Letters to His Son, 1753 to 1754

T >> The Earl of Chesterfield >> Letters to His Son, 1753 to 1754

LETTERS TO HIS SON
1753-54

By the EARL OF CHESTERFIELD

on the Fine Art of becoming a

MAN OF THE WORLD

and a

GENTLEMAN




LETTER CLXXXV

LONDON, New Years' Day, 1753

MY DEAR FRIEND: It is now above a fortnight since I have received a
letter from you. I hope, however, that you are well, but engrossed by the
business of Lord Albemarle's 'bureau' in the mornings, and by business of
a genteeler nature in the evenings; for I willingly give up my own
satisfaction to your improvement, either in business or manners.

Here have been lately imported from Paris two gentlemen, who, I find,
were much acquainted with you there Comte Zinzendorf, and Monsieur
Clairant the Academician. The former is a very pretty man, well-bred, and
with a great deal of useful knowledge; for those two things are very
consistent. I examined him about you, thinking him a competent judge. He
told me, 'que vous parliez l'Allemand comme un Allemand; que vous saviez
le droit public de l'empire parfaitement bien; que vous aviez le gout
sur, et des connoissances fort etendues'. I told him that I knew all this
very well; but that I wanted to know whether you had l'air, les manieres,
les attentions, en fin le brillant d'un honnete homme': his answer was,
'Mais oui en verite, c'est fort bien'. This, you see, is but cold in
comparison of what I do wish, and of what you ought to wish. Your friend
Clairant interposed, and said, 'Mais je vous assure qu'il est fort poli';
to which I answered, 'Je le crois bien, vis-a-vis des Lapons vos amis; je
vous recuse pour juge, jusqu'a ce que vous ayez ete delaponne, au moins
dix ans, parmi les honnetes gens'. These testimonies in your favor are
such as perhaps you are satisfied with, and think sufficient; but I am
not; they are only the cold depositions of disinterested and unconcerned
witnesses, upon a strict examination. When, upon a trial, a man calls
witnesses to his character, and that those witnesses only say that they
never heard, nor do not know any ill of him, it intimates at best a
neutral and insignificant, though innocent character. Now I want, and you
ought to endeavor, that 'les agremens, les graces, les attentions', etc.,
should be a distinguishing part of your character, and specified of you
by people unasked. I wish to hear people say of you, 'Ah qu'il est
aimable! Quelles manieres, quelles graces, quel art de Claire'! Nature,
thank God, has given you all the powers necessary; and if she has not
yet, I hope in God she will give you the will of exerting them.

I have lately read with great pleasure Voltaire's two little histories of
'Les Croisades', and 'l'Esprit Humain'; which I recommend to your
perusal, if you have not already read them. They are bound up with a most
poor performance called 'Micromegas', which is said to be Voltaire's too,
but I cannot believe it, it is so very unworthy of him; it consists only
of thoughts stolen from Swift, but miserably mangled and disfigured. But
his history of the 'Croisades' shows, in a very short and strong light,
the most immoral and wicked scheme that was ever contrived by knaves, and
executed by madmen and fools, against humanity. There is a strange but
never-failing relation between honest madmen and skillful knaves; and
whenever one meets with collected numbers of the former, one may be very
sure that they are secretly directed by the latter. The popes, who have
generally been both the ablest and the greatest knaves in Europe, wanted
all the power and money of the East; for they had all that was in Europe
already. The times and the minds favored their design, for they were dark
and uniformed; and Peter the Hermit, at once a knave and a madman, was a
fine papal tool for so wild and wicked an undertaking. I wish we had good
histories of every part of Europe, and indeed of the world, written upon
the plan of Voltaire's 'de l'Esprit Humain'; for, I own, I am provoked at
the contempt which most historians show for humanity in general: one
would think by them that the whole human species consisted but of about a
hundred and fifty people, called and dignified (commonly very
undeservedly too) by the titles of emperors, kings, popes, generals, and
ministers.

I have never seen in any of the newspapers any mention of the affairs of
the Cevennes, or Grenoble, which you gave me an account of some time ago;
and the Duke de Mirepoix pretends, at least, to know nothing of either.
Were they false reports? or does the French court choose to stifle them?
I hope that they are both true, because I am very willing that the cares
of the French government should be employed and confined to themselves.

Your friend, the Electress Palatine, has sent me six wild boars' heads,
and other 'pieces de sa chasse', in return for the fans, which she
approved of extremely. This present was signified to me by one Mr.
Harold, who wrote me a letter in very indifferent English; I suppose he
is a Dane who has been in England.

Mr. Harte came to town yesterday, and dined with me to-day. We talked you
over; and I can assure you, that though a parson, and no member 'du beau
monde', he thinks all the most shining accomplishments of it full as
necessary for you as I do. His expression was, THAT IS ALL THAT HE WANTS;
BUT IF HE WANTS THAT, CONSIDERING HIS SITUATION AND DESTINATION, HE MIGHT
AS WELL WANT EVERYTHING ELSE.

This is the day when people reciprocally offer and receive the kindest
and the warmest wishes, though, in general, without meaning them on one
side, or believing them on the other. They are formed by the head, in
compliance with custom, though disavowed by the heart, in consequence of
nature. His wishes upon this occasion are the best that are the best
turned; you do not, I am sure, doubt the truth of mine, and therefore I
will express them with a Quaker-like simplicity. May this new year be a
very new one indeed to you; may you put off the old, and put on the new
man! but I mean the outward, not the inward man. With this alteration, I
might justly sum up all my wishes for you in these words:

Dii tibi dent annos, de to nam caetera sumes.

This minute, I receive your letter of the 26th past, which gives me a
very disagreeable reason for your late silence. By the symptoms which you
mention of your illness, I both hope and believe that it was wholly owing
to your own want of care. You are rather inclined to be fat, you have
naturally a good stomach, and you eat at the best tables; which must of
course make you plethoric: and upon my word you will be very subject to
these accidents, if you will not, from time to time, when you find
yourself full, heated, or your head aching, take some little, easy,
preventative purge, that would not confine you; such as chewing a little
rhubarb when you go to bed at night; or some senna tea in the morning.
You do very well to live extremely low, for some time; and I could wish,
though I do not expect it, that you would take one gentle vomit; for
those giddinesses and swimmings in the head always proceed from some
foulness of the stomach. However, upon the whole, I am very glad that
your old complaint has not mixed itself with this, which I am fully
convinced arises simply from your own negligence. Adieu.

I am sorry for Monsieur Kurze, upon his sister's account.




LETTER CLXXXVI

LONDON, January 15, 1753

MY DEAR FRIEND: I never think my time so well employed, as when I think
it employed to your advantage. You have long had the greatest share of
it; you now engross it. The moment is now decisive; the piece is going to
be exhibited to the public; the mere out lines and the general coloring
are not sufficient to attract the eyes and to secure applause; but the
last finishing, artful, and delicate strokes are necessary. Skillful
judges will discern and acknowledge their merit; the ignorant will,
without knowing why, feel their power. In that view, I have thrown
together, for your perusal, some maxims; or, to speak more properly,
observations on men and things; for I have no merit as to the invention:
I am no system monger; and, instead of giving way to my imagination, I
have only consulted my memory; and my conclusions are all drawn from
facts, not from fancy. Most maxim mongers have preferred the prettiness
to the justness of a thought, and the turn to the truth; but I have
refused myself to everything that my own experience did not justify and
confirm. I wish you would consider them seriously, and separately, and
recur to them again 'pro re nata' in similar cases. Young men are as apt
to think themselves wise enough, as drunken men are to think themselves
sober enough. They look upon spirit to be a much better thing than
experience; which they call coldness. They are but half mistaken; for
though spirit, without experience, is dangerous, experience, without
spirit, is languid and defective. Their union, which is very rare, is
perfection; you may join them, if you please; for all my experience is at
your service; and I do not desire one grain of your spirit in return. Use
them both, and let them reciprocally animate and check each other. I mean
here, by the spirit of youth, only the vivacity and presumption of youth,
which hinder them from seeing the difficulties or dangers of an
undertaking, but I do not mean what the silly vulgar call spirit, by
which they are captious, jealous of their rank, suspicious of being
undervalued, and tart (as they call it) in their repartees, upon the
slightest occasions. This is an evil, and a very silly spirit, which
should be driven out, and transferred to an herd of swine. This is not
the spirit of a man of fashion, who has kept good company. People of an
ordinary, low education, when they happen to fail into good company,
imagine themselves the only object of its attention; if the company
whispers, it is, to be sure, concerning them; if they laugh, it is at
them; and if anything ambiguous, that by the most forced interpretation
can be applied to them, happens to be said, they are convinced that it
was meant at them; upon which they grow out of countenance first, and
then angry. This mistake is very well ridiculed in the "Stratagem," where
Scrub says, I AM SURE THEY TALKED OF ME FOR THEY LAUGHED CONSUMEDLY. A
well-bred man seldom thinks, but never seems to think himself slighted,
undervalued, or laughed at in company, unless where it is so plainly
marked out, that his honor obliges him to resent it in a proper manner;
'mais les honnetes gens ne se boudent jamais'. I will admit that it is
very difficult to command one's self enough, to behave with ease,
frankness, and good-breeding toward those, who one knows dislike, slight,
and injure one, as far as they can, without personal consequences; but I
assert that it is absolutely necessary to do it: you must embrace the man
you hate, if you cannot be justified in knocking him down; for otherwise
you avow the injury which you cannot revenge. A prudent cuckold (and
there are many such at Paris) pockets his horns when he cannot gore with
them; and will not add to the triumph of his maker by only butting with
them ineffectually. A seeming ignorance is very often a most necessary
part of worldly knowledge. It is, for instance, commonly advisable to
seem ignorant of what people offer to tell you; and when they say, Have
you not heard of such a thing? to answer No, and to let them go on;
though you know it already. Some have a pleasure in telling it, because
they think that they tell it well; others have a pride in it, as being
the sagacious discoverers; and many have a vanity in showing that they
have been, though very undeservedly, trusted; all these would be
disappointed, and consequently displeased, if you said Yes. Seem always
ignorant (unless to one's most intimate friend) of all matters of private
scandal and defamation, though you should hear them a thousand times; for
the parties affected always look upon the receiver to be almost as bad as
the thief: and, whenever they become the topic of conversation seem to be
a skeptic, though you are really a serious believer; and always take the
extenuating part. But all this seeming ignorance should be joined to
thorough and extensive private informations: and, indeed, it is the best
method of procuring them; for most people have such a vanity in showing a
superiority over others, though but for a moment, and in the merest
trifles, that they will tell you what they should not, rather than not
show that they can tell what you did not know; besides that such seeming
ignorance will make you pass for incurious and consequently undesigning.
However, fish for facts, and take pains to be well informed of everything
that passes; but fish judiciously, and not always, nor indeed often, in
the shape of direct questions, which always put people upon their guard,
and, often repeated, grow tiresome. But sometimes take the things that
you would know for granted; upon which somebody will, kindly and
officiously, set you right: sometimes say that you have heard so and so;
and at other times seem to know more than you do, in order to know all
that you want; but avoid direct questioning as much as you can. All these
necessary arts of the world require constant attention, presence of mind,
and coolness. Achilles, though invulnerable, never went to battle but
completely armed. Courts are to be the theatres of your wars, where you
should be always as completely armed, and even with the addition of a
heel-piece. The least inattention, the least DISTRACTION, may prove
fatal. I would fain see you what pedants call 'omnis homo', and what Pope
much better calls ALL-ACCOMPLISHED: you have the means in your power; add
the will; and you may bring it about. The vulgar have a coarse saying, of
SPOILING A SHIP FOR A HALFPENNY WORTH OF TAR; prevent the application by
providing the tar: it is very easily to be had in comparison with what
you have already got.

The fine Mrs. Pitt, who it seems saw you often at Paris, speaking of you
the other day, said, in French, for she speaks little English, . . .
whether it is that you did not pay the homage due to her beauty, or that
it did not strike you as it does others, I cannot determine; but I hope
she had some other reason than truth for saying it. I will suppose that
you did not care a pin for her; but, however, she surely deserved a
degree of propitiatory adoration from you, which I am afraid you
neglected. Had I been in your case, I should have endeavored, at least,
to have supplanted Mr. Mackay in his office of nocturnal reader to her. I
played at cards, two days ago, with your friend Mrs. Fitzgerald, and her
most sublime mother, Mrs. Seagrave; they both inquired after you; and
Mrs. Fitzgerald said, she hoped you went on with your dancing; I said,
Yes, and that you assured me, you had made such considerable improvements
in it, that you had now learned to stand still, and even upright. Your
'virtuosa', la Signora Vestri, sung here the other day, with great
applause: I presume you are INTIMATELY acquainted with her merit. Good
night to you, whoever you pass it with.

I have this moment received a packet, sealed with your seal, though not
directed by your hand, for Lady Hervey. No letter from you! Are you not
well?




LETTER CLXXXVII

LONDON, May 27, O. S. 1753.

MY DEAR FRIEND: I have this day been tired, jaded, nay, tormented, by the
company of a most worthy, sensible, and learned man, a near relation of
mine, who dined and passed the evening with me. This seems a paradox, but
is a plain truth; he has no knowledge of the world, no manners, no
address; far from talking without book, as is commonly said of people who
talk sillily, he only talks by book; which in general conversation is ten
times worse. He has formed in his own closet from books, certain systems
of everything, argues tenaciously upon those principles, and is both
surprised and angry at whatever deviates from them. His theories are
good, but, unfortunately, are all impracticable. Why? because he has only
read and not conversed. He is acquainted with books, and an absolute
stranger to men. Laboring with his matter, he is delivered of it with
pangs; he hesitates, stops in his utterance, and always expresses himself
inelegantly. His actions are all ungraceful; so that, with all his merit
and knowledge, I would rather converse six hours with the most frivolous
tittle-tattle woman who knew something of the world, than with him. The
preposterous notions of a systematical man who does not know the world,
tire the patience of a man who does. It would be endless to correct his
mistakes, nor would he take it kindly: for he has considered everything
deliberately, and is very sure that he is in the right. Impropriety is a
characteristic, and a never-failing one, of these people. Regardless,
because ignorant, of customs and manners, they violate them every moment.
They often shock, though they never mean to offend: never attending
either to the general character, or the particular distinguishing
circumstances of the people to whom, or before whom they talk; whereas
the knowledge of the world teaches one, that the very same things which
are exceedingly right and proper in one company, time and place, are
exceedingly absurd in others. In short, a man who has great knowledge,
from experience and observation, of the characters, customs, and manners
of mankind, is a being as different from, and as superior to, a man of
mere book and systematical knowledge, as a well-managed horse is to an
ass. Study, therefore, cultivate, and frequent men and women; not only in
their outward, and consequently, guarded, but in their interior,
domestic, and consequently less disguised, characters and manners. Take
your notions of things, as by observation and experience you find they
really are, and not as you read that they are or should be; for they
never are quite what they should be. For this purpose do not content
yourself with general and common acquaintance; but wherever you can,
establish yourself, with a kind of domestic familiarity, in good houses.
For instance, go again to Orli, for two or three days, and so at two or
three 'reprises'. Go and stay two or three days at a time at Versailles,
and improve and extend the acquaintance you have there. Be at home at St.
Cloud; and, whenever any private person of fashion invites you to, pass a
few days at his country-house, accept of the invitation. This will
necessarily give you a versatility of mind, and a facility to adopt
various manners and customs; for everybody desires to please those in
whose house they are; and people are only to be pleased in their own way.
Nothing is more engaging than a cheerful and easy conformity to people's
particular manners, habits, and even weaknesses; nothing (to use a vulgar
expression) should come amiss to a young fellow. He should be, for good
purposes, what Alcibiades was commonly for bad ones, a Proteus, assuming
with ease, and wearing with cheerfulness, any shape. Heat, cold, luxury,
abstinence, gravity, gayety, ceremony, easiness, learning, trifling,
business, and pleasure, are modes which he should be able to take, lay
aside, or change occasionally, with as much ease as he would take or lay
aside his hat. All this is only to be acquired by use and knowledge of
the world, by keeping a great deal of company, analyzing every character,
and insinuating yourself into the familiarity of various acquaintance. A
right, a generous ambition to make a figure in the world, necessarily
gives the desire of pleasing; the desire of pleasing points out, to a
great degree, the means of doing it; and the art of pleasing is, in
truth, the art of rising, of distinguishing one's self, of making a
figure and a fortune in the world. But without pleasing, without the
graces, as I have told you a thousand times, 'ogni fatica e vana'. You
are now but nineteen, an age at which most of your countrymen are
illiberally getting drunk in port, at the university. You have greatly
got the start of them in learning; and if you can equally get the start
of them in the knowledge and manners of the world, you may be very sure
of outrunning them in court and parliament, as you set out much earlier
than they. They generally begin but to see the world at one-and-twenty;
you will by that age have seen all Europe. They set out upon their
travels unlicked cubs: and in their travels they only lick one another,
for they seldom go into any other company. They know nothing but the
English world, and the worst part of that too, and generally very little
of any but the English language; and they come home, at three or
four-and-twenty, refined and polished (as is said in one of Congreve's
plays) like Dutch skippers from a whale-fishing. The care which has been
taken of you, and (to do you justice) the care that you have taken of
yourself, has left you, at the age of nineteen only, nothing to acquire
but the knowledge of the world, manners, address, and those exterior
accomplishments. But they are great and necessary acquisitions, to those
who have sense enough to know their true value; and your getting them
before you are one-and-twenty, and before you enter upon the active and
shining scene of life, will give you such an advantage over all your
contemporaries, that they cannot overtake you: they must be distanced.
You may probably be placed about a young prince, who will probably be a
young king. There all the various arts of pleasing, the engaging address,
the versatility of manners, the brillant, the graces, will outweigh, and
yet outrun all solid knowledge and unpolished merit. Oil yourself,
therefore, and be both supple and shining, for that race, if you would be
first, or early at the goal. Ladies will most probably too have something
to say there; and those who are best with them will probably be best
SOMEWHERE ELSE. Labor this great point, my dear child, indefatigably;
attend to the very smallest parts, the minutest graces, the most trifling
circumstances, that can possibly concur in forming the shining character
of a complete gentleman, 'un galant homme, un homme de cour', a man of
business and pleasure; 'estime des hommes, recherche des femmes, aime de
tout le monde'. In this view, observe the shining part of every man of
fashion, who is liked and esteemed; attend to, and imitate that
particular accomplishment for which you hear him chiefly celebrated and
distinguished: then collect those various parts, and make yourself a
mosiac of the whole. No one body possesses everything, and almost
everybody possesses some one thing worthy of imitation: only choose your
models well; and in order to do so, choose by your ear more than by your
eye. The best model is always that which is most universally allowed to
be the best, though in strictness it may possibly not be so. We must take
most things as they are, we cannot make them what we would, nor often
what they should be; and where moral duties are not concerned, it is more
prudent to follow than to attempt to lead. Adieu.




LETTER CLXXXVIII

BATH, October 3, 1753

MY DEAR FRIEND: You have set out well at The Hague; you are in love with
Madame Munter, which I am very glad of: you are in the fine company
there, and I hope one of it: for it is not enough, at your age, to be
merely in good company; but you should, by your address and attentions,
make that good company think you one of them. There is a tribute due to
beauty, even independently of further views; which tribute I hope you
paid with alacrity to Madame Munter and Madame Degenfeldt: depend upon
it, they expected it, and were offended in proportion as that tribute
seemed either unwillingly or scantily paid. I believe my friend
Kreuningen admits nobody now to his table, for fear of their
communicating the plague to him, or at least the bite of a mad dog. Pray
profit of the entrees libres that the French Ambassador has given you;
frequent him, and SPEAK to him. I think you will not do amiss to call
upon Mr. Burrish, at Aix-la-Chapelle, since it is so little out of your
way; and you will do still better, if you would, which I know you will
not, drink those waters for five or six days only, to scour your stomach
and bowels a little; I am sure it would do you a great deal of good Mr.
Burrish can, doubtless, give you the best letters to Munich; and he will
naturally give you some to Comte Preysing, or Comte Sinsheim, and such
sort of grave people; but I could wish that you would ask him for some to
young fellows of pleasure, or fashionable coquettes, that, you may be
'dans l'honnete debauche de Munich'. A propos of your future motions; I
leave you in a great measure the master of them, so shall only suggest my
thoughts to you upon that subject.

You have three electoral courts in view, Bonn, Munich, and Manheim. I
would advise you to see two of them rather cursorily, and fix your
tabernacle at the third, whichever that may be, for a considerable time.
For instance, should you choose (as I fancy you will), to make Manheim
the place of your residence, stay only ten or twelve days at Bonn, and as
long at Munich, and then go and fix at Manheim; and so, vice versa, if
you should like Bonn or Munich better than you think you would Manheim,
make that the place of your residence, and only visit the other two. It
is certain that no man can be much pleased himself, or please others
much, in any place where he is only a bird of passage for eight or ten
days; neither party thinking it worth while to make an acquaintance,
still less to form any connection, for so short a time; but when months
are the case, a man may domesticate himself pretty well, and very soon
not be looked upon as a stranger. This is the real utility of traveling,
when, by contracting a familiarity at any place, you get into the inside
of it, and see it in its undress. That is the only way of knowing the
customs, the manners, and all the little characteristical peculiarities
that distinguish one place from another; but then this familiarity is not
to be brought about by cold, formal visits of half an hour: no; you must
show a willingness, a desire, an impatience of forming connections, 'il
faut s'y preter, et y mettre du liant, du desir de plaire. Whatever you
do approve, you must be lavish in your praises of; and you must learn to
commend what you do not approve of, if it is approved of there. You are
not much given to praise, I know; but it is because you do not yet know
how extremely people are engaged by a seeming sanction to their own
opinions, prejudices, and weaknesses, even in the merest trifles. Our
self-love is mortified when we think our opinions, and even our tastes,
customs, and dresses, either arraigned or condemned; as on the contrary,
it is tickled and flattered by approbation. I will give you a remarkable
instance of this kind. The famous Earl of Shaftesbury, in the flagitious
reign of Charles the Second, while he was Chancellor, had a mind to be a
favorite, as well as a minister of the King; in order, therefore, to
please his Majesty, whose prevailing passion was women, my Lord kept a
w----e, whom he had no occasion for, and made no manner of use of. The
King soon heard of it, and asked him if it was true; he owned it was; but
that, though he kept that one woman, he had several others besides, for
he loved variety. A few days afterward, the King, at his public levee,
saw Lord Shaftesbury at some distance, and said in the circle, "One would
not think that that little, weak man is the greatest whore-master in
England; but I can assure you that he is." Upon Lord Shaftesbury's coming
into the circle, there was a general smile; the King said, "This is
concerning you, my Lord."--"Me, sir?" answered the Chancellor, with some
surprise. "Yes, you," answered the King; "for I had just said that you
were the greatest whore-master in England! Is it not true?"--"Of a
SUBJECT, Sir," replied Lord Shaftesbury, "perhaps I am." It is the same
in everything; we think a difference of opinion, of conduct, of manners,
a tacit reproach, at least, upon our own; we must therefore use ourselves
to a ready conformity to whatever is neither criminal nor dishonorable.
Whoever differs from any general custom, is supposed both to think, and
proclaim himself wiser than the rest of the world: which the rest of the
world cannot bear, especially in a young man. A young fellow is always
forgiven and often applauded, when he carries a fashion to an excess; but
never if he stops short of it. The first is ascribed to youth and fire;
but the latter is imputed to an affectation of singularity or
superiority. At your age, one is allowed to 'outrer' fashion, dress,
vivacity, gallantry, etc., but by no means to be behindhand in any one of
them. And one may apply to youth in this case, 'Si non errasset, fecerat
ille minus'. Adieu.