The sharp employ the sharp.

Hear, O seekers of discernment, the words of Douglas William Jerrold, the English wit and dramatist, who once observed: “The sharp employ the sharp.” These words, though brief, pierce like a dagger through the illusions of life. For Jerrold, with his keen eye for the nature of men, understood that the cunning often attract the cunning, that those who live by craft and guile are surrounded not by the innocent, but by others of their kind. The saying stands as both warning and wisdom: the shrewd draw to themselves shrewd companions, and the schemes of one sharpen the schemes of another.

What is meant by sharp? It is not sharpness of the sword, but of the mind—the edge of cunning, the blade of quick wit, the slyness of one who maneuvers with calculation. To be sharp is to be awake to opportunity, to see advantage where others see none, and to act swiftly before others have thought. But Jerrold reminds us that sharpness attracts sharpness, that the fox runs not alone in the forest but is joined by other foxes, each seeking its own prize. Thus, the world of the cunning is rarely solitary, but crowded with equals who guard their own interests.

And what does it mean to employ the sharp? It is to surround oneself with those who possess the same edge, the same hunger, the same cunning spirit. The shrewd merchant hires the shrewd accountant. The clever general employs officers of clever strategy. The politician who thrives on guile gathers advisors who wield subtlety like a weapon. Yet herein lies both strength and peril. For when the sharp employ the sharp, brilliance may emerge, but rivalry also grows. The blade that serves today may cut tomorrow.

History itself bears witness. Consider the court of Napoleon Bonaparte. A man of piercing intellect and boundless ambition, he surrounded himself with men of equal sharpness—strategists, diplomats, administrators of rare talent. Through their combined cunning, he forged an empire. Yet when his star waned, those same sharp minds abandoned him, for their loyalty was not to him but to their own survival. In his triumph, sharpness built him glory; in his decline, sharpness left him desolate. Thus, the sharp both build and betray.

Or look to the world of Florence under the Medici. The banking family, famed for both wealth and cunning, drew to themselves poets, artists, and statesmen of equal brilliance. They employed the sharp and were themselves employed by them, weaving a web of influence that shaped the Renaissance. Their sharpness produced splendor, but it also made Florence a city of intrigue, where daggers were drawn in the shadows, and alliances shifted like the wind. Again, the sharp attracted the sharp, and in that mingling, both creation and destruction were born.

The meaning of Jerrold’s phrase, then, is layered. It teaches that those who are cunning must expect cunning companions, and that in the company of the sharp, one must tread carefully. For sharpness breeds sharpness: the mind honed by guile finds its equal, the hand skilled in trickery finds its rival. It is a world where vigilance is required, for the very allies of today may become adversaries tomorrow.

The lesson for you, O listeners, is clear: seek not only to be sharp, but to be wise. For sharpness alone may win you allies, but they will be allies of convenience, not loyalty. If you surround yourself with cunning alone, expect to live in a world of constant rivalry. Better to temper sharpness with integrity, to blend wit with virtue, and to seek companions not only for their edge but for their trust.

Therefore, let your practice be this: sharpen your mind, yes, but also ground your heart. Walk among the sharp with open eyes, but do not let yourself become only blade and edge. For as Jerrold has warned, “The sharp employ the sharp”—and in such company, only those with wisdom beyond cunning will endure.