<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"></SPAN></p>
<h2> LETTER XCIX </h2>
<h3> LONDON, December 26, O. S. 1749. </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>'Multos et felices', most sincerely, to Mr. Harte.</p>
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