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<h2> LETTER XIV </h2>
<h3> LONDON, September 21, O. S. 1747 </h3>
<p>DEAR BOY: I received, by the last post, your letter of the 8th, N. S., and
I do not wonder that you are surprised at the credulity and superstition
of the Papists at Einsiedlen, and at their absurd stories of their chapel.
But remember, at the same time, that errors and mistakes, however gross,
in matters of opinion, if they are sincere, are to be pitied, but not
punished nor laughed at. The blindness of the understanding is as much to
be pitied as the blindness of the eye; and there is neither jest nor guilt
in a man's losing his way in either case. Charity bids us set him right if
we can, by arguments and persuasions; but charity, at the same time,
forbids, either to punish or ridicule his misfortune. Every man's reason
is, and must be, his guide; and I may as well expect that every man should
be of my size and complexion, as that he should reason just as I do. Every
man seeks for truth; but God only knows who has found it. It is,
therefore, as unjust to persecute, as it is absurd to ridicule, people for
those several opinions, which they cannot help entertaining upon the
conviction of their reason. It is the man who tells, or who acts a lie,
that is guilty, and not he who honestly and sincerely believes the lie. I
really know nothing more criminal, more mean, and more ridiculous than
lying. It is the production either of malice, cowardice, or vanity; and
generally misses of its aim in every one of these views; for lies are
always detected sooner or later. If I tell a malicious lie, in order to
affect any man's fortune or character, I may indeed injure him for some
time; but I shall be sure to be the greatest sufferer myself at last; for
as soon as ever I am detected (and detected I most certainly shall be), I
am blasted for the infamous attempt; and whatever is said afterward, to
the disadvantage of that person, however true, passes for calumny. If I
lie, or equivocate (for it is the same thing), in order to excuse myself
for something that I have said or done, and to avoid the danger and the
shame that I apprehend from it, I discover at once my fear as well as my
falsehood; and only increase, instead of avoiding, the danger and the
shame; I show myself to be the lowest and the meanest of mankind, and am
sure to be always treated as such. Fear, instead of avoiding, invites
danger; for concealed cowards will insult known ones. If one has had the
misfortune to be in the wrong, there is something noble in frankly owning
it; it is the only way of atoning for it, and the only way of being
forgiven. Equivocating, evading, shuffling, in order to remove a present
danger or inconveniency, is something so mean, and betrays so much fear,
that whoever practices them always deserves to be, and often will be
kicked. There is another sort of lies, inoffensive enough in themselves,
but wonderfully ridiculous; I mean those lies which a mistaken vanity
suggests, that defeat the very end for which they are calculated, and
terminate in the humiliation and confusion of their author, who is sure to
be detected. These are chiefly narrative and historical lies, all intended
to do infinite honor to their author. He is always the hero of his own
romances; he has been in dangers from which nobody but himself ever
escaped; he has seen with his own eyes, whatever other people have heard
or read of: he has had more 'bonnes fortunes' than ever he knew women; and
has ridden more miles post in one day, than ever courier went in two. He
is soon discovered, and as soon becomes the object of universal contempt
and ridicule. Remember, then, as long as you live, that nothing but strict
truth can carry you through the world, with either your conscience or your
honor unwounded. It is not only your duty, but your interest; as a proof
of which you may always observe, that the greatest fools are the greatest
liars. For my own part, I judge of every man's truth by his degree of
understanding.</p>
<p>This letter will, I suppose, find you at Leipsig; where I expect and
require from you attention and accuracy, in both which you have hitherto
been very deficient. Remember that I shall see you in the summer; shall
examine you most narrowly; and will never forget nor forgive those faults,
which it has been in your own power to prevent or cure; and be assured
that I have many eyes upon you at Leipsig, besides Mr. Harte's. Adieu!</p>
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<h2> LETTER XV </h2>
<h3> LONDON, October 2, O. S. 1747 </h3>
<p>DEAR BOY: By your letter of the 18th past, N. S., I find that you are a
tolerably good landscape painter, and can present the several views of
Switzerland to the curious. I am very glad of it, as it is a proof of some
attention; but I hope you will be as good a portrait painter, which is a
much more noble science. By portraits, you will easily judge, that I do
not mean the outlines and the coloring of the human figure; but the inside
of the heart and mind of man. This science requires more attention,
observation, and penetration, than the other; as indeed it is infinitely
more useful. Search, therefore, with the greatest care, into the
characters of those whom you converse with; endeavor to discover their
predominant passions, their prevailing weaknesses, their vanities, their
follies, and their humors, with all the right and wrong, wise and silly
springs of human actions, which make such inconsistent and whimsical
beings of us rational creatures. A moderate share of penetration, with
great attention, will infallibly make these necessary discoveries. This is
the true knowledge of the world; and the world is a country which nobody
ever yet knew by description; one must travel through it one's self to be
acquainted with it. The scholar, who in the dust of his closet talks or
writes of the world, knows no more of it, than that orator did of war, who
judiciously endeavored to instruct Hannibal in it. Courts and camps are
the only places to learn the world in. There alone all kinds of characters
resort, and human nature is seen in all the various shapes and modes,
which education, custom, and habit give it; whereas, in all other places,
one local mode generally prevails, and producing a seeming though not a
real sameness of character. For example, one general mode distinguishes an
university, another a trading town, a third a seaport town, and so on;
whereas, at a capital, where the Prince or the Supreme Power resides, some
of all these various modes are to be seen and seen in action too, exerting
their utmost skill in pursuit of their several objects. Human nature is
the same all over the world; but its operations are so varied by education
and habit, that one must see it in all its dresses in order to be
intimately acquainted with it. The passion of ambition, for instance, is
the same in a courtier, a soldier, or an ecclesiastic; but, from their
different educations and habits, they will take very different methods to
gratify it. Civility, which is a disposition to accommodate and oblige
others, is essentially the same in every country; but good-breeding, as it
is called, which is the manner of exerting that disposition, is different
in almost every country, and merely local; and every man of sense imitates
and conforms to that local good-breeding of the place which he is at. A
conformity and flexibility of manners is necessary in the course of the
world; that is, with regard to all things which are not wrong in
themselves. The 'versatile ingenium' is the most useful of all. It can
turn itself instantly from one object to another, assuming the proper
manner for each. It can be serious with the grave, cheerful with the gay,
and trifling with the frivolous. Endeavor by all means, to acquire this
talent, for it is a very great one.</p>
<p>As I hardly know anything more useful, than to see, from time to time,
pictures of one's self drawn by different hands, I send you here a sketch
of yourself, drawn at Lausanne, while you were there, and sent over here
by a person who little thought that it would ever fall into my hands: and
indeed it was by the greatest accident in the world that it did.</p>
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