<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"></SPAN></p>
<h2> LETTER CXLIII </h2>
<h3> LONDON, May 16, O. S. 1751. </h3>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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'.</p>
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