ose little niceties escape him which are to good-breeding what the last
delicate and masterly touches are to a good picture; and of which the
vulgar have no notion, but by which good judges distinguish the master.
He attends even to their air, dress, and motions, and imitates them,
liberally, and not servilely; he copies, but does not mimic. These
personal graces are of very great consequence. They anticipate the
sentiments, before merit can engage the understanding; they captivate the
heart, and give rise, I believe, to the extravagant notions of charms and
philters. Their effects were so surprising, that they were reckoned
supernatural. The most graceful and best-bred men, and the handsomest and
genteelest women, give the most philters; and, as I verily believe,
without the least assistance of the devil. Pray be not only well dressed,
but shining in your dress; let it have 'du brillant'. I do not mean by a
clumsy load of gold and silver, but by the taste and fashion of it. The
women like and require it; they think it an attention due to them; but,
on the other hand, if your motions and carriage are not graceful,
genteel, and natural, your fine clothes will only display your
awkwardness the more. But I am unwilling to suppose you still awkward;
for surely, by this time, you must have catched a good air in good
company. When you went from hence you were naturally awkward; but your
awkwardness was adventitious and Westmonasterial. Leipsig, I apprehend,
is not the seat of the Graces; and I presume you acquired none there. But
now, if you will be pleased to observe what people of the first fashion
do with their legs and arms, heads and bodies, you will reduce yours to
certain decent laws of motion. You danced pretty well here, and ought to
dance very well before you come home; for what one is obliged to do
sometimes, one ought to be able to do well. Besides, 'la belle danse
donne du brillant a un jeune homme'. And you should endeavor to shine. A
calm serenity, negative merit and graces, do not become your age. You
should be 'alerte, adroit, vif'; be wanted, talked of, impatiently
expected, and unwillingly parted with in company. I should be glad to
hear half a dozen women of fashion say, 'Ou est donc le petit Stanhope?
due ne vient-il? Il faut avouer qu'il est aimable'. All this I do not
mean singly with regard to women as the principal object; but, with
regard to men, and with a view of your making yourself considerable. For