Letters to His Son, 1749

T >> The Earl of Chesterfield >> Letters to His Son, 1749


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.