<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"></SPAN></p>
<h2> LETTER XCII </h2>
<h3> LONDON, November 27, O. S. 1749. </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.]</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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