LONDON,May 27,O.S.1753.
MY DEAR FRIEND:I have this day been tired,jaded,nay,tormented,by the company of a most worthy,sensible,and learned man,a near relation of mine,who dined and passed the evening with me.This seems a paradox,but is a plain truth;he has no knowledge of the world,no manners,no address;far from talking without book,as is commonly said of people who talk sillily,he only talks by book;which in general conversation is ten times worse.He has formed in his own closet from books,certain systems of everything,argues tenaciously upon those principles,and is both surprised and angry at whatever deviates from them.His theories are good,but,unfortunately,are all impracticable.Why?because he has only read and not conversed.He is acquainted with books,and an absolute stranger to men.Laboring with his matter,he is delivered of it with pangs;he hesitates,stops in his utterance,and always expresses himself inelegantly.His actions are all ungraceful;so that,with all his merit and knowledge,I would rather converse six hours with the most frivolous tittle-tattle woman who knew something of the world,than with him.The preposterous notions of a systematical man who does not know the world,tire the patience of a man who does.It would be endless to correct his mistakes,nor would he take it kindly:for he has considered everything deliberately,and is very sure that he is in the right.
