MY DEAR FRIEND: I received, yesterday, yours of the 12th, from Munich; in
consequence of which, I direct this to you there, though I directed my
three last to Berlin, where I suppose you will find them at your arrival.
Since you are not only domesticated, but ‘niche’ at Munich, you are much
in the right to stay there. It is not by seeing places that one knows
them, but by familiar and daily conversations with the people of fashion.
I would not care to be in the place of that prodigy of beauty, whom you
are to drive ‘dans la course de Traineaux’; and I am apt to think you are
much more likely to break her bones, than she is, though ever so cruel,
to break your heart. Nay, I am not sure but that, according to all the
rules of gallantry, you are obliged to overturn her on purpose; in the
first place, for the chance of seeing her backside; in the next, for the
sake of the contrition and concern which it would give you an opportunity
of showing; and, lastly, upon account of all the ‘gentillesses et
epigrammes’, which it would naturally suggest. Voiture has made several
stanzas upon an accident of that kind, which happened to a lady of his
acquaintance. There is a great deal of wit in them, rather too much; for,
according to the taste of those times, they are full of what the Italians
call ‘concetti spiritosissimi’; the Spaniards ‘agudeze’; and we,
affectation and quaintness. I hope you have endeavored to suit your
‘Traineau’ to the character of the fair-one whom it is to contain. If she
is of an irascible, impetuous disposition (as fine women can sometimes
be), you will doubtless place her in the body of a lion, a tiger, a
dragon, or some tremendous beast of prey and fury; if she is a sublime
and stately beauty, which I think more probable (for unquestionably she
is ‘hogh gebohrne’), you will, I suppose, provide a magnificent swan or
proud peacock for her reception; but if she is all tenderness and
softness, you have, to be sure, taken care amorous doves and wanton
sparrows should seem to flutter round her. Proper mottos, I take it for
granted, that you have eventually prepared; but if not, you may find a
great many ready-made ones in ‘Les Entretiens d’Ariste et d’Eugene, sur
les Devises’, written by Pere Bouhours, and worth your reading at any
time. I will not say to you, upon this occasion, like the father in Ovid,
“Parce, puer, stimulis, et fortius utere loris.”
On the contrary, drive on briskly; it is not the chariot of the sun that
you drive, but you carry the sun in your chariot; consequently, the
faster it goes, the less it will be likely to scorch or consume. This is
Spanish enough, I am sure.
If this finds you still at Munich, pray make many compliments from me to
Mr. Burrish, to whom I am very much obliged for all his kindness to you;
it is true, that while I had power I endeavored to serve him; but it is
as true too, that I served many others more, who have neither returned
nor remembered those services.
I have been very ill this last fortnight, of your old Carniolian
complaint, the ‘arthritis vaga’; luckily, it did not fall upon my breast,
but seized on my right arm; there it fixed its seat of empire; but, as in
all tyrannical governments, the remotest parts felt their share of its
severity. Last post I was not able to hold a pen long enough to write to
you, and therefore desired Mr. Grevenkop to do it for me; but that letter
was directed to Berlin. My pain is now much abated, though I have still
some fine remains of it in my shoulder, where I fear it will tease me a
great while. I must be careful to take Horace’s advice, and consider
well, ‘Quid valeant humeri, quid ferre recusent’.
Lady Chesterfield bids me make you her compliments, and assure you that
the music will be much more welcome to her with you, than without you.
In some of my last letters, which were directed to, and will, I suppose,
wait for you at Berlin, I complimented you, and with justice, upon your
great improvement of late in the epistolary way, both with regard to the
style and the turn of your letters; your four or five last to me have
been very good ones, and one that you wrote to Mr. Harte, upon the new
year, was so pretty a one, and he was so much and so justly pleased with
it, that he sent it me from Windsor the instant he had read it. This
talent (and a most necessary one it is in the course of life) is to be
acquired by resolving, and taking pains to acquire it; and, indeed, so is
every talent except poetry, which is undoubtedly a gift. Think,
therefore, night and day, of the turn, the purity, the correctness, the
perspicuity, and the elegance of whatever you speak or write; take my
word for it, your labor will not be in vain, but greatly rewarded by the
harvest of praise and success which it will bring you. Delicacy of turn,
and elegance of style, are ornaments as necessary to common sense, as
attentions, address, and fashionable manners, are to common civility;
both may subsist without them, but then, without being of the least use
to the owner. The figure of a man is exactly the same in dirty rags, or
in the finest and best chosen clothes; but in which of the two he is the
most likely to please, and to be received in good company, I leave to you
to determine.
Both my arm and my paper hint to me, to bid you good-night.