Solution Manual for CMOS Digital Integrated Circuits

Analysis and Design 4th Edition Kang Leblebici Kim

ISBN 0073380628 9780073380629
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Exercise Problems

3.1 Consider a MOS system with the following parameters:

tox 1.6nm
GC 1.04V
N A =2.8 10 18 cm -3
Q OX q 4 10 10 C/cm 2
a. Determine the threshold voltage VT0 under zero bias at room temperature (T = 300 K).
Note that ox 3.97 0 and si 11.7 0 .

SOLUTION :

First, calculate the Fermi potentials for the p-type substrate and for the n-type polysilicon gate:

kT ni
10
1.45 10
F (substrate) ln 0.026V ln 18 0.49V
N
q A 2.8 10
The depletion region charge density at VSB = 0 is found as follows:

QB 0 2qNA Si 2 F (substrate)

2 1.6 10 19 (2.8 1018 ) 11.7 8.85 10 14 2 0.49 9.53

10 7 C/cm2
The oxide-interface charge is:

Qox q Nox 1.6 10 19 C 4 1010 cm-2 6.4 10 9 C/cm2

The gate oxide capacitance per unit area is calculated using the dielectric constant of silicon dioxide and the
oxide thickness tox.

ox 3.97 8.85 10 14 F/cm

C 2.2 10 6 F/cm2
t
ox
ox 1.6 10 7 cm

Now, we can combine all components and calculate the threshold voltage.
 QB 0 Qox
VT 0 GC 2 F (substrate)

C ox Cox
1.04 ( 0.98) ( 0.53) (0.03) 0.44V
b. Determine the type (p-type or n-type) and amount of channel implant (N I/cm2) required to change the
threshold voltage to 0.6V
 SOLUTION :

p-type implanted needed in the amount of:

qN
V 0.6 VT0 0.6 0.44 1.04 I
C
ox
1.04 C 1.04 2.2 10 6

NI ox 1.43 1013 cm-2

q 1.6 10 19

3.2 Consider a diffusion area that has the dimensions 0.4 m 0.2 m and the abrupt junction depth is
20
32 nm . Its n-type impurity doping level is N D =2 10 cm-3 and the surrounding p-type substrate doping
20 -3
level is N A =2 10 cm . Determine the capacitance when the diffusion area is biased at 1.2V and
substrate is biased at 0V. In this problem, assume that there is no channel-stop implant.
SOLUTION :

si q NA ND 1
C j (V ) A

2 NA ND 0 V
20 20
kT ln N A N 0.026 ln 2 10 2 1010 2 1.21
D
0 q n2 (1.45 10 )
i

A 0.2 0.4 2 0.2 0.032 2 0.4 0.032 1.18 10 9 [ cm2 ]

11.7 8.854 1014 1.6 10 19

4 10 40
1
C j (V ) 1.18 10 9 20
2 4 10 1.21 1.2
2.18 10 15[F]

3.3 Describe the relationship between the mask channel length, LM, and the electrical channel length, L. Are
they identical? If not, how would you express L in terms of LM and other parameters?

SOLUTION :

The electrical channel length is related to the mask channel length by:
L LM 2LD
Where LD is the lateral diffusion length.
3.4 How is the device junction temperature affected by the power dissipation of the chip and its package? Can
you describe the relationship between the device junction temperature, ambient temperature, chip power
dissipation and the packaging quality?

SOLUTION :

The device junction temperature at operating condition is given as T j Ta Pdiss , where Ta is the ambient
temperature; Pdiss is the power dissipated in the chip; is the thermal resistance of the packaging.
A cheap package will have high which will result in large and possibly damaging junction temperature.
Thus the choice of packaging must be such that it is both economic and pretective of the device.

3.5 Describe the three components of the load capacitance Cload , where a logic gate is driving other fanout
gates.

SOLUTION :

The three major components of the load capacitance are interconnect capacitance, the next stage input
capacitance, i.e., the gate capacitance and the drain parasitic capacitances of the current stage.

3.6 Consider a layout of an nMOS transistor shown in Fig. P3.6.

The process parameters are:
ND 2 10 20 cm 3
NA 2 10 20 cm 3
X j 32nm
LD 10nm
tox 1.6nm
VT 0 0.53V
Channel stop doping 16.0 ( p type substrate doping)

Find the effective drain parasitic capacitance when the drain node voltage changes from 1.2V to 0.6V.
 Y=6μm

GND Output
Wn =10μm

n+ n+

Figure P3.6

SOLUTION :

kT NA N D
2 1020 2 1020
0 ln 2 0.026 ln 10 2 1.21

q ni (1.45 10 )
kT N' N 16 2 1020 21020
D
osw ln A
2 0.026 ln 10 2 2.31

q ni (1.45 10 )

si q NA ND 1
Cj0
NN
2 A D 0

11.7 8.854 10 14 1.6 10 19 1020 2.61 10 6 [F/cm 2 ] 2

1.21
N
C si q A' ND 1
josw
'

N
2 NA D
osw

11.7 8.854 10 14 1.6 10 19 1.88 1020 2.59 10 6 [F/cm 2 ] 2

2.31
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when his ambition has obtained the most complete triumph, should leave
the House which procured him that power, and which alone could ensure
its maintenance, to retire into that Hospital for Incurables, the House of
Lords.”
It is not my intention here to estimate the political career of Lord
Chesterfield. Nevertheless, if I hazarded a judgment upon it as a whole, I
should say that his ambition was never wholly satisfied, and that the
brilliant distinctions with which his public life was filled, covered, at
bottom, many lost desires and the decay of many hopes. Twice, in the
two decisive circumstances of his political life, he failed. Young, and in
the first heat of ambition, he took an early opportunity of staking his
odds on the side of the heir presumptive to the throne, who became
George the Second. He was one of those who, at the accession of that
prince, counted most surely upon his favor, and upon enjoying a share of
power. But this clever man, wishing to turn himself to the rising sun,
knew not how to accomplish it with perfect justice; he had paid court to
the prince’s mistress, believing in her destined influence, and he had
neglected the legitimate wife, the future queen, who alone had the real
power. Queen Caroline never pardoned him, and this was the first check
in the political fortune of Lord Chesterfield, then thirty-three years old,
and in the full flush of hope. He was in too great a hurry and took the
wrong road. Robert Walpole, less active, and with less apparent skill,
took his measures and made his calculations better.
Thrown with éclat into the opposition, especially from 1732, the time
when he had to cease his court duties, Lord Chesterfield worked with all
his might for ten years for the downfall of Walpole, which did not take
place until 1742. But even then he inherited none of his power, and he
remained out of the new ministries. When two years afterward, in 1744,
he became one of the administration, first as ambassador to The Hague
and Viceroy of Ireland, then as Secretary of State and member of the
Cabinet (1746-1748), the honor was more nominal than real. In a word,
Lord Chesterfield, at all times a noted politician in his own country,
whether as one of the chiefs of the opposition, or as a clever diplomatist,
was never a powerful, or even a very influential, minister.
In politics he certainly possessed that far-sightedness and those
glimpses into the future which belong to very wide intelligence, but he
possessed those qualities to a much greater degree than the patient
perseverance and constant practical firmness that are so necessary to the
members of a government. It may truly be said of him, as of
Rochefoucauld, that politics served to make an accomplished moralist of
the imperfect man of action.
In 1744, when he was only fifty years of age, his political ambition,
seemed, in part, to have died out, and the indifferent state of his health
led him to choose a private life. And then the object of his secret ideal
and his real ambition we know now. Before his marriage he had, about
the year 1732, by a French lady (Madame de Bouchet) whom he met in
Holland, a natural son to whom he was tenderly attached. He wrote to
this son, in all sincerity: “From the first day of your life, the dearest
object of mine has been to make you as perfect as the weakness of
human nature will allow.” Toward the education of this son all his
wishes, all his affectionate and worldly predilections tended. And
whether Viceroy of Ireland or Secretary of State in London, he found
time to write long letters full of minute details to him, to instruct him in
small matters and to perfect him in mind and manner.
The Chesterfield, then, that we love especially to study is the man of
wit and experience, who knew all the affairs and passed through all
phases of political and public life only to find out its smallest resources,
and to tell us the last mot; he who from his youth was the friend of Pope
and Bolingbroke, the introducer into England of Montesquieu and
Voltaire, the correspondent of Fontenelle and Madame de Teucin, he
whom the Academy of Inscriptions placed among its members, who
united the wit of the two nations, and who, in more than one intellectual
essay, but particularly in his letters to his son, shows himself to us as a
moralist as amiable as he is consummate, and one of the masters of life.
It is the Rochefoucauld of England of whom we speak. Montesquieu,
after the publication of L’Esprit des Lois, wrote to the Abbé de Guasco,
who was then in England: “Tell my Lord Chesterfield that nothing is so
flattering to me as his approbation; but that, though he is reading my
work for the third time, he will only be in a better position to point out to
me what wants correcting and rectifying in it; nothing could be more
instructive to me than his observations and his critique.” It was
Chesterfield who, speaking to Montesquieu one day of the readiness of
the French for revolutions, and their impatience at slow reforms, spoke
this sentence, which is a résumé of our whole history: “You French know
how to make barricades, but you never raise barriers.”
Lord Chesterfield certainly appreciated Voltaire; he remarked, à
propos of the Siècle de Louis XIV.: “Lord Bolingbroke had taught me
how to read history; Voltaire teaches me how it should be written.” But,
at the same time, with that practical sense which rarely abandons men of
wit on the other side of the Straits, he felt the imprudences of Voltaire,
and disapproved of them. When he was old, and living in retirement, he
wrote to a French lady on the subject thus:
“Your good authors are my principal resource: Voltaire especially
charms me, with the exception of his impiety, with which he cannot help
seasoning all that he writes, and which he would do better carefully to
suppress, for one ought not to disturb established order. Let every one
think as he will, or rather as he can, but let him not communicate his
ideas if they are of a nature to trouble the peace of society.”
What he said then, in 1768, Chesterfield had already said more than
twenty years previously, writing to the younger Crebillon, a singular
correspondent and a singular confidant in point of morality. Voltaire was
under consideration, on account of his tragedy of Mahomet, and the
daring ideas it contains:
“What I do not pardon him for, and that which is not deserving of
pardon in him,” wrote Chesterfield to Crebillon, “is his desire to
propagate a doctrine as pernicious to domestic society as contrary to the
common religion of all countries. I strongly doubt whether it is
permissible for a man to write against the worship and belief of his
country, even if he be fully persuaded of its error, on account of the
trouble and disorder it might cause; but I am sure that it is in no wise
allowable to attack the foundations of true morality, and to break
necessary bonds which are already too weak to keep men in the path of
duty.”
Chesterfield, in speaking thus, was not mistaken as to the great
inconsistency of Voltaire. His inconsistency, in a few words, was this:
Voltaire, who looked upon men as fools or children, and who could never
laugh at them enough, at the same time put loaded firearms into their
hands, without troubling himself as to the use they would put them to.
Lord Chesterfield himself, in the eyes of the Puritans of his country,
has been accused, I should state here, of a breach of morality in the
letters addressed to his son. The strict Johnson, who was not impartial on
the subject, and who thought he had cause to complain against
Chesterfield, said, when the letters were published, that “they taught the
morals of a courtesan, and the manners of a dancing master.”
 Such a judgment is supremely unjust, and if Chesterfield, in
particular instances, insists upon graces of manner at any price, it is
because he has already provided for the more solid parts of education,
and because his pupil is not in the least danger of sinning on the side
which makes man respectable, but rather on that which renders him
agreeable. Although more than one passage in these letters may seem
very strange, coming from a father to a son, the whole is animated with a
true spirit of tenderness and wisdom. If Horace had had a son, I imagine
he would not have written to him very differently.
The letters begin with the A B C of education and instruction.
Chesterfield teaches his son in French the rudiments of mythology and
history. I do not regret the publication of these first letters. He lets slip
some very excellent advice in those early pages. The little Stanhope is no
more than eight years old when his father suits a little rhetoric to his
juvenile understanding, and tries to show him how to use good language,
and to express himself well. He especially recommends to him attention
in all that he does, and he gives the word its full value. “It is attention
alone,” he says, “which fixes objects in the memory. There is no surer
mark of a mean and meagre intellect in the world than inattention. All
that is worth the trouble of doing at all deserves to be done well, and
nothing can be well done without attention.” This precept he incessantly
repeats, and varies the application of it as his pupil grows, and is in a
condition to comprehend it to its fullest extent. Whether pleasure or
study, everything one does must be done well, done entirely and at its
proper time, without allowing any distraction to intervene. “When you
read Horace pay attention to the accuracy of his thoughts, to the elegance
of his diction, and to the beauty of his poetry, and do not think of the ‘De
Homine et Cive’ of Puffendorf; and when you read Puffendorf do not
think of Madame de St. Germain; nor of Puffendorf when you speak of
Madame de St. Germain.” But this strong and easy subjugation of the
order of thought to the will only belongs to great or very good intellects.
M. Royer-Collard used to say that “what was most wanting in our day
was respect in the moral disposition, and attention in the intellectual.”
Lord Chesterfield, in a less grave manner, might have said the same
thing. He was not long in finding out what was wanting in this child
whom he wished to bring up; whose bringing up was, indeed, the end
and aim of his life. “On sounding your character to its very depths,” he
said to him, “I have not, thank God, discovered any vice of heart or
weakness of head so far; but I have discovered idleness, inattention, and
indifference, defects which are only pardonable in the aged, who, in the
decline of life, when health and spirits give way, have a sort of right to
that kind of tranquillity. But a young man ought to be ambitious to shine
and excel.” And it is precisely this sacred fire, this lightning, that makes
the Achilles, the Alexanders, and the Cæsars to be the first in every
undertaking, this motto of noble hearts and of eminent men of all kinds,
that nature had primarily neglected to place in the honest but thoroughly
mediocre soul of the younger Stanhope: “You appear to want,” said his
father, “that vivida vis animi which excites the majority of young men to
please, to strive, and to outdo others.” “When I was your age,” he again
says, “I should have been ashamed for another to know his lesson better,
or to have been before me in a game, and I should have had no rest till I
had regained the advantage.” All this little course of education by letters
offers a sort of continuous dramatic interest; we follow the efforts of a
fine distinguished, energetic nature as Lord Chesterfield’s was, engaged
in a contest with a disposition honest but indolent, with an easy and
dilatory temperament, from which it would, at any expense, form a
masterpiece accomplished, amiable and original, and with which it only
succeeded in making a sort of estimable copy. What sustains and almost
touches the reader in this strife, where so much art is used, and where the
inevitable counsel is the same beneath all metamorphoses, is the true
fatherly affection which animates and inspires the delicate and excellent
master, as patient as he is full of vigor, lavish in resources and skill,
never discouraged, untiring in sowing elegances and graces on this
infantile soil. Not that this son, the object of so much culture and zeal,
was in any way unworthy of his father. It has been pretended that there
could be no one duller or more sullen than he was, and Johnson is quoted
in support of the statement. There are caricatures which surpass the truth.
It appears from the best authorities, that Mr. Stanhope, without being a
model of grace, had the air of a man who had been well brought up, and
was polite and agreeable. But do you not think that that is the most
grievous part of all? It would have been better worth while, almost, to
have totally failed, and to have only succeeded in making an original in
the inverse sense, rather than with so much care and expense to have
produced nothing more than an ordinary and insignificant man of the
world, one of those about whom it suffices to say, there is nothing to be
said of them; he had cause to be truly grieved and pity himself for his
work if he were not a father.
 Lord Chesterfield had early thought of France to polish his son, and
to give him that courtesy which cannot be acquired late in life. In private
letters written to a lady at Paris, whom I believe to be Madame de
Monconseil,14 we see that he had thought of sending him to France from
his childhood.
“I have a boy,” he wrote to this friend, “who is now thirteen years
old; I freely confess to you that he is not legitimate; but his mother was
well born and was kinder to me than I deserved. As to the boy, perhaps it
is partiality, but I think him amiable; he has a pretty face; he has much
sprightliness, and I think intelligence, for his age. He speaks French
perfectly; he knows a good deal of Latin and Greek, and he has ancient
and modern history at his fingers’ ends. He is at school at present, but as
they never dream of forming the manners of young people, and they are
almost all foolish, awkward, and unpolished, in short such as you see
them when they come to Paris at the age of twenty or twenty-one, I do
not wish my boy to remain here to acquire such bad habits; for this
reason, when he is fourteen I think of sending him to Paris. As I love the
child dearly, and have set myself to make something good of him, as I
believe he has the stuff in him, my idea is to unite in him what has never
been found in one person before—I mean the best qualities of the two
nations.”
And he enters into the details of his plan, and the means he thinks of
using: a learned Englishman every morning, a French teacher after
dinner, but above all the help of the fashionable world and good society.
The war which broke out between France and England postponed this
plan, and the young man did not make his début in Paris until 1751,
when he was nineteen years old, and had finished his tour through
Switzerland, Germany, and Italy.
Everything has been arranged by the most attentive of fathers for his
success and well-being upon this novel scene. The young man is placed
at the Academy with M. de la Guérinière; the morning he devotes to
study, and the rest of the time is to be consecrated to the world. “Pleasure
is now the last branch of your education,” this indulgent father writes; “it
will soften and polish your manners; it will incite you to seek and finally
to acquire graces.” Upon this last point he is exacting, and shows no
quarter. Graces, he returns continually to them, for without them all
effort is vain. “If they are not natural to you, cultivate them,” he cries. He
indeed speaks confidently; as if to cultivate graces, it is not necessary to
have them already!
 Three ladies, friends of his father, are especially charged to watch
over and guide the young man at his début; they are his governantes:
Madame de Monconseil, Lady Hervey, and Madame de Bocage. But
these introducers appear essential for the first time only; the young man
must afterward depend upon himself, and choose some charming and
more familiar guide. Upon this delicate subject of women, Lord
Chesterfield breaks the ice: “I shall not talk to you on this subject like a
theologian, or a moralist, or a father,” he says; “I set aside my age, and
only take yours into consideration. I wish to speak to you as one man of
pleasure would to another if he has taste and spirit.” And he expresses
himself in consequence, stimulating the young man as much as possible
toward polite arrangements and delicate pleasures, to draw him from
common and coarse habits. His principle is that “a polite arrangement
becomes a gallant man.” All his morality on this point is summed up in a
line of Voltaire:
“Il n’est jamais de mal en bonne compagnie.”
It is at these sentences more especially that the modesty of the grave
Johnson is put to the blush; ours is content to smile at them.
The serious and the frivolous are perpetually mingling in these
letters. Marcel, the dancing master, is very often recommended,
Montesquieu no less. The Abbé de Guasco, a sort of toady to
Montesquieu, is a useful personage for introductions. “Between you and
me,” writes Chesterfield, “he has more knowledge than genius; but a
clever man knows how to make use of everything, and every man is good
for something. As to the Président of Montesquieu, he is in all respects a
precious acquaintance: He has genius, with the most extensive reading in
the world. Drink of his fountain as much as possible.”
Of authors, those whom Chesterfield particularly recommends at this
time, and those whose names occur most frequently in his counsels, are
La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyère. “If you read some of La
Rochefoucauld’s maxims in the morning, consider them, examine them
well, and compare them with the originals you meet in the evening. Read
La Bruyère in the morning, and see in the evening if his portraits are
correct.” But these guides, excellent as they are, have no other use by
themselves than that of a map. Without personal observation and
experience, they would be useless, and would even be conducive to
error, as a map might be if one thought to get from it a complete
knowledge of towns and provinces. Better read one man than ten books.
“The world is a country that no one has ever known by means of
descriptions; each of us must traverse it in person to be thoroughly
initiated into its ways.”
Here are some precepts or remarks which are worthy of those
masters of human morality:
“The most essential of all knowledge, I mean the knowledge of the
world, is never acquired without great attention, and I know a great many
aged persons who, after having had an extensive acquaintance, are still
mere children in the knowledge of the world.”
“Human nature is the same all over the world; but its operations are
so varied by education and custom that we ought to see it in all its
aspects to get an intimate knowledge of it.”
“Almost all men are born with every passion to some extent, but
there is hardly a man who has not a dominant passion to which the others
are subordinate. Discover this governing passion in every individual;
search into the recesses of his heart, and observe the different effects of
the same passion in different people. And when you have found the
master passion of a man, remember never to trust to him where that
passion is concerned.”
“If you wish particularly to gain the good graces and affection of
certain people, men or women, try to discover their most striking merit,
if they have one, and their dominant weakness, for every one has his
own, then do justice to the one, and a little more than justice to the
other.”
“Women, in general, have only one object, which is their beauty,
upon which subject hardly any flattery can be too gross to please them.”
“The flattery which is most pleasing to really beautiful or decidedly
ugly women, is that which is addressed to their intellect.”
On the subject of women, again, if he seems disdainful now and then,
he makes reparation elsewhere; and, above all, whatever he thinks of
them, he never allows his son to slander them too much. “You appear to
think that from the days of Eve to the present time they have done much
harm: as regards that lady I agree with you; but from her time history
teaches you that men have done more harm in the world than women;
and to speak truly, I would warn you not to trust either sex more than is
absolutely necessary. But what I particularly advise you is this: never to
attack whole bodies, whatever they may be.”
“Individuals occasionally forgive, but bodies and societies never do.”
In general, Chesterfield counsels his son to be circumspect and to
preserve a sort of prudent neutrality, even in the case of the knaves and
fools with which the world abounds. “After their friendship there is
nothing more dangerous than to have them for enemies.” It is not the
morality of Cato nor of Zeno, but that of Alcibiades, of Aristippus, or
Atticus.
Upon religion he shall speak, in reply to some trenchant opinion that
his son had expressed: “The reason of every man is and ought to be his
guide; and I shall have as much right to expect every man to be of my
height and temperament, as to wish that he should reason precisely as I
do.”
In everything he is of the opinion that the good and the best should
be known and loved, but that it is not necessary to make one’s self a
champion for or against everything. One must know even in literature
how to tolerate the weaknesses of others: “Let them enjoy quietly their
errors both in taste and religion.” Oh! how far from such wisdom is the
bitter trade of criticism, as we do it!
He does not, however, advise lying; he is precise in this particular.
His precept always runs thus: do not tell all, but never tell a lie. “I have
always observed,” he frequently repeats, “that the greatest fools are the
greatest liars. For my part, I judge of the truth of a man by the extent of
his intellect.”
We see how really he mixes the useful and the agreeable. He is
perpetually demanding from the intellect something resolute and subtle,
sweetness in the manner, energy at bottom.
Lord Chesterfield thoroughly appreciated the serious state of France
and the dread events that the eighteenth century brought to light.
According to him, Duclos, in his Reflections, is right when he says that
“a germ of reason is beginning to appear in France.” “What I can
confidently predict,” adds Chesterfield, “is that before the end of this
century the trades of king and priest will have lost half their power.”
Our revolution has been clearly predicted by him since 1750.
 He warned his son from the beginning against the idea that the
French are entirely frivolous. “The cold inhabitants of the north look
upon the French as a frivolous people who sing and whistle and dance
perpetually; this is very far from being the truth, though the army of fops
seems to justify it. But these fops, ripened by age and experience, often
turn into very able men.” The ideal, according to him, would be to unite
the merits of the two nations; but in this mixture he still seems to lean
toward France: “I have said many times, and I really think, that a
Frenchman who joins to a good foundation of virtue, learning, and good
sense, the manners and politeness of his country, has attained the
perfection of human nature.” He unites sufficiently well in himself the
advantages of the two nations, with one characteristic which belongs
exclusively to his race—there is imagination even in his wit. Hamilton
himself has this distinctive characteristic, and introduces it into French
wit. Bacon, the great moralist, is almost a poet by expression. One
cannot say so much of Lord Chesterfield; nevertheless, he has more
imagination in his sallies and in the expression of his wit than one meets
with in Saint Evremond and our acute moralists in general. He resembles
his friend Montesquieu in this respect.
If in the letters to his son we can, without being severe, lay hold of
some cases of slightly damaged morality, we should have to point out, by
way of compensation, some very serious and really admirable passages,
where he speaks of the Cardinal de Retz, of Mazarin, of Bolingbroke, of
Marlborough, and of many others. It is a rich book. One cannot read a
page without finding some happy observation worthy of being
remembered.
Lord Chesterfield intended this beloved son for a diplomatic life; he
at first found some difficulties in the way on account of his illegitimacy.
To cut short these objections, he sent his son to Parliament; it was the
surest method of conquering the scruples of the court. Mr. Stanhope, in
his maiden speech, hesitated a moment, and was obliged to have
recourse to notes. He did not make a second attempt at speaking in
public. It appears that he succeeded better in diplomacy, in those second-
rate places where solid merit is sufficient. He filled the post of
ambassador extraordinary to the court of Dresden. But his health, always
delicate, failed before he was old, and his father had the misfortune to
see him die before him when he was scarcely thirty-six years old (1768).
Lord Chesterfield at that time lived entirely retired from the world, on
account of his infirmities, the most painful of which was complete
deafness. Montesquieu, whose sight failed, said to him once, “I know
how to be blind.” But he was not able to say as much; he did not know
how to be deaf. He wrote of it to his friends, even to those in France,
thus: “The exchange of letters,” he remarked, “is the conversation of
deaf people, and the only link which connects them with society.” He
found his latest consolations in his pretty country-house at Blackheath,
which he had called by the French name of Babiole. He employed his
time there in gardening and cultivating his melons and pineapples; he
amused himself by vegetating in company with them.
“I have vegetated here all this year,” he wrote to a French friend
(September, 1753), “without pleasures and without troubles; my age and
deafness prevented the first; my philosophy, or rather my temperament
(for one often confounds them), guaranteed me against the last. I always
get as much as I can of the quiet pleasures of gardening, walking, and
reading, and in the meantime I await death without desiring or fearing
it.”
He never undertook long works, not feeling himself sufficiently
strong, but he sometimes sent agreeable essays to a periodical
publication, The World. These essays are quite worthy of his reputation
for skill and urbanity. Nevertheless, nothing approaches the work—
which was no work to him—of those letters, which he never imagined
any one would read, and which are yet the foundation of his literary
success.
His old age, which was an early one, lasted a long time. His wit gave
a hundred turns to this sad theme. Speaking of himself and one of his
friends, Lord Tyrawley, equally old and infirm: “Tyrawley and I,” he
said, “have been dead two years, but we do not wish it to be known.”
Voltaire, who under the pretence of being always dying, had
preserved his youth much better, wrote to him on the 24th of October,
1771, this pretty letter, signed “Le vieux malade de Ferney”:
“Enjoy an honorable and happy old age, after having passed through
the trials of life. Enjoy your wit and preserve the health of your body. Of
the five senses with which we are provided, you have only one
enfeebled, and Lord Huntingdon assures me that you have a good
stomach, which is worth a pair of ears. It will be perhaps my place to
decide which is the most sorrowful, to be deaf or blind, or have no
digestion. I can judge of all these three conditions with a knowledge of
the cause; but it is a long time since I ventured to decide upon trifles,
least of all upon things so important. I confine myself to the belief that, if
you have sun in the beautiful house that you have built, you will spend
some tolerable moments; that is all we can hope for at our age. Cicero
wrote a beautiful treatise upon old age, but he did not verify his words by
deeds; his last years were very unhappy. You have lived longer and more
happily than he did. You have had to do neither with perpetual dictators
nor with triumvirs. Your lot has been, and still is, one of the most
desirable in that great lottery where good tickets are so scarce, and where
the Great Prize of continual happiness has never been gained by any one.
Your philosophy has never been upset by chimeras which have
sometimes perplexed tolerably good brains. You have never been in any
sense a charlatan, nor the dupe of charlatans, and that I reckon as a rare
merit, which adds something to the shadow of happiness that we are
allowed to taste of in this short life.”
Lord Chesterfield died on the 24th of March, 1773. In pointing out
his charming course of worldly education, we have not thought it out of
place even in a Democracy,15 to take lessons of savoir vivre and
politeness, and to receive them from a man whose name is so closely
connected with those of Montesquieu and Voltaire, who, more than any
other of his countrymen in his own time, showed singular fondness for
our nation; who delighted, more than was right, perhaps, in our amiable
qualities; who appreciated our solid virtues, and of whom it might be
said, as his greatest praise, that he was a French wit, if he had not
introduced into the verve and vivacity of his sallies that inexplicable
something of imagination and color that bears the impress of his race.
 LORD CHESTERFIELD’S LETTERS,
SENTENCES, AND MAXIMS.

T H .—On me dit, Monsieur! que vous vous disposez

à voyager, et que vous débutez par la Hollande. De sorte j’ai crû de mon
devoir, de vous souhaiter un bon voyage, et des vents favorables. Vous
aurez la bonté, j’espère, de me faire part de votre arrivée à la Haye; et si
après cela, dans le cours de vos voyages, vous faites quelques remarques
curieuses, vous voudrez bien me les communiquer.
La Hollande, où vous allez, est de beaucoup la plus belle, et la plus
riche des Sept Provinces-Unies, qui, toutes ensemble, forment la
République. Les autres sont celles de Gueldres, Zélande, Frise, Utrecht,
Groningue, et Over-Yssel. Les Sept Provinces composent, ce qu’on
appelle les Etats Généraux des Provinces-Unies, et font une République
très-puissante, et très-considérable.16
Translation.—I am informed, sir, that you are about to travel, and
that you will start with Holland. Therefore I have thought it my duty to
wish you a pleasant journey and favorable winds. You will, I am sure, be
so good as to acquaint me with your arrival at The Hague; and afterward,
if in your travels you should observe anything curious, will you let me
know?
Holland, where you are going, is by far the finest and richest of the
seven united provinces, which together form the Republic. The other
provinces are Guelderland, Zealand, Friesland, Utrecht, Groningen, and
Overyssel; these seven provinces form what is called the States-General
of the United Provinces, etc.17

T D .—One of the most important points of life is

decency; which is to do what is proper, and where it is proper; for many
things are proper at one time, and in one place, that are extremely
improper in another; for example, it is very proper and decent that you
should play some part of the day; but you must feel that it would be very
improper and indecent if you were to fly your kite, or play at nine-pins
while you are with Mr. Maittaire.18 It is very proper and decent to dance
well; but then you must dance only at balls and places of entertainment;
for you would be reckoned a fool if you were to dance at church or at a
funeral. I hope, by these examples, you understand the meaning of the
word decency, which in French is bienséance; in Latin, decorum; and in
Greek, πρέπον. Cicero says of it, Sic hoc decorum quod elucet in vitâ,
movet approbationem earum quibuscum vivatur, ordine et constantiâ, et
moderatione dictorum omnium atque factorum: by which you see how
necessary decency is to gain the approbation of mankind. And, as I am
sure you desire to gain Mr. Maittaire’s approbation, without which you
will never have mine, I dare say you will mind and give attention to
whatever he says to you, and behave yourself seriously and decently
while you are with him; afterward play, run, and jump as much as ever
you please. [July 24, 1739.]

T A S .—You cannot but be convinced that a man

who speaks and writes with elegance and grace; who makes choice of
good words, and adorns and embellishes the subject upon which he
either speaks or writes, will persuade better, and succeed more easily in
obtaining what he wishes, than a man who does not explain himself
clearly; speaks his language ill; or makes use of low and vulgar
expressions; and who has neither grace nor elegance in anything that he
says. Now it is by rhetoric that the art of speaking eloquently is taught;
and, though I cannot think of grounding you in it as yet, I would wish,
however, to give you an idea of it suitable to your age.19
The first thing you should attend to is, to speak whatever language
you do speak, in its greatest purity, and according to the rules of
grammar; for we must never offend against grammar, nor make use of
words which are not really words. This is not all; for not to speak ill, is
not sufficient; we must speak well; and the best method of attaining to
that, is to read the best authors with attention; and to observe how people
of fashion speak, and those who express themselves best; for
shopkeepers, common people, footmen, and maid-servants all speak ill.
[Bath, Oct. 17, 1739.]

O .—The business of oratory is to persuade people; and you

easily feel that to please people is a great step toward persuading them.
You must, then, consequently, be sensible how advantageous it is for a
man, who speaks in public, whether it be in Parliament, in the pulpit, or
at the bar (that is, in the courts of law), to please his hearers so much as
to gain their attention: which he can never do without the help of oratory.
It is not enough to speak the language he speaks in its utmost purity, and
according to the rules of grammar; but he must speak it elegantly; that is,
he must choose the best and most expressive words, and put them in the
best order. He should likewise adorn what he says by proper metaphors,
similes, and other figures of rhetoric; and he should enliven it, if he can,
by quick and sprightly turns of wit. [November, 1739.]

T F I .—An ignorant man is insignificant and

contemptible; nobody cares for his company, and he can just be said to
live, and that is all. There is a very pretty French epigram upon the death
of such an ignorant, insignificant fellow, the sting of which is, that all
that can be said of him is, that he was once alive, and that he is now
dead. This is the epigram, which you may get by heart:

“Colas est mort de maladie,

Tu veux que j’en pleure le sort,
Que diable veux-tu que j’en dis?
Colas vivoit. Colas est mort.”

Take care not to deserve the name of Colas,20 which I shall certainly give
you, if you do not learn well. [No date.]
Philippus Chesterfield parvulo suo Philippo Stanhope, S. P. D.
P mihi fuit epistola tua, quam nuper accepi, eleganter enim
scripta erat, et polliceris te summam operam daturum, ut veras laudes
meritò adipisci possis. Sed ut planè dicam; valde suspicor te, in ea
scribenda, optimum et eruditissimum adjutorem habuisse; quo duce et
auspice, nec elegantia, nec doctrina, nec quicquid prorsus est dignum
sapiente bonoque, unquam tibi deesse poterit. Illum ergo ut quam
diligenter colas, te etiam atque etiam rogo; et quo magis eum omni
officio, amore, et obsequio persequeris, eo magis te me studiosum, et
observantem existimabo.21

AS V .—To use your ear a little to English verse, and to

make you attend to the sense, too, I have transposed the words of the
following lines; which I would have you put in their proper order, and
send me in your next:
 “Life consider cheat a when ’tis all I
Hope the fool’d deceit men yet with favor
Repay will to-morrow trust on think and
Falser former day to-morrow’s than the
Worse lies blest be shall when and we says it
Hope new some possess’d cuts off with we what.”

[This is curious, and truly no bad way of teaching a child the

structure of verse. The citation, a fine one, is from Dryden:

“When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat,

Yet fool’d with hope men favor the deceit.”

The reader may puzzle out the rest.]

V D .—If six hundred citizens of Athens gave in the

name of any one Athenian, written upon an oyster-shell (from whence it
is called ostracism), that man was banished Athens for ten years. On one
hand, it is certain, that a free people cannot be too careful or jealous of
their liberty; and it is certain, too, that the love and applause of mankind
will always attend a man of eminent and distinguished virtue; and,
consequently, they are more likely to give up their liberties to such-a-one
than to another of less merit. But then, on the other hand, it seems
extraordinary to discourage virtue upon any account; since it is only by
virtue that any society can flourish, and be considerable. There are many
more arguments, on each side of this question, which will naturally occur
to you; and when you have considered them well, I desire you will write
me your opinion, whether the ostracism was a right or a wrong thing, and
your reasons for being of that opinion. Let nobody help you, and give me
exactly your own sentiments and your own reasons, whatever they are.
[October, 1740.]

A .—Everybody has ambition of some kind or other, and is

vexed when that ambition is disappointed; the difference is, that the
ambition of silly people is a silly and mistaken ambition; and the
ambition of people of sense is a right and commendable one. For
instance, the ambition of a silly boy, of your age, would be to have fine
clothes, and money to throw away in idle follies; which, you plainly see,
would be no proofs of merit in him, but only of folly in his parents, in
dressing him out like a jackanapes, and giving him money to play the
fool with. Whereas a boy of good sense places his ambition in excelling
other boys of his own age, and even older, in virtue and knowledge. His
glory is in being known always to speak the truth, in showing good
nature and compassion, in learning quicker, and applying himself more
than other boys. These are real proofs of merit in him, and consequently
proper objects of ambition; and will acquire him a solid reputation and
character. This holds true in men as well as in boys; the ambition of a
silly fellow will be to have a fine equipage, a fine house, and fine
clothes; things which anybody, that has as much money, may have as
well as he; for they are all to be bought; but the ambition of a man of
sense and honor is to be distinguished by a character and reputation of
knowledge, truth, and virtue—things which are not to be bought, and that
can only be acquired by a good head and a good heart. [Not dated.]

H .—It is certain that humanity is the particular

characteristic of a great mind; little, vicious minds are full of anger and
revenge, and are incapable of feeling the exalted pleasure of forgiving
their enemies, and of bestowing marks of favor and generosity upon
those of whom they have gotten the better. Adieu!22

N R .—A novel is a kind of abbreviation of a

romance; for a romance generally consists of twelve volumes, all filled
with insipid love nonsense, and most incredible adventures. The subject
of a romance is sometimes a story entirely fictitious, that is to say, quite
invented; at other times a true story, but generally so changed and altered
that one cannot know it. For example: in “Grand Cyrus,” “Clelia,” and
“Cleopatra,” three celebrated romances, there is some true history; but so
blended with falsities and silly love adventures, that they confuse and
corrupt the mind, instead of forming and instructing it. The greatest
heroes of antiquity are there represented in woods and forests, whining
insipid love tales to their inhuman fair one; who answers them in the
same style. In short, the reading of romances is a most frivolous
occupation, and time merely thrown away. [The little boy was then
reading the historical novel of “Don Carlos,” by the Abbé de St. Real.
(Not dated.)]
 V .—Virtue is a subject that deserves your and every man’s
attention; and suppose I were to bid you make some verses, or give me
your thoughts in prose, upon the subject of virtue, how would you go
about it? Why, you would first consider what virtue is, and then what are
the effects and marks of it, both with regard to others and one’s self. You
would find, then, that virtue consists in doing good, and in speaking
truth; and that the effects of it are advantageous to all mankind, and to
one’s self in particular. Virtue makes us pity and relieve the misfortunes
of mankind; it makes us promote justice and good order in society; and,
in general, contributes to whatever tends to the real good of mankind. To
ourselves it gives an inward comfort and satisfaction which nothing else
can do, and which nothing can rob us of. All other advantages depend
upon others, as much as upon ourselves. Riches, power, and greatness
may be taken away from us by the violence and injustice of others or
inevitable accidents, but virtue depends only on ourselves and nobody
can take it away. [Headed only Sunday.]

T R V .—If a virtuous man be ever so poor or

unfortunate in the world, still his virtue is his own reward and will
comfort him under his afflictions. The quiet and satisfaction of his
conscience make him cheerful by day and sleep sound of nights; he can
be alone with pleasure and is not afraid of his own thoughts. Besides
this, he is esteemed and respected; for even the most wicked people
themselves cannot help admiring and respecting virtue in others. A poet
says:

“Ipsa quidem virtus, sibimet pulcherrima merces.”23

P N .—Know, then, that as learning, honor, and

virtue are absolutely necessary to gain you the esteem and admiration of
mankind; politeness and good breeding are equally necessary, to make
you welcome and agreeable in conversation and common life. Great
talents, such as honor, virtue, learning, and parts, are above the
generality of the world; who neither possess them themselves, nor judge
of them rightly in others; but all people are judges of the lesser talents,
such as civility, affability, and an obliging, agreeable address and
manner; because they feel the good effects of them, as making society
easy and pleasing.
 G B G S .—Good sense must, in many
cases, determine good breeding; because the same thing that would be
civil at one time, and to one person, may be quite otherwise at another
time, and to another person; but there are some general rules of good
breeding, that hold always true, and in all cases. [About February, 1741.]

R C .—I dare say I need not tell you how rude it

is, to take the best place in a room, or to seize immediately upon what
you like at table, without offering first to help others; as if you consider
nobody but yourself. On the contrary, you should always endeavor to
procure all the conveniences you can to the people you are with. Besides
being civil, which is absolutely necessary, the perfection of good
breeding is, to be civil with ease, and in a gentlemanlike manner. For
this, you should observe the French people; who excel in it, and whose
politeness seems as easy and natural as any other part of their
conversation. Whereas the English are often awkward in their civilities,
and, when they mean to be civil, are too much ashamed to get it out.

M H .—Pray, do you remember never to be ashamed of

doing what is right; you would have a great deal of reason to be
ashamed, if you were not civil; but what reason can you have to be
ashamed of being civil? And why not say a civil and an obliging thing,
as easily and as naturally, as you would ask what o’clock it is? This kind
of bashfulness, which is justly called, by the French, mauvaise honte, is
the distinguishing character of an English booby; who is frightened out
of his wits when people of fashion speak to him; and when he is to
answer them, blushes, stammers, can hardly get out what he would say,
and becomes really ridiculous, from a groundless fear of being laughed
at; whereas a well bred man would speak to all the kings in the world
with as little concern and as much ease as he would speak to you.

Y E .—This is the last letter I shall write to you as

to a little boy; for, to-morrow, if I am not mistaken, you will attain your
ninth year; so that for the future I shall treat you as a youth. You must
now commence a different course of life, a different course of studies.
No more levity; childish toys and playthings must be thrown aside, and
your mind directed to serious objects. What was not unbecoming of a
child would be disgraceful to a youth. Wherefore, endeavor, with all
your might, to show a suitable change; and, by learning, good manners,
politeness, and other accomplishments, to surpass those youths of your
own age, whom hitherto you have surpassed when boys.24 May the
Almighty preserve you and bestow on you his choicest blessings.

T R .—The strictest and most scrupulous honor and virtue

can alone make you esteemed and valued by mankind; [remember] that
parts and learning can alone make you admired and celebrated by them;
but that the possession of lesser talents is most absolutely necessary,
toward making you liked, beloved, and sought after in private life. Of
these lesser talents, good breeding is the principal and most necessary
one, not only as it is very important itself; but as it adds great lustre to
the more solid advantages both of the heart and the mind.

M .—An easy manner and carriage must be wholly free from

those odd tricks, ill habits, and awkwardnesses, which even very worthy
and sensible people have in their behavior. [May, 1741.]

M —A —A —A .—However
trifling a genteel manner may sound, it is of very great consequence
towards pleasing in private life, especially the women; which (sic), one
time or other, you will think worth pleasing; and I have known many a
man, from his awkwardness, give people such a dislike of him at first,
that all his merit could not get the better of it afterwards. Whereas a
genteel manner prepossesses people in your favor, bends them towards
you and makes them wish to like you. Awkwardness can proceed but
from two causes: either from not having kept good company, or from not
having attended to it. As for your keeping good company, I will take care
of that; do you take care to observe their ways and manners, and to form
your own upon them. Attention is absolutely necessary for this, as,
indeed, it is for everything else; and a man without attention is not fit to
live in the world. When an awkward fellow first comes into a room it is
highly probable that his sword gets between his legs, and throws him
down, or makes him stumble at least; when he has recovered this
accident, he goes and places himself in the very place of the whole room
where he should not; there he soon lets his hat fall down, and, in taking it
up again, throws down his cane; in recovering his cane, his hat falls a
second time; so that he is a quarter of an hour before he is in order again.
If he drinks tea or coffee, he certainly scalds his mouth, and lets either
the cup or the saucer fall, and spills the tea or coffee in his breeches. At
dinner his awkwardness distinguishes itself particularly, as he has more
to do; there he holds his knife, fork, and spoon differently from other
people; eats with his knife to the great danger of his mouth, picks his
teeth with his fork, and puts his spoon, which has been in his throat
twenty times, into the dishes again. If he is to carve, he can never hit the
joint; but, in his vain efforts to cut through the bone, scatters the sauce in
everybody’s face. He generally daubs himself with soup and grease,
though his napkin is commonly stuck through a buttonhole, and tickles
his chin. When he drinks, he infallibly coughs in his glass and
besprinkles the company. Besides all this, he has strange tricks and
gestures; such as snuffing up his nose, making faces, putting his fingers
in his nose, or blowing it and looking afterward in his handkerchief, so
as to make the company sick. His hands are troublesome to him when he
has not something in them, and he does not know where to put them; but
they are in perpetual motion between his bosom and his breeches; he
does not wear his clothes, and, in short, does nothing like other people.
All this, I own, is not in any degree criminal; but it is highly disagreeable
and ridiculous in company, and ought most carefully to be avoided by
whoever desires to please.
From this account of what you should not do, you may easily judge
what you should do; and a due attention to the manners of people of
fashion, and who have seen the world, will make it habitual and familiar
to you.
There is, likewise, an awkwardness of expression and words, most
carefully to be avoided; such as false English, bad pronunciation, old
sayings, and common proverbs; which are so many proofs of having kept
bad and low company. For example: if, instead of saying that tastes are
different, and that every man has his own peculiar one, you should let off
a proverb, and say, “What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison”; or
else, “Every one as they like, as the good man said when he kissed his
cow”; everybody would be persuaded that you had never kept company
with anybody above footmen and housemaids.
Attention will do all this; and without attention nothing is to be done;
want of attention, which is really want of thought, is either folly or
madness. You should not only have attention to everything, but a
quickness of attention, so as to observe, at once, all the people in the
room; their motions, their looks, and their words; and yet without staring
at them, and seeming to be an observer. This quick and unobserved
observation is of infinite advantage in life, and is to be acquired with
care; and, on the contrary, what is called absence, which is a
thoughtlessness and want of attention about what is doing, makes a man
so like either a fool or a madman, that, for my part, I see no real
difference. A fool never has thought, a madman has lost it; and an absent
man is, for the time, without it.25 [Dated Spa, July 25, N. S. 1741.]

T P .—Laudari a viro laudato was always a commendable

ambition; encourage that ambition and continue to deserve the praises of
the praiseworthy. While you do so you shall have everything you will
from me; and when you cease to do so you shall have nothing.

A A M .—I have warned you against odd motions,

strange postures, and ungenteel carriage. But there is likewise an
awkwardness of the mind that ought to be, and with care may be,
avoided; as, for instance, to mistake or forget names; to speak of Mr.
What-d’ye-call-him, or Mrs. Thingum, or How-d’ye-call-her, is
excessively awkward and ordinary. To call people by improper titles and
appellations is so, too; as my Lord for sir; and sir for my Lord. To begin
a story or narration, when you are not perfect in it, and cannot go through
with it, but are forced, possibly, to say in the middle of it, “I have forgot
the rest,” is very unpleasant and bungling. One must be extremely exact,
clear, and perspicuous in everything one says, otherwise, instead of
entertaining or informing others, one only tires and puzzles them. The
voice and manner of speaking, too, are not to be neglected; some people
almost shut their mouths when they speak, and mutter so, that they are
not to be understood; others speak so fast and sputter so, that they are not
to be understood neither; some always speak as loud as if they were
talking to deaf people; and others so low that one cannot hear them. All
these habits are awkward and disagreeable; and are to be avoided by
attention; they are the distinguishing marks of the ordinary people, who
have had no care taken of their education. You cannot imagine how
necessary it is to mind all these little things; for I have seen many people
with great talents ill received, for want of having these talents, too; and
others well received only from their little talents, and who had no great
ones.
 O H W .—Demosthenes, the celebrated Greek
orator, thought it so absolutely necessary to speak well, that though he
naturally stuttered, and had weak lungs, he resolved, by application and
care, to get the better of those disadvantages. Accordingly, he cured his
stammering by putting small pebbles into his mouth; and strengthened
his lungs gradually, by using himself every day to speak aloud and
distinctly for a considerable time. He likewise went often to the seashore,
in stormy weather, when the sea made most noise, and there spoke as
loud as he could, in order to use himself to the noise and murmurs of the
popular assemblies of the Athenians, before whom he was to speak. By
such care, joined to the constant study of the best authors, he became at
last the greatest orator of his own or any other age or country, though he
was born without any one natural talent for it. Adieu! Copy
Demosthenes. [(?) August, 1741.]

K W .—I am sure you know that breaking of your word

is a folly, a dishonor, and a crime. It is a folly, because nobody will trust
you afterward; and it is both a dishonor and a crime, truth being the first
duty of religion and morality; and whoever has not truth cannot be
supposed to have any one good quality, and must become the detestation
of God and man. Therefore I expect, from your truth and your honor, that
you will do that, which independently of your promise, your own interest
and ambition ought to incline you to do; that is, to excel in everything
you undertake. When I was of your age, I should have been ashamed if
any boy of that age had learned his book better, or played at any play
better than I did; and I would not have rested a moment till I had got
before him. Julius Cæsar, who had a noble thirst of glory, used to say that
he would rather be the first in a village than the second in Rome; and he
even cried when he saw the statue of Alexander the Great, with the
reflection of how much more glory Alexander had acquired, at thirty
years old, than he at a much more advanced age. These are the
sentiments to make people considerable; and those who have them not
will pass their lives in obscurity and contempt; whereas those who
endeavor to excel all, are at least sure of excelling a great many. [June,
1742.]

G B .—Though I need not tell one of your age,26

experience, and knowledge of the world, how necessary good breeding
is, to recommend one to mankind; yet, as your various occupations of
Greek and cricket, Latin and pitch-farthing, may possibly divert your
attention from this object, I take the liberty of reminding you of it, and
desiring you to be very well bred at Lord Orrery’s. It is good breeding
alone that can prepossess people in your favor at first sight; more time
being necessary to discover greater talents. This good breeding, you
know, does not consist in low bows and formal ceremony; but in an easy,
civil, and respectful behavior. You will therefore take care to answer with
complaisance, when you are spoken to; to place yourself at the lower end
of the table, unless bid to go higher; to drink first to the lady of the
house, and next to the master; not to eat awkwardly or dirtily; not to sit
when others stand; and to do all this with an air of complaisance, and not
with a grave, sour look, as if you did it at all unwillingly. [No date, Letter
70.]

L W .—Let your letter be written as accurately as you are

able—I mean with regard to language, grammar, and stops; for as to the
matter of it the less trouble you give yourself the better it will be. Letters
should be easy and natural, and convey to the persons to whom we send
them, just what we should say to the persons if we were with them. [No
date, Letter 72.]

T R C .—To this oscitancy we owe so many

mistakes, hiatus’s (sic), lacunæ, etc., in ancient manuscripts. It may be
here necessary to explain to you the meaning of the oscitantes librarii;
which I believe you will easily take. These persons (before printing was
invented) transcribed the works of authors, sometimes for their own
profit, but oftener (as they were generally slaves) for the profit of their
masters. In the first case, dispatch, more than accuracy, was their object;
for the faster they wrote the more they got; in the latter case (observe
this), as it was a task imposed on them, which they did not dare to refuse,
they were idle, careless, and incorrect; not giving themselves the trouble
to read over what they had written. The celebrated Atticus kept a great
number of these transcribing slaves, and got great sums of money by
their labors. [November, 1745.]

G E .—I hope you will keep company with Horace and

Cicero among the Romans; and Homer and Xenophon among the
Greeks, and that you have got out of the worst company in the world, the
Greek epigrams. Martial has wit and is worth your looking into
sometimes, but I recommend the Greek epigrams to your supreme
contempt. Good-night to you. [Same date.]

D T .—Dancing is in itself a very trifling, silly thing;

but it is one of those established follies to which people of sense are
sometimes obliged to conform; and then they should be able to do it
well. And, though I would not have you a dancer, yet, when you do
dance, I would have you dance well, as I would have you do everything
you do, well. There is no one thing so trifling, but which (if it is to be
done at all) ought to be done well. And I have often told you that I
wished you even played at pitch and cricket better than any boy at
Westminster. For instance: dress is a very foolish thing; and yet it is a
very foolish thing for a man not to be well dressed, according to his rank
and way of life; and it is so far from being a disparagement to any man’s
understanding, that it is rather a proof of it, to be as well dressed as those
whom he lives with. The difference in this case between a man of sense
and a fop is, that the fop values himself upon his dress; and the man of
sense laughs at it, at the same time that he knows he must not neglect it.
There are a thousand foolish customs of this kind, which not being
criminal must be complied with, and even cheerfully, by men of sense.
Diogenes the cynic was a wise man for despising them, but a fool for
showing it. Be wiser than other people if you can, but do not tell them so.
[Dublin Castle, Nov. 19, 1745.27]

T P .—Whenever you would persuade or prevail, address

yourself to the passions; it is by them that mankind is to be taken. Cæsar
bade his soldiers, at the battle of Pharsalia, aim at the faces of Pompey’s
men; they did so, and prevailed. I bid you strike at the passions; and if
you do, you, too, will prevail. If you can once engage people’s pride,
love, pity, ambition (or whichever is their prevailing passion) on your
side, you need not fear what their reason can do against you. [Same
date.]
M D B :—
“Sunt quibus in Satirâ videar nimis acer.”
I find, sir, you are one of those; though I cannot imagine why you think
so, unless something that I have said, very innocently, has happened to
be very applicable to somebody or other of your acquaintance. He makes
the satire, who applies it, qui capit ille facit. I hope you do not think I
meant you, by anything I have said; because, if you do, it seems to imply
a consciousness of some guilt, which I dare not presume to suppose, in
your case. I know my duty too well, to express, and your merit too well
to entertain, such a suspicion. I have not lately read the satirical authors
you mention, having very little time here to read. [Dublin, February,
1746.]

I .—There is no surer sign in the world of a little, weak

mind, than inattention. Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing
well; and nothing can be done well without attention. It is the sure
answer of a fool, when you ask him about anything that was said or done
where he was present, that “truly he did not mind it.” And why did not
the fool mind it? What had he else to do there, but to mind what was
doing? A man of sense sees, hears, and retains everything that passes
where he is. I desire I may never hear you talk of not minding, nor
complain, as most fools do, of a treacherous memory. Mind, not only
what people say, but how they say it; and, if you have any sagacity, you
may discover more truth by your eyes than by your ears. People can say
what they will, but they cannot look what they will, and their looks
frequently discover what their words are calculated to conceal. The most
material knowledge of all—I mean the knowledge of the world—is not
to be acquired without great attention. [Feb. 26, 1746.]

W —C M —J .—Before it is very long, I

am of opinion that you will both think and speak more favorably of
women than you do now. You seem to think, that, from Eve downward,
they have done a great deal of mischief. As for that lady, I give her up to
you; but, since her time, history will inform you that men have done
much more mischief in the world than women; and, to say the truth, I
would not advise you to trust either more than is absolutely necessary.
But this I will advise you to, which is, never to attack whole bodies of
any kind; for, besides that all general rules have their exceptions, you
unnecessarily make yourself a great number of enemies, by attacking a
corps collectively. Among women, as among men, there are good as well
as bad, and it may be full as many, or more, good than among men. This
rule holds as to lawyers, soldiers, parsons, courtiers, citizens, etc. They
are all men, subject to the same passions and sentiments, differing only
in the manner, according to their several educations; and it would be as
imprudent as unjust to attack any of them by the lump. Individuals
forgive sometimes; but bodies and societies never do. Many young
people think it very genteel and witty to abuse the clergy; in which they
are extremely mistaken; since, in my opinion, parsons are very like other
men, and neither the better nor the worse for wearing a black gown. All
general reflections, upon nations and societies, are the trite, threadbare
jokes of those who set up for wit without having any, and so have
recourse to commonplace. Judge of individuals from your own
knowledge of them, and not from their sex, profession, or denomination.
[April, 1746.]

H T .—I am very well pleased to find that you inform

yourself of the particulars of the several places you go through. You do
mighty right to see the curiosities in those several places; such as the
golden Bull at Frankfort, the tun at Heidelberg, etc. Other travellers see
them and talk of them; it is very proper to see them, too; but remember,
that seeing is the least material object of, travelling; hearing and knowing
are the essential points.28 [September, 1746. From Bath.]

F D .—As for the mauvaise honte, I hope you are above

it; your figure is like other people’s, I hope you will take care that your
dress is so, too. Why, then, should you be ashamed? Why not go into
mixed company with as little concern as you would into your own room?
[Bath, September.]

T W B M .—Feels himself firm and easy in all

companies; is modest without being bashful, and steady without being
impudent; if he is a stranger, he observes, with care, the manners and
ways of the people the most esteemed at that place, and conforms to
them with complaisance. Instead of finding fault with the customs of that
place, and telling the people that the English ones are a thousand times
better (as my countrymen are very apt to do), he commends their table,
their dress, their houses, and their manners, a little more, it may be, than
he really thinks they deserve. But this degree of complaisance is neither
criminal nor abject; and is but a small price to pay for the good-will and
affection of the people you converse with. As the generality of people are
weak enough to be pleased with these little things, those who refuse to
please them, so cheaply, are, in my mind, weaker than they. [Same
month, O. S., 1746.]
“L’A P .”—There is a very pretty little French book
written by L’Abbé de Bellegarde, entitled “L’Art de Plaire dans la
Conversation”29; and, though I confess that it is impossible to reduce the
art of pleasing to a system, yet this principle I will lay down, that the
desire of pleasing is at least half the art of doing it; the rest depends only
upon the manner, which attention, observation, and frequenting good
company will teach. But if you are lazy, careless, and indifferent whether
you please or not, depend upon it you never will please. [Same date.]

C ’ I .—Do not think I mean to dictate as a

parent; I only mean to advise as a friend, and an indulgent one, too; and
do not apprehend that I mean to check your pleasures; of which, on the
contrary, I only desire to be the guide, not the censor. Let my experience
supply your want of it and clear your way in the progress of your youth
of those thorns and briers which scratched and disfigured me in the
course of mine. [Bath, Oct. 4, 1746.]

H S ’ U D .—I do not, therefore, so much as hint

to you how absolutely dependent you are on me—that you neither have
nor can have a shilling in the world but from me; and that as I have no
womanish weakness for your person, your merit must, and will, be the
only measure of my kindness—I say, I do not hint these things to you
because I am convinced that you will act right, upon more noble and
generous principles; I mean for the sake of doing right, and out of
affection and gratitude to me. [Same date.]

N S .—Mr. Pope says, very truly,

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing;

Drink deep, or taste not the Castalian spring.”
And what is called a smattering of everything infallibly constitutes a
coxcomb. I have often, of late, reflected what an unhappy man I must
now have been, if I had not acquired in my youth some fund and taste of
learning. What could I have done with myself, at this age, without them?
I must, as many ignorant people do, have destroyed my health and
faculties by setting away the evenings; or, by wasting them frivolously in
the tattle of women’s company, must have exposed myself to the ridicule
and contempt of those very women; or, lastly, I must have hanged
myself, as a man once did, for weariness of putting on and pulling off his
shoes and stockings every day. My books, and only my books, are now
left me, and I daily find what Cicero says of learning to be true: “Hæc
studia” (says he) “adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas
res ornant, adversis perfugium, ac solatium præbent, delectant domi, non
impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.”
[October, 1746.]

F T .—The conversation of the ignorant is no conversation,

and gives even them no pleasure; they tire of their own sterility, and have
not matter enough to furnish them with words to keep up a conversation.
[Same date.]

W K .—Do not imagine that the knowledge, which I

so much recommend to you, is confined to books, pleasing, useful, and
necessary as that knowledge is; but I comprehend in it the great
knowledge of the world, still more necessary than that of books. In truth,
they assist one another reciprocally; and no man will have either
perfectly, who has not both. The knowledge of the world is only to be
acquired in the world, and not in a closet. Books alone will never teach it
you; but they will suggest many things to your observation, which might
otherwise escape you; and your own observations upon mankind, when
compared with those which you will find in books, will help you to fix
the true point. [November, 1746.]

O F .—To know mankind well requires full as much attention

and application as to know books, and, it may be, more sagacity and
discernment. I am, at this time, acquainted with many elderly people,
who have all passed their whole lives in the great world, but with such
levity and inattention, that they know no more of it now than they did at
fifteen. [Same date.]

I .—You must look into people, as well as at them.

Almost all people are born with all the passions, to a certain degree; but
almost every man has a prevailing one, to which the others are
subordinate. Search every one for that ruling passion; pry into the
recesses of his heart, and observe the different workings of the same
passion in different people. And, when you have found out the prevailing
passion of any man, remember never to trust him, where that passion is
concerned. Work upon him by it, if you please; but be upon your guard
yourself against it, whatever professions he may make you. [Same date.]

Y S ’ C .—In the strict scrutiny which I have

made into you, I have (thank God) hitherto not discovered any vice of
the heart, or any peculiar weakness of the head: but I have discovered
laziness, inattention, and indifference; faults which are only pardonable
in old men, who, in the decline of life, when health and spirits fail, have
a kind of claim to that sort of tranquillity. But a young man should be
ambitious to shine, and excel; alert, active, and indefatigable in the
means of doing it; and, like Cæsar, “Nil actum reputans, si quid
superesset agendum.” You seem to want that “vivida vis animi,” which
spurs and excites most young men to please, to shine, to excel. Without
the desire and the pains necessary to be considerable, depend upon it,
you never can be so; as, without the desire and attention necessary to
please, you never can please. “Nullum numen abest, si sit prudentia,” is
unquestionably true, with regard to everything except poetry. [November,
1746.]

H D .—Take great care always to be dressed like the

reasonable people of your own age, in the place where you are; whose
dress is never spoken of one way or another, as either too negligent or
too much studied. [Same date.]

A P .—What is commonly called an absent man, is

commonly either a very weak or a very affected man; but be he which he
will, he is, I am sure, a very disagreeable man in company. He fails in all