My children.—It has been my nature, from my
childhood, to speak and write for myself. There are
few men upon this earth, in whom it would not be presumption
to alter what I have written. And you, my
children, are not of their number. In you, it would
be wicked and foolish. It would lead to a perpetual
discussion, in your family, about the genuineness of the
whole, and, in time, destroy all your reverence for me.
No—let there be no interpolation. My blessing shall
not abide upon him that dares to add, alter, or leave
out, one jot or tittle of the whole. No—let it go down,
with your blood, the patent of your nobility, to the
elder son, forever and ever; and when you are able,
multiply the copies among all that are descended from
me, as the last legacy, of one, that it would be an honour
to
them, whatever they may become, to be the posterity
of.
My style may often offend you. I do not doubt
that it will. I hope that it will. It will be remembered
the better. It will be the style of a soldier, plain and
direct, where facts are to be narrated; of a man, roused
and inflamed, when the nature of man is outraged—
of a father—a husband—a lover and a child, as the
tale is of one, or of the other.
You have all had a better education than your father.
You have, most of you, a pleasant and graceful
way of expressing yourselves on paper—and there is
one among you—you know which I mean—the operations
of whose mind are as vivid and instantaneous,
and beautiful, as flashes of coloured light—but there is
not one among you—not one, that has yet learnt to
talk on paper. Learn that—learn it speedily—there is
no time to be lost.
Farewell, my children, farewell: till the next
mail. I shall expect you, a week, at least, before
Christmas.
