第三冊(cè)第5篇：切斯特菲爾德伯爵給他兒子的信—再談寫信
Isleworth, Sep. 19, 1739.
My Dear Child,-I am very well pleased with your last letter.The writing was very good, and the promise you make exceedingly fine.You must keep it, for an honest man never breaks his word. You engage to retain the instructions which I give you. That issufficient, for though you do not properly comprehend them at present, ageand reflection will, in time, make you understand them.
With respect to the contents of your letter, I believe youhave had proper assistance; indeed, I do not as yet expect that youcan write a letter without help. You ought, however, to try, fornothing is more requisite than to write a good letter. Nothing in fact ismore easy. Most persons, who write ill, do so because they aim at writingbetter than they can, by which means they acquire a formal and unnaturalstyle. Whereas, to write well, we must write easily andnaturally. For instance, if you want to write a letter to me, you should onlyconsider what you would say if you were with me, and then write it inplain terms, just as if you were conversing. I will suppose, then, thatyou sit down towrite to me unassisted, and I imagine your letter would probablybe much in these words:─
My dear Papa: I have been at Mr. Maittaire's this morning, where I have translated English into Latin and Latin intoEnglish, and, so well that at the end of my exercise he has write optime. Ihave likewise repeated a Greek verb, and pretty well. After this I ranhome, like a little wild boy, and played till dinner-time. This becamea serious task, for I ate like a wolf, and by that you judge that I am invery good health. Adieu.
Well, sir, the above is a good letter, and yet very easilywritten, because it is exceedingly natural. Endeavour then sometimes towrite to me of yourself, without minding either the beauty of thewriting or the straightness of the lines. Take as little trouble aspossible. By that means you will by degrees use yourself to write perfectly well,and with ease. Adieu. Come to me tomorrow at twelve, or Fridaymorning at eight o'clock.
by Philip Dormer Stanhope Chesterfield
