frivolous, idle people, whose time hangs upon their own hands, and who desire to make others lose theirs too, are not to be reasoned with:  and indeed it would be doing them too much honor.  The shortest civil answers are the best; I cannot, I dare not, instead of I will not; for if you were to enter with them into the necessity of study end the usefulness of knowledge, it would only furnish them with matter for silly jests; which, though I would not have you mind, I would not have you invite.  I will suppose you at Rome studying six hours uninterruptedly with Mr. Harte, every morning, and passing your evenings with the best company of Rome, observing their manners and forming your own; and I will suppose a number of idle, sauntering, illiterate English, as there commonly is there, living entirely with one another, supping, drinking, and sitting up late at each other’s lodgings; commonly in riots and scrapes when drunk, and never in good company when sober.  I will take one of these pretty fellows, and give you the dialogue between him and yourself; such as, I dare say, it will be on his side; and such as, I hope, it will be on yours:—­

Englishman.  Will you come and breakfast with me tomorrow? there will be four or five of our countrymen; we have provided chaises, and we will drive somewhere out of town after breakfast.

Stanhope.  I am very sorry I cannot; but I am obliged to be at home all morning.

Englishman.  Why, then, we will come and breakfast with you.

Stanhope.  I can’t do that neither; I am engaged.

Englishman.  Well, then, let it be the next day.

Stanhope.  To tell you the truth, it can be no day in the morning; for I neither go out, nor see anybody at home before twelve.

Englishman.  And what the devil do you do with yourself till twelve o’clock?

Stanhope.  I am not by myself; I am with Mr. Harte.

Englishman.  Then what the devil do you do with him?

Stanhope.  We study different things; we read, we converse.

Englishman.  Very pretty amusement indeed!  Are you to take orders then?

Stanhope.  Yes, my father’s orders, I believe I must take.

Englishman.  Why hast thou no more spirit, than to mind an old fellow a thousand miles off?

Stanhope.  If I don’t mind his orders he won’t mind my draughts.

Englishman.  What, does the old prig threaten then? threatened folks live long; never mind threats.

Stanhope.  No, I can’t say that he has ever threatened me in his life; but
I believe I had best not provoke him.

Englishman.  Pooh! you would have one angry letter from the old fellow, and there would be an end of it.

Stanhope.  You mistake him mightily; he always does more than he says.  He has never been angry with me yet, that I remember, in his life; but if I were to provoke him, I am sure he would never forgive me; he would be coolly immovable, and I might beg and pray, and write my heart out to no purpose.