<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"></SPAN></p>
<h2> LETTER CXXIX </h2>
<h3> LONDON, August 28, O. S. 1751 </h3>
<p>MY DEAR FRIEND: A bill for ninety pounds sterling was brought me the other
day, said to be drawn upon me by you: I scrupled paying it at first, not
upon account of the sum, but because you had sent me no letter of advice,
which is always done in those transactions; and still more, because I did
not perceive that you had signed it. The person who presented it, desired
me to look again, and that I should discover your name at the bottom:
accordingly I looked again, and, with the help of my magnifying glass, did
perceive that what I had first taken only for somebody's mark, was, in
truth, your name, written in the worst and smallest hand I ever saw in my
life.</p>
<p>However, I paid it at a venture; though I would almost rather lose the
money, than that such a signature should be yours. All gentlemen, and all
men of business, write their names always in the same way, that their
signature may be so well known as not to be easily counterfeited; and they
generally sign in rather larger character than their common hand; whereas
your name was in a less, and a worse, than your common writing. This
suggested to me the various accidents which may very probably happen to
you, while you write so ill. For instance, if you were to write in such a
character to the Secretary's office, your letter would immediately be sent
to the decipherer, as containing matters of the utmost secrecy, not fit to
be trusted to the common character. If you were to write so to an
antiquarian, he (knowing you to be a man of learning) would certainly try
it by the Runic, Celtic, or Sclavonian alphabet, never suspecting it to be
a modern character. And, if you were to send a 'poulet' to a fine woman,
in such a hand, she would think that it really came from the 'poulailler';
which, by the bye, is the etymology of the word 'poulet'; for Henry the
Fourth of France used to send billets-doux to his mistresses by his
'poulailler', under pretense of sending them chickens; which gave the name
of poulets to those short, but expressive manuscripts. I have often told
you that every man who has the use of his eyes and of his hand, can write
whatever hand he pleases; and it is plain that you can, since you write
both the Greek and German characters, which you never learned of a
writing-master, extremely well, though your common hand, which you learned
of a master, is an exceedingly bad and illiberal one; equally unfit for
business or common use. I do not desire that you should write the labored,
stiff character of a writing-master: a man of business must write quick
and well, and that depends simply upon use. I would therefore advise you
to get some very good writing-master at Paris, and apply to it for a month
only, which will be sufficient; for, upon my word, the writing of a
genteel plain hand of business is of much more importance than you think.
You will say, it may be, that when you write so very ill, it is because
you are in a hurry, to which I answer, Why are you ever in a hurry? A man
of sense may be in haste, but can never be in a hurry, because he knows
that whatever he does in a hurry, he must necessarily do very ill. He may
be in haste to dispatch an affair, but he will care not to let that haste
hinder his doing it well. Little minds are in a hurry, when the object
proves (as it commonly does) too big for them; they run, they hare, they
puzzle, confound, and perplex themselves: they want to do everything at
once, and never do it at all. But a man of sense takes the time necessary
for doing the thing he is about, well; and his haste to dispatch a
business only appears by the continuity of his application to it: he
pursues it with a cool steadiness, and finishes it before he begins any
other. I own your time is much taken up, and you have a great many
different things to do; but remember that you had much better do half of
them well and leave the other half undone, than do them all indifferently.
Moreover, the few seconds that are saved in the course of the day, by
writing ill instead of well, do not amount to an object of time by any
means equivalent to the disgrace or ridicule of writing the scrawl of a
common whore. Consider, that if your very bad writing could furnish me
with matter of ridicule, what will it not do to others who do not view you
in that partial light that I do? There was a pope, I think it was Cardinal
Chigi, who was justly ridiculed for his attention to little things, and
his inability in great ones: and therefore called maximus in minimis, and
minimus in maximis. Why? Because he attended to little things when he had
great ones to do. At this particular period of your life, and at the place
you are now in, you have only little things to do; and you should make it
habitual to you to do them well, that they may require no attention from
you when you have, as I hope you will have, greater things to mind. Make a
good handwriting familiar to you now, that you may hereafter have nothing
but your matter to think of, when you have occasion to write to kings and
ministers. Dance, dress, present yourself, habitually well now, that you
may have none of those little things to think of hereafter, and which will
be all necessary to be done well occasionally, when you will have greater
things to do.</p>
<p>As I am eternally thinking of everything that can be relative to you, one
thing has occurred to me, which I think necessary to mention to you, in
order to prevent the difficulties which it might otherwise lay you under;
it is this as you get more acquaintances at Paris, it will be impossible
for you to frequent your first acquaintances so much as you did, while you
had no others. As, for example, at your first 'debut', I suppose you were
chiefly at Madame Monconseil's, Lady Hervey's, and Madame du Boccage's.
Now, that you have got so many other houses, you cannot be at theirs so
often as you used; but pray take care not to give them the least reason to
think that you neglect, or despise them, for the sake of new and more
dignified and shining acquaintances; which would be ungrateful and
imprudent on your part, and never forgiven on theirs. Call upon them
often, though you do not stay with them so long as formerly; tell them
that you are sorry you are obliged to go away, but that you have such and
such engagements, with which good-breeding obliges you to comply; and
insinuate that you would rather stay with them. In short, take care to
make as many personal friends, and as few personal enemies, as possible. I
do not mean, by personal friends, intimate and confidential friends, of
which no man can hope to have half a dozen in the whole course of his
life; but I mean friends, in the common acceptation of the word; that is,
people who speak well of you, and who would rather do you good than harm,
consistently with their own interest, and no further. Upon the whole, I
recommend to you, again and again, 'les Graces'. Adorned by them, you may,
in a manner, do what you please; it will be approved of; without them,
your best qualities will lose half their efficacy. Endeavor to be
fashionable among the French, which will soon make you fashionable here.
Monsieur de Matignon already calls you 'le petit Francois'. If you can get
that name generally at Paris, it will put you 'a la mode'. Adieu, my dear
child.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.