorn and introduce your intrinsic merit and
knowledge, as the polish is to the diamond; which, without that polish,
would never be worn, whatever it might weigh.  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 good 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 minute in the pursuit of them.

You are traveling now in a country once so famous both for arts and arms,
that (however degenerate at present) it still deserves your attention and
reflection.  View it therefore with care, compare its former with its
present state, and examine into the causes of its rise and its decay.
Consider it classically and politically, and do not run through it, as
too many of your young countrymen do, musically, and (to use a ridiculous
word) KNICK-KNACKICALLY.  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 that you
may excel me in everything else too; and, far from repining, I shall
rejoice at your superiority.  He commends your friend Mr. Stevens
extremely; of whom too I have heard so good a character from other
people, that I am very glad of your connection with him.  It may prove of
use to you hereafter.  When you meet with such sort of Englishmen abroad,
who, either from their parts or their rank, are likely to make a figure
at home, I would advise you to cultivate them, and get their favorable
testimony of you here, especially those who are to return to England
before you.  Sir Charles Williams has puffed you (as the mob call it)
here extremely.  If three or four more people of parts do the same,
before you come back, your first appearance in London will be to great
advantage.  Many people do, and indeed ought, to take things upon trust;
many more do, who need not; and few dare dissent from an established
opinion.  Adieu!




LETTER LXXXIV

LONDON, October 2, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I received by the last post your letter of the 22d September,
N. S., but I have not received that from Mr. Harte to which you refer,
and which you say contained your reasons for leaving Verona, and
returning to Venice; so that I am entirely ignorant of them.  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.  Had it not
been for their miscarriage, you would not have, been in the uncertainty
you seem to be in at present, with regard to your future motions.  Had
you received my letters, you would have been by this time at Naples: but
we must now take things where they are.

Upon the receipt, then, of this letter, you will as soon as conveniently
you can, set out for Rome; where you will not arrive too long before the
jubilee, considering the difficulties of getting lodgings, and other
accommodations there at this time.  I leave the choice of the route to
you; but I do by no means intend that you should leave Rome after the
jubilee, as you seem to hint in your letter: on the contrary, I will have
Rome your headquarters for six months at least; till you shall have, in a
manner, acquired the 'Jus Civitatis' there.  More things are to be seen
and learned there, than in any other town in Europe; there are the best
masters to instruct, and the best companies to polish you.  In the spring
you may make (if you please) frequent excursions to Naples; but Rome must
still be your headquarters, till the heats of June drive you from thence
to some other place in Italy, which we shall think of by that time.  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 is in his travels.  I would have you have
that pocket-money that should enable you to make the proper expense 'd'un
honnete 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.

As for Turin, you may go there hereafter, as a traveler, for a month or
two; but you cannot conveniently reside there as an academician, for
reasons which I have formerly communicated to Mr. Harte, and which Mr.
Villettes, since his return here, has shown me in a still stronger light
than he had done by his letters from Turin, of which I sent copies to Mr.
Harte, though probably he never received them.

After you have left Rome, Florence is one of the places with which you
should be thoroughly acquainted.  I know that there is a great deal of
gaming there; but, at the same time, there are in every place some people
whose fortunes are either too small, or whose understandings are too good
to allow them to play for anything above trifles; and with those people
you will associate yourself, if you have not (as I am assured you have
not, in the least) the spirit of gaming in you.  Moreover, at suspected
places, such as Florence, Turin, and Paris, I shall be more attentive to
your draughts, and such as exceed a proper and handsome expense will not
be answered; for I can easily know whether you game or not without being
told.

Mr. Harte will determine your route to Rome as he shall think best;
whether along the coast of the Adriatic, or that of the Mediterranean,
it is equal to me; but you will observe to come back a different way from
that you went.

Since your health is so well restored, I am not sorry that you have
returned to Venice, for I love capitals.  Everything is best at capitals;
the best masters, the best companions, and the best manners.  Many other
places are worth seeing, but capitals only are worth residing at.  I am
very glad that Madame Capello received you so well.  Monsieur I was sure
would: pray assure them both of my respects, and of my sensibility of
their kindness to you.  Their house will be a very good one for you at
Rome; and I would advise you to be domestic in it if you can.  But
Madame, I can tell you, requires great attentions.  Madame Micheli has
written a very favorable account of you to my friend the Abbe Grossa
Testa, in a letter which he showed me, and in which there are so many
civil things to myself, that I would wish to tell her how much I think
myself obliged to her.  I approve very much of the allotment of your time
at Venice; pray go on so for a twelvemonth at least, wherever you are.
You will find your own account in it.

I like your last letter, which gives me an account of yourself, and your
own transactions; for though I do not recommend the EGOTISM to you, with
regard to anybody else, I desire that you will use it with me, and with
me only.  I interest myself in all that you do; and as yet (excepting Mr.
Harte) nobody else does.  He must of course know all, and I desire to
know a great deal.

I am glad you have received, and that you like the diamond buckles.  I am
very willing that you should make, but very unwilling that you should CUT
a figure with them at the jubilee; the CUTTING A FIGURE being the very
lowest vulgarism in the English language; and equal in elegancy to Yes,
my Lady, and No, my Lady.  The word VAST and VASTLY, you will have found
by my former letter that I had proscribed out of the diction of a
gentleman, unless in their proper signification of sizes and BULK.  Not
only in language, but in everything else, take great care that the first
impressions you give of yourself may be not only favorable, but pleasing,
engaging, nay, seducing.  They are often decisive; I confess they are a
good deal so with me: and I cannot wish for further acquaintance with a
man whose first 'abord' and address displease me.

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 send it me in a letter: it is
all one to me whether in enamel or in watercolors, provided it is but
very like you.  I would have you drawn exactly as you are, and in no
whimsical dress: and 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 inclose it in a letter to me, which letter, for greater
security, I would have you desire Sir James Gray to inclose 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 of 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.

Have you received my letters of recommendation to Cardinal Albani and the
Duke de Nivernois, at Rome?




LETTER LXXXV

LONDON, October 9, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: If this letter finds you at all, of which I am very doubtful,
it will find you at Venice, preparing for your journey to Rome; which, by
my last letter to Mr. Harte, I advised you to make along the coast of the
Adriatic, through Rimini, Loretto, Ancona, etc., places that are all
worth seeing; but not worth staying at.  And such I reckon all places
where the eyes only are employed.  Remains of antiquity, public
buildings, paintings, sculptures, etc., ought to be seen, and that with a
proper degree of attention; but this is soon done, for they are only
outsides.  It is not so with more important objects; the insides of which
must be seen; and they require and deserve much more attention.  The
characters, the heads, and the, hearts of men, are the useful science of
which I would have you perfect master.  That science is best taught and
best learned in capitals, where every human passion has its object, and
exerts all its force or all its art in the pursuit.  I believe there is
no place in the world, where every passion is busier, appears in more
shapes, and is conducted with more art, than at ,Rome.  Therefore, when
you are there, do not imagine that the Capitol, the Vatican, and the
Pantheon, are the principal objects of your curiosity.  But for one
minute that you bestow upon those, employ ten days in informing yourself
of the nature of that government, the rise and decay of the papal power,
the politics of that court, the 'Brigues' of the cardinals, the tricks of
the Conclaves; and, in general, everything that relates to the interior
of that extraordinary government, founded originally upon the ignorance
and superstition of mankind, extended by the weakness of some princes,
and the ambition of others; 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 the
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.  Pray inform yourself thoroughly of the
history of the popes and the popedom; which, for many centuries, is
interwoven with the history of all Europe.  Read the best authors who
treat of these matters, and especially Fra Paolo, 'De Beneficiis', a
short, but very material book.  You will find at Rome some of all the
religious orders in the Christian world.  Inform yourself carefully of
their origin, their founders, their rules, their reforms, and even their
dresses: get acquainted with some of all of them, but particularly with
the Jesuits; whose society I look upon to be the most able and best
governed society in the world.  Get acquainted, if you can, with their
General, who always resides at Rome; and who, though he has no seeming
power out of his own society, has (it may be) more real influence over
the whole world, than any temporal prince in it.  They have almost
engrossed the education of youth; they are, in general, confessors to
most of the princes of Europe; and they are the principal missionaries
out of it; which three articles give them a most extensive influence and
solid advantages; witness their settlement in Paraguay.  The Catholics in
general declaim against that society; and yet are all governed by
individuals of it.  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.

These are the proper and useful objects of the attention of a man of
sense, when he travels; and these are the objects for which I have sent
you abroad; and I hope you will return thoroughly informed of them.

I receive this very moment Mr. Harte's letter of the 1st October, N. S.,
but I never received his former, to which he refers in this, and you
refer in your last; in which he gave me the reasons for your leaving
Verona so soon; nor have I ever received that letter in which your case
was stated by your physicians.  Letters to and from me have worse luck
than other people's; for you have written to me, and I to you, for these
last three months, by way of Germany, with as little success as before.

I am edified with your morning applications, and your evening gallantries
at Venice, of which Mr. Harte gives me an account.  Pray go on with both
there, and afterward at Rome; where, provided you arrive in the beginning
of December, you may stay at Venice as much longer as you please.

Make my compliments to Sir James Gray and Mr. Smith, with my
acknowledgments for the great civilities they show you.

I wrote to Mr. Harte by the last post, October the 6th, O. S., and will
write to him in a post or two upon the contents of his last.  Adieu!
'Point de distractions'; and remember the GRACES.




LETTER LXXXVI

LONDON, October 17, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: I have at last received Mr. Harte's letter of the 19th
September, N. S., from Verona.  Your reasons for leaving that place were
very good ones; and as you stayed there long enough to see what was to be
seen, Venice (as a capital) is, in my opinion, a much better place for
your residence.  Capitals are always the seats of arts and sciences, and
the best companies.  I have stuck to them all my lifetime, and I advise
you to do so too.

You will have received in my three or four last letters my directions for
your further motions to another capital, where I propose that your stay
shall be pretty considerable.  The expense, I am well aware, will be so
too; but that, as I told you before, will have no weight when your
improvement and advantage are in the other scale.  I do not care a groat
what it is, if neither vice nor folly are the objects of it, and if Mr.
Harte gives his sanction.

I am very well pleased with your account of Carniola; those are the kind
of objects worthy of your inquiries and knowledge.  The produce, the
taxes, the trade, the manufactures, the strength, the weakness, the
government of the several countries which a man of sense travels through,
are the material points to which he attends; and leaves the steeples, the
market-places, and the signs, to the laborious and curious researches of
Dutch and German travelers.

Mr. Harte tells me, that he intends to give you, by means of Signor
Vicentini, a general notion of civil and military architecture; with
which I am very well pleased.  They are frequent subjects of
conversation; and it is very right that you should have some idea of the
latter, and a good taste of the former; and you may very soon learn as
much as you need know of either.  If you read about one-third of
Palladio's book of architecture with some skillful person, and then, with
that person, examine the best buildings by those rules, you will know the
different proportions of the different orders; the several diameters of
their columns; their intercolumniations, their several uses, etc.  The
Corinthian Order is chiefly used in magnificent buildings, where ornament
and decoration are the principal objects; the Doric is calculated for
strength, and the Ionic partakes of the Doric strength, and of the
Corinthian ornaments.  The Composite and the Tuscan orders are more
modern, and were unknown to the Greeks; the one is too light, the other
too clumsy.  You may soon be acquainted with the considerable parts of
civil architecture; and for the minute and mechanical parts of it, leave
them to masons, bricklayers, and Lord Burlington, who has, to a certain
extent, lessened himself by knowing them too well.  Observe the same
method as to military architecture; understand the terms, know the
general rules, and then see them in execution with some skillful person.
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.

I would also have you acquire a liberal taste of the two liberal arts of
painting and sculpture; but without descending into those minutia, which
our modern virtuosi most affectedly dwell upon.  Observe the great parts
attentively; see if nature be truly represented; if the passions are
strongly expressed; if the characters are preserved; and leave the
trifling parts, with their little jargon, to affected puppies.  I would
advise you also, to read the history of the painters and sculptors, and I
know none better than Felibien's.  There are many in Italian; you will
inform yourself which are the best.  It is a part of history very
entertaining, curious enough, and not quite useless.  All these sort of
things I would have you know, to a certain degree; but remember, that
they must only be the amusements, and not the business of a man of parts.

Since writing to me in German would take up so much of your time, of
which I would not now have one moment wasted, I will accept of your
composition, and content myself with a moderate German letter once a
fortnight, to Lady Chesterfield or Mr. Gravenkop.  My meaning was only
that you should not forget what you had already learned of the German
language and character; but, on the contrary, that by frequent use it
should grow more easy and familiar.  Provided you take care of that, I do
not care by what means: but I do desire that you will every day of your
life speak German to somebody or other (for you will meet with Germans
enough), and write a line or two of it every day to keep your hand in.
Why should you not (for instance) write your little memorandums and
accounts in that language and character?  by which, too, you would have
this advantage into the bargain, that, if mislaid, few but yourself could
read them.

I am extremely glad to hear that you like the assemblies at Venice well
enough to sacrifice some suppers to them; for I hear that you do not
dislike your suppers neither.  It is therefore plain, that there is
somebody or something at those assemblies, which you like better than
your meat.  And as I know that there is none but good company at those
assemblies, I am very glad to find that you like good company so well.
I already imagine that you are a little, smoothed by it; and that you
have either reasoned yourself, or that they have laughed you out of your
absences and DISTRACTIONS; for I cannot suppose that you go there to
insult them.  I likewise imagine, that you wish to be welcome where you
wish to go; and consequently, that you both present and behave yourself
there 'en galant homme, et pas in bourgeois'.

If you have vowed to anybody there one of those eternal passions which I
have sometimes known, by great accident, last three months, I can tell
you that without great attention, infinite politeness, and engaging air
and manners, the omens will be sinister, and the goddess unpropitious.
Pray tell me what are the amusements of those assemblies?  Are they
little commercial play, are they music, are they 'la belle conversation',
or are they all three?  'Y file-t-on le parfait amour?  Y debite-t-on les
beaux sentimens?  Ou est-ce yu'on y parle Epigramme?  And pray which is
your department?  'Tutis depone in auribus'.  Whichever it is, endeavor
to shine and excel in it.  Aim at least at the perfection of everything
that is worth doing at all; and you will come nearer it than you would
imagine; but those always crawl infinitely short of it whose aim is only
mediocrity.  Adieu.

P. S.  By an uncommon diligence of the post, I have this moment received
yours of the 9th, N. S.




LETTER LXXXVII

LONDON, October 24, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: By my last I only acknowledged, by this I answer, your letter
of the 9th October, N. S.

I am very glad that you approved of my letter of September the 12th,
O. S., because it is upon that footing that I always propose living with
you.  I will advise you seriously, as a friend of some experience, and I
will converse with you cheerfully as a companion; the authority of a
parent shall forever be laid aside; for, wherever it is exerted, it is
useless; since, if you have neither sense nor sentiments enough to follow
my advice as a friend, your unwilling obedience to my orders as a father
will be a very awkward and unavailing one both to yourself and me.
Tacitus, speaking of an army that awkwardly and unwillingly obeyed its
generals only from the fear of punishment, says, they obeyed indeed, 'Sed
ut qua mallent jussa Imperatorum interpretari, quam exequi'.  For my own
part, I disclaim such obedience.

You think, I find, that you do not understand Italian; but I can tell
you, that, like the 'Bourgeois Gentilhomme', who spoke prose without
knowing it, you understand a great deal, though you do not know that you
do; for whoever understands French and Latin so well as you do,
understands at least half the Italian language, and has very little
occasion for a dictionary.  And for the idioms, the phrases, and the
delicacies of it, conversation and a little attention will teach them
you, and that soon; therefore, pray speak it in company, right or wrong,
'a tort ou a travers', as soon as ever you have got words enough to ask a
common question, or give a common answer.  If you can only say 'buon
giorno', say it, instead of saying 'bon jour', I mean to every Italian;
the answer to it will teach you more words, and insensibly you will be
very soon master of that easy language.  You are quite right in not
neglecting your German for it, and in thinking that it will be of more
use to you; it certainly will, in the course of your business; but
Italian has its use too, and is an ornament into the bargain; there being
many very polite and good authors in that language.  The reason you
assign for having hitherto met with none of my swarms of Germans in
Italy, is a very solid one; and I can easily conceive, that the expense
necessary for a traveler must amount to a number of thalers, groschen,
and kreutzers, tremendous to a German fortune.  However, you will find
several at Rome, either ecclesiastics, or in the suite of the Imperial
Minister; and more, when you come into the Milanese, among the Queen of
Hungary's officers.  Besides, you have a Saxon servant, to whom I hope
you speak nothing but German.

I have had the most obliging letter in the world from Monsieur Capello,
in which he speaks very advantageously of you, and promises you his
protection at Rome.  I have wrote him an answer by which I hope I have
domesticated you at his hotel there; which I advise you to frequent as
much as you can.  'Il est vrai qui'il ne paie pas beaucaup de sa figure';
but he has sense and knowledge at bottom, with a great experience of
business, having been already Ambassador at Madrid, Vienna, and London.
And I am very sure that he will be willing to give you any informations,
in that way, that he can.

Madame was a capricious, whimsical, fine lady, till the smallpox, which
she got here, by lessening her beauty, lessened her humors too; but, as I
presume it did not change her sex, I trust to that for her having such a
share of them left, as may contribute to smooth and polish you.  She,
doubtless, still thinks that she has beauty enough remaining to entitle
her to the attentions always paid to beauty; and she has certainly rank
enough to require respect.  Those are the sort of women who polish a
young man the most, and who give him that habit of complaisance, and that
flexibility and versatility of manners which prove of great use to him
with men, and in the course of business.

You must always expect to hear, more or less, from me, upon that
important subject of manners, graces, address, and that undefinable
'je ne sais quoi' that ever pleases.  I have reason to believe that you
want nothing else; but I have reason to fear too, that you want those:
and that want will keep you poor in the midst of all the plenty of
knowledge which you may have treasured up.  Adieu.




LETTER LXXXVIII

LONDON, November 3, O. S. 1749.

DEAR BOY: From the time that you have had life, it has been the principle
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 you 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.  This view of mine, I consider as fully
attained.  My next object was sound and useful learning.  My own care
first, Mr. Harte's afterward, and OF LATE (I will own it to your praise)
your own application, have more than answered my expectations in that
particular; and, I have reason to believe, will answer even my wishes.
All that remains for me then to wish, to recommend, to inculcate, to
order, and to insist upon, is good-breeding; without which, all your
other qualifications will be lame, unadorned, and to a certain degree
unavailing.  And here I fear, and have too much reason to believe, that
you are greatly deficient.  The remainder of this letter, therefore,
shall be (and it will not be the last by a great many) upon that subject.

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, and
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 me to be less difference, both between the crimes and
between the punishments than at first one would imagine.  The immoral
man, who invades another man's property, is justly hanged for it; and the
ill-bred man, who, by his ill-manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and
comforts of private life, is by common consent as justly banished
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.  Thus much for good-
breeding in general; I will now consider some of the various modes and
degrees of it.

Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which they should show
to those whom they acknowledge to be infinitely their superiors; such as
crowned heads, princes, and public persons of distinguished and eminent
posts.  It is the manner of showing that respect which is different.  The
man of fashion and of the world, expresses it in its fullest extent; but
naturally, easily, and without concern: whereas a man, who is not used to
keep good company, expresses it awkwardly; one sees that he is not used
to it, and that it costs him a great deal: but I never saw the worst-bred
man living guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and such-
like indecencies, in company that he respected.  In such companies,
therefore, the only point to be attended to is to show that respect,
which everybody means to show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and graceful
manner.  This is what observation and experience must teach you.

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,
everyone 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.  Their little wants, likings, dislikes, preferences, antipathies,
fancies, whims, and even impertinencies, must be officiously attended to,
flattered, and, if possible, guessed at and anticipated by a well-bred
man.  You must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and 'agremens'
which are of common right; such as the best places, the best dishes,
etc., but on the contrary, always decline them yourself, and offer them
to others; who, in their turns, will offer them to you; so that, upon the
whole, you will in your turn enjoy your share of the common right.  It
would be endless for me to enumerate all the particular instances in
which a well-bred man shows his good-breeding in good company; and it
would be injurious to you to suppose that your own good sense will not
point them out to you; and then your own good-nature will recommend, and
your self-interest enforce the practice.

There is a third sort of good-breeding, in which people are the most apt
to fail, from a very mistaken notion that they cannot fail at all.  I
mean with regard to one's most familiar friends and acquaintances, or
those who really are our inferiors; and there, undoubtedly, a greater
degree of ease is not only allowed, but proper, and contributes much to
the comforts of a private, social life.  But that ease and freedom have
their bounds too, which must by no means be violated.  A certain degree
of negligence and carelessness becomes injurious and insulting, from the
real or supposed inferiority of the persons: and that delightful liberty
of conversation among a few friends is soon destroyed, as liberty often
has been, by being carried to licentiousness.  But example explains
things best, and I will put a pretty strong case.  Suppose you and me
alone together; I believe you will allow that I have as good a right to
unlimited freedom in your company, as either you or I can possibly have
in any other; and I am apt to believe too, that you would indulge me in
that freedom as far as anybody would.  But, notwithstanding this, do you
imagine that I should think there were no bounds to that freedom?  I
assure you, I should not think so; and I take myself to be as much tied
down by a certain degree of good manners to you, as by other degrees of
them to other people.  Were I to show you, by a manifest inattention to
what you said to me, that I was thinking of something else the whole
time; were I to yawn extremely, snore, or break wind in your company, I
should think that I behaved myself to you like a beast, and should not
expect that you would care to frequent me.  No.  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.

I will say no more, now, upon this important subject of good-breeding,
upon which I have already dwelt too long, it may be, for one letter; and
upon which I shall frequently refresh your memory hereafter; but I will
conclude with these axioms:

That 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.

That 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.

That 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.




LETTER LXXXIX

LONDON, November 14, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: There is a natural good-breeding which occurs to every man of
common sense, and is practiced by every man, of common good-nature.  This
good-breeding is general, independent of modes, and consists in endeavors
to please and oblige our fellow-creatures by all good offices, short of
moral duties.  This will be practiced by a good-natured American savage,
as essentially as by the best-bred European.  But then, I do not take it
to extend to the sacrifice of our own conveniences, for the sake of other
people's.  Utility introduced this sort of good-breeding as it introduced
commerce; and established a truck of the little 'agremens' and pleasures
of life.  I sacrifice such a conveniency to you, you sacrifice another to
me; this commerce circulates, and every individual finds his account in
it upon the whole.  The third sort of good-breeding is local, and is
variously modified, in not only different countries, but in different
towns of the same country.  But it must be founded upon the two former
sorts; they are the matter to which, in this case, fashion and custom
only give the different shapes and impressions.  Whoever has the two
first sorts will easily acquire this third sort of good-breeding, which
depends singly upon attention and observation.  It is, properly, the
polish, the lustre, the last finishing stroke of good-breeding.  It is to
be found only in capitals, and even there it varies; the good-breeding of
Rome differing, in some things, from that of Paris; that of Paris, in
others, from that of Madrid; and that of Madrid, in many things, from
that of London.  A man of sense, therefore, carefully attends to the
local manners of the respective places where he is, and takes for his
models those persons whom he observes to be at the head of fashion and
good-breeding.  He watches how they address themselves to their
superiors, how they accost their equals, and how they treat their
inferiors; and lets none of those little niceties escape him which are to
good-breeding what the last delicate and masterly touches are to a good
picture; and of which the vulgar have no notion, but by which good judges
distinguish the master.  He attends even to their air, dress, and
motions, and imitates them, liberally, and not servilely; he copies, but
does not mimic.  These personal graces are of very great consequence.
They anticipate the sentiments, before merit can engage the
understanding; they captivate the heart, and give rise, I believe, to the
extravagant notions of charms and philters.  Their effects 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.  The women like and require it; they
think it an attention due to them; but, on the other hand, if your
motions and carriage are not graceful, genteel, and natural, your fine
clothes will only display your awkwardness the more.  But I am unwilling
to suppose you still awkward; for surely, by this time, you must have
catched a good air in good company.  When you went from hence you were
naturally awkward; but your awkwardness was adventitious and
Westmonasterial.  Leipsig, I apprehend, is not the seat of the Graces;
and I presume you acquired none there.  But now, if you will be pleased
to observe what people of the first fashion do with their legs and arms,
heads and bodies, you will reduce yours to certain decent laws of motion.
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 a 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,
'Ou est donc le petit Stanhope? due 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; and a man whose manners are softened and
polished by women of fashion, and who is formed by them to an habitual
attention and complaisance, will please, engage, and connect men, much
easier and more than he would otherwise.  You must be sensible that you
cannot rise in the world, without forming connections, and engaging
different characters to conspire in your point.  You must make them your
dependents without their knowing it, and dictate to them while you seem
to be directed by them.  Those necessary connections can never be formed,
or preserved, but by an uninterrupted series of complaisance, attentions,
politeness, and some constraint.  You must engage their hearts, if you
would have their support; you must watch the 'mollia tempora', and
captivate them by the 'agremens' and charms of conversation.  People will
not be called out to your service, only when you want them; and, if you
expect to receive strength from them, they must receive either pleasure
or advantage from you.

I received in this instant a letter from Mr. Harte, of the 2d N. S.,
which I will answer soon; in the meantime, I return him my thanks for it,
through you.  The constant good accounts which he gives me of you, will
make me suspect him of partiality, and think him 'le medecin tant mieux'.
Consider, therefore, what weight any future deposition of his against you
must necessarily have with me.  As, in that case, he will be a very
unwilling, he must consequently be a very important witness.  Adieu!




LETTER XC

DEAR Boy:  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, should 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 practices.  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 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.  Women, in a great
degree, establish or destroy every man's reputation of good-breeding; you
must, therefore, in a manner, overwhelm them with these attentions: 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, enjoue, 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 understanding.
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, and 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 that 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
toward me with inattention and DISTRACTIONS, I shall not pretend to
describe to you what I feel; but will do as a skillful 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, tittle fabric, which, at present, I fear, has more of the
Tuscan than of 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, fashionable
dress; and all the glitter that a young fellow should have.

I am sure you would do a great deal for my sake; and therefore consider
at your return here, what a disappointment and concern it would be to me,
if I could not safely depute you to do the honors of my house and table;
and if I should be ashamed to present you to those who frequent both.
Should you be awkward, inattentive, and distrait, and happen to meet Mr.
L----- at my table, the consequences of that meeting must be fatal; you
would run your heads against each other, cut each other's fingers,
instead of your meat, or die by the precipitate infusion of scalding
soup.

This is really so copious a subject, that there is no end of being either
serious or ludicrous upon it.  It is impossible, too, to enumerate or
state to you the various cases in good-breeding; they are infinite; there
is no situation or relation in the world so remote or so intimate, that
does not require a degree of it.  Your own good sense must point it out
to you; your own good-nature must incline, and your interest prompt you
to practice it; and observation and experience must give you the manner,
the air and the graces which complete the whole.

This letter will hardly overtake you, till you are at or near Rome.
I expect a great deal in every way from your six months' stay there.
My morning hopes are justly placed in Mr. Harte, and the masters he will
give you; my evening ones, in the Roman ladies: pray be attentive to
both.  But I must hint to you, that the Roman ladies are not 'les femmes
savantes, et ne vous embrasseront point pour Pamour du Grec.  They must
have 'ilgarbato, il leggiadro, it disinvolto, il lusinghiero, quel non so
che, che piace, che alletta, che incanta'.

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 would 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.

Adieu, my dear child! My compliments to Mr. Harte.




LETTER XCI

LONDON, November 24, O. S.  1749.

DEAR Boy:  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, prreclari facinoris, aut artis
bonae, faman quaerit'.  Caesar, 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 aestumo; 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, 'Sapere est princihium 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.

I have written to you so often, of late, upon good-breeding, address,
'les manieres liantes', the Graces, etc., that I shall confine this
letter to another subject, pretty near akin to them, and which, I am
sure, you are full as deficient in; I mean Style.

Style is the dress of thoughts; and let them be ever so just, if your
style is homely, coarse, and vulgar, they will appear to as much
disadvantage, and be as ill received as your person, though ever so well
proportioned, would, if dressed in rags, dirt, and tatters.  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 quarter 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, Your, 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; but you must do both correctly and elegantly.  In faults of this
kind, it is not 'ille optimus qui minimis arguetur'; but he is
unpardonable who has any at all, because it is his own fault: he need
only attend to, observe, and imitate the best authors.

It is a very true saying, that a man must be born a poet, but that he may
make himself an orator; and the very first principle of an orator is to
speak his own language, particularly, with the utmost purity and
elegance.  A man will be forgiven even great errors in a foreign
language; but in his own, even the least slips are justly laid hold of
and ridiculed.

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 defense 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.

You have with you three or four of the best English authors, Dryden,
Atterbury, and Swift; read them with the utmost care, and with a
particular view to their language, and they may possibly correct that
CURIOUS INFELICITY OF DICTION, which you acquired at Westminster.
Mr. Harte excepted, I will admit that you have met with very few English
abroad, who could improve your style; and with many, I dare say, who
speak as ill as yourself, and, it may be, worse; you must, therefore,
take the more pains, and consult your authors and Mr. Harte the more.
I need not tell you how attentive the Romans and Greeks, particularly the
Athenians, were to this object.  It is also a study among the Italians
and the French; witness their respective academies and dictionaries for
improving and fixing their languages.  To our shame be it spoken, it is
less attended to here than in any polite country; but that is no reason
why you should not attend to it; on the contrary, it will distinguish you
the more.  Cicero says, very truly, that it is glorious to excel other
men in that very article, in which men excel brutes; SPEECH.

Constant experience has shown me, that great purity and elegance of
style, with a graceful elocution, cover a multitude of faults, in either
a speaker or a writer.  For my own part, I confess (and I believe most
people are of my mind) that if a speaker should ungracefully mutter or
stammer out to me the sense of an angel, deformed by barbarism and
solecisms, or larded with vulgarisms, he should never speak to me a
second time, if I could help it.  Gain the heart, or you gain nothing;
the eyes and the ears are the only roads to the heart.  Merit and
knowledge will not gain hearts, though they will secure them when gained.
Pray, have that truth ever in your mind.  Engage the eyes by your
address, air, and motions; soothe the ears by the elegance and harmony of
your diction; the heart will certainly follow; and the whole man, or
woman, will as certainly follow the heart.  I must repeat it to you,
over and over again, that with all the knowledge which you may have at
present, or hereafter acquire, and with all merit that ever man had,
if you have not a graceful address, liberal and engaging manners,
a prepossessing air, and a good degree of eloquence in speaking and
writing; you will be nobody; but will have the daily mortification of
seeing people, with not one-tenth part of your merit or knowledge, get
the start of you, and disgrace you, both in company and in business.

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 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 that you should produce more at
eighteen, than uncultivated soils do at eight-and-twenty.

Pray tell Mr. Harte that I have received his letter of the 13th, N. S.
Mr. Smith was much in the right not to let you go, at this time of the
year, by sea; in the summer you may navigate as much as you please; as,
for example, from Leghorn to Genoa, etc.  Adieu.




LETTER XCII

LONDON, November 27, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: While the Roman Republic flourished, while glory was pursued,
and virtue practiced, and while even little irregularities and
indecencies, not cognizable by law, were, however, not thought below the
public care, censors were established, discretionally to supply, in
particular cases, the inevitable defects of the law, which must and can
only be general.  This employment I assume to myself with regard to your
little republic, leaving the legislative power entirely to Mr. Harte; I
hope, and believe, that he will seldom, or rather never, have occasion to
exert his supreme authority; and I do by no means suspect you of any
faults that may require that interposition.  But, to tell you the plain
truth, I am of opinion that my censorial power will not be useless to
you, nor a sinecure to me.  The sooner you make it both, the better for
us both.  I can now exercise this employment only upon hearsay, or, at
most, written evidence; and therefore shall exercise it with great lenity
and some diffidence; but when we meet, and that I can form my judgment
upon ocular and auricular evidence, I shall no more let the least
impropriety, indecorum, or irregularity pass uncensured, than my
predecessor Cato did.  I shall read you with the attention of a critic,
not with the partiality of an author: different in this respect, indeed,
from most critics, that I shall seek for faults only to correct and not
to expose them.  I have often thought, and still think, that there are
few things which people in general know less, than how to love and how to
hate.  They hurt those they love by a mistaken indulgence, by a
blindness, nay, often by a partiality to their faults.  Where they hate
they hurt themselves, by ill-timed passion and rage.  Fortunately for
you, I never loved you in that mistaken manner.  From your infancy, I
made you the object of my most serious attention, and not my plaything.
I consulted your real good, not your humors or fancies; and I shall
continue to do so while you want it, which will probably be the case
during our joint lives; for, considering the difference of our ages, in
the course of nature, you will hardly have acquired experience enough of
your own, while I shall be in condition of lending you any of mine.
People in general will much better bear being, told of their vices or
crimes, than of their little failings and weaknesses.  They, in some
degree, justify or excuse (as they think) the former, by strong passions,
seductions, and artifices of others, but to be told of, or to confess,
their little failings and weaknesses, implies an inferiority of parts,
too mortifying to that self-love and vanity, which are inseparable from
our natures.  I have been intimate enough with several people to tell
them that they had said or done a very criminal thing; but I never was
intimate enough with any man, to tell him, very seriously, that he had
said or done a very foolish one.  Nothing less than the relation between
you and me can possibly authorize that freedom; but fortunately for you,
my parental rights, joined to my censorial powers, give it me in its
fullest extent, and my concern for you will make me exert it.  Rejoice,
therefore, that there is one person in the world who can and will tell
you what will be very useful to you to know, and yet what no other man
living could or would tell you.  Whatever I shall tell you of this kind,
you are very sure, can have no other motive than your interest; I can
neither be jealous nor envious of your reputation or fortune, which I
must be both desirous and proud to establish and promote; I cannot be
your rival either in love or in business; on the contrary, I want the
rays of your rising to reflect new lustre upon my setting light.  In
order to this, I shall analyze you minutely, and censure you freely, that
you may not (if possible) have one single spot, when in your meridian.

There is nothing that a young fellow, at his first appearance in the
world, has more reason to dread,, and consequently should take more pains
to avoid, than having any ridicule fixed upon him.  It degrades him with
the most reasonable part of mankind; but it ruins him with the rest; and
I have known many a man undone by acquiring a ridiculous nickname: I
would not, for all the riches in the world, that you should acquire one
when you return to England.  Vices and crimes excite hatred and reproach;
failings, weaknesses, and awkwardnesses, excite ridicule; they are laid
hold of by mimics, who, though very contemptible wretches themselves,
often, by their buffoonery, fix ridicule upon their betters.  The little
defects in manners, elocution, address, and air (and even of figure,
though very unjustly), are the objects of ridicule, and the causes of
nicknames.  You cannot imagine the grief it would give me, and the
prejudice it would do you, if, by way of distinguishing you from others
of your name, you should happen to be called Muttering Stanhope, Absent
Stanhope, Ill-bred Stanhope, or Awkward, Left-legged Stanhope: therefore,
take great care to put it out of the power of Ridicule itself to give you
any of these ridiculous epithets; for, if you get one, it will stick to
you, like the envenomed shirt.  The very first day that I see you,
I shall be able to tell you, and certainly shall tell you, what degree of
danger you are in; and I hope that my admonitions, as censor, may prevent
the censures of the public.  Admonitions are always useful; is this one
or not?  You are the best judge; it is your own picture which I send you,
drawn, at my request, by a lady at Venice: pray let me know how far, in
your conscience, you think it like; for there are some parts of it which
I wish may, and others, which I should be sorry were.  I send you,
literally, the copy of that part of her letter, to her friend here, which
relates to you. --[In compliance to your orders, I have examined young
Stanhope carefully, and think I have penetrated into his character.  This
is his portrait, which I take to be a faithful one.  His face is
pleasing, his countenance sensible, and his look clever.  His figure is
at present rather too square; but if he shoots up, which he has matter
and years for, he will then be of a good size.  He has, undoubtedly, a
great fund of acquired knowledge; I am assured that he is master of the
learned languages.  As for French, I know he speaks it perfectly, and, I
am told, German as well.  The questions he asks are judicious; and denote
a thirst after knowledge.  I cannot say that he appears equally desirous
of pleasing, for he seems to neglect attentions and the graces.  He does
not come into a room well, nor has he that easy, noble carriage, which
would be proper for him.  It is true, he is as yet young and
inexperienced; one may therefore reasonably hope that his exercises,
which he has not yet gone through, and good company, in which he is still
a novice, will polish, and give all that is wanting to complete him.
What seems necessary for that purpose, would, be an attachment to some
woman of fashion, and who knows the world.  Some Madame de l'Ursay would
be the proper person.  In short, I can assure you, that he has everything
which Lord Chesterfield can wish him, excepting that carriage, those
graces, and the style used in the best company; which he will certainly
acquire in time, and by frequenting the polite world.  If he should not,
it would be great pity, since he so well deserves to possess them.  You
know their importance.  My Lord, his father, knows it too, he being
master of them all.  To conclude, if little Stanhope acquires the graces,
I promise you he will make his way; if not, he will be stopped in a
course, the goal of which he might attain with honor.]

Tell Mr. Harte that I have this moment received his letter of the 22d,
N. S., and that I approve extremely of the long stay you have made at
Venice.  I love long residences at capitals; running post through
different places is a most unprofitable way of traveling, and admits of
no application.  Adieu.

You see, by this extract, of what consequence other people think these
things.  Therefore, I hope you will no longer look upon them as trifles.
It is the character of an able man to despise little things in great
business: but then he knows what things are little, and what not.  He
does not suppose things are little, because they are commonly called so:
but by the consequences that may or may not attend them.  If gaining
people's affections, and interesting their hearts in your favor, be of
consequence, as it undoubtedly is, he knows very well that a happy
concurrence of all those, commonly called little things, manners, air,
address, graces, etc., is of the utmost consequence, and will never be at
rest till he has acquired them.  The world is taken by the outside of
things, and we must take the world as it is; you nor I cannot set it
right.  I know, at this time, a man of great quality and station, who has
not the parts of a porter; but raised himself to the station he is in,
singly by having a graceful figure, polite manners, and an engaging
address; which, by the way, he only acquired by habit; for he had not
sense enough to get them by reflection.  Parts and habit should conspire
to complete you.  You will have the habit of good company, and you have
reflection in your power.




LETTER XCIII

LONDON, December 5, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: 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 doing
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;
everyone of which, in their turns, determine their wills, in defiance of
their reason.  Had we only read in the "Life of Alexander," that he
burned Persepolis, it would doubtless have been accounted for from deep
policy: we should have been told, that his new conquest could not have
been secured without the destruction of that capital, which would have
been the constant seat of cabals, conspiracies, and revolts.  But,
luckily, we are informed at the same time, that this hero, this demi-god,
this son and heir of Jupiter Ammon, happened to get extremely drunk with
his w---e; and, by way of frolic, destroyed one of the finest cities in
the world.  Read men, therefore, yourself, not in books but in nature.
Adopt no systems, but study them yourself.  Observe their weaknesses,
their passions, their humors, of all which their understandings are, nine
times in ten, the dupes.  You will then know that they are to be gained,
influenced, or led, much oftener by little things than by great ones;
and, consequently, you will no longer think those things little, which
tend to such great purposes.

Let us apply this now to the particular object of this letter; I mean,
speaking in, and influencing public assemblies.  The nature of our
constitution makes eloquence more useful, and more necessary, in this
country than in any other in Europe.  A certain degree of good sense and
knowledge is requisite for that, as well as for everything else; but
beyond that, the purity of diction, the elegance of style, the harmony of
periods, a pleasing elocution, and a graceful action, are the things
which a public speaker should attend to the most; because his audience
certainly does, and understands them the best; or rather indeed
understands little else.  The late Lord Chancellor Cowper's strength as
an orator lay by no means in his reasonings, for he often hazarded very
weak ones.  But such was the purity and elegance of his style, such the
propriety and charms of his elocution, and such the gracefulness of his
action, that he never spoke without universal applause; the ears and the
eyes gave him up the hearts and the understandings of the audience.  On
the contrary, 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 elegance 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.  Cicero, in his book 'De Oratore', in
order to raise the dignity of that profession which he well knew himself
to be at the head of, asserts that a complete orator must be a complete
everything, lawyer, philosopher, divine, etc.  That would be extremely
well, if it were possible: but man's life is not long enough; and I hold
him to be the completest orator, who speaks the best upon that subject
which occurs; whose happy choice of words, whose lively imagination,
whose elocution and action adorn and grace his matter, at the same time
that they excite the attention and engage the passions of his audience.

You will be of the House of Commons as soon as you are of age; and you
must first make a figure there, if you would make a figure, or a fortune,
in your country.  This you can never do without that correctness and
elegance in your own language, which you now seem to neglect, and which
you have entirely to learn.  Fortunately for you, it is to be learned.
Care and observation will do it; but do not flatter yourself, that all
the knowledge, sense, and reasoning in the world will ever make you a
popular and applauded speaker, without the ornaments and the graces of
style, elocution, and action.  Sense and argument, though coarsely
delivered, will have their weight in a private conversation, with two or
three people of sense; but in a public assembly they will have none, if
naked and destitute of the advantages I have mentioned.  Cardinal de Retz
observes, very justly, that every numerous assembly is a mob, influenced
by their passions, humors, and affections, which nothing but eloquence
ever did or ever can engage.  This is so important a consideration for
everybody in this country, and more particularly for you, that I
earnestly recommend it to your most serious care and attention.  Mind
your diction, in whatever language you either write or speak; contract a
habit of correctness and elegance.  Consider your style, even in the
freest conversation and most familiar letters.  After, at least, if not
before, you have said a thing, reflect if you could not have said it
better.  Where you doubt of the propriety or elegance of a word or a
phrase, consult some good dead or living authority in that language.  Use
yourself to translate, from various languages into English; correct those
translations till they satisfy your ear, as well as your understanding.
And be convinced of this truth, that the best sense and reason in the
world will be as unwelcome in a public assembly, without these ornaments,
as they will in public companies, without the assistance of manners and
politeness.  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 'agremens',
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.




LETTER XCIV

LONDON, December 9, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: It is now above forty years since I have never spoken nor
written one single word, without giving myself at least one moment's time
to consider whether it was a good or a bad one, and whether I could not
find out a better in its place.  An unharmonious and rugged period, at
this time, shocks my ears; and I, like all the rest of the world, will
willingly exchange and give up some degree of rough sense, for a good
degree of pleasing sound.  I will freely and truly own to you, without
either vanity or false modesty, that whatever reputation I have acquired
as a speaker, is more owing to my constant attention to my diction than
to my matter, which was necessarily just the same as other people's.
When you come into parliament, your reputation as a speaker will depend
much more upon your words, and your periods, than upon the subject.  The
same matter occurs equally to everybody of common sense, upon the same
question; the dressing it well, is what excites the attention and
admiration of the audience.

It is in parliament that I have set my heart upon your making a figure;
it is there that I want to have you justly proud of yourself, and to make
me justly proud of you.  This means that you must be a good speaker
there; I use the word MUST, because I know you may if you will.  The
vulgar, who are always mistaken, look upon a speaker and a comet with the
same astonishment and admiration, taking them both for preternatural
phenomena.  This error discourages many young men from attempting that
character; and good speakers are willing to have their talent considered
as something very extraordinary, if not, a peculiar gift of God to his
elect.  But let you and me analyze and simplify this good speaker; let us
strip him of those adventitious plumes with which his own pride, and the
ignorance of others, have decked him, and we shall find the true
definition of him to be no more than this: A man of good common sense who
reasons justly and expresses himself elegantly on that subject upon which
he speaks.  There is, surely, no witchcraft in this.  A man of sense,
without a superior and astonishing degree of parts, will not talk
nonsense upon any subject; nor will he, if he has the least taste or
application, talk inelegantly.  What then does all this mighty art 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 elegance 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.

Cicero, conscious that he was at the top of his profession (for in his
time eloquence was a profession), in order to set himself off, defines in
his treatise 'De Oratore', an orator to be such a man as never was, nor
never will be; and, by his fallacious argument, says that he must know
every art and science whatsoever, or how shall he speak upon them?  But,
with submission to so great an authority, my definition of an orator is
extremely different from, and I believe much truer than his.  I call that
man an orator, who reasons justly, and expresses himself elegantly, upon
whatever subject he treats.  Problems in geometry, equations in algebra,
processes in chemistry, and experiments in anatomy, are never, that I
have heard of, the object of eloquence; and therefore I humbly conceive,
that a man may be a very fine speaker, and yet know nothing of geometry,
algebra, chemistry, or anatomy.  The subjects of all parliamentary
debates are subjects of common sense singly.

Thus I write whatever occurs to me, that I think may contribute either to
form or inform you.  May my labor not be in vain! and it will not, if you
will but have half the concern for yourself that I have for you.  Adieu.




LETTER XCV

LONDON; December 12, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: 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.

The second member of my text (to speak ecclesiastically) shall be the
subject of my following discourse; THE TONGUE TO PERSUADE--as judicious,
preachers recommend those virtues, which they think their several
audiences want the most; such as truth and continence, at court;
disinterestedness, in the city; and sobriety, in the country.

You must certainly, in the course of your little experience, have felt
the different effects of elegant and inelegant speaking.  Do you not
suffer, when people accost you in a stammering or hesitating manner, in
an untuneful voice, with false accents and cadences; puzzling and
blundering through solecisms, barbarisms, and vulgarisms; misplacing even
their bad words, and inverting all method?  Does not this prejudice you
against their matter, be it what it will; nay, even against their
persons?  I am sure it does me.  On the other hand, do you not feel
yourself inclined, prepossessed, nay, even engaged in favor of those who
address you in the direct contrary manner?  The effects of a correct and
adorned style of method and perspicuity, are incredible toward
persuasion; they often supply the want of reason and argument, but, when
used in the support of reason and argument, they are irresistible.  The
French attend very much to the purity and elegance of their style, even
in common conversation; insomuch that it is a character to say of a man
'qu'il narre bien'.  Their conversations frequently turn upon the
delicacies of their language, and an academy is employed in fixing it.
The 'Crusca', in Italy, has the same object; and I have met with very few
Italians, who did not speak their own language correctly and elegantly.
How much more necessary is it for an Englishman to do so, who is to speak
it in a public assembly, where the laws and liberties of his country are
the subjects of his deliberation?  The tongue that would persuade there,
must not content itself with mere articulation.  You know what pains
Demosthenes took to correct his naturally bad elocution; you know that he
declaimed by the seaside in storms, to prepare himself for the noise of
the tumultuous assemblies he was to speak to; and you can now judge of
the correctness and elegance of his style.  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
whoever 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 Leipsig acquaintance, Duval, sends
to his correspondent at Rome, Lord Bolingbroke's book,--["Letters on the
Spirit of Patriotism," on the Idea of a Patriot King 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; his manner of
speaking in private conversation is full as elegant as his writings;
whatever subject he either speaks or writes upon, he adorns with the most
splendid eloquence; not a studied or labored eloquence, but such a
flowing happiness of diction, which (from care perhaps at first) is
become so habitual to him, that even his most familiar conversations, if
taken down in writing, would bear the press, without the least correction
either as to method or style.  If his conduct, in the former part of his
life, had been equal to all his natural and acquired talents, he would
most justly have merited the epithet of all-accomplished.  He is himself
sensible of his past errors: those violent passions which seduced him in
his youth, have now subsided by age; and take him as he is now, the
character of all-accomplished is more his due than any man's I ever knew
in my life.

But he has been a most mortifying instance of the violence of human
passions and of the weakness of the most exalted human reason.  His
virtues and his vices, his reason and his passions, did not blend
themselves by a gradation of tints, but formed a shining and sudden
contrast.  Here the darkest, there the most splendid colors; and both
rendered more shining from their proximity.  Impetuosity, excess, and
almost extravagance, characterized not only his passions, but even his
senses.  His youth was distinguished by all the tumult and storm of
pleasures, in which he most licentiously triumphed, disdaining all
decorum.  His fine imagination has often been heated and exhausted, with
his body, in celebrating and deifying the prostitute of the night; and
his convivial joys were pushed to all the extravagance of frantic
Bacchanals.  Those passions were interrupted but by a stronger ambition.
The former impaired both his constitution and his character, but the
latter destroyed both his fortune and his reputation.

He has noble and generous sentiments, rather than fixed reflected
principles of good nature and friendship; but they are more violent than
lasting, and suddenly and often varied to their opposite extremes, with
regard to the same persons.  He receives the common attentions of
civility as obligations, which he returns with interest; and resents with
passion the little inadvertencies of human nature, which he repays with
interest too.  Even a difference of opinion upon a philosophical subject
would provoke, and prove him no practical philosopher at least.

Notwithstanding the dissipation of his youth, and the tumultuous
agitation of his middle age, he has an infinite fund of various and
almost universal knowledge, which, from the clearest and quickest
conception, and happiest memory, that ever man was blessed with, he
always carries about him.  It is his pocket-money, and he never has
occasion to draw upon a book for any sum.  He excels more particularly in
history, as his historical works plainly prove.  The relative political
and commercial interests of every country in Europe, particularly of his
own, are better known to him, than perhaps to any man in it; but how
steadily he has pursued the latter, in his public conduct, his enemies,
of all parties and denominations, tell with joy.

He engaged young, and distinguished himself in business; and his
penetration was almost intuition.  I am old enough to have heard him
speak in parliament.  And I remember that, though prejudiced against him
by party, I felt all the force and charms of his eloquence.  Like Belial
in Milton, "he made the worse appear the better cause."  All the internal
and external advantages and talents of an orator are undoubtedly his.
Figure, voice, elocution, knowledge, and, above all, the purest and most
florid diction, with the justest metaphors and happiest images, had
raised him to the post of Secretary at War, at four-and-twenty years old,
an age at which others are hardly thought fit for the smallest
employments.

During his long exile in France, he applied himself to study with his
characteristical ardor; and there he formed and chiefly executed the plan
of a great philosophical work.  The common bounds of human knowledge are
too narrow for his warm and aspiring imagination.  He must go 'extra
flammantia maenia Mundi', and explore the unknown and unknowable regions
of metaphysics; which open an unbounded field for the excursion of an
ardent imagination; where endless conjectures supply the defect of
unattainable knowledge, and too often usurp both its name and its
influence.

He has had a very handsome person, with a most engaging address in his
air and manners; he has all the dignity and good-breeding which a man of
quality should or can have, and which so few, in this country at least,
really have.

He professes himself a deist; believing in a general Providence, but
doubting of, though by no means rejecting (as is commonly supposed) the
immortality of the soul and a future state.

Upon the whole, of this extraordinary man, what can we say, but, alas,
poor human nature!

In your destination, you will have frequent occasions to speak in public;
to princes and states abroad; to the House of Commons at home; judge,
then, whether eloquence is necessary for you or not; not only common
eloquence, which is rather free from faults than adorned by beauties; but
the highest, the most shining degree of eloquence.  For God's sake, have
this object always in your view and in your thoughts.  Tune your tongue
early to persuasion; and let no jarring, dissonant accents ever fall from
it, Contract a habit of speaking well upon every occasion, and neglect
yourself in no one.  Eloquence and good-breeding, alone, with an
exceeding small degree of parts and knowledge, will carry a man a great
way; with your parts and knowledge, then, how far will they not carry
you?  Adieu.




LETTER XCVI

LONDON, December 16, O. S.  1749.

DEAR Boy: This letter will, I hope, find you safely arrived and well
settled at Rome, after the usual distresses and accidents of a winter
journey; which are very proper to teach you patience.  Your stay there I
look upon as a very important period of your life; and I do believe that
you will fill it up well.  I hope you will employ the mornings diligently
with Mr. Harte, in acquiring weight; and the evenings in the best
companies at Rome, in acquiring lustre.  A formal, dull father, would
recommend to you to plod out the evenings, too, at home, over a book by a
dim taper; but I recommend to you the evenings for your pleasures, which
are as much a part of your education, and almost as necessary a one, as
your morning studies.  Go to whatever assemblies or SPECTACLES people of
fashion go to, and when you are there do as they do.  Endeavor to
outshine those who shine there the most, get the 'Garbo', the
'Gentilezza', the 'Leggeadria' of the; Italians; make love to the most
impertinent beauty of condition that you meet with, and be gallant with
all the rest.  Speak Italian, right or wrong, to everybody; and if you do
but laugh at yourself first for your bad Italian, nobody else will laugh
at you for it.  That is the only way to speak it perfectly; which I
expect you will do, because I am sure you may, before you leave Rome.
View the most curious remains of antiquity with a classical spirit; and
they will clear up to you many passages of the classical authors;
particularly the Trajan and Antonine Columns; where you find the warlike
instruments, the dresses, and the triumphal ornaments of the Romans.  Buy
also the prints and explanations of all those respectable remains of
Roman grandeur, and compare them with the originals.  Most young
travelers are contented with a general view of those things, say they are
very fine, and then go about their business.  I hope you will examine
them in a very different way.  'Approfondissez' everything you see or
hear; and learn, if you can, the WHY and the WHEREFORE.  Inquire into the
meaning and the objects of the innumerable processions, which you will
see at Rome at this time.  Assist at all the ceremonies, and know the
reason, or at least the pretenses of them, and however absurd they may
be, see and speak of them with great decency.  Of all things, I beg of
you not to herd with your own countrymen, but to be always either with
the Romans, or with the foreign ministers residing at Rome.  You are sent
abroad to see the manners and characters, and learn the languages of
foreign countries; and not to converse with English, in English; which
would defeat all those ends.  Among your graver company, I recommend (as
I have done before) the Jesuits to you; whose learning and address will
both please and improve you; inform yourself, as much as you can, of the
history, policy, and practice of that society, from the time of its
founder, Ignatius of Loyola, who was himself a madman.  If you would know
their morality, you will find it fully and admirably stated in 'Les
Lettres d'un Provincial', by the famous Monsieur Pascal; and it is a book
very well worth your reading.  Few people see what they see, or hear what
they hear; that is, they see and hear so inattentively and superficially,
that they are very little the better for what they do see and hear.
This, I dare say, neither is, nor will be your case.  You will
understand, reflect upon, and consequently retain, what you see and hear.
You have still two years good, but no more, to form your character in the
world decisively; for, within two months after your arrival in England,
it will be finally and irrevocably determined, one way or another, in the
opinion of the public.  Devote, therefore, these two years to the pursuit
of perfection; which ought to be everybody's object, though in some
particulars unattainable; those who strive and labor the most, will come
the nearest to it.  But, above all things, aim at it in the two important
arts of speaking and pleasing; without them all your other talents are
maimed and crippled.  They are the wings upon which you must soar above
other people; without them you will only crawl with the dull mass of
mankind.  Prepossess by your air, address, and manners; persuade by your
tongue; and you will easily execute what your head has contrived.  I
desire that you will send me very minute accounts from Rome, not of what
you see, but, of who you see; of your pleasures and entertainments.  Tell
me what companies you frequent most, and how you are received.




LETTER XCVII

LONDON, December 19, O. S.  1749.

DEAR BOY: The knowledge of mankind is a very use ful knowledge for
everybody; a most necessary one for you, who are destined to an active,
public life.  You will have to do with all sorts of characters; you
should, therefore, know them thoroughly, in order to manage them ably.
This knowledge is not to be gotten systematically; you must acquire it
yourself by your own observation and sagacity; I will give you such hints
as I think may be useful land-marks in your intended progress.

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.  Let us
exemplify.  I will suppose ambition to be (as it commonly is) the
predominant passion of a minister of state; and I will suppose that
minister to be an able one.  Will he, therefore, invariably pursue the
object of that predominant passion?  May I be sure that he will do so and
so, because he ought?  Nothing less.  Sickness or low spirits, may damp
this predominant passion; humor and peevishness may triumph over it;
inferior passions may, at times, surprise it and prevail.  Is this
ambitious statesman amorous?  Indiscreet and unguarded confidences, made
in tender moments, to his wife or his mistress, may defeat all his
schemes.  Is he avaricious?  Some great lucrative object, suddenly
presenting itself, may unravel all the work of his ambition.  Is he
passionate?  Contradiction and provocation (sometimes, it may be, too,
artfully intended) may extort rash and inconsiderate expressions, or
actions destructive of his main object.  Is he vain, and open to
flattery?  An artful, flattering favorite may mislead him; and even
laziness may, at certain moments, make him neglect or omit the necessary
steps to that height at which he wants to arrive.  Seek first, then, for
the predominant passion of the character which you mean to engage and
influence, and address yourself to it; but without defying or despising
the inferior passions; get them in your interest too, for now and then
they will have their turns.  In many cases, you may not have it in your
power to contribute to the gratification of the prevailing passion; then
take the next best to your aid.  There are many avenues to every man; and
when you cannot get at him through the great one, try the serpentine
ones, and you will arrive at last.

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?  Though
men are all of one composition, the several ingredients are so
differently proportioned ,in each individual, that no two are exactly
alike; and no one at all times like himself.  The ablest man will
sometimes do weak things; the proudest man, mean things; the honestest
man, ill things; and the wickedest man, good ones.  Study individuals
then, and if you take (as you ought to do,) their outlines from their
prevailing passion, suspend your last finishing strokes till you have
attended to, and discovered the operations of their inferior passions,
appetites, and humors.  A man's general character may be that of the
honestest man of the world: do not dispute it; you might be thought
envious or ill-natured; but, at the same time, do not take this probity
upon trust to such a degree as to put your life, fortune, or reputation
in his power.  This honest man may happen to be your rival in power, in
interest, or in love; three passions that often put honesty to most
severe trials, in which it is too often cast; but first analyze this
honest man yourself; and then only you will be able to judge how far you
may, or may not, with safety trust him.

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
those 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 the 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 negligences, inattentions and slights which seem to call in
question, or utterly deny him both these pretensions.

Suspect, in general, those who remarkably affect any one virtue; who
raise it above all others, and who, in a manner, intimate that they
possess it exclusively.  I say suspect them, for they are commonly
impostors; but do not be sure that they are always so; for I have
sometimes known saints really religious, blusterers really brave,
reformers of manners really honest, and prudes really chaste.  Pry into
the recesses of their hearts yourself, as far as you are able, and never
implicitly adopt a character upon common fame; which, though generally
right as to the great outlines of characters, is always wrong in some
particulars.

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 from 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 inexperienced 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.  Trust those only to some tried friend, more experienced than
yourself, and who, being in a different walk of life from you, is not
likely to become your rival; for I would not advise you to depend so much
upon the heroic virtue of mankind, as to hope or believe that your
competitor will ever be your friend, as to the object of that
competition.

These are reserves and cautions very necessary to have, but very
imprudent to show; the 'volto sciolto' should accompany them.  Adieu.




LETTER XCVIII

DEAR BOY:  Great talents and great virtues (if you should have them) will
procure you the respect and the admiration of mankind; but it is the
lesser talents, the 'leniores virtutes', which must procure you their
love and affection.  The former, unassisted and unadorned by the latter,
will extort praise; but will, at the same time, excite both fear and
envy; two sentiments absolutely incompatible with love and affection.

Caesar had all the great vices, and Cato all the great virtues, that men
could have.  But Caesar 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 Caesar
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 Caesar (and I believe with truth),

          "Curse on his virtues, they've undone his country."

By which he means those lesser, but engaging virtues of gentleness,
affability, complaisance, and good humor.  The knowledge of a scholar,
the courage of a hero, and the virtue of a Stoic, will be admired; but if
the knowledge be accompanied with arrogance, the courage with ferocity,
and the virtue with inflexible severity, the man will never be loved.
The heroism of Charles XII. of Sweden (if his brutal courage deserves
that name) was universally admired, but the man nowhere beloved.  Whereas
Henry IV. of France, who had full as much courage, and was much longer
engaged in wars, was generally beloved upon account of his lesser and
social virtues.  We are all so formed, that our understandings are
generally the DUPES of our hearts, that is, of our passions; and the
surest way to the former is through the latter, which must be engaged by
the 'leniores virtutes' alone, and the manner of exerting them.  The
insolent civility of a proud man is (for example) if possible, more
shocking than his rudeness could be; because he shows you by his manner
that he thinks it mere condescension in him; and that his goodness alone
bestows upon you what you have no pretense to claim.  He intimates his
protection, instead of his friendship, by a gracious nod, instead of a
usual bow; and rather signifies his consent that you may, than his
invitation that you should sit, walk, eat, or drink with him.

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 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.

These faults point out their opposite perfections, and your own good
sense will naturally suggest them to you.

But besides these lesser virtues, there are what may be called the lesser
talents, or accomplishments, which are of great use to adorn and
recommend all the greater; and the more so, as all people are judges of
the one, and but few are of the other.  Everybody feels the impression,
which an engaging address, an agreeable manner of speaking, and an easy
politeness, makes upon them; and they prepare the way for the favorable
reception of their betters.  Adieu.




LETTER XCIX

LONDON, December 26, O. S.  1749.

MY DEAR FRIEND: 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.  This is not the case between you
and me, where truth leaves no room for compliments.

'Dii tibi dent annos, de to nam caetera 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 caetera
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 quae 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 to 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 crumena', do you
deserve, and I will provide them.

It is with the greatest pleasure that I consider the fair prospect which
you have before you.  You have seen, read, and learned more, at your age,
than most young fellows have done at two or three-and-twenty.  Your
destination is a shining one, and leads to rank, fortune, and
distinction.  Your education has been calculated for it; and, to do you
justice, that education has not been thrown away upon you.  You want but
two things, which do not want conjuration, but only care, to acquire:
eloquence and manners; that is, the graces of speech, and the graces of
behavior.  You may have them; they are as much in your power as powdering
your hair is; and will you let the want of them obscure (as it certainly
will do) that shining prospect which presents itself to you.  I am sure
you will not.  They are the sharp end, the point of the nail that you are
driving, which must make way first for the larger and more solid parts to
enter.  Supposing your moral character as pure, and your knowledge as
sound, as I really believe them both to be; you want nothing for that
perfection, which I have so constantly wished you, and taken so much
pains to give you, but eloquence and politeness.  A man who is not born
with a poetical genius, can never be a poet, or at best an extremely 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 take some pains not to be so;
otherwise he would naturally and insensibly take the air, the address,
and the turn of those he converses with.  You will, probably, in the
course of this year, see as great a variety of good company in the
several capitals you will be at, as in any one year of your life; and
consequently must (I should hope) catch some of their manners, almost
whether you will or not; but, as I dare say you will endeavor to do it,
I am convinced you will succeed, and that I shall have pleasure of
finding you, at your return here, one of the best-bred men in Europe.

I imagine, that when you receive my letters, and come to those parts of
them which relate to eloquence and politeness, you say, or at least
think, What, will he never have done upon those two subjects?  Has he not
said all he can say upon them?  Why the same thing over and over again?
If you do think or say so, it must proceed from your not yet knowing the
infinite importance of these two accomplishments, which I cannot
recommend to you too often, nor inculcate too strongly.  But if, on the
contrary, you are convinced of the utility, or rather the necessity of
those two accomplishments, and are determined to acquire them, my
repeated admonitions are only unnecessary; and I grudge no trouble which
can possibly be of the least use to you.

I flatter myself, that your stay at Rome will go a great way toward
answering all my views: I am sure it will, if you employ your time, and
your whole time, as you should.  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 today.
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 had nothing else to do or think of.

Adieu, my dear friend, for such I shall call you, and as such I shall,
for the future, live with you; for I disclaim all titles which imply an
authority, that I am persuaded you will never give me occasion to
exercise.

'Multos et felices', most sincerely, to Mr. Harte.




ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:


A joker is near akin to a buffoon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ablest man will sometimes do weak things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Above trifles, he is never vehement and eager about them . . . . . . .
Advise those who do not speak elegantly, not to speak. . . . . . . . .
Always does more than he says. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Always some favorite word for the time being . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Arrogant pedant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ascribing the greatest actions to the most trifling causes . . . . . .
Assign the deepest motives for the most trifling actions . . . . . . .
Attend to the objects of your expenses, but not to the sums. . . . . .
Attention to the inside of books . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Awkward address, ungraceful attitudes and actions. . . . . . . . . . .
Being in the power of every man to hurt him. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Can hardly be said to see what they see. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Cardinal Mazarin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Cardinal Richelieu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Complaisance due to the custom of the place. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Conjectures supply the defect of unattainable knowledge. . . . . . . .
Connive at knaves, and tolerate fools. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Corneille. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Deep learning is generally tainted with pedantry . . . . . . . . . . .
Deepest learning, without good-breeding, is unwelcome. . . . . . . . .
Desirous of pleasing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dictate to them while you seem to be directed by them. . . . . . . . .
Dissimulation is only to hide our own cards. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Do not become a virtuoso of small wares. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Does not give it you, but he inflicts it upon you. . . . . . . . . . .
Endeavors to please and oblige our fellow-creatures. . . . . . . . . .
Every man pretends to common sense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Every numerous assembly is a mob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Eyes and the ears are the only roads to the heart. . . . . . . . . . .
Few dare dissent from an established opinion.. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Few things which people in general know less, than how to love . . . .
Flattering people behind their backs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fools never perceive where they are either ill-timed . . . . . . . . .
Friendship upon very slight acquaintance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Frivolous curiosity about trifles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Frivolous, idle people, whose time hangs upon their own hands. . . . .
Gain the heart, or you gain nothing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
General conclusions from certain particular principles . . . . . . . .
Good manners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Haste and hurry are very different things. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Herd of mankind can hardly be said to think. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Human nature is always the same. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hurt those they love by a mistaken indulgence. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Idleness is only the refuge of weak minds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
If I don't mind his orders he won't mind my draughts.. . . . . . . . .
Inattention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Inattentive, absent; and distrait. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Incontinency of friendship among young fellows . . . . . . . . . . . .
Indiscriminate familiarity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Inquisition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Insist upon your neither piping nor fiddling yourself. . . . . . . . .
Insolent civility. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It is not sufficient to deserve well; one must please well too . . . .
Know the true value of time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Known people pretend to vices they had not . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Knows what things are little, and what not . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Learn, if you can, the WHY and the WHEREFORE . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Leave the company, at least as soon as he is wished out of it. . . . .
Led, much oftener by little things than by great ones. . . . . . . . .
Little failings and weaknesses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Love with him, who they think is the most in love with them. . . . . .
Machiavel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mastery of one's temper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
May you live as long as you are fit to live, but no longer!. . . . . .
May you rather die before you cease to be fit to live. . . . . . . . .
Moderation with your enemies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Most people have ears, but few have judgment; tickle those ears. . . .
Never implicitly adopt a character upon common fame. . . . . . . . . .
Never would know anything that he had not a mind to know . . . . . . .
Nickname . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
No man is distrait with the man he fears, or the woman he loves. . . .
Nothing in courts is exactly as it appears to be . . . . . . . . . . .
Our understandings are generally the DUPES of our hearts . . . . . . .
People will repay, and with interest too, inattention. . . . . . . . .
Perfection of everything that is worth doing at all. . . . . . . . . .
Pliny. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
POLITICIANS NEITHER LOVE NOR HATE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Public speaking. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Quietly cherished error, instead of seeking for truth. . . . . . . . .
Reciprocally profess wishes which they seldom form . . . . . . . . . .
Reserve with your friends. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Six, or at most seven hours sleep. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sooner forgive an injury than an insult. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Style. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
There are many avenues to every man. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Those who remarkably affect any one virtue . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Three passions that often put honesty to most severe trials. . . . . .
To great caution, you can join seeming frankness and openness. . . . .
Trifling parts, with their little jargon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Truth leaves no room for compliments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
We have many of those useful prejudices in this country. . . . . . . .
Whatever pleases you most in others. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
World is taken by the outside of things. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .





End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Letters to His Son, 1749
by The Earl of Chesterfield

