LONDON, May 16, O. S. 1751.
MY DEAR FRIEND: In about three months from this day, we shall probably
meet. I look upon that moment as a young woman does upon her bridal
night; I expect the greatest pleasure, and yet cannot help fearing some
little mixture of pain. My reason bids me doubt a little, of what my
imagination makes me expect. In some articles I am very sure that my most
sanguine wishes will not be disappointed; and those are the most material
ones. In others, I fear something or other, which I can better feel than
describe. However, I will attempt it. I fear the want of that amiable and
engaging ‘je ne sais quoi’, which as some philosophers have,
unintelligibly enough, said of the soul, is all in all, and all in every
part; it should shed its influence over every word and action. I fear the
want of that air, and first ‘abord’, which suddenly lays hold of the
heart, one does not know distinctly how or why. I fear an inaccuracy, or,
at least, inelegance of diction, which will wrong, and lower, the best
and justest matter. And, lastly, I fear an ungraceful, if not an
unpleasant utterance, which would disgrace and vilify the whole. Should
these fears be at present founded, yet the objects of them are (thank
God) of such a nature, that you may, if you please, between this and our
meeting, remove everyone of them. All these engaging and endearing
accomplishments are mechanical, and to be acquired by care and
observation, as easily as turning, or any mechanical trade. A common
country fellow, taken from the plow, and enlisted in an old corps, soon
lays aside his shambling gait, his slouching air, his clumsy and awkward
motions: and acquires the martial air, the regular motions, and whole
exercise of the corps, and particularly of his right and left hand man.
How so? Not from his parts; which were just the same before as after he
was enlisted; but either from a commendable ambition of being like, and
equal to those he is to live with; or else from the fear of being
punished for not being so. If then both or either of these motives change
such a fellow, in about six months’ time, to such a degree, as that he is
not to be known again, how much stronger should both these motives be
with you, to acquire, in the utmost perfection, the whole exercise of the
people of fashion, with whom you are to live all your life? Ambition
should make you resolve to be at least their equal in that exercise, as
well as the fear of punishment; which most inevitably will attend the
want of it. By that exercise, I mean the air, the manners, the graces,
and the style of people of fashion. A friend of yours, in a letter I
received from him by the last post, after some other commendations of
you, says, “It is surprising that, thinking with so much solidity as he
does, and having so true and refined a taste, he should express himself
with so little elegance and delicacy. He even totally neglects the choice
of words and turn of phrases.”
This I should not be so much surprised or concerned at, if it related
only to the English language; which hitherto you have had no opportunity
of studying, and but few of speaking, at least to those who could correct
your inaccuracies. But if you do not express yourself elegantly and
delicately in French and German, (both which languages I know you possess
perfectly and speak eternally) it can be only from an unpardonable
inattention to what you most erroneously think a little object, though,
in truth, it is one of the most important of your life. Solidity and
delicacy of thought must be given us: it cannot be acquired, though it
may be improved; but elegance and delicacy of expression may be acquired
by whoever will take the necessary care and pains. I am sure you love me
so well; that you would be very sorry when we meet, that I should be
either disappointed or mortified; and I love you so well, that I assure
you I should be both, if I should find you want any of those exterior
accomplishments which are the indispensably necessary steps to that
figure and fortune, which I so earnestly wish you may one day make in the
world.
I hope you do not neglect your exercises of riding, fencing, and dancing,
but particularly the latter: for they all concur to ‘degourdir’, and to
give a certain air. To ride well, is not only a proper and graceful
accomplishment for a gentleman, but may also save you many a fall
hereafter; to fence well, may possibly save your life; and to dance well,
is absolutely necessary in order to sit, stand, and walk well. To tell
you the truth, my friend, I have some little suspicion that you now and
then neglect or omit your exercises, for more serious studies. But now
‘non est his locus’, everything has its time; and this is yours for your
exercises; for when you return to Paris I only propose your continuing
your dancing; which you shall two years longer, if you happen to be where
there is a good dancing-master. Here I will see you take some lessons
with your old master Desnoyers, who is our Marcel.
What says Madame du Pin to you? I am told she is very handsome still; I
know she was some few years ago. She has good parts, reading, manners,
and delicacy: such an arrangement would be both creditable and
advantageous to you. She will expect to meet with all the good-breeding
and delicacy that she brings; and as she is past the glare and ‘eclat’ of
youth, may be the more willing to listen to your story, if you tell it
well. For an attachment, I should prefer her to ‘la petite Blot’; and,
for a mere gallantry, I should prefer ‘la petite Blot’ to her; so that
they are consistent, et ‘l’un n’emplche pas l’autre’. Adieu. Remember ‘la
douceur et les graces’.