Letters to His Son 1750 | Page 6

not so necessary for a women, as that of veracity is for a man; and
with reason; for it is possible for a woman to be virtuous, though not
strictly chaste, but it is not possible for a man to be virtuous without
strict veracity. The slips of the poor women are sometimes mere bodily
frailties; but a lie in a man is a vice of the mind and of the heart. For
God's sake be scrupulously jealous of the purity of your moral
character; keep it immaculate, unblemished, unsullied; and it will be
unsuspected. Defamation and calumny never attack, where there is no
weak place; they magnify, but they do not create.
There is a very great difference between the purity of character, which I
so earnestly recommend to you, and the stoical gravity and austerity of
character, which I do by no means recommend to you. At your, age, I
would no more wish you to be a Cato than a Clodius. Be, and be
reckoned, a man of pleasure as well as a man of business. Enjoy this

happy and giddy time of your life; shine in the pleasures, and in the
company of people of your own age. This is all to be done, and indeed
only can be done, without the least taint to the purity of your moral
character; for those mistaken young fellows, who think to shine by an
impious or immoral licentiousness, shine only from their stinking, like
corrupted flesh, in the dark. Without this purity, you can have no
dignity of character; and without dignity of character it is impossible to
rise in the world. You must be respectable, if you will be respected. I
have known people slattern away their character, without really
polluting it; the consequence of which has been, that they have become
innocently contemptible; their merit has been dimmed, their
pretensions unregarded, and all their views defeated. Character must be
kept bright, as well as clean. Content yourself with mediocrity in
nothing. In purity of character and in politeness of manners labor to
excel all, if you wish to equal many. Adieu.

LETTER CI
LONDON, January 11, O. S. 1750
MY DEAR FRIEND: Yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Harte, of
the 31st December, N. S., which I will answer soon; and for which I
desire you to return him my thanks now. He tells me two things that
give me great satisfaction: one is that there are very few English at
Rome; the other is, that you frequent the best foreign companies. This
last is a very good symptom; for a man of sense is never desirous to
frequent those companies, where he is not desirous to please, or where
he finds that he displeases; it will not be expected in those companies,
that, at your age, you should have the 'Garbo', the 'Disinvoltura', and
the 'Leggiadria' of a man of five-and-twenty, who has been long used to
keep the best companies; and therefore do not be discouraged, and
think yourself either slighted or laughed at, because you see others,
older and more used to the world, easier, more familiar, and
consequently rather better received in those companies than yourself. In
time your turn will come; and if you do but show an inclination, a
desire to please, though you should be embarrassed or even err in the
means, which must necessarily happen to you at first, yet the will (to
use a vulgar expression) will be taken for the deed; and people, instead
of laughing at you, will be glad to instruct you. Good sense can only

give you the great outlines of good-breeding; but observation and usage
can alone give you the delicate touches, and the fine coloring. You will
naturally endeavor to show the utmost respect to people of certain ranks
and characters, and consequently you will show it; but the proper, the
delicate manner of showing that respect, nothing but observation and
time can give.
I remember that when, with all the awkwardness and rust of Cambridge
about me, I was first introduced into good company, I was frightened
out of my wits. I was determined to be, what I thought, civil; I made
fine low bows, and placed myself below everybody; but when I was
spoken to, or attempted to speak myself, 'obstupui, steteruntque comae,
et vox faucibus haesit'. If I saw people whisper, I was sure it was at me;
and I thought myself the sole object of either the ridicule or the censure
of the whole company, who, God knows, did not trouble their heads
about me. In this way I suffered, for some time, like a criminal at the
bar; and should certainly have renounced all polite company forever, if
I had not been so convinced of the