What, I have often wondered, induced Lord Chesterfield to write this enormously long and troublesome series of letters to a son who was not even his heir?  Their sincerity cannot be called in question.  William Wilberforce did not more fervently desire the conversion to God of his infant Samuel than apparently did Lord Chesterfield the transformation of his lumpish offspring into ‘the all-accomplished man’ he wished to have him.

‘All this,’ so the father writes in tones of fervent pleading—­’all this you may compass if you please.  You have the means, you have the opportunities; employ them, for God’s sake, while you may, and make yourself the all-accomplished man I wish to have you.  It entirely depends upon the next two years; they are the decisive ones’ (Letter CLXXVII.).

It is the very language of an evangelical piety applied to the manufacture of a worldling.  But what promoted the anxiety?  Was it natural affection—­a father’s love?  If it was, never before or since has that world-wide and homely emotion been so concealed.  There is a detestable, a forbidding, an all-pervading harshness of tone throughout this correspondence that seems to banish affection, to murder love.  Read Letter CLXXVIII., and judge for yourselves.  I will quote a passage: 

’The more I love you now from the good opinion I have of you, the greater will be my indignation if I should have reason to change it.  Hitherto you have had every possible proof of my affection, because you have deserved it, but when you cease to deserve it you may expect every possible mark of my resentment.  To leave nothing doubtful upon this important point, I will tell you fairly beforehand by what rule I shall judge of your conduct:  by Mr. Harte’s account....  If he complains you must be guilty, and I shall not have the least regard for anything you may allege in your own defence.’

Ugh! what a father!  Lord Chesterfield despised the Gospels, and made little of St. Paul; yet the New Testament could have taught him something concerning the nature of a father’s love.  His language is repulsive, repugnant, and yet how few fathers have taken the trouble to write 400 educational letters of great length to their sons!  All one can say is that Chesterfield’s letters are without natural affection: 

’If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, and no man ever loved.’

If affection did not dictate these letters, what did?  Could it be ambition?  So astute a man as Chesterfield, who was kept well informed as to the impression made by his son, could hardly suppose it likely that the boy would make a name for himself, and thereby confer distinction upon the family of which he was an irregular offshoot.  A respectable diplomatic career, with an interval in the House of Commons, was the most that so clear-sighted a man could anticipate for the young Stanhope.  Was it literary fame for himself?  This, of course, assumes that subsequent publication