I long to see Lord and Lady-------(who are not yet arrived), because they
have lately seen you; and I always fancy, that I can fish out something
new concerning you, from those who have seen you last:  not that I shall
much rely upon their accounts, because I distrust the judgment of Lord
and Lady-------, in those matters about which I am most inquisitive.  They
have ruined their own son by what they called and thought loving him. 
They have made him believe that the world was made for him, not he for
the world; and unless he stays abroad a great while, and falls into very
good company, he will expect, what he will never find, the attentions and
complaisance from others, which he has hitherto been used to from Papa
and Mamma.  This, I fear, is too much the case of Mr.; who, I doubt, will
be run through the body, and be near dying, before he knows how to live. 
However you may turn out, you can never make me any of these reproaches. 
I indulged no silly, womanish fondness for you; instead of inflicting my
tenderness upon you, I have taken all possible methods to make you
deserve it; and thank God you do; at least, I know but one article, in
which you are different from what I could wish you; and you very well
know what that is I want:  That I and all the world should like you, as
well as I love you.  Adieu.

LETTER CLXV

London, April 30, O. S. 1752.

My dear friend:  ‘Avoir du monde’ is, in my opinion, a very just and happy expression for having address, manners, and for knowing how to behave properly in all companies; and it implies very truly that a man who hath not those accomplishments is not of the world.  Without them, the best parts are inefficient, civility is absurd, and freedom offensive.  A learned parson, rusting in his cell, at Oxford or Cambridge, will season admirably well upon the nature of man; will profoundly analyze the head, the heart, the reason, the will, the passions, the senses, the sentiments, and all those subdivisions of we know not what; and yet, unfortunately, he knows nothing of man, for he hath not lived with him; and is ignorant of all the various modes, habits, prejudices, and tastes, that always influence and often determine him.  He views man as he does colors in Sir Isaac Newton’s prism, where only the capital ones are seen; but an experienced dyer knows all their various shades and gradations, together with the result of their several mixtures.  Few men are of one plain, decided color; most are mixed, shaded, and blended; and vary as much, from different situations, as changeable silks do form different lights.  The man ‘qui a du monde’ knows all this from his own experience and observation:  the conceited, cloistered philosopher knows nothing of it from his own theory; his practice is absurd and improper, and he acts as awkwardly as a man would dance, who had never seen others dance, nor learned of a dancing-master; but who had only studied the notes