LETTER CXLIII

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.”