Update for 76639HEADmain

1 files changed, 29686 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/76639-0.txt b/76639-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9608f21
--- /dev/null
+++ b/76639-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,29686 @@
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76639 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+Eloisa:
+Or, a Series of Original Letters
+
+Collected and published by J.J. Rousseau
+
+Translated from the French.
+
+In Four Volumes.
+
+The Second Edition.
+
+London: Printed for R. Griffiths, at the Dunciad, and T. Becket
+and P.A. DeHondt at Tully's Head, in the Strand.
+
+MDCCLXI.
+
+
+
+
+Translation of M. Rousseau’s Preface
+
+
+Great cities require public theatres, and romances are necessary to a
+corrupt people. I saw the manners of the times, and have published
+these letters. Would to heaven I had lived in an age when I ought
+rather to have thrown them in the fire!
+
+Though I appear only as the editor of this work, I confess that I have
+had some share in the composition. But am I the sole author, and is
+the entire correspondence fictitious? Ye people of the world, of what
+importance is it to you? Certainly, to you, it is all a fiction.
+
+Every honest man will avow the books which he publishes. I have
+prefixed my name to these letters, not with a design to appropriate
+them to myself, but that I might be answerable for them. If they
+deserve censure, let it fall on me; if they have any merit, I am not
+ambitious of the praise. If it is a bad book, I am the more obliged to
+own it: I do not wish to pass for better than I am.
+
+As to the reality of the history, I declare that, though I have been
+several times in the country of the two lovers, I never heard either
+of Baron D’Etange, his daughter, Mr. Orbe, Lord B----, or Mr. Wolmar.
+I must also inform the reader that there are several topographical
+errors in this work; but whether they are the effect of ignorance or
+design, I leave undetermined. This is all I am at liberty to say: let
+every one think as he pleases.
+
+The book seems not calculated for an extensive circulation, as it is
+not adapted to the generality of readers. The stile will offend people
+of taste, to austere men the matter will be alarming, and all the
+sentiments will seem unnatural to those who know not what is meant by
+the word virtue. It ought to displease the devotee, the libertine, the
+philosopher; to shock all the ladies of gallantry, and to scandalize
+every modest woman. By whom, therefore, will it be approved? Perhaps
+only by myself: certain I am, however, that it will not meet with
+_moderate_ approbation from any one.
+
+Whoever may resolve to read these letters ought to arm himself with
+patience against faults of language, rusticity of stile, and pedantry
+of expression; he ought to remember that the writers are neither
+natives of France, wits, academicians, nor philosophers; but that they
+are young and unexperienced inhabitants of a remote village, who
+mistake the romantic extravagance of their own imagination, for
+philosophy.
+
+Why should I fear to speak my thoughts? This collection of letters,
+with all their gothic air, will better suit a married lady than books
+of philosophy: it may even be of service to those who, in an irregular
+course of life, have yet preserved some affection for virtue. As to
+young ladies, they are out of the question; no chaste virgin ever read
+a romance: but if perchance any young girl should dare to read a
+single page of this, she is inevitably lost. Yet let her not accuse me
+as the cause of her perdition: the mischief was done before; and since
+she has begun, let her proceed, for she has nothing worse to fear.
+
+May the austere reader be disgusted in the first volume, revile the
+Editor, and throw the book into the fire. I shall not complain of
+injustice; for probably, in his place, I might have acted in the same
+manner. But if after having read to the end, any one should think fit
+to blame me for having published the book, let him, if he pleases,
+declare his opinion to all the world, except to me; for I perceive it
+would never be in my power to esteem such a man.
+
+
+
+
+Preface by the Translator
+
+
+It is by no means my design to swell the volume, or detain the
+reader from the pleasure he may reasonably expect in the perusal of
+this work: I say _reasonably_, because the author is a writer of great
+reputation. My sole intention is to give a concise account of my
+conduct in the execution of this arduous task; and to anticipate such
+accusations as may naturally be expected from some readers: I mean
+those who are but imperfectly acquainted with the French language, or
+who happen to entertain improper ideas of translation in general.
+
+If I had chosen to preserve the original title, it would have stood
+thus: _Julia, or the New Eloisa_, in the general title-page; and in
+the particular one, _Letters of two Lovers, inhabitants of a small
+village at the foot of the Alps, collected and published,_ &c.
+Whatever objection I might have to this title, upon the whole, my
+principal reason for preferring the name of Eloisa to that of Julia,
+was, because the public seemed unanimous in distinguishing the work by
+the former rather than the latter, and I was the more easily
+determined, as it was a matter of no importance to the reader.
+
+The English nobleman who acts a considerable part in this romance, is
+called in the original, Lord Bomston, which I suppose Mr. Rousseau
+thought to be an English name, or at least very like one. It may
+possibly sound well enough in the ears of a Frenchman; but I believe
+the English reader will not be offended with me for having substituted
+that of Lord B---- in its room. It is amazing that the French
+novelists should be as ignorant of our common names, and the titles of
+our nobility, as they are of our manners. They seldom mention our
+country, or attempt to introduce an English character, without
+exposing themselves to our ridicule. I have seen one of their
+celebrated romances, in which a British nobleman, called the Duke of
+_Workinsheton_, is a principal personage; and another, in which the
+one identical lover of the heroine is sometimes a Duke, sometimes an
+Earl, and sometimes a simple Baronet; _Catombridge_ is, with them, an
+English city: and yet they endeavour to impose upon their readers by
+pretending that their novels are translations from the English.
+
+With regard to this _Chef d’oeuvre_ of Mr. Rousseau, it was received
+with uncommon avidity in France, Italy, Germany, Holland, and, in
+short, through every part of the Continent where the French language
+is understood. In England, besides a very considerable number first
+imported, it has been already twice reprinted; but how much soever the
+world might be delighted with the original, I found it to be the
+general opinion of my countrymen, that it was one of those books which
+could not possibly be translated with any tolerable degree of justice
+to the author: and this general opinion, I own, was my chief motive
+for undertaking the work.
+
+There are, in this great city, a considerable number of industrious
+labourers, who maintain themselves, and perhaps a numerous family, by
+writing for the booksellers, by whom they are ranged in separate
+classes, according to their different abilities; and the very lowest
+class of all, is that of _Translators_. Now it cannot be supposed that
+such poor wretches as are deemed incapable of better employment, can
+be perfectly acquainted either with their own or with any other
+language: besides, were they ever so well qualified, it becomes their
+duty to execute as much work, in as little time, as possible; for, at
+all events, their children must have bread: therefore it were
+unreasonable to expect that they should spend their precious moments
+in poring over a difficult sentence in order to render their version
+the more elegant. This I take to be the true reason why our
+translations from the French are, in general, so extremely bad.
+
+I confess, the idioms of the two languages are very different, and
+therefore that it will, in some instances, be impossible to reach the
+sublime delicacy of expression in an elegant French writer; but in
+return, their language is frequently so vague and diffuse, that it
+must be entirely the fault of the English translator if he does not
+often improve upon his original; but this will never be the case,
+unless we sit down with a design to translate the _ideas_ rather than
+the _words_ of our author.
+
+Most of the translations which I have read, appear like a thin gauze
+spread over the original: the French language appears through every
+paragraph; but it is entirely owing to the want of bread, the want of
+attention, or want of ability in the translator. Mr. Pope, and some
+few others, have shewn the world, that not only the ideas of the most
+sublime writers may be accurately expressed in a translation, but that
+it is possible to improve and adorn them with beauties peculiar to the
+English language.
+
+If in the following pages, the reader expects to find a servile,
+literal, translation, he will be mistaken. I never could, and never
+will, copy the failings of my author, be his reputation ever so great,
+in those instances where they evidently proceed from want of
+attention. Mr. Rousseau writes with great ease and elegance, but he
+sometimes wants propriety of thought, and accuracy of expression.
+
+As to the real merit of this performance, the universal approbation it
+has met with is a stronger recommendation than any thing I could say
+in its praise.
+
+
+
+
+A Dialogue Between a Man of Letters and Mr. J. J. Rousseau
+
+
+N. There, take your Manuscript: I have read it quite through.
+
+R. _Quite through?_ I understand you: you think there are not many
+readers will follow your example.
+
+N. _Vel duo, vel nemo._
+
+R. _Turpe & miserabile._ But let me have your sincere opinion.
+
+N. I dare not.
+
+R. You have dared to the utmost by that single word: Pray explain
+yourself.
+
+N. My opinion depends upon your answer to this question: is it a real,
+or fictitious, correspondence?
+
+R. I cannot perceive the consequence. In order to give one’s
+sentiments of a book, of what importance can it be to know how it was
+written?
+
+N. In this case it is of great importance. A portrait has its merit if
+it resembles the original, be that original ever so strange; but in a
+picture which is the produce of imagination, every human figure should
+resemble human nature, or the picture is of no value: yet supposing
+them both good in their kind, there is this difference, the portrait
+is interesting but to a few people, whilst the picture will please the
+public in general.
+
+R. I conceive your meaning. If these letters are portraits, they are
+uninteresting; if they are pictures, they are ill done. Is it not so?
+
+N. Precisely.
+
+R. Thus I shall snatch your answers before you speak. But, as I
+cannot reply, directly to your question, I must beg leave to propose
+one in my turn. Suppose the worst: my Eloisa----
+
+N. Oh! if she had really existed.
+
+R. Well.
+
+N. But certainly it is no more than a fiction.
+
+R. Be it so.
+
+N. Why then, there never was any thing more absurd: the letters are no
+letters, the romance is no romance, and the personages are people of
+another world.
+
+R. I am sorry for it, for the sake of this.
+
+N. Console yourself; there is no want of fools among us; but yours
+have no existence in nature.
+
+R. I could----No, I perceive the drift of your curiosity. But why do
+you judge so precipitately? Can you be ignorant how widely human
+nature differs from itself? how opposite its characteristics? how
+prejudice and manners vary according to times, places, and age. Who is
+it that can prescribe bounds to nature and say, Thus far shalt thou
+go, and no farther?
+
+N. If such reasoning were allowed, monsters, giants, pygmies and
+chimeras of all kinds might be specifically admitted into nature:
+every object would be disfigured, and we should have no common model
+of ourselves. I repeat it, in a picture of human nature, every figure
+should resemble man.
+
+R. I confess it; but then we should distinguish between the variety in
+human nature and that which is essential to it. What would you say of
+one who should only be able to know mankind in the picture of a
+Frenchman?
+
+N. What would you say of one who, without expressing features or
+shape, should paint a human figure covered with a veil? Should we not
+have reason to ask, where is the man?
+
+R. Without expressing features or shape? Is this just? There is no
+perfection in human nature: that is indeed chimerical. A young virgin
+in love with virtue, yet swerving from its dictates, but reclaimed by
+the horror of a greater crime; a too easy friend punished at last by
+her own heart for her culpable indulgence; a young man, honest and
+sensible, but weak, yet in words a philosopher; an old gentleman
+bigotted to his nobility, and sacrificing every thing to opinion; a
+generous and brave Englishman, passionately wise, and, without reason,
+always reasoning.
+
+N. A husband, hospitable and gay, eager to introduce into his family
+his wife’s quondam paramour.
+
+R. I refer you to the inscription of the plate. [1]
+
+N. _Les belles ames_----Vastly fine!
+
+R. O philosophy! What pains thou takest to contract the heart and
+lessen human nature!
+
+N. It is fallaciously elevated by a romantic imagination. But to the
+point. The two friends----What do you say of them?----and that sudden
+conversion at the altar?----divine grace, no doubt.----
+
+R. But Sir.
+
+N. A pious Christian, not instructing her children in their catechism;
+who dies without praying; whose death nevertheless edifies the parson,
+and converts an Atheist----Oh!
+
+R. Sir----
+
+N. As to the reader being interested, his concern is universal, and
+therefore next to none. Not one bad action; not one wicked man to make
+us fear for the good. Events so natural, and so simple, that they
+scarce deserve the name of events; no surprize; no dramatic artifice;
+every thing happens just as it was expected. Is it worth while to
+register such actions as every man may see any day of his life in his
+own house or in that of his neighbour?
+
+R. So that you would have common men, and _un_common events? Now I
+should rather desire the contrary. You took it for a romance: it is
+not a romance: but, as you said before, a collection of letters.
+
+N. Which are no letters at all: this, I think, I said also. What an
+epistolary stile! how full of bombast! What exclamations! What
+preparation! How emphatical to express common ideas! What big words
+and weak reasoning! Frequently neither sense, accuracy, art, energy,
+nor depth. Sublime language and groveling thoughts. If your personages
+are in nature, confess, at least, that their stile is unnatural.
+
+R. I own that in the light in which you are pleased to view them, it
+must appear so.
+
+N. Do you suppose the public will not judge in the same manner; and
+did you not ask my opinion?
+
+R. I did, and I answer you with a design to have it more explicitly:
+now it appears that you would be better pleased with letters written
+on purpose to be printed.
+
+N. Perhaps I might; at least I am of opinion that nothing should be
+printed which is not fit for the press.
+
+R. So that in books we should behold mankind only as they chuse to
+appear.
+
+N. Most certainly, as to the author; those whom he represents, such as
+they are. But in these letters this is not the case. Not one strong
+delineation; not a single personage strikingly characterized; no solid
+observations; no knowledge of the world. What can be learnt in the
+little sphere of two or three lovers or friends constantly employed in
+matters only relative to themselves?
+
+R. We may learn to love human nature, whilst in extensive society we
+learn to hate mankind. Your judgment is severe; that of the public
+ought to be still more so. Without complaining of injustice, I will
+tell you, in my turn, in what light these letters appear to me; not so
+much to excuse their defects, as to discover their source.
+
+The perceptions of persons in retirement are very different from those
+of people in the great world; their passions being differently
+modified, are differently exprest; their imaginations constantly
+imprest by the same objects, are more violently affected. The same
+small number of images constantly return, mix with every idea, and
+create those strange and false notions so remarkable in people who
+spend their lives in solitude; but does it follow that their language
+is energic? No; ’tis only extraordinary: it is in our conversation
+with the world that we learn to speak with energy; first, because we
+must speak differently and better than others, and then, being every
+moment obliged to affirm what may not be believed, and to express
+sentiments which we do not feel, we endeavour at a persuasive manner
+which supplies the place of interior persuasion. Do you believe that
+people of real sensibility express themselves with that vivacity,
+energy, and ardor which you so much admire in our drama and romances?
+No; true passion, full of itself, is rather diffusive than emphatical;
+it does not even think of persuasion, as it never supposes that its
+existence can be doubtful. In expressing its feelings it speaks rather
+for the sake of its own ease, than to inform others. Love is painted
+with more vivacity in large cities, but is it in the village
+therefore less violent?
+
+N. So that the weakness of the expression is a proof of the strength
+of their passion.
+
+R. Sometimes, at least, it is an indication of its reality. Read but a
+love letter written by an author who endeavours to shine as a man of
+wit; if he has any warmth in his brain, his words will set fire to
+the paper; but the flame will spread no farther: you may be charmed,
+and perhaps a little moved, but it will be a fleeting agitation which
+will leave nothing except the remembrance of words. On the contrary, a
+letter really dictated by love, written by a lover influenced by a
+real passion, will be tame, diffuse, prolix, unconnected, and full of
+repetitions: his heart overflowing with the same sentiment, constantly
+returns to the same expressions, and like a natural fountain flows
+continually without being exhausted. Nothing brilliant, nothing
+remarkable; one remembers neither words nor phrases; there is nothing
+to be admired, nothing striking: yet we are moved without knowing why.
+Though we are not struck with strength of sentiment, we are touched
+with its truth, and our hearts, in spite of us, sympathize with the
+writer. But men of no sensibility, who know nothing more than the
+flowery jargon of the passions, are ignorant of those beauties and
+despise them.
+
+N. I am all attention.
+
+R. Very well. I say, that in real love letters, the thoughts are
+common, yet the stile is not familiar. Love is nothing more than an
+illusion; it creates for itself another universe; it is surrounded
+with objects which have no existence but in imagination, and its
+language is always figurative; but its figures are neither just nor
+regular: its eloquence consists in its disorder, and when it reasons
+least it is most convincing. Enthusiasm is the last degree of this
+passion. When it is arrived at its greatest height, its object appears
+in a state of perfection; it then becomes its idol; it is placed in
+the heavens; and as the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the language of
+love, the enthusiasm of love also borrows the language of devotion.
+Its ideas present nothing but Paradise, angels, the virtue of saints,
+and the delights of heaven. In such transport, surrounded by such
+images, is it not natural to expect sublime language? Can it possibly
+debase its ideas by vulgar expressions? Will it not on the contrary
+raise its stile, and speak with adequate dignity? What then becomes of
+your _epistolary stile?_ it would do mighty well, to be sure, in
+writing to the object of one’s adoration: in that case they are not
+letters, but hymns.
+
+N. We shall see what the world will say.
+
+R. No: rather see the winter on my head. There is an age for
+experience, and another for recollection. Our sensibility may be
+extinguished by time; but the soul which was once capable of that
+sensibility remains. But to return to our letters: if you read them as
+the work of an author who endeavours to please, or piques himself on
+his writing, they are certainly detestable. But take them for what
+they are, and judge of them in their kind. Two or three young people,
+simple, if you will, but sensible, who mutually expressing the real
+sentiments of their hearts, have no intention to display their wit.
+They know and love each other too well for self-admiration to have any
+influence among them. They are children, and therefore think like
+children. They are not natives of France, how then can they be
+supposed to write correctly? They lived in solitude, and therefore
+could know but little of the world. Entirely filled with one single
+sentiment, they are in a constant delirium, and yet presume to
+philosophise. Would you have them know how to observe, to judge, and
+to reflect? No: of these they are ignorant; but they are versed in the
+art of love, and all their words and actions are connected with that
+passion. Their ideas are extravagant, but is not the importance which
+they give to these romantic notions more amusing than all the wit they
+could have displayed. They speak of every thing; they are constantly
+mistaken; they teach us nothing, except the knowledge of themselves;
+but in making themselves known, they obtain our affection. Their
+errors are more engaging than the wisdom of the wise. Their honest
+hearts, even in their transgressions, bear still the prejudice of
+virtue, always confident and always betrayed. Nothing answers their
+expectations; every event serves to undeceive them. They are deaf to
+the voice of discouraging truth: they find nothing correspond with
+their own feelings, and therefore, detaching themselves from the rest
+of the universe, they create, in their separate society, a little
+world of their own, which presents an entire new scene.
+
+N. I confess, that a young fellow of twenty, and girls of eighteen,
+though not; uninstructed, ought not to talk like philosophers, even
+though they may suppose themselves such. I own also, for this
+distinction has not escaped me, that these girls became wives of
+merit, and the young man a better observer. I make no comparison
+between the beginning and the end of the work. The detail of domestic
+occurrences may efface, in some measure, the faults of their younger
+years: the chaste and sensible wife, the worthy matron, may obliterate
+the remembrance of former weakness. But even this is a subject for
+criticism: the conclusion of the work renders the beginning
+reprehensible: one would imagine them to be two different books, which
+ought not to be read by the same people. If you intended to exhibit
+rational personages, why would you expose them before they were become
+so? Our attention to the lessons of wisdom is destroyed by the child’s
+play by which they are preceded: we are scandalized at the bad, before
+the good can edify us. In short, the reader is offended and throws the
+book aside in the very moment when it might become serviceable.
+
+R. On the contrary, I am of opinion, that to those who are disgusted
+with the beginning, the end would be entirely superstitious: and that
+the beginning will be agreeable to those readers to whom the
+conclusion can be useful. So that, those who do not read to the end
+will have left nothing, because it was an improper book for them; and
+those to whom it may be of service would never have read it, if it had
+begun with more gravity. Our lessons can never be useful unless they
+are so written as to catch the attention of those for whose benefit
+they were calculated.
+
+I may have changed the means, and not the object. When I endeavoured
+to speak to _men_, I was not heard; perhaps in speaking to children I
+shall gain more attention; and children would have no more relish for
+naked reason, than for medicines ill disguised.
+
+_Cosi all’ egro fanciul porgiamo aspersi
+Di soave licor gl’orli del vaso;
+Succhi amari ingannato in tanto ei beve,
+E da l’ inganno suo vita riceve._
+
+N. Here again I am afraid you are deceived: they will sip on the edge
+of the vessel, but will not drink the liquor.
+
+R. Be it so; it will not be my fault: I shall have done all in my
+power to make it palatable. My young folks are amiable; but to love
+them at thirty it is necessary to have known them when they were ten
+years younger: One must have lived with them a long time to be pleased
+with their company; and to taste their virtues, it is necessary we
+should first have deplored their failings. Their letters are not
+interesting at first; but we grow attached by degrees, and can neither
+continue nor quit them. They are neither elegant, easy, rational,
+sensible, nor eloquent; but there is sensibility which gradually
+communicates itself to our hearts, and which at last is found to
+supply the place of all the rest. It is a long romance, of which no
+one part has power to move us, and yet the whole produces a proper
+effect. At least, such were its effects upon me: pray were not you
+touched in reading it?
+
+N. No; yet I can easily conceive your being affected: if you are the
+author, nothing can be more natural; and if not, I can still account
+for it. A man of the world can have no taste for the extravagant
+ideas, the affected pathos, and false reasoning of your good folks;
+but they will suit a recluse, for the reason which you have given:
+now, before you determine to publish the manuscript, you would do well
+to remember that the world is not composed of hermits. All you can
+expect is that your young gentleman will be taken for a Celadon, your
+Lord B---- for a Don Quixote, your young damsels for two Astreas, and
+that the world will laugh at them for a company of fools. But a
+continued folly cannot be entertaining. A man should write like
+Cervantes before he can expect to engage his reader to accompany him
+through six volumes of nonsense.
+
+R. The very reason which would make you suppress this work, will
+induce me to print it.
+
+N. What! the certainty of its not being read?
+
+R. A little patience, and you will understand me. As to morals, I
+believe that all kinds of reading are useless to people of the world:
+first, because the number of new books which they run through, so
+generally contradict each other, that their effect is reciprocally
+destroyed. The few choice books which deserve a second perusal, are
+equally ineffectual: for, if they are written in support of received
+opinions, they are superfluous; and if in opposition, they are of no
+use; they are too weak to break the chain which attaches the reader to
+the vices of society. A man of the world may possibly, for a moment,
+be led from his wonted path by the dictates of morality; but he will
+find so many obstacles in the way, that he will speedily return to his
+former course. I am persuaded there are few people, who have had a
+tolerable education, that have not made this essay, at least once in
+their lives; but, finding their efforts vain, they are discouraged
+from any future attempt, and consider the morality of books as the
+jargon of idleness. The farther we retreat from business, great
+cities, and numerous societies, the more the obstacles to morality
+diminish. There is a certain point of distance where these obstacles
+cease to be insurmountable and there it is that books may be of use.
+When we live in solitude, as we do not then read with a design to
+display our reading, we are less anxious to change our books, and
+bestow on them more reflection; and as their principles find less
+opposition from without, their internal impression is more effectual.
+In retirement, the want of occupation, obliges those who have no
+resource in themselves, to have recourse to books of amusement.
+Romances are more read in the provincial towns than at Paris, in towns
+less than in the country, and there they make the deepest impression:
+the reason is plain.
+
+Now it happens unfortunately that the books which might amuse,
+instruct, and console the people in retirement, who are unhappy only
+in their own imagination, are generally calculated to make them still
+more dissatisfied with their situation. People of rank and fashion are
+the sole personages of all our romances. The refined taste of great
+cities, court maxims, the splendour of luxury, and epicurean morality;
+these are their precepts, these their lesson of instruction. The
+colouring of their false virtues tarnishes their real ones. Polite
+manners are substituted for real duties, fine sentiments for good
+actions, and virtuous simplicity is deemed want of breeding.
+
+What effect must such representations produce in the mind of a country
+gentleman, in which his freedom and hospitality is turned into
+ridicule, and the joy which he spreads through his neighbourhood is
+pronounced to be a low and contemptible amusement? What influence must
+they not have upon his wife, when she is taught, that the care of her
+family is beneath a lady of her rank; and on his daughter,
+who being instructed in the jargon and affectation of the city,
+disdains for his clownish behaviour, the honest neighbour whom she
+would otherwise have married. With one consent, ashamed of their
+rusticity, and disgusted with their village, they leave their ancient
+mansion, which soon becomes a ruin, to reside in the metropolis; where
+the father, with his cross of St. Lewis, from a gentleman becomes a
+sharper; the mother keeps a gaming house; the daughter amuses herself
+with a circle of gamesters: and frequently all three, after having led
+a life of infamy, die in misery and dishonour.
+
+Authors, men of letters, and philosophers are constantly insinuating,
+that in order to fulfil the duties of society, and to serve our fellow
+creatures, it is necessary that we should live in great cities:
+according to them, to fly from Paris, is to hate mankind; people in
+the country are nobody in their eyes; to hear them talk, one would
+imagine that where there are no pensions, academies, nor open tables,
+there is no existence.
+
+All our productions verge to the same goal. Tales, romances, comedies,
+all are levelled at the country; all conspire to ridicule rustic
+simplicity; they all display and extol the pleasures of the great
+world; it is a shame not to know them; and not to enjoy them, a
+misfortune. How many of those sharpers and prostitutes, with which
+Paris is so amply provided, were first seduced by the expectations of
+these imaginary pleasures? Thus prejudice and opinion contribute to
+effect the political system by attracting the inhabitants of each
+country to a single point of territory, leaving all the rest a desert:
+thus nations are depopulated, that their capitals may flourish; and
+this frivolous splendor with which fools are captivated, makes Europe
+verge with celerity towards its ruin. The happiness of mankind
+requires that we should endeavour to stop this torrent of pernicious
+maxims. The employment of the clergy is to tell us that we must be
+good and wise, without concerning themselves about the success of
+their discourses; but a good citizen, who is really anxious to promote
+virtue, should not only tell us to be good, but endeavour to make the
+path agreeable which will lead us to happiness.
+
+N. Pray, my good friend, take breath for a moment. I am no enemy to
+useful designs; and I have been so attentive to your reasoning, that I
+believe it will be in my power to continue your argument. You are
+clearly of opinion, that to give to works of imagination the only
+utility of which they are capable, they must have an effect
+diametrically opposite to that which their authors generally propose;
+they must combat every human institution, reduce all things to a state
+of nature, make mankind in love with a life of peace and simplicity,
+destroy their prejudices and opinions, inspire them with a taste for
+true pleasure, keep them distant from each other, and instead of
+exciting people to crowd into large cities, persuade them to spread
+themselves all over the kingdom, that every part may be equally
+enlivened. I also comprehend, that it is not your intention to create
+a world of Arcadian shepherds, of illustrious peasants labouring on
+their own acres and philosophising on the works of nature, nor any
+other romantic beings which exist only in books; but to convince
+mankind that in rural life there are many pleasures which they know
+not how to enjoy; that these pleasures are neither so insipid nor so
+gross as they imagine; that they are susceptible of taste and
+delicacy; that a sensible man, who should retire with his family into
+the country, and become his own farmer, might enjoy more rational
+felicity, than in the midst of the amusements of a great city; that a
+good housewife may be a most agreeable woman, that she may be as
+graceful and as charming as any town coquet of them all; in short,
+that the most tender sentiments of the heart will more effectually
+animate society, than the artificial language of polite circles, where
+the ill-natured laugh of satyr is the pitiful substitute of that real
+mirth which no longer exists. Have I not hit the mark?
+
+R. ’Tis the very thing; to which I will add but one reflection. We are
+told that romances disturb the brain: I believe it true. In
+continually displaying to the reader the ideal charms of a situation
+very different from his own, he becomes dissatisfied, and makes an
+imaginary exchange for that which he is taught to admire. Desiring to
+be that which he is not, he soon believes himself actually
+metamorphosed, and so becomes a fool. If, on the contrary, romances
+were only to exhibit the pictures of real objects, of virtues and
+pleasures within our reach, they would then make us wiser and better.
+Books which are designed to be read in solitude, should be written in
+the language of retirement: if they are meant to instruct, they should
+make us in love with our situation; they should combat and destroy the
+maxims of the great world, by shewing them to be false and despicable,
+as they really are. Thus, Sir, a romance, if it be well written, or at
+least if it be useful, must be hissed, damned, and despised by the
+polite world, as being a mean, extravagant and ridiculous performance;
+and thus what is folly in the eyes of the world is real wisdom.
+
+N. Your conclusion is self-evident. It is impossible better to
+anticipate your fall, nor to be better prepared to fall with dignity.
+There remains but one difficulty. People in the country, you know,
+take their cue from us. A book calculated for them must first pass the
+censure of the town: if we think fit to damn it, its circulation is
+entirely stopt. What do you say to that?
+
+R. The answer is quite simple. You speak of _wits_ who reside in the
+country; whilst I would be understood to mean real country folks. You
+gentlemen who shine in the capital, have certain prepossessions of
+which you must be cured: you imagine that you govern the taste of all
+France, when in fact three fourths of the kingdom do not know that you
+exist. The books which are damned at Paris often make the fortune of
+country booksellers.
+
+N. But why will you enrich them at the expense of ours?
+
+R. Banter me as you please, I shall persist. Those who aspire to fame
+must calculate their works for the meridian of Paris; but those who
+write with a view to do good, must write for the country. How many
+worthy people are there who pass their lives in cultivating a few
+paternal acres, far distant from the metropolis, and who think
+themselves exiled by the partiality of fortune? During the long winter
+evenings, deprived of society, they pass the time in reading such
+books of amusement as happen to fall into their hands. In their rustic
+simplicity they do not pride themselves on their wit or learning; they
+read for entertainment rather than instruction; books of morality and
+philosophy are entirely unknown to them. As to your romances, they are
+so far from being adapted to their situation, that they serve only to
+render it insupportable. Their retreat is represented to be a desert,
+so that whilst they afford a few hours amusement, they prepare for
+them whole months of regret and discontent. Why may I not suppose
+that, by some fortunate accident, this book, like many others of still
+less merit, will fall into the hands of those inhabitants of the
+fields, and that the pleasing picture of a life exactly resembling
+theirs will render it more tolerable? I have great pleasure in the
+idea of a married couple reading this novel together, imbibing fresh
+courage to support their common labours, and perhaps new designs to
+render them useful. How can they possibly contemplate the
+representation of a happy family without attempting to imitate the
+pleasing model? How can they be affected with the charms of conjugal
+union, even where love is wanting, without increasing and confirming
+their own attachment? In quitting their book, they will neither be
+discontented with their situation, nor disgusted at their labour: on
+the contrary, every object around them will assume a more delightful
+aspect, their duties will seem ennobled, their taste for the pleasures
+of nature will revive; her genuine sensations will be rekindled in
+their hearts, and perceiving happiness within their reach, they will
+learn to taste it as they ought: they will perform the same functions,
+but with another soul; and what they did before as peasants only, they
+will now transact as real patriarchs.
+
+N. So far, you sail before the wind. Husbands, wives, matrons----but
+with regard to young girls; d’ye say nothing of those?
+
+R. No. A modest girl will never read books of love. If she should
+complain of having been injured by the perusal of these volumes, she
+is unjust: she has lost no virtue; for she had none to lose.
+
+N. Prodigious! attend to this, all ye amorous writers; for thus ye are
+all justified.
+
+R. Provided they are justified by their own hearts and the object of
+their writings.
+
+N. And is that the case with you?
+
+R. I am too proud to answer to that question; but Eloisa had a certain
+rule by which she formed her judgment of books: [2] if you like it,
+use it in judging of this. Authors have endeavoured to make the
+reading of romances serviceable to youth. There never was a more idle
+project. It is just setting fire to the house in order to employ the
+engines. Having conceived this ridiculous idea, instead of directing
+the moral of their writings towards its proper object, it is
+constantly addressed to young girls, [3] without considering that
+these have no share in the irregularities complained of. In general,
+though their hearts may be corrupted, their conduct is blameless. They
+obey their mothers in expectation of the time when it will be in their
+power to imitate them. If the wives do their duty, be assured the
+girls will not be wanting in theirs.
+
+N. Observation is against you in this point. The whole sex seem to
+require a time for libertinism, either in one state or the other. It is
+a bad leaven, which must ferment soon or late. Among a civilized people
+the girls are easy, and the wives difficult, of access; but where
+mankind are less polite, it is just the reverse: the first consider
+the crime only, the latter the scandal. The principal question is, how
+to be left secured from the temptation: as to the crime it is of no
+consideration.
+
+R. If we were to judge by its consequences, one would be apt to be of
+another opinion. But let us be just to the women: the cause of their
+irregularities are less owing to themselves, than to our bad
+institutions. The extreme inequality in the different members of the
+same family must necessarily stifle the sentiments of nature. The
+vices and misfortunes of children are owing chiefly to the father’s
+unnatural despotism. A young wife, unsuitably espoused, and a victim
+to the avarice or vanity of her parents, glories in effacing the
+scandal of her former virtue by her present irregularities. If you
+would remedy this evil, proceed to its source. Public manners can only
+be reformed by beginning with private vices, which naturally arise
+from parents. But our reformers never proceed in this manner. Your
+cowardly authors preach only to the oppressed; and their morality can
+have no effect, because they have not the art to address the most
+powerful.
+
+N. You, Sir, however run no risk of being accused of servility; but
+may you not possibly be too sincere? In striking at the root of this
+evil, may you not be the cause of more----
+
+R. Evil? to whom? In times of epidemical contagion, when all are
+infected from their infancy, would it be prudent to hinder the
+distribution of salutary medicines under a pretence that they might do
+harm to people in health? You and I, Sir, differ so widely on this
+point, that if it were reasonable to expect that these letters can
+meet with any success, I am persuaded they will do more good than a
+better book.
+
+N. Certainly your females are excellent preachers. I am pleased to see
+you reconciled with the ladies; for I was really concerned when you
+imposed silence on the sex. [4]
+
+R. You are too severe; I must hold my tongue: I am neither so wise nor
+so foolish as to be always in the right. Let us leave this bone for
+the critics.
+
+N. With all my heart, lest they should want one. But suppose you had
+nothing to fear from any other quarter, how will you excuse to a
+certain severe censor of the stage, those warm descriptions, and
+impassioned sentiments, which are so frequent in those letters? Shew
+me a scene in any of our theatrical pieces equal to that in the wood
+at Clarens, or that of the dressing room. Read the letter on
+theatrical amusements; read the whole collection. In short, be
+confident, or renounce your former opinions. What would you have one
+think?
+
+R. I would have the critics be confident with themselves, and not
+judge till they have thoroughly examined. Let me intreat you to read
+once more with attention the parts you have mentioned; read again the
+preface to _Narcisse_, and you will there find an answer to the
+accusation of inconsistency. Those forward gentlemen who pretend to
+discover that fault in the _Devin du Village_, will undoubtedly think
+it much more glaring in this work. They will only act in character; but
+you----
+
+N. I recollect two passages. [5] You do not much esteem your
+cotemporaries.
+
+R. Sir, I am also their cotemporary! O why was I not born in an age in
+which I ought to have burnt this collection!
+
+N. Extravagant as usual! however, to a certain degree, your maxims are
+just. For instance; if your Eloisa had been chaste from the beginning,
+she would have afforded us less instruction; for to whom would she
+have served as a model? In the most corrupt ages mankind are fond of
+the most perfect lessons of morality: theory supplies the place of
+practice, and at the small expense of a little leisure reading, they
+satisfy the remnant of their taste for virtue.
+
+R. Sublime authors, relax a little your perfect models, if you expect
+that we should endeavour to imitate them. To what purpose do you vaunt
+unspotted purity? rather shew us that which may be recovered, and
+perhaps there are some who will attend to your instructions.
+
+N. Your young hero has already made those reflections; but no matter,
+you would be thought no less culpable in having shewn us what _is
+done_, in order to shew what _ought to be done_. Besides, to inspire
+the girls with love, and to make wives reserved, is overturning the
+order of things, and recalling those trifling morals which are now
+totally proscribed by philosophy. Say what you will, it is very
+indecent, nay scandalous for a girl to be in love: nothing but a
+husband can authorise a lover. It was certainly very impolitic to be
+indulgent to the unmarried ladies, who are not allowed to read you,
+and severe upon the married ones, by whom you are to be judged.
+Believe me, if you were fearful of success, you may be quite easy: you
+have taken sufficient care to avoid an affront of that nature. Be it
+as it may, I shall not betray your confidence. I hope your imprudence
+will not carry you too far. If you think you have written a useful
+book, publish it; but by all means conceal your name.
+
+R. Conceal my name! Will an honest man speak to the public from behind
+a curtain? Will he dare to print what he does not dare to own? I am
+the editor of this book, and I shall certainly fix my name in the
+title page.
+
+N. Your name in the title-page!
+
+R. Yes, Sir, in the title-page.
+
+V. You are surely in jest.
+
+R. I am positively in earnest.
+
+N. What your real name? _Jean Jacques Rousseau_, at full length?
+
+R. _Jean Jacques Rousseau_ at full length.
+
+N. You surely don’t think. What will the world say of you?
+
+R. What they please. I don’t print my name with a design to pass for
+the author, but to be answerable for the book. If it contains any
+thing bad, let it be imputed to me; if good, I desire no praise. If
+the work in general deserves censure, there is so much more reason for
+prefixing my name. I have no ambition to pass for better than I am.
+
+N. Are you content with that answer?
+
+R. Yes, in an age when it is impossible for any one to be good.
+
+N. Have you forgot _les belles ames?_
+
+R. By nature _belles_, but corrupted by your institutions.
+
+N. And so we shall behold, in the title-page of a book of love-
+epistles, by _J.J. Rousseau, Citizen of Geneva!_
+
+R. No, not _Citizen of Geneva_. I shall not profane the name of my
+country. I never prefix it, but to those writings by which I think it
+will not be dishonoured.
+
+N. Your own name is no dishonourable one, and you have some reputation
+to lose. This mean and weak performance will do you no service. I wish
+it was in my power to dissuade you; but if you are determined to
+proceed, I approve of your doing it boldly and with a good grace. At
+least this will be in character. But a propos; do you intend to prefix
+your motto?
+
+R. My bookseller asked me the same question, and I thought it so
+humorous that I promised to give him the credit of it. No, Sir, I
+shall not prefix my motto to this book; nevertheless, I am now less
+inclined to relinquish it than ever. Remember that I thought of
+publishing those letters at the very time when I wrote against the
+theatres, and that a desire of excusing one of my writings, has not
+made me disguise truth in the other. I have accused myself before
+hand, perhaps, with more severity than any other person will accuse
+me. He who prefers truth to fame, may hope to prefer it to life
+itself. You say that we ought to be confident: I doubt whether that be
+possible to man, but it is not impossible to act with invariable
+truth. This I will endeavour to do.
+
+N. Why then, when I ask whether you are the author of these letters,
+do you evade the question?
+
+R. I will not lie, even in that case.
+
+N. But you refuse to speak the truth.
+
+R. It is doing honour to truth to keep it secret. You would have less
+difficulty with one who made no scruple of a lie. Besides, you know
+men of taste are never mistaken in the pen of an author. How can you
+ask a question which it is your business to resolve?
+
+N. I have no doubt with regard to some of the letters; they are
+certainly yours: but in others you are quite invisible, and I much
+doubt the possibility of disguise in this case. Nature, who does not
+fear being known, frequently changes her appearance; but art is often
+discovered, by attempting to be too natural. These epistles abound
+with faults, which the most arrant scribbler would have avoided.
+Declamation, repetitions, contradictions, &c. In short, it is
+impossible that a man, who can write better, could ever resolve to
+write so ill. What man in his senses would have made that foolish Lord
+B---- advance such a shocking proposal to Eloisa? Or what author would
+not have corrected the ridiculous behaviour of his young hero, who
+though positively resolved to die, takes good care to apprize all the
+world of his intention, and finds himself at last in perfect health?
+Would not any writer have known that he ought to support his
+characters with accuracy, and vary his stile accordingly, and he would
+then infallibly have excelled even nature herself?
+
+I have observed that in a very intimate society, both stile and
+characters are extremely similar, and that when two souls are closely
+united, their thoughts, words, and actions will be nearly the same.
+This Eloisa, as she is represented, ought to be an absolute
+enchantress; all who approach her, ought immediately to resemble her;
+all her friends should speak one language; but these effects are much
+easier felt than imagined: and even if it were possible to express
+them, it would be imprudent to attempt it. An author must be governed
+by the conceptions of the multitude, and therefore all refinement is
+improper. This is the touch-stone of truth, and in this it is that a
+judicious eye will discover real nature.
+
+R. Well, and so you conclude----
+
+N. I do not conclude at all. I am in doubt, and this doubt has
+tormented me inexpressibly, during the whole time I spent in reading
+these letters. If it be all a fiction, it is a bad performance; but
+say that these two women have really existed, and I will read their
+epistles once a year to the end of my life.
+
+R. Strange! what signifies it whether they ever existed or not? They
+are no where to be found: they are no more.
+
+N. No more? So they actually did exist.
+
+R. The conclusion is conditional: if they ever did exist, they are now
+no more.
+
+N. Between you and I, these little subtilties are more conclusive than
+perplexing.
+
+R. They are such as you force me to use, that I may neither betray
+myself nor tell an untruth.
+
+N. In short, you may do as you think proper; your Title is sufficient
+to betray you.
+
+R. It discovers nothing relative to the matter in question; for who
+can tell whether I did not find this title in the manuscript? Who
+knows whether I have not the same doubts which you have? Whether all
+this mystery be not a pretext to conceal my own ignorance?
+
+N. But however you are acquainted with the scene of action. You have
+been at Vevey, in the _Pays de Vaud_?
+
+R. Often; and I declare that I never heard either of Baron D'Etange,
+or his Daughter. The name of Wolmar is entirely unknown in that
+country. I have been at Clarens, but never saw any house like that
+which is described in these letters. I passed through it in my return
+from Italy, in the very year when the sad catastrophe happened, and I
+found no body in tears for the death of Eloisa Wolmar. In short, as
+much as I can recollect of the country, there are, in these letters,
+several transpositions of places, and topographical errors, proceeding
+either from ignorance in the author, or from a design to mislead the
+reader. This is all you will learn from me on this point, and you may
+be assured that no one else shall draw any thing more from me.
+
+N. All the world will be as curious as I am. If you print this work,
+tell the public what you have told me. Do more, write this
+conversation as a Preface: it contains all the information necessary
+for the reader.
+
+R. You are in the right. It will do better than any thing I could say
+of my own accord. Though these kind of apologies seldom succeed.
+
+N. True, where the author spares himself. But I have taken care to
+remove that objection here. Only I would advise you to transpose the
+parts. Pretend that I wanted to persuade you to publish, and that you
+objected. This will be more modest, and will have a better effect.
+
+R. Would that be consistent with the character for which you praised
+me a while ago?
+
+N. It would not. I spoke with a design to try you. Leave things as
+they are.
+
+Advertisement
+
+_The following Dialogue was originally intended as a Preface to_
+Eloisa;_ but its form and length permitting me to prefix to that Work
+only a few extracts from it, I now publish it entire, in hopes that it
+will be found to contain some useful hints concerning Romances in
+general. Besides, I thought it proper to wait till the Book had taken
+its chance, before I discussed its inconveniences and advantages,
+being unwilling either to injure the Bookseller, or supplicate the
+indulgence of the Public._
+
+The following Account of this Work is taken from the _Journal des
+Sçavans_ for June 1761, Printed at Paris.
+
+This work is a strange, but memorable monument of the eloquence of the
+passions, the charms of virtue, and the force of imagination.
+Unfeeling spirits may, as long as they please, remark and exaggerate
+the faults of which the author does not scruple to accuse himself in
+his two most singular prefaces; they may arraign him for frequent want
+of taste, call his stile unequal and incorrect, his sentiments too
+refined, and his paradoxes inexplicable; they may complain that his
+notes are ludicrous and misplaced, as they frequently break in upon a
+tender sentiment, a pathetic situation, and that in general they are
+nothing more than an anticipated parody on the objections, whether
+just or groundless, which the author seems to expect from certain
+critics; they may even attempt to undermine the foundation of the
+work, and accuse the author of cold prolixity in his description of
+the peace and happiness of Clarens, after the violent agitation of
+those grand movements by which it is preceded; they may be shocked
+with the useless and abortive passion of Clara for St. Preux, the
+negotiation begun concerning their marriage, the impenetrable,
+obscure, and consequently uninteresting amours of Lord B---- in Italy;
+they may think the author extravagant in the general choice of his
+events; but whatever may be the present and future judgment of the
+public,
+
+_Ut cumque ferent ea facta minores,
+Vincet Amor._
+
+What heart can be unaffected with the dangers, the misfortunes, the
+weakness, and the virtues of Eloisa? Who can possibly be insensible to
+the ardor of her lover, the vigilant, active, and impatient friendship
+of Clara, the noble and encouraging protection of Lord B----, the
+unshaken wisdom of Wolmar, and all these characters moved by the most
+extraordinary springs? Who can resist those torrents of pathetic
+language which penetrate the inmost soul, and so tyrannically command
+our tears; those master-strokes of simplicity which open the recesses
+of the human heart, and excite the pleasure of weeping sensibility?
+How can we help admiring his talent of giving life to every object, of
+transporting the reader in the middle of the scene, and engaging him
+as a party in every action, by the happy choice of incidents, and if I
+may be allowed the expression, by the use of words the most identical
+to the things intended to be described? Can there be a reader who is
+not enamoured of the soul of Eloisa? Can there be a reader who does
+not feel the loss of her as if she were his own, and who does not join
+in the general mourning at Clarens, and the despair of Clara on the
+death of her friend?
+
+A common author would have satisfied himself with giving us, once for
+all, a beautiful picture of his heroine, in which he would have shewn
+us, in one general point of view, the accomplishment of every duty,
+and the expansion of every sentiment, by loading our imagination with
+all the particular applications of this virtuous principle to every
+single event. Mr. Rousseau, on the contrary, in one continued adion,
+always before our eyes, displays his Eloisa fulfilling without study,
+and without the least confusion, all the duties of a wife, a friend, a
+daughter, a mother, and mistress of a family; so that we behold her
+constantly employed in these several situations, without confounding
+the rights of any of them; without favouring one at the expense of the
+other. He does not relate her actions, but makes her perform them in
+our sight, and by that means renders those things real, which in
+recital would appear hyperbolical, romantic, and incredible.
+
+In the great number of different pictures which the author has here
+collected, whether he paints the respectable simplicity of Valesian
+manners, the brilliant corruption of great cities, the restricted
+impatience of expecting love, the wildness of despair, or the pathetic
+regret of a generous passion after an extraordinary sacrifice;
+whether, in the interesting scene of Meillerie, he displays all the
+eloquence of genius, and every tender emotion of the heart; whether
+excited by the plausibility of logic he collects his whole strength
+to destroy the sophisms of false honour; whether Virtue herself
+thunders with her respectable and sublime voice against the crime of
+suicide justified by eloquence; we always find his manner properly
+adapted both to the subject and to the speaker, which renders the
+illusion compleat.
+
+Almost every trial which the soul can experience is represented either
+in the principal or accessory situations, or in the reflections. In
+short, the human soul is here penetrated and displayed in every point
+of view; so that every sensible heart may be certain of beholding
+itself in this mirror.
+
+The nature and form of this work will not allow of a regular extract.
+It consists entirely of a gradual unfolding of ideas and sensations
+which admit of no analysis, and which can be pursued only in the work
+itself. The author in the catastrophe imitates the happy artifice of
+the artist who painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia. Eloisa dies; they
+weep round her ashes. The author paints this universal grief; he
+paints the silent but sincere affliction of her husband, the affecting
+stupor of the father, the extravagant sorrow of her friend: and now
+the despair of her lover remains to be described; but that was
+inexpressible: the author wisely draws a veil before him, and leaves
+the rest to our imagination.
+
+The picture of Eloisa dying can be compared only to the scene of
+Alcestes expiring, in Euripides.
+
+Upon the whole, it were needless to say how much this work deserves to
+be read, since the eagerness of the Public hath already sufficiently
+prevented us. We cannot better express our approbation of a
+performance in which even vice itself breathes an air of virtue, than
+in the words of Eloisa, who in speaking of Lord B---- says, was there
+ever a man without faults who possessed great virtues? And in like
+manner we ask, whether there was ever a work without blemish which
+might boast of such penetrating and sublime beauties?
+
+
+
+
+Eloisa
+
+
+
+
+Volume I
+
+
+
+
+Letter I. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I must fly from you, madam, in truth I must. I am to blame for
+continuing with you so long, or rather, I ought never to have beheld
+you. But, situated as I am, what can I do? How shall I determine? You
+have promised me your friendship; consider my perplexity, and give me
+your advice.
+
+You are sensible that I became one of your family in consequence of an
+invitation from your mother. Believing me possessed of some little
+knowledge, she thought that I might be of service in the education of
+her beloved daughter, in a situation where proper masters were not to
+be obtained. Proud to be instrumental in adding a few embellishments
+to one of nature’s most beautiful compositions, I dared to engage in
+the perilous task, unmindful of the danger, or, at least,
+unapprehensive of the consequence. I will not tell you that I begin to
+suffer for my presumption. I hope I shall never so far forget myself
+as to say any thing which you ought not to hear, or fail in that
+respect which is due to your virtue, rather than to your birth or
+personal charms. If I must suffer, I have the consolation, at least,
+that I suffer alone. I can enjoy no happiness at the expense of yours.
+
+And yet I see you and converse with you every day of my life, and am
+but too sensible that you innocently aggravate a misfortune which you
+cannot pity, and of which you ought to be ignorant. It is true, I know
+what prudence would dictate, in a case like this, where there is no
+hope; and I should certainly follow her advice if I could reconcile it
+with my notions of probity. How can I with decency quit a family into
+which I was so kindly invited, where I have received so many
+obligations, and where, by the tenderest of mothers, I am thought of
+some utility to a daughter whom she loves more than all the world? How
+can I resolve to deprive this affectionate parent of the pleasure she
+proposes to herself in, one day, surprizing her husband with your
+progress in the knowledge of things of which he must naturally suppose
+you ignorant? Shall I impolitely quit the house without taking leave
+of her? Shall I declare to her the cause of my retreat, and would not
+she even have reason to be offended with this confession from a man
+whose inferior birth and fortune must for ever remain insuperable bars
+to his happiness?
+
+There seems but one method to extricate me from this embarrassment:
+the hand which involved me in it must also relieve me. As you are the
+cause of my offence, you must inflict my punishment: out of
+compassion, at least, deign to banish me from your presence. Shew my
+letter to your parents; let your doors be shut against me; spurn me
+from you in what manner you please; from you I can bear any thing; but
+of my own accord I have no power to fly from you.
+
+Spurn me from you! fly your presence! why? Why should it be a crime to
+be sensible of merit, and to love that which we cannot fail to honour?
+No, charming Eloisa; your beauty might have dazzled my eyes, but it
+never would have misled my heart, had it not been animated with
+something yet more powerful. It is that captivating union between a
+lively sensibility and invariable sweetness of disposition; it is that
+tender feeling for the distresses of your fellow creatures; it is that
+amazing justness of sentiment, and that exquisite taste which derive
+their excellence from the purity of your soul; they are, in short,
+your mental charms much more than those of your person, which I adore.
+I confess it may be possible to imagine beauties still more
+transcendently perfect; but more amiable, and more deserving the heart
+of a wise and virtuous man,----no, no, Eloisa, it is impossible.
+
+I am sometimes inclined to flatter myself that, as in the parity of
+our years, and similitude of taste, there is also a secret sympathy in
+our affections. We are both so young that our nature can hitherto have
+received no false bias from any thing adventitious, and all our
+inclinations seem to coincide. Before we have imbibed the uniform
+prejudices of the world, our general perceptions seem uniform; and why
+dare I not suppose the same concord in our hearts, which in our
+judgment is so strikingly apparent? Sometimes it happens that our eyes
+meet; involuntary sighs betray our feelings, tears steal from----O!
+my Eloisa! if this unison of soul should be a divine impulse----if
+heaven should have destined us----all the power on earth----Ah
+pardon me! I am bewildered: I have mistaken a vain wish for hope: the
+ardour of my desires gave to their imaginary object a solidity which
+did not exist. I foresee with horror the torments which my heart is
+preparing for itself. I do not seek to flatter my misfortune; if it
+were in my power I would avoid it. You may judge of the purity of my
+sentiments by the favour I ask. Destroy, if possible, the source of
+the poison that both supports and kills me. I am determined to effect
+my cure or my death, and I therefore implore your rigorous injunction,
+as a lover would supplicate your compassion.
+
+Yes, I promise, I swear, on my part, to do every thing within my power
+to recover my reason, or to bury my growing anxiety in the inmost
+recesses of my soul. But, for mercy’s sake, turn from me those lovely
+eyes that pierce me to the heart; suffer me no longer to gaze upon
+that face, that air, those arms, those hands, that engaging manner;
+disappoint the imprudent avidity of my looks; no longer let me hear
+that enchanting voice, which cannot be heard without emotion; be,
+alas! in every respect, another woman, that my soul may return to its
+former tranquillity.
+
+Shall I tell you, without apology? When we are engaged in the puerile
+amusements of these long evenings, you cruelly permit me, in the
+presence of the whole family, to increase a flame that is but too
+violent already. You are not more reserved to me than to any of the
+rest. Even yesterday you almost suffered me, as a forfeit, to take a
+kiss: you made but a faint resistance. Happily, I did not persist. I
+perceived by my increasing palpitation, that I was rushing upon my
+ruin, and therefore stopped in time. If I had dared to indulge my
+inclination, that kiss would have proved my last sigh, and I should
+have died the happiest of mortals.
+
+For heaven’s sake, let us quit those plays, since they may possibly be
+attended with such fatal consequences; even the most simple of them
+all is not without its danger. I tremble as often as our hands meet,
+and I know not how it happens, but they meet continually. I start the
+instant I feel the touch of your finger; as the play advances I am
+seized with a fever, or rather delirium; my senses gradually forsake
+me, and, in their absence, what can I say, what can I do, where hide
+myself, or how be answerable for my conduct?
+
+The hours of instruction are not less dangerous. Your mother, or your
+cousin, no sooner leave the room than I observe a change in your
+behaviour. You at once assume an air so serious, so cold, that my
+respect, and the fear of offending, destroys my presence of mind, and
+deprives me of my judgment: with difficulty and trembling, I babble
+over a lesson, which even your excellent talents are unable to pursue.
+This affected change in your behaviour is hurtful to us both: you
+confound me and deprive yourself of instruction, whilst I am entirely
+at a loss to account for this sudden alteration in a person naturally
+so even-tempered and reasonable. Tell me, pray tell me, why you are so
+sprightly in public, and so reserved when by ourselves? I imagined it
+ought to be just the contrary, and that one should be more or less
+upon their guard, in proportion to the number of spectators. But
+instead of this, when with me alone, you are ceremonious, and familiar
+when we join in mixed company. If you deign to be more equal, probably
+my torment will be less.
+
+If that compassion which is natural to elevated minds, can move you in
+behalf of an unfortunate youth, whom you have honoured with some share
+in your esteem; you have it in your power, by a small change in your
+conduct, to render his situation less irksome, and to enable him, with
+more tranquility, to support his silence and his sufferings: but if
+you find yourself not touched with his situation, and are determined
+to exert your power to ruin him, he will acquiesce without murmuring:
+he would rather, much rather, perish by your order, than incur your
+displeasure by his indiscretion. Now, though you are become mistress
+of my future destiny, I cannot reproach myself with having indulged
+the least presumptive hope. If you have been so kind as to read my
+letter, you have complied with all I should have dared to request,
+even though I had no refusal to fear.
+
+
+
+
+Letter II. To Eloisa.
+
+
+How strangely was I deceived in my first letter! instead of
+alleviating my pain, I have increased my distress by incurring your
+displeasure: and, alas! that, I find, is the least supportable of all
+misfortunes. Your silence, your cold, and reserved behaviour, but too
+plainly indicate my doom. You have indeed granted one part of my
+petition, but it was to punish me with the greater severity.
+
+_E poi ch’ amor di me vi fece accorta
+Fur i biondi capelli allor velati,
+E l’amorosi sguardo in se raccolto._
+
+You have withdrawn that innocent familiarity in public of which I
+foolishly complained; and in private you are become still more severe:
+you are so ingeniously cruel, that your complaisance is as intolerable
+as your refusal.
+
+Were it possible for you to conceive how much your indifference
+affects me, you would certainly think my punishment too rigorous. What
+would I not give to recall that unfortunate letter, and that I had
+born my former sufferings without complaint! So fearful am I of adding
+to my offence, that I should never have ventured to write a second
+letter, if I did not flatter myself with the hopes of expiating the
+crime I committed in the first. Will you deem it any satisfaction if I
+confess that I mistook my own intention? or shall I protest that I
+never was in love with you?----O! no; I can never be guilty of such a
+horrid perjury! The heart which is impressed with your fair image must
+not be polluted with a lye. If I am doomed to be unhappy----be it so.
+I cannot stoop to any thing mean or deceitful to extenuate my fault.
+My pen refuses to disavow the transgression of which my heart is but
+too justly accused.
+
+Methinks I already feel the weight of your indignation, and await its
+final consequence as a favour which I have some right to expect; for
+the passion which consumes me deserves to be punished, but not
+despised. For heaven’s sake, do not leave me to myself; condescend, at
+least, to determine my fate; deign to let me know your pleasure. I
+will obey implicitly whatever you think proper to command. Do you
+impose eternal silence? I will be silent as the grave. Do you banish
+me your presence? I swear that I will never see you more. Will my
+death appease you? that would be, of all, the least difficult. There
+are no terms which I am not ready to subscribe, unless they should
+enjoin me not to love you; yet even in that I would obey you if it
+were possible.
+
+A hundred times a day I am tempted to throw myself at your feet, bathe
+them with my tears, and to implore your pardon, or receive my death:
+but a sudden terror damps my resolution; my trembling knees want power
+to bend; my words expire upon my lips, and my soul finds no support
+against the dread of offending you.
+
+Was ever mortal in so terrible a situation! My heart is but too
+sensible of its offence, yet cannot cease to offend: my crime and my
+remorse conspire in its agitation, and, ignorant of my destiny, I am
+cruelly suspended between the hope of your compassion and the fear of
+punishment.
+
+But, no! I do not hope; I have no right to hope: I ask no indulgence,
+but that you will hasten my sentence. Let your just revenge be
+satisfied. Do you think me sufficiently wretched to be thus reduced to
+solicit vengeance on my own head? Punish me, it is your duty; but if
+you retain the least degree of compassion for me, do not, I beseech
+you, drive me to despair with those cold looks, and that air of
+reserve and discontent. When once a criminal is condemned to die, all
+resentment should cease.
+
+
+
+
+Letter III. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Do not be impatient, madam; this is the last importunity you will
+receive from me. Little did I apprehend, in the dawn of my passion,
+what a train of ills I was preparing for myself! I then foresaw none
+greater than that a hopeless passion, which reason, in time, might
+overcome; but I soon experienced one much more intolerable in the pain
+which I felt at your displeasure, and now the discovery of your
+uneasiness is infinitely more afflicting than all the rest. O Eloisa!
+I perceive it with bitterness of soul, my complaints affect your peace
+of mind. You continue invincibly silent; but my heart is too attentive
+not to penetrate into the secret agitations of your mind. Your eyes
+appear gloomy, thoughtful, and fixed upon the ground; sometimes they
+wander and fall undesignedly upon me; your bloom fades; an unusual
+paleness overspreads your cheeks; your gaiety forsakes you; you seem
+oppressed with grief and the unalterable sweetness of your disposition
+alone enables you to preserve the shadow of your good humour.
+
+Whether it be sensibility, whether it be disdain, whether it be
+compassion for my sufferings, I see you are deeply affected. I fear to
+augment your distress, and I am more unhappy on this account, than
+flattered with the hope it might possibly occasion; for, if I know
+myself, your felicity is infinitely dearer to me than my own.
+
+I now begin to be sensible that I judged very erroneously of the
+feelings of my heart, and, too late, I perceive, that what I at first
+took for a fleeting phrenzy, is but too inseparably interwoven with my
+future destiny. It is your late melancholy that has made the
+increasing progress of my malady apparent. The lustre of your eyes,
+the delicate glow of your complexion, your excellent understanding,
+and all the enchantment of your former vivacity, could not have
+affected me half so much as your present manifest dejection. Be
+assured, divine maid, if it were possible for you to feel the
+intolerable flame, which your last eight pensive days of languor and
+discontent have kindled in my soul, you yourself would shudder at the
+misery you have caused. But there is now no remedy: my despair
+whispers, that nothing but the cold tomb will extinguish the raging
+fire within my breast.
+
+Be it so: he that cannot command felicity may at least deserve it. You
+may possibly be obliged to honour with your esteem the man whom you
+did not deign to answer. I am young, and may, perchance, one day,
+merit the regard of which I am now unworthy. In the mean time, it is
+necessary that I should restore to you that repose which I have lost
+for ever, and of which you are, by my presence, in spite of myself,
+deprived. It is but just that I alone should suffer, since I alone am
+guilty. Adieu, too, too charming Eloisa! Resume your tranquillity, and
+be again happy. Tomorrow I am gone for ever. But be assured, that my
+violent, spotless passion for you, will end only with my life; that my
+heart, full of so divine an object, will never debase itself by
+admitting a second impression; that it will divide all its future
+homage between you and virtue, and that no other flame shall ever
+profane the altar where Eloisa was adored.
+
+
+
+
+Billet I. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Be not too positive in your opinion that your absence is become
+necessary. A virtuous heart will overcome its folly, or be silent, and
+so might, perhaps, in time----But you----you may stay.
+
+
+
+
+Answer.
+
+
+I was a long time silent; your cold indifference forced me to speak at
+last. Virtue may possibly get the better of folly, but who can bear to
+be despised by one they love? I must be gone.
+
+
+
+
+Billet II. From Eloisa.
+
+
+No, Sir; after what you have seemed to feel; after what you have dared
+to tell me; a man, such as you feign yourself, will not fly; he will
+do more.
+
+
+
+
+Answer.
+
+
+I have feigned nothing except the _moderate_ passion of a heart filled
+with despair. To-morrow you shall be satisfied; and notwithstanding
+all you can say, the effort will be less painful than to fly from you.
+
+
+
+
+Billet III. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, do not dare to attempt thy
+own. I am beset, and can neither speak nor write to you till to-
+morrow. Wait.
+
+
+
+
+Letter IV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Must I then, at last, confess, the fatal, the ill-disguised, secret!
+How often have I sworn that it should never burst from my heart but
+with my life! Thy danger wrests it from me. It is gone, and my honour
+is lost for ever. Alas, I have but too religiously performed my vow;
+can there be a death more cruel than to survive one’s honour?
+
+What shall I say, how shall I break the painful silence? or rather,
+have I not said all, and am I not already too well understood? Alas!
+thou hast seen too much not to divine the rest; Imperceptibly deluded
+into the snare of the seducer, I see, without being able to avoid it,
+the horrid precipice before me. Artful man! It is not thy passion, but
+mine, that excites thy presumption. Thou observest the distraction of
+my soul; thou availest thyself of it to accomplish my ruin, and now
+that thou hast rendered me despicable, my greatest misfortune is, that
+I am forced to behold thee also in a despicable light. Ungrateful
+wretch! In return for my esteem, thou hast ruined me. Had I supposed
+thy heart capable of exulting, believe me, thou hadst never enjoyed
+this triumph.
+
+Well thou knowest, and it will increase thy remorse, that there was
+not in my soul one vicious inclination. My virtue and innocence were
+inexpressibly dear to me, and I pleased myself with the hopes of
+cherishing them in a life of industrious simplicity. But to what
+purpose my endeavour, since heaven rejects my offering? The very first
+day we met, I imbibed the poison which now infects my senses and my
+reason; I felt it instantly, and thy eyes, thy sentiments, thy
+discourse, thy guilty pen, daily increase its malignity.
+
+I have neglected nothing to stop the progress of this fatal passion.
+Sensible of my own weakness, how gladly would I have evaded the
+attack; but the eagerness of thy pursuit hath baffled my precaution. A
+thousand times I have resolved to cast myself at the feet of those who
+gave me being; a thousand times I have determined to open to them my
+guilty heart: but they can form no judgment of its condition; they
+would apply but common remedies to a desperate disease; my mother is
+weak and without authority; I know the inflexible severity of my
+father, and I should bring down ruin and dishonour upon myself, my
+family, and thee. My friend is absent, my brother is no more.
+
+I have not a protector in the world to save me from the persecution of
+my enemy. In vain I implore the assistance of heaven; heaven is deaf
+to the prayers of irresolution. Every thing conspires to increase my
+anxiety; every circumstance combines to abandon me to myself, or
+rather cruelly to deliver me up to thee; all nature seems thy
+accomplice; my efforts are vain, I adore thee in spite of myself. And
+shall that heart which, in its full vigour, was unable to resist,
+shall it only half surrender? Shall a heart which knows no
+dissimulation attempt to conceal the poor remains of its weakness? No,
+the first step was the most difficult, and the only one which I ought
+never to have taken. Shall I now pretend to stop at the rest? No, that
+first false step plunged me into the abyss, and my degree of misery is
+entirely in thy power.
+
+Such is my horrid situation, that I am forced to turn to the author of
+my misfortunes, and implore his protection against himself. I might, I
+know I might, have deferred this confession of my despair; I might,
+for some time longer, have disguised my shameful weakness, and by
+yielding gradually, have imposed upon myself. Vain dissimulation!
+which could only have flattered my pride, but could not save my
+virtue: away, away! I see but too plainly whither my first error
+tends, and shall not endeavour to prepare for, but to escape,
+perdition.
+
+Well then, if thou art not the very lowest of mankind, if the least
+spark of virtue lives within thy soul, if it retains any vestige of
+those sentiments of honour which seemed to penetrate thy heart, thou
+canst not possibly be so vile as to take any unjust advantage of a
+confession forced from me by a fatal distraction of my senses. No, I
+know thee well; thou wilt support my weakness, thou wilt become my
+safeguard, thou wilt defend my person against my own heart. Thy virtue
+is the last refuge of my innocence; my honour dares confide in thine,
+for thou canst not preserve one without the other. Ah! let thy
+generous soul preserve them both, and, at leas, for thy own sake, be
+merciful.
+
+Good God! am I thus sufficiently humbled? I write to thee on my knees;
+I bathe my paper with my tears; I pay to thee my timorous homage: and
+yet thou art not to believe me ignorant that it was in my power to
+have reversed the scene; and that, with a little art, which would have
+rendered me despicable in my own eyes, I might have been obeyed and
+worshipped. Take the frivolous empire, I relinquish it to my friend,
+but leave me, ah! leave me my innocence. I had rather live thy slave
+and preserve my virtue, than purchase thy disobedience at the price of
+my honour. Shouldst thou deign to hear me, what gratitude mayest thou
+not claim from her who will owe to thee the recovery of her reason?
+How charming must be the tender union of two souls unacquainted with
+guilt! Thy vanquished passions will prove the source of happiness, and
+thy pleasures will be worthy of heaven itself.
+
+I hope, nay I am confident, that the man to whom I have given my whole
+heart will not belie my opinion of his generosity; but I flatter
+myself also, if he is mean enough to take the least unseemly advantage
+of my weakness, that contempt and indignation will restore my senses,
+and that I am not yet sunk so low as to fear a lover for whom I should
+have reason to blush. Thou shalt be virtuous, or be despised; I will
+be respected, or be myself again; it is the only hope I have left,
+preferable to the hope of death.
+
+
+
+
+Letter V. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Celestial powers! I possessed a soul capable of affliction, O inspire
+me with one that can bear felicity! Divine love! spirit of my
+existence, O support me! for I sink down opprest with extasy. How
+inexpressible are the charms of virtue! How invincible the power of a
+beloved object! fortune, pleasure, transport, how poignant your
+impression! O how shall I withstand the rapid torrent of bliss which
+overflows my heart! and how dispel the apprehensions of a timorous
+maid? Eloisa----no! my Eloisa on her knees! My Eloisa weep!----Shall
+she, to whom the universe should bend, supplicate the man who adores
+her, to be careful of her honour, and to preserve his own? Were it
+possible for me to be out of humour with you, I should be a little
+angry at your fears; they are disgraceful to us both. Learn, thou
+chaste and heavenly beauty, to know better the nature of thy empire.
+If I adore thy charming person, is it not for the purity of that soul
+by which it is animated, and which bears such ineffable marks of its
+divine origin? You tremble with apprehension: good God! what hath she
+to fear, who stamps with reverence and honour every sentiment she
+inspires? Is there a man upon earth who could be vile enough to offer
+the least insult to such virtue?
+
+Permit, O permit me, to enjoy the unexpected happiness of being
+beloved----beloved by such----Ye princes of the world, I now look down
+upon your grandeur. Let me read a thousand and a thousand times, that
+enchanting epistle, where thy tender sentiments are painted in such
+strong and glowing colours; where I observe with transport,
+notwithstanding the violent agitation of thy soul, that even the most
+lively passions of a noble heart never lose sight of virtue. What
+monster, after having read that affecting letter, could take advantage
+of your generous confession, and attempt a crime which must infallibly
+make him wretched and despicable even to himself. No, my dearest
+Eloisa, there can be nothing to fear from a friend, a lover, who must
+ever be incapable of deceiving you. Though I should entirely have lost
+my reason, though the discomposure of my senses should hourly
+increase, your person will always appear to me, not only the most
+beautiful, but the most sacred deposit with which mortal was ever
+instructed. My passion, like its object, is unalterably pure. The
+horrid idea of incest does not shock me more than the thought of
+polluting your heavenly charms with a sacrilegious touch: you are not
+more inviolably safe with your own parent than with your lover. If
+ever that happy lover should in your presence forget himself but for a
+moment----O ’tis impossible. When I am no longer in love with virtue,
+my love for my Eloisa must expire: on my first offence, withdraw your
+affection and cast me off for ever.
+
+By the purity of our mutual tenderness, therefore, I conjure you,
+banish all your suspicion. Why should your fear exceed the passions of
+your lover! To what greater felicity can I aspire, when that with
+which I am blest, is already more than I am well able to support? We
+are both young, and in love unexperienced, it is true: but is that
+honour which conducts us, a deceitful guide? can that experience be
+needful which is acquired only from vice? I am strangely deceived, if
+the principles of rectitude are not rooted in the bottom of my heart.
+In truth, my Eloisa, I am no vile seducer, as, in your despair, you
+were pleased to call me; but am artless and of great sensibility,
+easily discovering my feelings, but feeling nothing at which I ought
+to blush. To say all in one word, my love for Eloisa is not greater
+than my abhorrence of the crime. I am even doubtful, whether the love
+which you inspire be not in its nature incompatible with vice; whether
+a corrupt heart could possibly feel its influence. As for me, the more
+I love you, the more exalted are my sentiments. Can there be any
+degree of virtue, however unattainable for its own sake, to which I
+would not aspire to become more worthy of my Eloisa?
+
+
+
+
+Letter VI. Eloisa To Clara.
+
+
+Is my dear cousin resolved to spend her whole life in bewailing her
+poor Chaillot, and will she forget the living because of the dead? I
+sympathize in your grief, and think it just, but shall it therefore be
+eternal? Since the death of your mother, she was assiduously careful
+of your education; she was your friend rather than your governess. She
+loved you with great tenderness, and me for your sake; her
+instructions were all intended to enrich our hearts with principles of
+honour and virtue. All this I know, my dear, and acknowledge it with
+gratitude; but confess with me also, that in some respects she acted
+very imprudently; that she often indiscreetly told us things with
+which we had no concern; that she entertained us eternally with maxims
+of gallantry, her own juvenile adventures, the management of amours;
+and that to avoid the snares of men, though she might tell us not to
+give ear to their protestations, yet she certainly instructed us in
+many things with which there was no necessity for young girls to be
+made acquainted. Reflect therefore upon her death as a misfortune, not
+without some consolation. To girls of our age, her lessons grew
+dangerous, and who knows but heaven may have taken her from us the
+very moment in which her removal became necessary to our future
+happiness. Remember the salutary advice you gave me when I was
+deprived of the best of brothers. Was Chaillot dearer to you? Is your
+loss greater than mine?
+
+Return, my dear, she has no longer any occasion for you. Alas! whilst
+you are wasting your time in superfluous affliction, may not your
+absence be productive of greater evils? Why are you not afraid, who
+know the beatings of my heart, to abandon your friend to misfortunes
+which your presence might prevent. O Clara! strange things have
+happened since your departure. You will tremble to hear the danger to
+which I have been exposed by my imprudence. Thank heaven, I hope I
+have now nothing to fear: but unhappily I am as it were at the mercy
+of another. You alone can restore me to myself: haste therefore to my
+assistance. So long as your attendance was of service to poor
+Chaillot, I was silent; I should even have been the first to exhort
+you to such an act of benevolence. Now that she is no more, her family
+are become the objects of your charity: of this obligation we could
+better acquit ourselves, if we were together, and your gratitude might
+be discharged without neglecting your friend.
+
+Since my father took his leave of us we have resumed our former manner
+of living. My mother leaves me less frequently alone; not that she has
+any suspicion. Her visits employ more time than would be proper for me
+to spare from my little studies, and in her absence Bab fills her
+place but negligently. Now though I do not think my good mother
+sufficiently watchful, I cannot resolve to tell her so. I would
+willingly provide for my own safety, without losing her esteem, and
+you alone are capable of managing this matter. Return then, my dear
+Clara, prithee return. I regret every lesson at which you are not
+present, and am fearful of becoming too learned. Our preceptor is not
+only a man of great merit, but of exemplary virtue, and therefore more
+dangerous. I am too well satisfied with him to be so with myself. For
+girls of our age, it is always safer to be two than one, be the man
+ever so virtuous.
+
+
+
+
+Letter VII. Answer.
+
+
+I understand, and tremble for you: not that I think your danger so
+great as your imagination would suggest. Your fears make me less
+apprehensive for the present; but I am terrified with the thought of
+what may hereafter happen: should you be unable to conquer your
+passion, what will become of you! Alas, poor Chaillot, how often has
+she foretold, that your first sigh would mark your fortune. Ah!
+Eloisa, so young, and thy destiny already accomplished? Much I fear we
+shall find the want of that sensible woman whom, in your opinion, we
+have lost for our advantage. Sure I am, it would be advantageous for
+us to fall into still safer hands; but she has made us too knowing to
+be governed by another, yet not sufficiently so to govern ourselves:
+she only was able to shield us from the danger to which, by her
+indiscretion, we are exposed. She was extremely communicative, and,
+considering our age, we ourselves seem to have thought pretty deeply.
+The ardent and tender friendship which hath united us, almost from our
+cradles, expanded our hearts, and ripened them into sensibility
+perhaps a little premature. We are not ignorant of the passions, as to
+their symptoms and effects; the art of suppressing them seems to be
+all we want. Heaven grant that our young philosopher may know this art
+better than we.
+
+By _we_ you know who I mean: for my part, Chaillot used always to say,
+that my giddiness would be my security in the place of reason, that I
+should never have sense enough to be in love, and that I was too
+constantly foolish to be guilty of a great folly. My dear Eloisa, be
+careful of yourself! the better she thought of your understanding, the
+more she was apprehensive of your heart. Nevertheless, let not your
+courage sink. Your prudence and your honour, I am certain, will exert
+their utmost, and I assure you, on my part, that friendship shall do
+every thing in its power. If we are too knowing for our years, yet our
+manners have been hitherto spotless and irreproachable. Believe me, my
+dear, there are many girls, who though they may have more simplicity,
+have less virtue than ourselves: we know what virtue means, and are
+virtuous by choice; and that seems to me the most secure.
+
+And yet, from what you have told me, I shall not enjoy a moment’s
+repose till we meet; for if you are really afraid, your danger is not
+entirely chimerical. It is true, the means of preservation are very
+obvious. One word to your mother, and the thing is done: but I
+understand you; the expedient is too conclusive: you would willingly
+be assured of not being vanquished, without losing the honour of
+having sustained the combat. Alas! my poor cousin----if there was the
+least glimmering----Baron D'Etange consent to give his daughter, his
+only child, to the son of an inconsiderable tradesman, without
+fortune! Dost thou presume to hope he will?----or what dost thou
+hope? what would’st thou have? poor Eloisa!----Fear nothing however
+on my account. Your friend will keep your secret. Many people might
+think it more honest to reveal it, perhaps they are right. For my
+part, who am no great casuist, I have no notion of that honesty, which
+is incompatible with confidence, faith, and friendship. I imagine that
+every relation, every age, have their peculiar maxims, duties, and
+virtues; but what might be prudence in another, in me would be
+perfidy; and that to confound these things, would more probably make
+us wicked than wise and happy. If your love be weak, we will overcome
+it; but if it be extreme, violent measures may produce a tragical
+catastrophe, and friendship will attempt nothing for which it cannot
+be answerable. After all, I flatter myself that I shall have little
+reason to complain of your conduct when I have you once under my eye.
+You shall see what it is to have a duenna of eighteen!
+
+You know, my dear girl, that I am not absent upon pleasure; and really
+the country is not so agreeable in the spring as you imagine: one
+suffers at this time both heat and cold; for the trees afford us no
+shade, and in the house it is too cold to live without fire. My father
+too, in the midst of his building, begins to perceive that the gazette
+comes later hither than to town; so that we all wish to return, and I
+hope to embrace thee in a few days. But what causes my inquietude is,
+that a few days make I know not what number of hours, many of which
+are destined to the philosopher: to the philosopher, cousin! you
+understand me. Think, O think, that the clock strikes those hours
+entirely for him!
+
+Do not blush, my dear girl, nor drop thy eyes, nor look grave; thy
+features will not suffer it. Thou knowest I never, in my life, could
+weep without laughing, and yet I have not less sensibility than other
+people: I do not feel our separation less severely, nor am less
+afflicted with the loss of poor Chaillot. Her family I am resolved
+never to abandon, and I sincerely thank my kind friend for her promise
+to assist me: but to let slip an opportunity of doing good, were to be
+no more thyself. I confess the good creature was rather too talkative,
+free enough on certain occasions, a little indiscreet with young
+girls, and that she was fond of old stories and times past. So that I
+do not so much regret the qualities of her mind, though among some bad
+ones, many of them were excellent: the loss which I chiefly deplore is
+the goodness of her heart, and that mixture of maternal and sisterly
+affection, which made her inexpressibly dear to me. My mother I scarce
+knew; I am indeed loved by my father, as much as is possible for him
+to love; your amiable brother is no more; and I very seldom see my
+own. Thus am I left desolate, like an orphan. You are my only
+consolation. Yes, my Eloisa lives, and I will weep no more!
+
+P. S. For fear of accident, I shall direct this letter to our
+preceptor.
+
+
+
+
+Letter VIII. [6] To Eloisa.
+
+
+O, my fair Eloisa, what a strange capricious deity is Love! My present
+felicity seems far to exceed my most sanguine expectations, and yet I
+am discontented. You love me, you confess your passion, and yet I
+sigh. My presumptuous heart dares to wish still farther, though all my
+wishes are gratified. I am punished with its wild imaginations; they
+render me unhappy in the very bosom of felicity. Do not, however,
+believe that I have forgotten the laws you have imposed, or lost the
+power of obedience: no, but I am displeased to find the observance of
+those laws irksome to me alone; that you, who not long ago, was all
+imbecility, are now become so great a heroine; and that you are so
+excessively careful to prevent every proof of my integrity.
+
+How you are changed, and _you_ alone, within these two months! Where
+is now your languor, your disgust, your dejected look? The graces have
+again resumed their post; your charms are all returned; the new-blown
+rose is not more fresh and blooming; you have recovered your vivacity
+and wit; you banter, even with me, as formerly; but what hurts me more
+than all this, is that you swear eternal fidelity with as much gaiety
+and good humour as if it were something droll, or indifferent.
+
+O, my fair inconstant! is this characteristic of an ungovernable
+passion? If you were, in any degree, at war with your inclinations,
+would not the constraint throw a damp upon your enjoyments? O how
+infinitely more amiable you were, when less beautiful! How do I regret
+that pathetic paleness, that precious assurance of a lover’s
+happiness, and hate the indiscretion of that health which you have
+recovered at the expense of my repose! Yes, I could be much better
+satisfied with your indisposition, than with that air of content,
+those sparkling eyes, that blooming complexion, which conspire to
+insult me. Have you already forgot the time when you were glad to sue
+for mercy? Eloisa, Eloisa! the violent tempest hath been very suddenly
+allayed.
+
+But what vexes me most, is that, after having committed yourself
+entirely to my honour, you should seem apprehensive and mistrustful
+where there is no danger. Is it thus I am rewarded for my discretion?
+Does my inviolable respect deserve to be thus affronted? Your father’s
+absence is so far from giving you more liberty, that it is now almost
+impossible to catch you alone. Your _constant_ cousin never leaves you
+a moment. I find we are insensibly returning to our former
+circumspection, with this difference only that what was then irksome
+to you is now become matter of amusement.
+
+What recompense can I expect for the purity of my adoration, if not
+your esteem? And to what purpose have I abstained even from the least
+indulgence, if it produces no gratitude? In short, I am weary of
+suffering ineffectually, and of living in a state of continued self-
+denial, without being allowed the merit of it. I cannot bear to be
+despised whilst you are growing every day more beautiful. Why am I to
+gaze eternally at those delicious fruits which my lips dare not touch?
+Must I relinquish all hope, without the satisfaction of a voluntary
+sacrifice? No, since you depend no longer upon my honour, it stands
+released from its vain engagement; your own precautions are
+sufficient. You are ungrateful, and I am too scrupulous; but for the
+future I am resolved not to reject the happiness which fortune, in
+spite of you, may throw in my way. Be it as it will, I find that I
+have taken upon me a charge that is above my capacity. Eloisa, you are
+once more your own guardian. I must resign the deposit which I cannot
+preserve without being tempted to a breach of faith, and which you
+yourself are able to secure with less difficulty than you were pleased
+to imagine.
+
+I speak seriously; depend upon your own strength, else banish me, or
+in other words, deprive me of existence. The promise I made, was rash
+and inconsiderate; and I am amazed how I have been able to keep it so
+long. I confess it ought to remain for ever inviolable; but of that I
+now perceive the impossibility. He who wantonly exposes his virtue to
+such severe trials, deserves to fall. Believe me, fairest among women!
+by him who desired life only on your account, you will always be
+honoured and respected; but reason may forsake me, and my intoxicated
+senses may hint the perpetration of a crime, which, in my cooler
+hours, I should abhor. I am however happy in the reflection that I
+have not hitherto abused your confidence. Two whole months have I
+triumphed over myself; but I am intitled to the reward due to as many
+ages of torment.
+
+
+
+
+Letter IX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I comprehend you: the pleasures of vice, and the reward of virtue,
+would just constitute the felicity you wish to enjoy. Are these your
+morals? Truly, my good friend, your generosity had a short duration.
+Is it possible that it could be entirely the effect of art? There is
+something droll, however, in complaining of my health. Was it that you
+hoped to see it entirely destroyed by my ridiculous passion, and
+expected to have me at your feet, imploring your pity to save my life?
+or did you treat me with respect whilst I continued frightful, with an
+intention to retract your promise as soon as I should, in any degree,
+become an object of desire? I see nothing so vastly meritorious in
+such a sacrifice.
+
+With equal justice, you are pleased to reproach me for the care I have
+lately taken to prevent those painful combats with yourself, when in
+reality you ought to deem it an obligation. You then retract your
+engagement, on account of its being too burthensome a duty; so that in
+the same breath, you complain of having too much trouble, and of not
+having enough. Recollect yourself a little, and endeavour to be more
+uniform, that your pretended sufferings may have a less frivolous
+appearance: or perhaps it would be more advisable to put off that
+dissimulation which is inconsistent with your character. Say what you
+will, your heart is much better satisfied with mine than you would
+have me think. Ungrateful man! you are but too well acquainted with
+its feelings. Even your own letter contradicts you by the gaiety of
+its stile; you would not have so much wit if you had less tranquility.
+But, enough of vain reproach to you: let me now reproach myself; it
+will probably be with more reason.
+
+The content and serenity with which I have been blest of late, is
+inconsistent with my former declaration, and I confess you have cause
+to be surprized at the contrast. You were then a witness to my
+despair, and you now behold in me too much tranquility; hence you
+pronounce me inconstant and capricious. Be not, my good friend, too
+severe in your judgment. This heart of mine cannot be known in one
+day. Have patience, and, in time, you may probably discover it to be
+not unworthy your regard.
+
+Unless you were sensible how much I was shocked when I first detected
+my heart in its passion for you, it is impossible to form any idea of
+what I suffered. The maxims I imbibed in my education were so
+extremely severe, that love, however pure, seemed highly criminal. I
+was taught to believe, that a young girl of sensibility was ruined the
+moment she suffered a tender expression to pass her lips: my
+disordered imagination confounded the crime with the confession of my
+love, and I had conceived so terrible an idea of the first step, that
+I saw little or no interval between that and the last. An extreme
+diffidence of myself increased the alarm; the struggles of modesty
+appeared to be those of virtue; and the uneasiness of silence seemed
+the importunity of desire. The moment I had spoke I concluded myself
+lost beyond redemption; and yet I must have spoken, or have parted
+with you for ever. Thus, unable to disguise my sentiments, I endeavoured
+to excite your generosity, and depending rather upon you than on
+myself, I chose to engage your honour in my defence, as I could have
+little reliance on a resource of which I believed myself already
+deprived.
+
+I soon discovered my error: I had scarce opened my mind when I found
+myself much easier; the instant I received your answer I became
+perfectly calm; and two months experience has informed me that my too
+tender heart hath need of love, but that my senses can rest satisfied
+without a lover. Now judge, you who are a lover of virtue, what joy I
+must have felt at this discovery. Emerged from the profound ignominy
+into which my fears had plunged me, I now taste the delicious pleasure
+of a guiltless passion: it constitutes all my happiness; it hath
+influenced my temper and my health, I can conceive no paradise on
+earth equal to the union of love and innocence.
+
+I feared you no longer; and when I endeavoured to avoid being alone
+with you, it was rather for your sake than my own. Your eyes, your
+sighs betrayed more transport than prudence; but though _you_ had
+forgotten the bounds you yourself prescribed, _I_ should not.
+
+Alas, my friend, I wish I could communicate to you that tranquility of
+soul which I now enjoy! Would it were in my power to teach you to be
+contented and happy! What fear, what shame can imbitter our felicity?
+In the bosom of love we might talk of virtue without a blush.
+
+_E v’ è il piacer con l’ onestade accanto._
+
+And yet a strange foreboding whispers to my heart, that these are the
+only days of happiness allotted us by heaven. Our future prospect
+presents nothing to my view, but absence, anxiety, dangers and
+difficulties. The least change in our present situation must
+necessarily be for the worse. Were we even united for ever, I am not
+certain whether our happiness would not be destroyed by its excess;
+the moment of possession is a dangerous crisis.
+
+I conjure thee, my kind, my only friend, endeavour to calm the
+turbulence of those vain desires which are always followed by regret,
+repentance and sorrow. Let us peaceably enjoy our present felicity.
+You have a pleasure in giving me instruction, and you know, but too
+well, with what delight I listen to be instructed. Let your lessons be
+yet more frequent, that we may be as little asunder as decency will
+allow. Our absent moments shall be employed in writing to each other,
+and thus none of the precious time will pass in vain, which one day
+possibly we might give the world to recall. Would to heaven, that our
+present happiness might end only with our lives! To improve one’s
+understanding, to adorn one’s mind, to indulge one’s heart: can there
+possibly be any addition to our felicity?
+
+
+
+
+Letter X. To Eloisa.
+
+
+How entirely was my Eloisa in the right when she said that I did not
+yet know her sufficiently! I constantly flatter myself that I have
+discovered every excellence of her soul, when new beauties daily meet
+my observation. What woman, but yourself, could ever unite virtue and
+tenderness so as to add new charms to both? In spite of myself I am
+forced to admire and approve that prudence which deprives me of all
+comfort, and there is something so excessively engaging in the manner
+of imposing your prohibitions, that I almost receive them with
+delight.
+
+I am every day more positive, that there is no happiness equal to that
+of being beloved by Eloisa; and so entirely am I of this opinion that
+I would not prefer even the person of Eloisa to the possession of her
+heart. But why this bitter alternative? Can things be incompatible
+which are united in nature? Our time, you say, is precious; let us
+enjoy our good fortune without troubling its pure stream with our
+impatience. Be it so: but shall we, because we are moderately happy,
+reject supreme felicity? Is not all that time lost which might have
+been better employed? If it were possible to live a thousand years in
+one quarter of an hour, what purpose would it answer to tell over the
+tedious number of days when they were past?
+
+Your opinion of our present situation is very just; I am convinced I
+ought to be happy, and yet I am much the reverse. The dictates of
+wisdom may continue to flow from your lips, but the voice of nature is
+stronger than yours: and how can we avoid listening to her, when she
+speaks the language of our own hearts? Of all sublunary things, I know
+of nothing, except yourself, which deserves a moment’s attention.
+Without you, nature would have no allurements: her empire is in your
+charms, and there she is irresistible.
+
+Your heart, divine Eloisa, feels none of this. You are content to
+ravish our senses, and are not at war with your own. It should seem
+that your soul is too sublime for human passions, and that you have
+not only the beauty but the purity of angels: a purity which murmuring
+I revere, and to which I would gladly aspire. But, no: I am condemned
+to creep upon the earth, and to behold Eloisa a constellation in the
+heavens. O may you continue to be happy though I am wretched; enjoy
+your virtues; and perdition catch the vile mortal who shall ever
+attempt to tarnish one of them! Yes, my Eloisa, be happy, and I will
+endeavour to forget my own misery, in the recollection of your bliss.
+If I know my heart, my love is as spotless as its adorable object. The
+passions which your charms have inflamed, are extinguished by the
+purity of your soul; I dare not disturb its serenity. Whenever I am
+tempted to take the least liberty, I find myself restrained rather by
+the dread of interrupting your peace of mind, than by the fear of
+offending. In my pursuit of happiness, I have considered only in what
+degree it might affect my Eloisa; and finding it incompatible with
+hers, I can be wretched without repining.
+
+With what inexplicable, jarring, sentiments you have inspired me! I am
+at once submissive and daring, mild and impetuous. Your looks inflame
+my heart with love, and when I hear your voice I am captivated with
+the charms of innocence. If ever I presume to indulge a wishful idea,
+it is in your absence. Your image in my mind is the only object of my
+passionate adoration.
+
+And yet I languish and consume away; my blood is all on fire, and
+every attempt to damp the flame serves but to increase its fervour.
+Still I have cause to think myself very happy; and so I do. Surely I
+have little reason to complain, when I would not change my situation
+with the greatest monarch on earth. But yet some sad fiend torments me
+whose pursuits it is impossible to elude. Methinks I would not die,
+and yet I am daily expiring; for you only I wish to live, and you
+alone are the cause of my death.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+My attachment to my dear friend grows every day stronger; your absence
+becomes insupportable, and I have no relief but in my pen. Thus my
+love keeps pace with yours; for I judge of your passion by your real
+fear of offending: your former fears were only feigned, with an intent
+to advance your cause. It is an easy matter to distinguish the
+dictates of an afflicted heart from the phrenzy of a heated
+imagination, and I see a thousand times more affection in your present
+constraint than in your former delirium. I know also that your
+situation, confined as it is, is not entirely bereft of pleasure. A
+sincere lover must be very happy in making frequent sacrifices to a
+grateful mistress, when he is assured that not one of them will be
+forgotten, but that she will treasure the remembrance in her heart.
+
+But who knows whether, presuming on my sensibility, this may not be a
+deeper, and therefore a more dangerous plot than the former? O, no!
+the supposition was unjust; you certainly cannot mean to deceive me.
+And yet prudence tells me to be more suspicious of compassion than
+even of love; for I find myself more affected by your respect than by
+all your transport: so that, as you are grown more honest, you are
+become in proportion more formidable.
+
+In the overflowing of my heart I will tell you a truth, of which your
+own feelings cannot fail to convince you: it is, that in spite of
+fortune, parents, and of ourselves, our fates are united for ever, and
+we can be only happy or miserable together. Our souls, if I may use
+the expression, touch in all points, and we feel an entire coherence:
+correct me if I speak unphilosophically. Our destiny may part us, but
+cannot disunite us. Henceforward our pains and pleasures must be
+mutual; and, like the magnets, of which I have heard you speak, that
+have the same motion though in different places, we should have the
+same sensations at the two extremities of the world.
+
+Banish, therefore, the vain hope, if you ever entertained it, of
+exclusive happiness to be purchased at the expense of mine. Do not
+flatter yourself with the idle prospect of felicity founded upon
+Eloisa’s dishonour, or imagine that you could behold my ignominy and
+my tears, without horror. Believe me, my dear friend, I know your
+heart better than yourself. A passion so tender and so true, cannot
+possibly excite an impure wish; but we are so attached, that if we
+were on the brink of perdition it would be impossible for us to fall
+singly; of my ruin yours is the inevitable consequence.
+
+I should be glad to convince you how necessary it is for us both that
+I should be entrusted with the care of our destiny. Can you doubt that
+you are as dear to me as myself, or that I can enjoy any happiness
+exclusive of yours? No, my dear friend, our interest is exactly the
+same, but I have rather more at stake, and have therefore more reason
+to be watchful. I own I am youngest; but did you never observe that if
+reason be generally weaker and sooner apt to decay in our sex, it also
+comes more early to maturity than in yours? as in vegetation the most
+feeble plants arrive at their perfection and dissolution in the least
+time. We find ourselves, from our first conception of things,
+instructed with so valuable a treasure, that our dread of consequences
+soon unfolds our judgment, and an early sense of our danger excites
+our vigilance.
+
+In short, the more I reflect upon our situation, the more I am
+convinced that love and reason join in my request: suffer yourself
+then to be lead by the gentle deity; for though he is blind, he is not
+without a guide.
+
+I am not quite certain that this language of my heart will be
+perfectly intelligible to yours, or that my letter will be read with
+the same emotion with which it was written: nor am I convinced that
+particular objects will ever appear to us in the same light; but
+certain I am, that the advice of either which tends least towards
+separate happiness, is that which we ought to follow.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+O my Eloisa, how pathetic is the language of nature! How plainly do I
+perceive in your last letter, the serenity of innocence and the
+solicitude of love! Your sentiments are exprest without art or
+trouble, and convey a more delicious sensation to the mind, than all
+the refined periods of studied elocution. Your reasons are
+incontrovertible, but urged with such an air of simplicity, that they
+seem less cogent at first than they really are; and your manner of
+expressing the sublimest sentiments is so natural and easy, that
+without reflection one is apt to mistake them for common opinions.
+
+Yes, my Eloisa, the care of our destiny shall be entirely yours: not
+because it is your right, but as your duty, and as a piece of justice
+I expect from your reason, for the injury you have done to mine. From
+this moment to the end of my life, I resign myself to your will;
+dispose of me as of one who hath no interest of his own, and whose
+existence hath no connection but with you. Doubt not that I will fly
+from my resolution, be the terms you impose ever so rigorous; for
+though I myself should profit nothing by my obedience, if it adds but
+one jot to your felicity, I am sufficiently rewarded. Therefore I
+relinquish to you without reserve, the entire care of our common
+happiness; secure but your own and I will be satisfied. As for me, who
+can neither forget you a single moment, nor think of you without
+forbidden emotion, I will now give my whole attention to the
+employment you were pleased to assign me.
+
+It is now just a year since we began our studies, and hitherto they
+have been directed partly by chance, rather with a design to consult
+your taste than to improve it. Besides, our hearts were too much
+fluttered to leave us the perfect use of our senses. Our eyes wandered
+from the book, and our lips pronounced words, without any ideas. I
+remember, your arch cousin, whose mind was unengaged, used frequently
+to reproach us with want of conception; she seemed delighted to leave
+us behind, and soon grew more knowing than her preceptor. Now though
+we have sometimes smiled at her pretensions, she is really the only
+one of the three who retains any part of our reading.
+
+But to retrieve, in some degree, the time we have lost, (Ah! Eloisa,
+was ever time more happily spent?) I have formed a kind of plan, which
+may possibly, by the advantage of method, in some measure, compensate
+our neglect. I send it you inclosed; we will read it together; at
+present I shall only make a few general observations on the subject.
+
+If, my charming friend, we were inclined to parade with our learning,
+and to study for the world rather than for ourselves, my system would
+be a bad one; for it tends only to extract a little from a vast
+multiplicity of things, and from a large library to select a small
+number of books.
+
+Science, in general, may be considered as a coin of great value, but
+of use to the possessor, only in as much as it is communicated to
+others; it is valuable but as a commodity in traffic. Take from the
+learned the pleasure of being heard, and their love of knowledge would
+vanish. They do not study to obtain wisdom, but the reputation of it:
+philosophy would have no charms if the philosopher had no admirers.
+For our parts, who have no design but to improve our minds, it will be
+most advisable, to read little and think much; or, which is better,
+frequently to talk over the subjects on which we have been reading. I
+am of opinion, when once the understanding is a little developed by
+reflection, it is better to reason for ourselves than to depend upon
+books for the discovery of truth; for by that means it will make a
+much stronger impression; whilst on the contrary, by taking things for
+granted, we view objects by halves and in a borrowed light. We are
+born rich, says Montaigne, and yet our whole education consists in
+borrowing. We are taught to accumulate continually, and, like true
+misers, we chuse rather to use the wealth of other men, than break
+into our own store.
+
+I confess there are many people whom the method I propose would not
+suit, who ought to _read much_ and _think little_, because every
+borrowed reflection is better than any thing they could have produced.
+But I recommend the contrary to you, who improve upon every book you
+read. Let us therefore mutually communicate our ideas; I will relate
+the opinions of others, then you shall tell me yours upon the same
+subject, and thus shall I frequently gather more instruction from our
+lecture than yourself.
+
+The more we contract our circle, the more necessary it is to be
+circumspect in the choice of our authors. The grand error of young
+students, as I told you before, is a too implicit dependence upon
+books, and too much diffidence in their own capacity; without
+reflecting that they are much less liable to be misled by their own
+reason, than by the sophistry of systematical writers. If we would but
+consult our own feelings, we should easily distinguish _virtue_ and
+_beauty_: we do not want to be taught either of these; but examples of
+extreme virtue, and superlative beauty are less common, and these are
+therefore more difficult to be understood. Our vanity leads us to
+mistake our own peculiar imbecility for that of nature, and to think
+those qualities chimerical which we do not perceive within ourselves;
+idleness and vice rest upon pretended impossibility, and men of little
+genius conclude that things which are uncommon have no existence.
+These errors we must endeavour to eradicate, and by using ourselves to
+contemplate grand objects, destroy the notion of their impossibility:
+thus, by degrees, our emulation is roused by example, our taste
+refines, and every thing indifferent becomes intolerable.
+
+But let us not have recourse to books for principles which may be
+found within ourselves. What have we to do with the idle disputes of
+philosophers, concerning virtue and happiness? Let us rather employ
+that time in being virtuous and happy, which others waste in fruitless
+enquiries after the means: let us rather imitate great examples, than
+busy ourselves with systems and opinions.
+
+I always believed, that virtue was in reality active beauty; or at
+least that they were intimately connected, and sprung from the same
+source in nature. From this idea it follows, that wisdom and taste are
+to be improved by the same means, and that a mind truly sensible of
+the charms of virtue, must receive an equal impression from every
+other kind of beauty. Yet accurate and refined perceptions are to be
+acquired only by habit; and hence it is, that we see a painter, in
+viewing a fine prospect or a good picture, in raptures at certain
+objects, which a common observer would not even have seen. How many
+real impressions do we perceive, which we cannot account for? How many
+_Je-ne-sais-quois_ frequently occur, which taste only can determine?
+Taste is, in some degree, the microscope of judgment; it brings small
+objects to our view, and its operations begin where those of judgment
+end. How then shall we proceed in its cultivation? By exercising our
+sight as well as feeling, and by judging of the beautiful from
+inspection, as we judge of virtue from sensation. I am persuaded there
+may be some hearts upon which the first sight, even of Eloisa, would
+make no impression.
+
+For this reason, my lovely scholar, I limit your studies to books of
+taste and manners. For this reason, changing my precepts into
+examples, I shall give you no other definitions of virtue than the
+pictures of virtuous men; nor other rules for writing well, than books
+which are well written.
+
+Be not surprized that I have thus contracted the circle of your
+studies; it will certainly render them more useful: I am convinced, by
+daily experience, that all instruction which tends not to improve the
+mind, is not worth your attention. We will diminish the languages,
+except the Italian, which you understand and admire. We will discard
+our elements of algebra and geometry. We would even quit our
+philosophy were it not for the utility of its terms. We will, for
+ever, renounce modern history, except that of our own country, and
+that only on account of our liberty, and the ancient simplicity of our
+manners: for let nobody persuade you that the history of one’s own
+country is the most interesting; it is false. The history of some
+countries will not even bear reading. The most interesting history is,
+that which furnishes the most examples, manners, and characters; in a
+word, the most instruction. We are told that we possess all these in
+as great a degree as the ancients; but turn to their histories and you
+will be convinced that this is also a mistake.
+
+There are people whose faces are so unmeaning, that the best painter
+cannot catch their likeness, and there are governments so
+uncharacteristic as to want no historian; but able historians will
+never be wanting where there is matter deserving the pen of a good
+writer. In short, they tell us that men are alike in all ages, that
+their virtues and vices are the same, and that we admire the ancients
+only because they are ancients. This is also false: in former times
+great effects were produced by trifling causes, but in our days it is
+just the reverse. The ancients were cotemporary with their historians,
+and yet we have learnt to admire them: should posterity ever admire
+our modern historians, they certainly will not have grounded their
+opinion upon ours.
+
+Out of regard to our _constant_ companion, I consent to a few volumes
+of belles lettres, which I should not have recommended to you. Except
+Petrarch, Tasso, Metastasio, and the best French theatrical authors, I
+leave you none of those amorous poets, which are the common amusement
+of your sex. The most inspired of them all cannot teach us to love?
+Ah, Eloisa, we are better instructed by our own hearts! The phrases
+borrowed from books are cold and insipid to us who speak the language
+of our souls. It is a kind of reading which cramps the imagination,
+enervates the mind, and dims its original brightness. On the contrary,
+real love influences all our sentiments, and animates them with new
+vigour.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I told you we were happy, and nothing proves it more than the
+uneasiness we feel upon the least change in our situation: if it were
+not true, why should two days separation give us so much pain? I say
+_us_, for I know my friend shares my impatience; he feels my
+uneasiness, and is unhappy upon his own account; but to tell me this
+were now superfluous.
+
+We have been in the country since last night only; the hour is not yet
+come in which I should see you if I were in town; and yet this
+distance makes me already find your absence almost insupportable. If
+you had not prohibited geometry, I should say, that my inquietude
+increases in a compound ratio of the intervals of time and space; so
+sensible am I that the pain of absence is increased by distance. I
+have brought with me your letter, and your plan of study, for my
+meditation; I have read the first already twice over, and own I was a
+good deal affected with the conclusion. I perceive, my dear friend,
+that your passion deserves the name of real love, because you still
+preserve your sense of honour, and are capable of sacrificing every
+thing to virtue. To delude a woman in the disguise of her preceptor is
+surely, of all the wiles of seduction, the most unpardonable; and he
+must have very little resource in himself, who would attempt to move
+his mistress by the assistance of romance. If you had availed yourself
+of philosophy to forward your designs, or if you had endeavoured to
+establish maxims favourable to your interest, those very methods of
+deceit would soon have undeceived me; but you have more honesty, and
+are therefore more dangerous. From the first moment I perceived in my
+heart the least spark of love, and the desire of a lasting attachment,
+I petitioned heaven to unite me to a man whose soul was amiable rather
+than his person; for well I knew that the charms of the mind were
+least liable to disgust, and that probity and honour adorn every
+sentiment of the heart. I chose with propriety, and therefore, like
+Solomon, I have obtained, not only what I asked for, but also what I
+did not ask. I look upon this as a good omen, and I do not despair but
+I shall, one day, have it in my power to make my dear friend as happy
+as he deserves. We have indeed many obstacles to surmount, and the
+expedients are slow, doubtful and difficult. I dare not flatter myself
+too much; be assured, however, that nothing shall be forgotten which
+the united efforts of love and patience can accomplish. Mean while,
+continue to humour my mother, and prepare yourself for the return of
+my father, who at last retires, after thirty years services. You must
+learn to endure the haughtiness of a hasty old gentleman, jealous of
+his honour, who will love you without flattering, and esteem you
+without many professions.
+
+I broke off here to take a ramble in the neighbouring woods. You, my
+amiable friend, you were my companion, or rather I carried thee in my
+heart. I sought those paths which I imagined we should have trod, and
+marked the shades which seemed worthy to receive us. The delightful
+solitude of the groves seemed to heighten our sensibility, and the
+woods themselves appeared to receive additional beauty from the
+presence of two such faithful lovers.
+
+Amidst the natural bowers of this charming place, there is one still
+more beautiful than the rest, with which I am most delighted, and
+where, for that reason, I intend to surprize you. It must not be said
+that I want generosity to reward your constant respect. I would
+convince you, in spite of vulgar opinions, that voluntary favours are
+more valuable than those obtained by importunity. But lest the
+strength of your imagination should lead you too far, I must inform
+you, that we will not visit these pleasant bowers without my _constant
+companion_.
+
+Now I have mentioned my cousin, I am determined, if it does not
+displease you, that you shall accompany her hither on Monday next. You
+must not fail to be with her at ten o’clock. My mother’s chaise will
+be there about that time; you shall spend the whole day with us, and
+we will return all together the next day after dinner.
+
+I had wrote so far when I bethought myself, that I have not the same
+opportunity here, for the conveyance of my letter, as in town. I once
+had an inclination to send you one of your books by Gustin the
+gardener’s son, and to inclose my letter in the cover. But, as there
+is a possibility that you may not be aware of this contrivance, it
+would be unpardonably imprudent to risk our all on so precarious a
+bottom. I must therefore be contented to signify the intended
+rendezvous on Monday by a billet, and I will myself give you this
+letter. Besides, I was a little apprehensive lest you might comment
+too freely on the mystery of the bower.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XIV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Ah! Eloisa, Eloisa! what have you done? You meant to requite me, and
+you are the cause of my ruin. I am intoxicated, or rather, I am mad.
+My brains are turned, all my senses are disordered by this fatal kiss.
+You designed to alleviate my pain; but you have cruelly increased my
+torment. The poison I have imbibed from your lips will destroy me, my
+blood boils within my veins; I shall die, and your pity will but
+hasten my death.
+
+O immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting
+moment! Never, never to be effaced so long as Eloisa lives within my
+soul; till my heart is deprived of all sensation thou wilt continue
+to be the happiness and torment of my life!
+
+Alas! I possessed an apparent tranquility; resigned myself entirely to
+your supreme will, and never murmured at the fate you condescended to
+overrule. I had conquered the impetuous sallies of my imagination; I
+disguised my looks, and put a lock upon my heart; I but half expressed
+my desires, and was as content as possible. Thus your billet found me,
+and I flew to your cousin; we arrived at Clarens, my heart beat quick
+at the sight of my beloved Eloisa; her sweet voice caused a strange
+emotion; I became almost transported, and it was lucky for me that
+your cousin was present to engage your mother’s attention. We rambled
+in the garden, dined comfortably, you found an opportunity,
+unperceived, to give me your charming letter, which I durst not open
+before this formidable witness; the sun began to decline, and we
+hastened to the woods for the benefit of shade. Alas! I was quite
+happy, and I did not even conceive a state of greater bliss.
+
+As we approached the bower, I perceived, not without a secret emotion,
+your significant winks, your mutual smiles, and the increasing glow in
+thy charming cheeks. Soon as we entered, I was surprized to see your
+cousin approach me, and with an affected air of humility, ask me for a
+kiss. Without comprehending the mystery, I complied with her request;
+and, charming as she is, I never could have had a more convincing
+proof of the insipidity of those sensations which proceed not from the
+heart. But what became of me a moment after, when I felt----My hands
+shook----A gentle tremor----Thy balmy lips----My Eloisa’s lips----
+touch, pressed to mine, and myself within her arms? Quicker than
+lightening a sudden fire darted through my soul. I seemed all over
+sensible of the ravishing condescension, and my heart sunk down
+oppressed with insupportable delight; when all at once, I perceived
+your colour change, your eyes close; you leant upon your cousin, and
+fainted away. Fear extinguished all my joy, and my happiness vanished
+like a shadow.
+
+I scarce know any thing that has past since that fatal moment. The
+impression it has made on my heart will never be effaced. A
+favour?----it is an extreme torment----No, keep thy kisses, I cannot
+bear them----They are too penetrating, too painful----they distract
+me. I am no more myself, and you appear to me no more the same object.
+You seem not as formerly chiding and severe; but methinks I see and
+feel thee lovely and tender as at that happy instant when I pressed
+thee to my bosom. O Eloisa! whatever may be the consequence of my
+ungovernable passion, use me as severely as you please, I cannot
+exist in my present condition, and I perceive I must at last expire
+at your feet----or in your arms.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+It is necessary, my dear friend, that we should part for some time: I
+ask it as the first proof of that obedience you have so often
+promised. If I am urgent in my request, you may be assured I have good
+reason for it: indeed I have, and you are too well convinced that I
+must to be able to take this resolution; for your part, you will be
+satisfied, since it is my desire.
+
+You have long talked of taking a journey into Valais. I wish you would
+determine to go before the approach of winter. Autumn, in this
+country, still wears a mild and serene aspect; but you see the tops of
+the mountains are already white, and six weeks later you should not
+have my consent to take such a rough journey. Resolve therefore to set
+out to-morrow: you will write to me by the direction which I shall
+send, and you will give me yours when you arrive at Sion.
+
+You would never acquaint me with the situation of your affairs; but
+you are not in your own country; your fortune I know is small, and I
+am persuaded you must diminish it here, where you stay only upon my
+account. I look upon myself therefore as your purse-bearer, and send
+you a small matter in the little box, which you must not open before
+the bearer. I will not anticipate difficulties, and I have too great
+an esteem for you to believe you capable of making any on this
+occasion.
+
+I beg you will not return without my permission, and also that you
+will take no leave of us. You may write to my mother or me, merely to
+inform us, that some unforeseen business requires your presence, that
+you are obliged to depart immediately; and you may, if you please,
+send me some directions concerning my studies, until you return. You
+must be careful to avoid the least appearance of mystery. Adieu, my
+dear friend, and forget not that you take with you the heart and soul
+of Eloisa.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XVI. Answer.
+
+
+Every line of your terrible letter made me shudder. But I will obey
+you; I have promised, and it is my duty: yes, you shall be obeyed. But
+you cannot conceive, no, barbarous Eloisa, you will never comprehend
+how this cruel sacrifice affects my heart. There wanted not the trial
+in the bower to increase my sensibility. It was a merciless refinement
+of inhumanity, and I now defy you to make me more miserable.
+
+I return your box unopened. To add ignominy to cruelty is too much;
+you are indeed the mistress of my fate, but not of my honour, I will
+myself preserve this sacred deposit; alas! it is the only treasure I
+have left! and I will never part with it so long as I live.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XVII. Reply.
+
+
+Your letter excites my compassion; it is the only senseless thing you
+have ever written.
+
+I affront your honour! I would rather sacrifice my life. Do you
+believe it possible that I should mean to injure your honour? Ingrate!
+Too well thou knowest that for thy sake I had almost sacrificed my
+own. But tell me what is this honour which I have offended? Ask thy
+groveling heart, thy indelicate soul. How despicable art thou if thou
+hast no honour but that which is unknown to Eloisa! Shall those whose
+hearts are one, scruple to share their possessions? Shall he who calls
+himself mine refuse my gifts? Since when is it become dishonourable to
+receive from those we love? But the man is despised whose wants exceed
+his fortune. Despised! by whom? By those abject souls who place their
+honour in their wealth, and estimate their virtue by their weight of
+gold. But is this the honour of a good man? Is virtue less honourable
+because it is poor?
+
+Undoubtedly there are presents which a man of honour ought not to
+accept; but I must tell you, those are equally dishonourable to the
+person by whom they are offered; and that what may be given with
+honour, it cannot be dishonourable to receive: now my heart is so far
+from reproaching me with what I did, that it glories in the motive.
+Nothing can be more despicable than a man whose love and assiduities
+are bought, except the woman by whom they are purchased. But where two
+hearts are united, it is so reasonable and just that their fortunes
+should be in common, that if I have reserved more than my share, I
+think myself indebted to you for the overplus. If the favours of love
+are rejected, how shall our hearts express their gratitude?
+
+But, lest you should imagine that in my design to supply your wants I
+was inattentive to my own, I will give you an indisputable proof of
+the contrary. Know then, that the purse which I now return contains
+double the sum it held before, and that I could have redoubled it if I
+had pleased. My father gives me a certain allowance, moderate indeed,
+but which my mother’s kindness renders it unnecessary for me to touch.
+As to my lace and embroidery, they are the produce of my own industry.
+It is true, I was not always so rich; but, I know not how, my
+attention to a certain fatal passion has of late made me neglect a
+thousand little expensive superfluities; which is another reason why I
+should dispose of it in this manner: it is but just that you should be
+humbled as a punishment for the evil you have caused, and that love
+should expiate the crimes he occasions.
+
+But to the point. You say your honour will not suffer you to accept my
+gift. If this be true, I have nothing more to say, and am entirely of
+opinion that you cannot be too positive in this respect. If therefore
+you can prove this to be the case, I desire it may be done clearly,
+incontestably, and without evasion; for you know I hate all appearance
+of sophistry. You may then return the purse; I will receive it without
+complaining, and you shall hear no more of this affair.
+
+You will be pleased, however, to remember, that I neither like false
+honour, nor people who are affectedly punctilious. If you return the
+box without a justification, or if your justification be not
+satisfactory, we must meet no more. Think of this. Adieu.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XVIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I received your present, I departed without taking leave, and am now a
+considerable distance from you. Am I sufficiently obedient? Is your
+tyranny satisfied?
+
+I can give you no account of my journey; for I remember nothing more
+than that I was three days in travelling twenty leagues. Every step I
+took seemed to tear my soul from my body, and thus to anticipate the
+pain of death. I intended to have given you a description of the
+country through which I passed. Vain project! I beheld nothing but
+you, and can describe nothing but Eloisa. The repeated emotions of my
+heart threw me into a continued distraction; I imagined myself to be
+where I was not; I had hardly sense enough left to ask or follow my
+road, and I am arrived at Sion without ever leaving Vevey.
+
+Thus I have discovered the secret of eluding your cruelty, and of
+seeing you without disobeying your command. No, Eloisa, with all your
+rigour, it is not in your power to separate me from you entirely. I
+have dragged into exile but the most inconsiderable part of myself; my
+soul must remain with you for ever: with impunity, it explores your
+beauty, dwells in rapture upon every charm; and I am happier in
+despite of you than I ever was by your permission.
+
+Unfortunately, I have here some people to visit and some necessary
+business to transact. I am least wretched in solitude, where I can
+employ all my thoughts upon Eloisa, and transport myself to her in
+imagination. Every employment which calls off my attention, is become
+insupportable. I will hurry over my affairs, that I may be soon at
+liberty to wander through the solitary wilds of this delightful
+country. Since I must not live with you, I will shun all society with
+mankind.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XIX. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I am now detained here only by your order. Those five days have been
+more than sufficient to finish my own concerns, if things may be so
+called in which the heart has no interest: so that now you have no
+pretence to prolong my exile, unless with design to torment me.
+
+I begin to be very uneasy about the fate of my first letter. It was
+written and sent by the post immediately upon my arrival, and the
+direction was exactly copied from that which you transmitted me: I
+sent you mine with equal care; so that if you had answered me
+punctually, I must have received your letter before now. Yet this
+letter does not appear, and there is no possible fatality which I have
+not supposed to be the cause of its delay. O Eloisa, how many
+unforeseen accidents may have happened in the space of one week, to
+dissolve the most perfect union that ever existed! I shudder to think
+that there are a thousand means to make me miserable, and only one by
+which I can possibly be happy. Eloisa, is it that I am forgotten! God
+forbid! that were to be miserable indeed. I am prepared for any other
+misfortune; but all the powers of my soul sicken at the bare idea of
+that.
+
+O no! it cannot be: I am convinced my fears are groundless, and yet my
+apprehensions continue. The bitterness of my misfortunes increases
+daily; and as if real evils were not sufficient to depress my soul, my
+fears supply me with imaginary ones to add weight to the others. At
+first my grief was much more tolerable. The trouble of a sudden
+departure, and the journey itself were some sort of dissipation! but
+this peaceful solitude assembles all my woes. Like a wounded soldier,
+I felt but little pain till after I had retired from the field.
+
+How often have I laughed at a lover, in romance, bemoaning the absence
+of his mistress! Little did I imagine that your absence would ever be
+so intolerable to me! I am now sensible how improper it is for a mind
+at rest to judge of other men’s passions; and how foolish, to ridicule
+the sensations we have never felt. I must confess, however, I have
+great consolation in reflecting that I suffer by your command. The
+sufferings which you are pleased to ordain, are much less painful than
+if they were inflicted by the hand of fortune; if they give you any
+satisfaction, I should be sorry not to have suffered; they are the
+pledges of their reward; I know you too well to believe you would
+exercise barbarity for its own sake.
+
+If your design be to put me to the proof, I will murmur no more. It is
+but just that you should know whether I am constant, endued with
+patience, docility, and, in short, worthy of the bliss you design me.
+Gods! if this be your idea, I shall complain that I have not suffered
+half enough. Ah, Eloisa! for heaven’s sake, support the flattering
+expectation in my heart, and invent, if you can, some torment better
+proportioned to the reward.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I received both your letters at once, and I perceive, by your anxiety
+in the second, concerning the fate of the other, that when imagination
+takes the lead of reason, the latter is not always in haste to follow,
+but suffers her, sometimes, to proceed alone. Did you suppose, when
+you reached Sion, that the post waited only for your letter, that it
+would be delivered to me the instant of his arrival here, and that my
+answer would be favoured with equal dispatch? No, no, my good friend,
+things do not always go on so swimmingly. Your two epistles came both
+together; because the post happened not to set out till after he had
+received the second. It requires some time to distribute the letters;
+my agent has not always an immediate opportunity of meeting me alone,
+and the post from hence does not return the day after his arrival: so
+that, all things calculated, it must be at least a week before we can
+receive an answer one from the other. This I have explained to you
+with design, once for all, to satisfy your impatience. Whilst you are
+exclaiming against fortune and my negligence, you see that I have been
+busied in obtaining the information necessary to insure our
+correspondence, and prevent your anxiety. Which of us hath been best
+employed, I leave to your own decision.
+
+Let us, my dear friend, talk no more of pain; rather partake the joy I
+feel at the return of my kind father, after a tedious absence of eight
+months. He arrived on Thursday evening, since which happy moment I
+have thought of nobody else. [7] O thou, whom, next to the Author of
+my being, I love more than all the world! why must thy letters, thy
+complainings affect my soul, and interrupt the first transports of a
+reunited happy family?
+
+You expect to monopolize my whole attention. But tell me, could you
+love a girl, whose passion for her lover could extinguish all
+affection for her parents? Would you, because you are uneasy, have me
+insensible to the endearments of a kind father? No, my worthy friend,
+you must not imbitter my innocent joy by your unjust reproaches. You,
+who have so much sensibility, can surely conceive the sacred pleasures
+of being prest to the throbbing heart of a tender parent. Do you think
+that in those delightful moments it is possible to divide one’s
+affection?
+
+_Sol che son figlia io mi rammento adesso._
+
+Yet you are not to imagine I can forget you. Do we ever forget what we
+really love? No, the more lively impressions of a moment have no power
+to efface the other. I was not unaffected with your departure hence,
+and shall not be displeased to see you return. But----be patient like
+me, because you must, without asking any other reason. Be assured that
+I will recall you as soon as it is in my power; and remember, that
+those who complain loudest of absence, do not always suffer most.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+How was I tormented in receiving the letter which I so impatiently
+expected! I waited at the post-house. The mail was scarce opened
+before I gave in my name, and begun to importune the man. He told me
+there was a letter for me; my heart leaped; I asked for it with great
+impatience, and at last received it. O Eloisa! how I rejoiced to
+behold the well-known hand! A thousand times would I have kissed the
+precious characters, but I wanted resolution to press the letter to my
+lips, or to open it before so many witnesses. Immediately I retired,
+my knees trembled; I scarce knew my way; I broke the seal the moment I
+had past the first turning; I run over, or rather devoured, the dear
+lines, till I came to that part which so movingly speaks your
+tenderness and affection for your venerable father; I wept; I was
+observed; I then retired to a place of greater privacy, and there
+mingled my joyful tears with yours. With transport I embraced your
+happy father, though I hardly remember him. The voice of nature
+reminded me of my own, and I shed fresh tears to his memory.
+
+O incomparable Eloisa! what can you possibly learn of me? It is from
+you only can be learnt every thing that is great and good, and
+especially that divine union of nature, love, and virtue, which never
+existed but in you. Every virtuous affection is distinguished in your
+heart by a sensibility so peculiar to yourself, that, for the better
+regulation of my own, as my actions are already submitted to your
+will, I perceive, my sentiments also must be determined by yours.
+
+Yet what a difference there is between your situation and mine! I do
+not mean as to rank or fortune; sincere affection, and dignity of
+soul, want none of these. But you are surrounded by a number of kind
+friends who adore you; a tender mother, and a father who loves you as
+his only hope; a friend and cousin who seem to breathe only for your
+sake: you are the ornament and oracle of an entire family, the boast
+and admiration of a whole town; these, all these divide your
+sensibility, and what remains for love is but a small part in
+comparison of that which is ravished from you by duty, nature and
+friendship. But I, alas! Eloisa, a wanderer without a family, and
+almost without country, have no one but you upon earth, and am
+possessed of nothing, save my love. Be not, therefore, surprized,
+though your heart may have more sensibility, that mine should know
+better how to love; and that you, who excel me in every thing else,
+must yield to me in this respect.
+
+You need not, however, be apprehensive lest I should indiscreetly
+trouble you with my complaints. No, I will not interrupt your joy,
+because it adds to your felicity, and is in its nature laudable.
+Imagination shall represent the pathetic scene; and, since I have no
+happiness of my own, I will endeavour to enjoy yours.
+
+Whatever may be your reasons for prolonging my absence, I believe them
+just; but though I knew them to be otherwise, what would that avail?
+Have I not promised implicit obedience? Can I suffer more in being
+silent, than in parting from you? But remember, Eloisa, your soul now
+directs two separate bodies, and that the one she animates by choice
+will continue the most faithful.
+
+_--------Nodo piu forte:
+Fabricato da noi, non dalla forte._
+
+No, Eloisa, you shall hear no repining. Till you are pleased to recall
+me from exile, I will try to deceive the tedious hours in exploring
+the mountains of Valais, whilst they are yet practicable. I am of
+opinion that this unfrequented country deserves the attention of
+speculative curiosity, and that it wants nothing to excite admiration,
+but a skilful spectator. Perhaps my excursion may give rise to a few
+observations, that may not be entirely undeserving your perusal. To
+amuse a fine lady one should describe a witty and polite nation; but,
+I know, my Eloisa will have more pleasure in a picture where
+simplicity of manners and rural happiness are the principal objects.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+At last, the ice is broken: you have been mentioned. Notwithstanding
+your poor opinion of my learning, it was sufficient to surprize my
+father; nor was he less pleased with my progress in music and
+drawing: Indeed, to the great astonishment of my mother, who was
+prejudiced by your scandal, [8] he was satisfied with my improvement
+in every thing, except heraldry, which he thinks I have neglected. But
+all this could not be acquired without a master: I told him mine,
+enumerating at the same time all the sciences he proposed to teach me,
+except one. He remembers to have seen you several times on his last
+journey, and does not appear to retain any impression to your
+disadvantage.
+
+He then enquired about your fortune; he was told, it was not great:
+Your birth? he was answered, _honest_. This word _honest_ sounds very
+equivocal in the ears of nobility; it excited some suspicions, which
+were confirmed in the explanation. As soon as he was informed that
+your birth was not noble, he asked, what you had been paid per month.
+My mother replied, that you had not only refused to accept a stipend,
+but that you had even rejected every present she had offered. This
+pride of yours served but to inflame his own: who indeed could bear
+the thought of being obliged to a poor _plebeian_? Therefore it was
+determined, that a stipend should be offered, and that, in case you
+refused it, notwithstanding your merit, you should be dismissed. Such,
+my friend, is the result of a conversation held concerning my most
+honoured master, during which his very humble scholar was not entirely
+at ease. I thought I could not be in too great a hurry to give you
+this information, that you might have sufficient time to consider it
+maturely. When you have come to a resolution, do not fail to let me
+know it; for it is a matter entirely within your own province, and
+beyond my jurisdiction.
+
+I am not much pleased with your intended excursion to the mountains:
+not that I think it will prove an unentertaining dissipation, or that
+your narrative will not give me pleasure; but I am fearful lest you
+may not be able to support the fatigue. Besides, the season is already
+too far advanced. The hills will soon be covered with snow, and you
+may possibly suffer as much from cold as fatigue. If you should fall
+sick in that distant country, I should be inconsolable. Come
+therefore, my dear friend, come nearer to your Eloisa: it is not yet
+time to return to Vevey; but I would have you less rudely situated,
+and so as to facilitate our correspondence. I leave the choice of
+place to yourself; only take care that it be kept secret from the
+people here, and be discreet without being mysterious. I know you will
+be prudent for your own sake, but doubly so for mine.
+
+Adieu. I am forced to break off. You know I am obliged to be very
+cautious. But this is not all: my father has brought with him a
+venerable stranger, his old friend, who once saved his life in a
+battle. Judge then of the reception he deserves! To-morrow he leaves
+us, and we are impatient to procure him every sort of entertainment
+that will best express our gratitude to such a benefactor. I am
+called, and must finish. Once more, adieu.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I have employed scarce eight days in surveying a country that would
+require some years. But, besides that I was driven off by the snow, I
+chose to be before the post, who brings me, I hope, a letter from
+Eloisa. In the mean time I begin this, and shall afterwards, if it be
+necessary, write another in answer to that which I shall receive.
+
+I do not intend to give you an account of my journey in this letter;
+you shall see my remarks when we meet; they would take up too much of
+our precious correspondence. For the present, it will be sufficient to
+acquaint you with the situation of my heart: it is but just to render
+you an account of that which is entirely yours.
+
+I set out, dejected with my own sufferings, but consoled with your
+joy; which held me suspended in a state of languor that is not
+disagreeable to true sensibility. Under the conduct of a very honest
+guide, I crawled up the towering hills through many a rugged
+unfrequented path. Often would I muse, and then, at once, some
+unexpected object caught my attention. One moment I beheld stupendous
+rocks hanging ruinous over my head; the next, I was enveloped in a
+drizling cloud, which arose from a vast cascade that dashing
+thundered against the rocks below my feet; on one side, a perpetual
+torrent opened to my view a yawning abyss, which my eyes could hardly
+fathom with safety; sometimes I was lost in the obscurity of a hanging
+wood, and then was agreeably astonished with the sudden opening of a
+flowery plain. A surprising mixture of wild, and cultivated, nature,
+points out the hand of man, where one would imagine man had never
+penetrated. Here you behold a horrid cavern, and there a human
+habitation; vineyards where one would expect nothing but brambles;
+delicious fruit among barren rocks, and corn fields in the midst of
+cliffs and precipices.
+
+But it is not labour only that renders this strange country so
+wonderfully contrasted; for here nature seems to have a singular
+pleasure in acing contradictory to herself, so different does she
+appear in the same place, in different aspects. Towards the east, the
+flowers of spring; to the south; the fruits of autumn; and northwards
+the ice of winter. She unites all the seasons in the same instant,
+every climate in the same place, different soils on the same land, and
+with a harmony elsewhere unknown, joins the produces of the plains to
+those of the highest Alps. Add to these, the illusions of vision, the
+tops of the mountains variously the illumined, the harmonious mixture
+of light and shade, and their different effects in the morning and the
+evening as I travelled; you may then form some idea of the scenes
+which engaged my attention, and which seemed to change, as I past, as
+on an enchanted theatre; for the prospect of mountains being almost
+perpendicular to the horizon, strikes the eye at the same instant, and
+more powerfully, than that of a plane, where the objects are seen
+obliquely and half concealed behind each other.
+
+To this pleasing variety of scenes I attributed the serenity of my
+mind during my first day’s journey. I wondered to find that inanimate
+beings should over-rule our most violent passions, and despised the
+impotence of philosophy for having less power over the soul than a
+succession of lifeless objects. But finding that my tranquility
+continued during the night, and even increased with the following day,
+I began to believe it followed from some other source, which I had not
+yet discovered. That day I reached the lower mountains, and passing
+over their rugged tops, at last ascended the highest summit I could
+possibly attain. Having walked a while in the clouds, I came to a
+place of greater serenity, whence one may peacefully observe the
+thunder and the form gathering below: ah! too flattering picture of
+human wisdom, of which the original never existed, except in those
+sublime regions whence the emblem is taken.
+
+Here it was that I plainly discovered; in the purity of the air, the
+true cause of that returning tranquility of soul, to which I had been
+so long a stranger. This impression is general, though not universally
+observed. Upon the tops of mountains, the air being subtle and pure,
+we respire with greater freedom, our bodies are more active, our minds
+more serene, our pleasures less ardent, and our passions much more
+moderate. Our meditations acquire a degree of sublimity from the
+grandeur of the objects around us. It seems as if, being lifted above
+all human society, we had left every low, terrestrial, sentiment
+behind; and that as we approach the aethereal regions, the soul
+imbibes something of their eternal purity. One is grave without being
+melancholy, peaceful, but not indolent, pensive yet contented: our
+desires lose their painful violence, and leave only a gentle emotion
+in our hearts. Thus the passions which in the lower world are man’s
+greatest torment, in happier climates contribute to his felicity. I
+doubt much whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the mind,
+could hold out against such a situation, and I am surprized that a
+bath of the reviving and wholesome air of the mountains is not
+frequently prescribed both by physic and morality.
+
+_Quì non palazzi, non teatro o loggia,
+Ma’n lor vece un’ abete, un faggio, un pino
+Trà l’erba verde e’l bel monte vicino
+Levan di terra al Ciel nostr’ intelletto._
+
+Imagine to yourself all these united impressions; the amazing variety,
+magnitude and beauty of a thousand stupendous objects; the pleasure of
+gazing at an entire new scene, strange birds, unknown plants, another
+nature, and a new world. To these even the subtilty of the air is
+advantageous; it enlivens their natural colours, renders every object
+more distinct, and brings it nearer to the eye. In short, there is a
+kind of supernatural beauty in these mountainous prospects which
+charms both the senses and the mind into a forgetfulness of one’s self
+and of every thing in the world.
+
+I could have spent the whole time in contemplating these magnificent
+landskips, if I had not found still greater pleasure in my
+conversation with the inhabitants. In my observations you will find a
+slight sketch of their manners, their simplicity, their equality of
+soul, and of that peacefulness of mind, which renders them happy by an
+exemption from pain, rather than by the enjoyment of pleasure. But
+what I was unable to describe, and which is almost impossible to be
+conceived, is their disinterested humanity, and hospitable zeal to
+oblige every stranger whom chance or curiosity brings to visit them.
+This I myself continually experienced, I who was entirely unknown, and
+who was conducted from place to place only by a common guide. When, in
+the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the foot of a mountain, each
+of the inhabitants was so eager to have me lodge at his house, that I
+was always embarrassed which to accept; and he who obtained the
+preference seemed so well pleased that, at first, I supposed his joy
+to arise from a lucrative prospect. But I was amazed, after having
+used the house like an inn, to find my host not only refuse to accept
+the least gratuity, but offended that it was offered. I found it
+universally the same. So that it was true hospitality, which, from its
+unusual ardour, I had mistaken for avarice. So perfectly disinterested
+are this people, that during eight days, it was not in my power to
+leave one dollar among them. In short, how is it possible to spend
+money in a country where the landlord will not be paid for his
+provisions, nor the servant for his trouble, and where there are no
+beggars to be found? Nevertheless, money is by no means abundant in
+the upper Valais, and for that very reason the inhabitants are not in
+want; for the necessaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is sent
+out of the country; they are not luxurious at home, nor is the peasant
+less laborious. If ever they have more money they will grow poor? and
+of this they are so sensible that they tread upon mines of gold which
+they are determined never to open.
+
+I was at first greatly surprized at the difference between the customs
+and manners of these people and those of the lower Valais; for in the
+road through that part of the country to Italy, travellers pay dearly
+enough for their passage. An inhabitant of the place explained the
+mystery. The strangers, says he, which pass through the lower Valais
+are chiefly merchants, or people that travel in pursuit of gain; it is
+but just that they should leave us a part of their profit; and that we
+should treat them as they treat others; but here our travellers meet
+with a different reception, because we are assured their journey must
+have a disinterested motive: they visit us out of friendship, and
+therefore we receive them as our friends. But indeed our hospitality
+is not very expensive; we have but few visitors. No wonder, I replied,
+that mankind should avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and
+not to acquire wealth and excite envy. Happy, deservedly happy,
+mortals! I am pleased to think that one must certainly resemble you in
+some degree, in order to approve your manners and taste your
+simplicity.
+
+What I found particularly agreeable whilst I continued among them was
+the natural ease and freedom of their behaviour. They went about their
+business in the house, as if I had not been there; and it was in my
+power to act as if I were the sole inhabitant. They are entirely
+unacquainted with the impertinent vanity of _doing the honours of the
+house_, as if to remind the stranger of his dependence. When I said
+nothing, they concluded I was satisfied to live in their manner; but
+the least hint was sufficient to make them comply with mine, without
+any repugnance or astonishment. The only compliment which they made
+me, when they heard that I was a Swiss, was that they looked upon me
+as a brother, and I ought therefore to think myself at home. After
+this, they took but little notice of me, not supposing that I could
+doubt the sincerity of their offers, or refuse to accept them whenever
+they could useful. The same simplicity subsists among themselves: when
+the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between
+them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are
+seated at the same table with their master; the same liberty reigns in
+the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the
+state.
+
+They never deprived me of my liberty, except when at table: indeed it
+was always in my power to avoid the repast; but, being once seated, I
+was obliged to sit late, and drink much. What a Swiss, and not drink!
+so they would exclaim. For my own part, I confess, I am no enemy to
+good wine, and that I have no dislike to a chearful glass; but I
+dislike compulsion. I have observed that deceitful men are generally
+sober, and that peculiar reserve at table frequently indicates a
+duplicity of soul. A guileless heart is not afraid of the unguarded
+eloquence and affectionate folly which commonly precede drunkenness;
+but we ought always to avoid the excess. Yet even that was sometimes
+impossible among these hearty Valaisians, their wine being strong, and
+water absolutely excluded. Who could act the philosopher here, or be
+offended with such honest people? In short, I drank to shew my
+gratitude, and since they refused to take my money, I made them a
+compliment of my reason.
+
+They have another custom, not less embarrassing, which is practised
+even in the houses of the magistrates themselves; I mean that of their
+wives and daughters standing behind one’s chair, and waiting at table
+like so many servants. This would be insupportable to the gallantry of
+a Frenchman, especially as the women of this country are in general so
+extremely handsome that one can hardly bear to be attended by the
+maid. You may certainly believe them beautiful, since they appeared so
+to me; for my eyes have been accustomed to Eloisa, and are therefore
+extremely difficult to please.
+
+As for me, who pay more regard to the manners of the people with whom
+I reside, than to any rules of politeness, I received their services
+in silence, and with a degree of gravity equal to that of Don Quixote
+when he was with the Duchess. I could not however help smiling now
+and then at the contrast between the rough old grey-beards at the
+table, and the charming complexions of the fair attendant nymphs, in
+whom a single word would excite a blush, which rendered their beauty
+more glowing and conspicuous. Not that I could admire the enormous
+compass of their necks, which resemble, in their dazzling whiteness
+only, that perfect model which always formed in my imagination (for
+though veiled, I have sometimes stolen a glance) that celebrated
+marble which is supposed to excel in delicate proportion the most
+perfect work of nature.
+
+Be not surprized to find me so knowing in mysteries which you so
+carefully conceal: it happens in spite of all your caution; one sense
+instructs another. Notwithstanding the most jealous vigilance, there
+will always remain some friendly interstice or other, through which
+the sight performs the office of the touch. The curious, busy eye
+insinuates itself with impunity under the flowers of a nosegay,
+wanders beneath the spreading gauze, and conveys that elastic
+resistance to the hand which it dares not experience.
+
+_Parte appar deble mamme acerbe e crude,
+Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta;
+Invida, ma s’ agli occhi il varco chiude,
+L’amoroso pensier gia non arresta._
+
+I am also not quite satisfied with the dress of the Valaisian ladies:
+their gowns are raised so very high behind, that they all appear round
+shouldered; yet this, together with their little black coifs, and
+other peculiarities of their dress, has a singular effect, and wants
+neither simplicity nor elegance. I shall bring you one of their
+compleat suits, which I dare say will fit you; it was made to the
+finest shape in the whole country.
+
+But whilst I traversed with delight these regions which are so little
+known, and so deserving of admiration, where was my Eloisa? Was she
+banished my memory? Forget my Eloisa! Forget my own soul! Is it
+possible for me to be one moment of my life alone, who exist only
+through her? O no! our souls are inseparable, and, by instinct, change
+their situation together according to the prevailing state of mine.
+When I am in sorrow, she takes refuge with yours, and seeks
+consolation in the place where you are; as was the case the day I left
+you. When I am happy, being incapable of enjoyment alone, they both
+attend upon me, and our pleasure becomes mutual: thus it was during my
+whole excursion. I did not take one step without you, nor admire a
+single prospect without eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloisa. The
+same tree spread its shadow over us both, and we constantly reclined
+against the same flowery bank. Sometimes as we sat I gazed with you at
+the wonderful scene before us, and sometimes, on my knees I gazed with
+rapture on an object more worthy the contemplation of human
+sensibility. If I came to a difficult pass, I saw you skip over it
+with the activity of the bounding doe. When a torrent happened to
+cross our path, I presumed to press you in my arms, walked slowly
+through the water, and was always sorry when I reached the opposite
+bank. Every thing in that peaceful solitude brought you to my
+imagination; the pleasing awfulness of nature, the invariable serenity
+of the air, the grateful simplicity of the people, their constant and
+natural prudence, the unaffected modesty and innocence of the sex, and
+every object that gave pleasure to the eye or to the heart, seemed
+inseparably connected with the idea of Eloisa.
+
+O divine maid! I often tenderly exclaimed, that we might spend our
+days in there unfrequented mountains, unenvied and unknown! Why can I
+not here collect my whole soul into thee alone, and become, in turn,
+the universe to Eloisa! Thy charms would then receive the homage they
+deserve; then would our hearts taste without interruption the
+delicious fruit of the soft passion with which they are filled: the
+years of our long elysium would pass away untold, and when the frigid
+hand of age should have calmed our first transports, the constant
+habit of thinking and acting from the same principle would beget a
+lasting friendship no less tender than our love, whose vacant place
+should be filled by the kindred sentiments which grew and were
+nourished with it in our youth. Like this happy people, we would
+practice every duty of humanity, we would unite in acts of
+benevolence, and at last die with the satisfaction of not having lived
+in vain.
+
+Hark----it is the post. I will close my letter, and fly to receive
+another from Eloisa. How my heart beats? Why was I roused from my
+reverie? I was happy at least in idea. Heaven only knows what I am to
+be in reality.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXIV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I sit down to give you an immediate answer to that article of your
+letter concerning the stipend; thank God, it requires no reflection.
+My sentiments, my Eloisa, on this subject, are these.
+
+In what is called honour, there is a material distinction between that
+which is founded on the opinion of the world, and that which is
+derived from self esteem. The first is nothing but the loud voice of
+foolish prejudice, which has no more stability than the wind; but the
+basis of the latter is fixed in the eternal truth of morality. The
+honour of the world may be of advantage with regard to fortune but as
+it cannot reach the soul, it has no influence on real happiness. True
+honour, on the contrary, is the very essence of felicity; for it is
+that alone inspires the permanent interior satisfaction which
+constitutes the happiness of a rational being. Let us, my Eloisa,
+apply these principles to your question, and it will be soon resolved.
+
+To become an instructor of philosophy, and like the fool in the fable,
+receive money for teaching wisdom, will appear rather low in the eyes
+of the world, and, I own, has something in it ridiculous enough. Yet,
+as no man can subsist merely of himself, and as there can be nothing
+wrong in eating the fruit of one’s labour, we will regard this opinion
+of mankind as a piece of foolish prejudice, to which it would be
+madness to sacrifice our happiness. I know you will not esteem me the
+less on this account, nor shall I deserve more pity for living upon
+the talents I have cultivated.
+
+But, my Eloisa, there are other things to be considered. Let us leave
+the multitude and look a little into ourselves. What shall I in
+reality be to your father, in receiving from him a salary for
+instructing his daughter? Am I not from that moment a mercenary, a
+hireling, a servant? and do I not tacitly pledge my faith for his
+security, like the meanest of his domestics? Now what has a father to
+lose of greater value than his only daughter, even though she were not
+an Eloisa? and what should the man do who had thus pledged his faith
+and sold his service? Ought he to stifle the flame within his breast?
+Ah! Eloisa, that you know to be impossible: or should he rather
+indulge this passion, and wound, in the most sensible part, the man
+who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In this case I behold a
+perfidious teacher, trampling under foot every sacred bond of society,
+[9] a seducer, a domestic traitor, whom the law hath justly condemned
+to die. I hope Eloisa understands me. I do not fear death, but the
+ignominy of deserving it, and my own contempt.
+
+When the letters of your name’s sake and Abelard fell into your hands,
+you remember my opinion of the conduct of that priest. I always pitied
+Eloisa; she had a heart made for love: but Abelard seemed to deserve
+his fate, as he was a stranger both to love and virtue. Ought I then
+to follow his example? What wretch dares preach that virtue which he
+will not practise? Whosoever suffers himself to be thus blinded by his
+passions, will soon find himself punished in a loathing for those very
+sensations to which he sacrificed his honour. There can be no pleasure
+in any enjoyment which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to
+sink in our estimation the object of our love. Abstract the idea of
+perfection, and our enthusiasm vanishes: take away our esteem, and
+love is at an end. How is it possible for a woman to honour a man who
+dishonours himself? and how can he adore the person who was weak
+enough to abandon herself to a vile seducer? Mutual contempt therefore
+is the consequence; their very passions will grow burthensome, and
+they will have lost their honour without finding happiness.
+
+But how different, my Eloisa, is it with two lovers of the same age,
+influenced by the same passion, united by the same bonds, under no
+particular engagements, and both in possession of their original
+liberty. The most severe laws can inflict no other punishment, than
+the natural consequences of their passion: their sole obligation is to
+love eternally; and if there be in the world some unhappy climate
+where men’s authority dares to break such sacred bonds, they are
+surely punished by the crimes that must inevitably ensue.
+
+These, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloisa, are many reasons; they are
+indeed but a frigid commentary on those which you urged with so much
+spirit and energy in one of your letters; but they are sufficient to
+shew you how entirely I am of your opinion. You remember that I did
+not persist in refusing your offer, and that notwithstanding the first
+scruples of prejudice, being convinced that it was not inconsistent
+with my honour, I consented to open the box. But in the present case,
+my duty, my reason, my love, all speak too plainly to be
+misunderstood. If I must chose between my honour and Eloisa, my heart
+is prepared to resign her. Oh I love her too well to purchase her at
+the price of my honour!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+You will easily believe, my dear friend, how extremely I was
+entertained with the agreeable account of your late tour. The elegance
+of the detail itself, would have engaged my esteem, even though its
+author had been wholly a stranger; but its coming from you, was a
+circumstance of additional recommendation. I could, however, find in
+my heart to chide you for a certain part of it, which you will easily
+guess, though I could scarce refrain from laughing at the ridiculous
+finesse you made use of to shelter yourself under Tasso. Have you
+never really perceived the wide difference that should be made between
+a narration intended for the view of the public, and that little
+sketch of particulars which is solely to be referred to the inspection
+of your mistress. Or is love, with all its fears, doubts, jealousies,
+and scruples, to have no more regard paid to it than the mere
+decencies of good breeding are entitled to? Could you be at a moment’s
+loss to conceive that the dry preciseness of an author must be
+displeasing, where the passionate sentiments of inspiring tenderness
+were expected? And could you deliberately resolve to disappoint my
+expectations? But I fear I have already said too much on a subject
+which perhaps had better been entirely passed over. Besides, the
+contents of your last letter have so closely engaged my thoughts, that
+I have had no leisure to attend to the particulars of the
+former. Leaving then, my dear friend, the Valais to some future
+opportunity, let us now fix our attention on what more immediately
+concerns ourselves; we shall find sufficient matter of employment.
+
+I very clearly foresaw what your sentiments would be, and indeed the
+time we have known each other, had been spent to little purpose, if
+now our conjectures were vague or uncertain. If virtue ever should
+forsake us, be assured, it will not, cannot be in those instances,
+which require resolution and resignation. [10] When the assault is
+violent, the first step to be taken is, resistance; and we shall ever
+triumph, I hope, so long as we are forewarned of our danger. A taste
+of careless security is the most to be dreaded, and we may be taken by
+sap, e’er we perceive that the citadel is attacked. The most fatal
+circumstance of all, is the continuance of misfortunes; their very
+duration makes them dangerous to a mind that might bear up against the
+sharpest trials and most vigorous sudden onsets; it may be worn out by
+the tedious pressure of inferior sufferings, and give way to the
+length of those afflictions which have quite exhausted its
+forbearance. This struggle, my dear friend, falls to our lot. We are
+not called upon to signalize ourselves by deeds of heroism, or
+renowned exploits; but we are bound to the more painful task of
+supporting an indefatigable resistance, and enduring misfortunes
+without the least relaxation.
+
+I foresaw but too well the melancholy event. Our happiness is passed
+away like a morning cloud, and our trials are beginning without the
+least prospect of any alteration for the better. Every circumstance is
+to me an aggravation of my distress, and what at other times would
+have passed unheeded and unobserved, now serves but too plainly to
+increase my dismay: my body sympathises with my mind in distressed
+situation, the one is as languid and spiritless as the other is
+alarmed and apprehensive. Involuntary tears are ever stealing down my
+cheeks, without my being sensible of any immediate cause of sorrow. I
+do not indeed foresee any very distressful events, but I perceive,
+alas, too well, my fondest hopes blasted, my most sanguine
+expectations continually disappointed, and what good purpose can it
+serve to water the leaves, when the plant is decayed and withered at
+the root.
+
+I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend,
+that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me
+of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which
+were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no
+where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but
+time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses
+presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I
+have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you
+are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is
+sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but
+know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient
+longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the
+torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your
+condition to mine.
+
+If indeed I might give vent to my sad tale, and trust the tender
+recital of my numberless woes to the kind bosom of a faithful friend,
+I should in some sort be eased of my misfortunes. But even this relief
+is denied me, except when I find an opportunity to pour a few tender
+sighs into the compassionate bosom of my cousin: but in general I am
+constrained to speak a language quite foreign to my heart, and to
+assume an air of thoughtless gaiety, when I am ready to sink into the
+grave.
+
+_Sentirsi, Oh Dei, morir,
+E non poter mai dir,
+Morir mi Sento!_
+
+A farther circumstance of distress, if any thing more distressful can
+yet be added, is that my disorder is continually increasing. I have of
+late thought so gloomily, that I seldom now think otherwise; and the
+more anxiety I feel at the remembrance of our past pleasures, the more
+eagerly do I indulge myself in the painful recollection. Tell me, my
+dear, dear friend, if you can tell me by experience, how nearly allied
+love is to this tender sorrow, and if disquiet and uneasiness itself
+be not the cement of the warmest affections?
+
+I have a thousand other things to say, but first I would fain know,
+precisely where you are. Besides, this train of thinking has awakened
+my passion, and indeed rendered me unfit for writing any more. Adieu,
+my dear, and though I am obliged to lay down my pen, be assured, I can
+never think of parting with you.
+
+
+
+
+Billet.
+As this comes to your hands by a waterman, an entire stranger to me, I
+shall only say at present, that I have taken up my quarters at
+_Meillerie_, on the opposite shore. I shall now have an opportunity of
+seeing at least the dear place, which I dare not approach.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXVI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+What a wonderful alteration has a short space of time produced in my
+affairs! The thoughts of meeting, delightful as they were, are now too
+much allayed with disquieting apprehensions. What should have been the
+object of my hopes is now, alas! become the subject of my fears, and
+the very spirit of discernment, which on most occasions is so useful,
+now serves but to dismay, to disquiet and torment me. Ah, Eloisa! too
+much sensibility, too much tenderness, proves the bitterest curse
+instead of the most fruitful blessing: vexation and disappointment are
+its certain consequences. The temperature of the air, the change of
+the seasons, the brilliancy of the sun, or thickness of the fogs, are
+so many moving springs to the unhappy possessor, and he becomes the
+wanton sport of their arbitration: his thoughts, his satisfaction, his
+happiness, depend on the blowing of the winds, and the different
+points of east or west can throw him off his bias, or enliven his
+expectations: swayed as he is by prejudices, and distracted by
+passions, the sentiments of his heart find continual opposition from
+the axioms of his head. Should he perchance square his conduct to the
+undeniable rule of right, and set up truth for his standard, instead
+of profit and convenience, he is sure to fall a martyr to the maxims
+of his integrity; the world will join in the cry, and hunt him down as
+a common enemy. But supposing this not the case, honesty and
+uprightness, though exempted from persecution, are neither the
+channels of honour, nor the road to riches; poverty and want are their
+inseparable attendants; and man, by adhering to the one, necessarily
+attaches himself to the inheritance of the other; and by this means he
+becomes his own tormentor. He will search for supreme happiness,
+without taking into the account the infirmities of his nature. Thus
+his affections and his reason will be engaged in a perpetual warfare,
+and unbounded ideas and desires must pave the way for endless
+disappointments.
+
+This situation, dismal as it is, is nevertheless the true one, in
+which the hard fate of my worldly affairs, counteracted by the
+ingenuous and liberal turn of my thoughts, have involved me, and which
+is aggravated and increased by your father’s contempt and your own
+milder sentiments, which are at once both the delight and disquiet of
+my life. Had it not been for thee, thou fatal beauty, I could never
+have experienced the insupportable contrast between the greatness of
+my soul, and the low estate of my fortune. I should have lived
+quietly, and died contented in a situation that would have been even
+below notice. But to see you without being able to possess you; to
+adore you, without raising myself from my obscurity; to live in the
+same place, and yet be separated from each other, is a struggle, my
+dearest Eloisa, to which I am utterly unequal. I can neither renounce
+you, nor get the better of my cruel destiny; I can neither subdue my
+desires, nor better my fortune.
+
+But, as if this situation itself were not sufficiently tormenting, the
+horrors of it are increased by the gloomy succession of ideas ever
+present to my imagination. Perhaps too, this is heightened by the
+nature of the place I live in; it is dark, it is dreadful; but then it
+suits the habit of my soul; and a more pleasant prospect of nature
+would reflect little comfort on the dreary view within me. A ridge of
+barren rocks surrounds the coast, and my dwelling is still made more
+dismal, by the uncomfortable face of winter. And yet, Eloisa, I am
+sensible enough that if I were once forced to abandon you, I should
+stand in need of no other abode, no other season.
+
+While my mind is distracted with such continual agitations, my body
+too is moving as it were in sympathy with those emotions. I run to and
+fro and get upon the rocks, explore my whole district, and find every
+thing as horrible without, as I experience it within. There is no
+longer any verdure to be seen, the grass is yellow and withered, the
+trees are stripped of their soilage, and the north-eastern blast heaps
+snow and ice around me. In short, the whole face of nature appears as
+decayed to my outward senses, as I myself from within am dead to hope
+and joy.
+
+Amidst this rocky coast, I have found out a solitary cleft from whence
+I have a distinct view of the dear place you inhabit. You may easily
+imagine how I have feasted on this discovery, and refreshed my sight
+with so delightful a prospect. I spent a whole day in endeavouring to
+discern the very house, but the distance, alas, is too great for my
+efforts; and imagination was forced to supply what my wearied sight
+was unable to discover. I immediately ran to the curate’s, and
+borrowed his telescope, which presented to my view, or at least to my
+thoughts, the exact spot I desired. My whole time has been taken up
+ever since in contemplating those walls, that inclose the only source
+of my comfort, the only object of my wishes: notwithstanding the
+inclement severity of the season, I continue thus employed from day
+break until evening. A fire made of leaves and a few dry sticks
+defends me in some measure from the intenseness of the cold. This
+place, wild and uncultivated as it is, is so suited to my taste, that
+I am now writing to you in it, on a summit which the ice has separated
+from the rock.
+
+Here, my dearest Eloisa, your unhappy lover is enjoying the last
+pleasure that perhaps he may ever relish on this side the grave. Here,
+in spite of every obstacle, he can penetrate into your very chamber.
+He is even dazzled with your beauty, and the tenderness of your looks
+reanimates his drooping soul; nay he can wish for those raptures which
+he experienced with you in the grove. Alas! it is all a dream, the
+idle phantom of a projecting mind. Pleasing as it is, it vanishes like
+a vision, and I am soon forced to awake from so agreeable a delirium;
+and yet, even then, I have full employment for my thoughts. I admire
+and revere the purity of your sentiments, the innocence of your life;
+I trace out in my mind the method of your daily conduct, by comparing
+it with what I formerly well knew in happier days, and under more
+endearing circumstances; I find you ever attentive to engagements,
+which heighten your character: need I add that such a view most
+movingly affects me. In the morning I say to myself, she is just now
+awaking from calm and gentle slumbers, as fresh as the early dew, and
+as composed as the most spotless innocence, and is dedicating to her
+Creator a day, which she determines shall not be lost to virtue. She
+is now going to her mother, and her tender heart is feeling the soft
+ties of filial duty; she is either relieving her parents from the
+burthen of domestic cares, soothing their aged sorrows, pitying their
+infirmities, or excusing those indirections in others, which she knows
+not how to allow in herself. At another time, she is employing herself
+in works of genius or of use, storing her mind with valuable
+knowledge, or reconciling the elegancies of life to its more sober
+occupations. Sometimes I see a neat and studied simplicity set off
+those charms which need no such recommendations, and at others, she is
+consulting her holy pastor, on the circumstances of indigent merit.
+Here she is aiding, comforting, relieving the orphan or the widow;
+there she is the entertainment of the whole circle of her friends, by
+her prudent and sensible conversation. Now she is tempering the gaiety
+of youth, with wisdom and discretion: and some few moments (forgive me
+the presumption) you bestow on my hapless love. I see you melted into
+tears at the perusal of my letters, and can perceive, it is thy
+devoted lover is the subject of the lines you are penning, and of the
+passionate discourse between you and your cousin. O Eloisa, Eloisa!
+shall we never be united? Shall we never live together? can we, can we
+part for ever? No, be that thought quite banished from my soul. I
+start into the phrenzy at the very idea, and my distempered mind
+hurries me from rock to rock. Involuntary sighs and groans betray my
+inward disorder; I roar out like a lioness robbed of her young. I can
+do every thing but lose you; there is nothing, nothing, I would not
+attempt for you, at the risk of my life.
+
+I had wrote thus far, and was waiting an opportunity to convey it,
+when your last came to my hands from Sion. The melancholy air it
+breathes, has lulled my griefs to rest. Now, now am I convinced of
+what you observed long ago, concerning that wonderful sympathy between
+lovers. Your sorrow is of the calmer, mine of the more passionate
+kind, yet though the affection of the mind be the same, it takes its
+colour in each from the different channels through which it runs; and
+indeed it is but natural, that the greatest misfortunes should produce
+the most disquieting anxieties; but why do I talk of misfortunes? They
+would be absolutely insupportable. No, be assured, my Eloisa, that the
+irresistible decree of heaven has designed us for each other. This is
+the first great law we are to obey, and it is the great business of
+life, to calm, sooth, and sweeten it while we are here. I see, and
+lament it too, that your designs are too vague and inconclusive for
+execution. You seem willing to conquer insurmountable difficulties,
+while at the same time you are neglecting the only feasible methods:
+an enthusiastic idea of honour has supplanted your reason, and your
+virtue is become little better than an empty delirium.
+
+If indeed it were possible for you to remain always as young and
+beautiful as you are at present, my only wish, my only prayer to
+heaven would be, to know of your continual happiness, to see you once
+every year, only once, and then spend the rest of my time in viewing
+your mansion from afar, and in adoring you among the rocks. But
+behold, alas, the inconceivable swiftness of that fate which is never
+at rest. It is constantly pursuing, time flies hastily, the
+opportunity is irretrievable, and your beauty, even your beauty is
+circumscribed by very narrow limits of existence: it must some time or
+other decay and wither away like a flower, that fades before it was
+gathered. In the mean time, I am consuming my health, youth, strength,
+in continual sorrow, and waste away my years in complaining. Think, oh
+think, Eloisa, that we have already lost some time; think too that it
+will never return, and that the case will be the same with the years
+that are to come, if we suffer them to pass by neglected and
+unimproved. O fond, mistaken fair! you are laying plans for a futurity
+at which you may never arrive, and neglecting the present moments,
+which can never be retrieved. You are so anxious, and intent on that
+uncertain hereafter, that you forget that in the mean while, our
+hearts melt away like snow before the sun. Awake, awake, my dearest
+Eloisa, from so fatal a delusion! Leave all your concerted schemes,
+the wanton sallies of a fruitful fancy, and determine to be happy.
+Come, my only hope, my only joy! to thy fond expecting lover’s arms:
+come and re-unite the hitherto divided portions of our existence.
+Come, and before heaven, let us solemnly swear to live and die for
+each other. You have no need, I am sure, of any encouragement, any
+exhortations, to bear up against the fear of want. Though poor,
+provided we are happy, what a treasure will be in our possession! but
+let us not so insult either the dignity or the humanity of the
+species, as to suppose that this vast world cannot furnish an Asylum
+for two unfortunate lovers. But we need not despair while I have
+health and strength; the bread earned by the sweat of my brow will be
+more relishing to you, than the most costly banquet that luxury could
+prepare. And indeed can any repast, provided and seasoned by love, be
+insipid? Oh my angel, if our happiness were sure to last us but one
+day, could you cruelly resolve, to quit this life, without tasting it?
+
+One word more, and I have done. You know, Eloisa, the use which was
+formerly made of the rock of Leucatia; it was the last sad refuge of
+disappointed lovers. The place I am now in, and my own distressed
+situation, bear but too close a resemblance. The rock is craggy, the
+water deep, and I am in despair.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXVII. From Clara.
+
+
+I have been lately so distracted with care and grief, that it is with
+much difficulty I have been able to summon sufficient strength for
+writing. Your misfortunes and mine are now at their utmost crisis. In
+short, the lovely Eloisa is very dangerously ill, and ere this can
+reach you, may perhaps be no more. The mortification she underwent in
+parting with you, first brought on her disorder, which was
+considerably increased by some very interesting discourse she has
+since had with her father. This has been still heightened by
+circumstances of additional aggravation, and as if all this were too
+little, your last letter came in aid, and compleatd, alas, what was
+already scarce supportable. The perusal of it affected her so
+sensibly, that after a whole night of violent agitations and cruel
+struggles, she was seized with a high fever which has increased to
+such a degree, that she is now delirious. Even in this situation she
+is perpetually calling for you, and speaks of you with such emotions
+as plainly point out, that you alone are the object of her more sober
+thoughts. Her father is kept out of the way as much as possible, which
+is no inconsiderable proof that my aunt suspects the truth. She has
+even asked me, with some anxiety, when you intended to return? so
+entirely does her concern for her daughter outweigh every other
+consideration! I dare say she would not be sorry to see you here.
+
+Come then, I intreat you, as soon as you possibly can. I have hired a
+man and boat to transmit this to you; he will wait your orders, and
+you may come with him. Indeed if you ever expect to see our devoted
+Eloisa alive, you must not lose an instant.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXVIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
+
+
+Alas, my dear Clara, how is the life you have restored me imbittered
+by your absence. What satisfaction can there be in my recovery, when I
+am still preyed upon by a more violent disorder? Cruel Clara! to leave
+me, when I stand most in need of your assistance. You are to be absent
+eight days, and perhaps by that time my fate will be determined, and
+it will be out of your power to see me any more. Oh if you did but
+know his horrid proposals, and the manner of his stating them! to
+elope----to follow him----to be carried off----What a wretch! But
+of whom do I complain, my heart, my own base heart has said a thousand
+times more than ever he has mentioned. Good God, if he knew all! Oh it
+would hasten my ruin----I should be hurried to destruction, be forced
+to go with him----I shudder at the very thought.
+
+But has my father then sold me? Yes, he has considered his daughter as
+his merchandize, and consigned her with as little remorse, as he would
+a bale of goods. He purchases his own ease and quiet, at the dear
+price of all my future comfort, nay of my life itself----for I see
+but too well, I can never survive it. Barbarous, unnatural,
+unrelenting father! Does he deserve?----But why do I talk of
+deserving? he is the best of fathers, and the only crime I can alledge
+against him, is his desire of marrying me to his friend. But my
+mother, my dear mother, what has she done? Alas, too much; she has
+loved me too much, and that very love has been my ruin.
+
+What shall I do, Clara? What will become of me? Hans is not yet come.
+I am at a loss how to convey this letter to you. Before you receive
+it, before you return----perhaps a vagabond, abandoned, ruined and
+forlorn. It is over, it is over: the time is come. A day----an hour
+----perhaps a moment----but who can resist their fate?----Oh
+wherever I live, wherever I die, whether in honour or dishonour, in
+plenty or poverty, in pleasure or in despair, remember, I beseech you,
+your dear, dear friend. But misfortunes too frequently produce changes
+in our affections. If ever I forget you, mine must be altered indeed!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXIX. From Eloisa to Clara.
+
+
+Stay, stay, where you are! I intreat, I conjure you, never never think
+of returning, at least, not to me. I ought never to see you more; for
+now, alas, I can never behold you as I ought. Where wert thou my
+tender friend, my only safeguard, my guardian angel? When thou
+withdrewest, ruin instantly ensued. Was that fatal absence of yours so
+indispensable, so necessary, and couldest thou leave thy friend in the
+most critical time of danger? What an inexhaustible fund of remorse
+hast thou laid up for thyself by so blameable a neglect! It will be as
+bitter, as lasting, as my unhappy sorrows. Thy loss is indeed as
+irretrievable as my own, and it were equally difficult to gain another
+friend as worthy of yourself, as alas! it is impossible to recover my
+innocence.
+
+Ah! what have I said? I can neither speak nor yet be silent; and to
+what purpose were my silence, when my very sorrows would cry out
+against me? And does not all created nature upbraid me with my guilt?
+Does not every object before me remind me of my shame? I will, I must
+pour my whole soul into thine, or my poor heart will burst. Canst thou
+hear all this, my secure and careless friend, without applying some
+reproaches at the least to thyself? Even thy faith and truth, the
+blind confidence of thy friendship, but above all thy pernicious
+indulgencies, have been the unhappy instruments of my destruction.
+
+What evil genius could inspire you to invite him to return; him, alas!
+who is now the cruel author of my disgrace? And am I indebted to his
+care for a life, which he has since made insupportable by his cruelty?
+Inhuman as he is, let him fly from me for ever, and deny himself the
+savage pleasure, of being an eye witness of my sorrows. But why do I
+rave thus? He is not to be blamed, I alone am guilty. I alone am the
+author of my own misfortunes, and should therefore be the only object
+of anger and resentment. But vice, new as it is to me, has already
+infected my very soul; and the first dismal effect of it is displayed
+in reviling the innocent.
+
+No, no, he was ever incapable of being false to his vows. His virtuous
+soul disdains the low artifice of imposing upon credulity, or of
+injuring her he loves. Doubtless, he is much more experienced in the
+tender passions than I ever was, since he found no difficulty to
+overcome himself, and I alas fell a victim to my unruly desires. How
+often have I been a witness of his struggles and his victory, and when
+the violence of his transports seemed to get the better of his reason,
+he would stop on a sudden, as if awed and checked by virtue, when he
+might have led on to certain triumph. I indulged myself too much in
+beholding so dangerous an object. I was afflicted at his sighs, moved
+with his intreaties, and melted with his tears; I shared his anxieties
+when I thought I was only pitying them. I have seen him so affected,
+that he seemed ready to faint at my feet. Love alone might perhaps
+have been my security; but compassion, O my Clara! has fatally undone
+me.
+
+Thus my unhappy passion assumed the form of humanity, the more easily
+to deprive me of the assistance of my virtue. That very day he had
+been particularly importunate and pressed me to elope with him. This
+proposal, connected as it was with the misery and distress of the best
+of parents, shocked my very soul; nor could I think with any patience,
+of thus imbittering their comforts. The impossibility of ever
+fulfilling our plighted troth, the necessity there was of concealing
+this impossibility from him, the regret which I felt at deceiving so
+tender and passionate a lover, after having flattered his
+expectations; all these were dreadful circumstances which lessened my
+resolution, increased my weakness, blinded and subdued my reason. I
+was then either to kill my parents, discard my lover, or ruin myself:
+without knowing what I did, I resolved on the latter; and forgetting
+every thing else, thought only of my love. Thus one unguarded minute
+has betrayed me to endless misery. I am fallen into the abyss of
+infamy from whence there is no return, and if I am to live, it is only
+to be wretched.
+
+However, while I am here, sorrow shall be my only comfort. You, my
+dearest friend, are my only resource; oh do not, do not leave me! and
+since I am lost to the sweets of love, oh never take from me the
+delicacy of friendship. I have lost all pretensions, but my situation
+makes it requisite, my distresses now demand it. If you cannot esteem,
+you may at least pity so wretched a creature. Come then, my dear
+Clara, and open thy whole heart, that I may pour in my complaints,
+receive thy friend’s tears, and shield, oh shield me from myself!
+Convince me, by the kind continuance of your soothing friendship, that
+I am not so entirely forsaken.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXX. The Answer.
+
+
+Oh my dear, dear friend, what have you done! you who were the praise
+of every parent, and the envy of every child! What a mortal blow has
+virtue itself received through your means, who were the very pattern
+of discretion! But what can I say to you in so dreadful a situation?
+Can I think of aggravating your sorrows, and wounding a heart already
+opprest with grief; or can I give you a comfort, which, alas! I want?
+Shall I reflect your image in all the dismal colours of your present
+distress, or shall I have recourse to artifice, and remind you, not of
+what you are, but of what you ought to be? Do thou, most holy and
+unspotted friendship, steal thy soft veil over all my awakened senses,
+and mercifully remove the sight of those disasters, thou wert unable
+to prevent!
+
+You know I have long feared the misfortune you are bewailing. How
+often have I foretold it, and alas, how often been disregarded? Do you
+blame me then for having trusted you too much to your own heart? Oh
+doubt not but I would have betrayed you, if even that could have been
+made the means of your preservation; but I knew better than yourself
+your own tender sensations. I perceived but too plainly that death or
+ruin were the melancholy alternatives; and even when your
+apprehensions made you banish your lover, the only matter then in
+question, was whether you should despair, or he be recalled. You will
+easily believe how dreadfully I was alarmed, when I found you
+determined as it were against living, and just on the verge of death.
+Charge not then your lover, nor accuse yourself of a crime of which I
+alone am guilty, since I foresaw the fatal effects, and yet did not
+prevent them.
+
+I left you indeed against my inclination, but I was cruelly forced to
+it. Oh could I have foreseen the near approach of your destruction, I
+would have put every thing to the hazard sooner than have complied.
+Though certain as to the event, I was mistaken as to the time of it. I
+thought your weakness and your distemper a sufficient security during
+so short an absence, and forgot indeed the sad dilemma you was so soon
+to experience. I never considered that the weakness of your body left
+your mind more defenceless in itself, and therefore more liable to be
+betrayed. Mistaken as I was, I can scarce be angry with myself, since
+this very error is the means of saving your life. I am not, Eloisa, of
+that hardy temper which can reconcile me to thy loss as thou wert to
+mine. Had I indeed lost you, my despair would have been endless; and,
+unfeeling as it may seem, I had rather you should live in sorrow, I
+had almost said in disgrace, than not live at all.
+
+But my dear, my tender friend, why do you cruelly persist in your
+disquietude? Wherefore should your repentance exceed your very crime,
+and your contempt fall on the object which least of all deserves it,
+yourself? Shall the weakness of one unguarded moment be attended with
+so black a train of baleful consequences? And are not the very dangers
+you have been struggling with, a self-evident demonstration of the
+greatness of your virtue? You lose yourself so entirely in the thought
+of your defeat, that you have no leisure to consider the triumphs by
+which it was preceded. If your trials have been sharper, your
+conquests more numerous, and your resistance more frequent, than those
+who have escaped, have not you then, I would ask, done more for virtue
+than they? If you can find no circumstances to justify, dwell on those
+at least, which extenuate and excuse you. I myself am a tolerable
+proficient in the art of love, and though my own temper secures me
+against its violent emotions, if ere I could have felt such a passion
+as yours was, my struggles would have been much fainter, my surrender
+more easy, and more dishonourable. Freed as I have been from the
+temptation, it reflects no honour on my virtue. You are the chaster of
+the two, though perhaps the more unfortunate.
+
+You may perchance be offended that I am so unreserved; but unhappily
+your situation makes it necessary. I wish from my soul, what I have
+said were not applicable to you; for I detest pernicious maxims, more
+than bad actions. [11] If the deed were not already done, and I could
+have been so base to write, and you to read and hear these axioms, we
+both of us must be numbered in the wretched class of the abandoned.
+But as matters stand at present, my duty as your friend requires this
+at my hands, and you must give me the hearing, or you are lost, lost
+for ever. For you still possess a thousand rare endowments which a
+proper esteem of yourself can alone cultivate and preserve. Your real
+worth will ever exceed your own opinion of it.
+
+Forbear then giving way to a self disesteem more dangerous and
+destructive than any weakness of which you could be guilty. Does true
+love debase the soul? No: nor can any crime, which is the result of
+that love, ever rob you of that enthusiastic ardour for truth and
+honour, which so raised you above yourself? Are there not spots
+visible in the sun? How many amiable virtues do you still retain,
+notwithstanding one error, one relaxation in your conduct? Will it
+make you less gentle, less sincere, less modest, less benevolent? Or
+will you be less worthy of all our admiration, of all our praise? Will
+honour, humanity, friendship, and tender love, be less respected by
+you, or will you cease to revere even that virtue with which you are
+no longer adorned. No, my dear, my charming Eloisa, thy faithful Clara
+bewails and yet adores thee; she is convinced that you can never fail
+admiring what you may be unable to practise. Believe me, you have much
+yet to lose, before you can sink to a level with the generality of
+females.
+
+After all, whatever have been your failings, you yourself are still
+remaining. I want no other comfort, I dread no other loss than you.
+Your first letter shocked me extremely, and would have thrown me into
+despair, had I not been kindly relieved, at the same time, by the
+arrival of your last. What! and could you leave your friend, could you
+think of going without me? You never mention this, your greatest
+crime. It is this you should blush at, this too you should repent of.
+But the ungrateful Eloisa neglects all friendship, and thinks only of
+her love.
+
+I am extremely impatient till I see you, and am continually repining
+at the slow progress of time. We are to stay at Lausanne six days
+longer; I shall then fly to my only friend, and will then either
+comfort or sympathize, wipe away, or share her sorrows. I flatter
+myself I shall be able to make you listen, rather to the soothing
+tenderness of friendship, than the harsh language of reflection. My
+dear cousin, we must bewail our misfortunes, and pour out our hearts
+to each other in silence; and, if possibly by dint of future exemplary
+virtue, bury in oblivion the memory of a failing which can never be
+blotted out by our tears.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXI. To Eloisa.
+
+What an amazing mystery is the conduct and sentiments of the charming
+Eloisa! Tell me I beseech you, by what surprizing art you alone can
+unite such inconsistent counteracting emotions? Intoxicated as I am
+with love and delight, my soul is overwhelmed with grief and with
+despair. Amidst the most exquisite pleasures, I feel the most
+excruciating anxieties; nay the very enjoyment of those pleasures is
+made the subject of self accusation, and the aggravation of my
+distress. Heavens! what a torment to be able to indulge no one
+sensation but in a perpetual struggle of jarring passions; to be ever
+allaying the soothing tenderness of love, with the bitter pangs of
+rigorous reflection! A state of certain misery were a thousand times
+preferable to such doubtful disquietudes. To what purpose is it, alas,
+that I myself have been happy, when your misfortunes can torment me
+much more sensibly than my own? In vain do you attempt to disguise
+your own sad feelings, when your eyes will betray what your heart
+labours to conceal; and can those expressive eyes hide any thing from
+love’s all penetrating sight? Notwithstanding your assumed gaiety, I
+see, I see the cankering anxiety; and your melancholy, veiled, as you
+may think, by a smile, affects me the more sensibly.
+
+Surely you need no longer disguise any thing from me! While I was in
+your mother’s room yesterday, she was accidentally called out, and
+left me alone. In the mean time, I heard sighs that pierced my very
+soul. Could I, think you, be at a loss to guess the fatal cause? I
+went up to the place from which they seemed to proceed, and on going
+into your chamber, perceived the goddess of my heart, sitting on the
+floor, her head reclining on a couch, and almost drowned in tears. Oh!
+had my blood thus trickled down, I should have felt less pain. Oh how
+my soul melted at the sight! Remorse stung me to the quick. What had
+been my supremest bliss, became my excruciating punishment. I felt
+only then for you, and would have freely purchased with my life, your
+former tranquility. I would fain have thrown myself at your feet,
+kissed off your falling tears, and burying them at the bottom of my
+heart, have died or wiped them away for ever; but your mother’s return
+made me hasten back to my post, and obliged me to carry away your
+griefs, and that remorse which can never end but in my death.
+
+Oh how am I sunk and mortified by your grief! How you must despise me
+if our union is the cause of your own self-contempt, and if what has
+been the utmost of my bliss, proves the destruction of your peace! Be
+more just to yourself, my dearest Eloisa, and less prejudiced against
+the sacred ties which your own heart approved. Have you not acted in
+strict conformity to the purest laws of nature? Have you not
+voluntarily entered into the most solemn engagements? Tell me then,
+what you have done, that all laws divine, as well as human, will not
+sufficiently justify? Is there any thing wanting to confirm the sacred
+tie, but the mere formal ceremony of a public declaration? Be wholly
+mine, and you are no longer to blame. O my dear, my lovely wife, my
+tender and chaste companion, thou soother of all my cares, and object
+of all my wishes, oh think it not a crime to have listened to your
+love; but rather think it will be one to disobey it for the future. To
+marry any other man, is the only imputation you can fix on your
+unimpeached honour. Would you be innocent, be ever mine. The tie that
+unites us is legal, is sacred. The disregarding this tie should be the
+principal object of your concern. Love from henceforward can be the
+only guardian of your virtue.
+
+But were the foundation of your sorrows ever so just, ever so
+necessary, why am I robbed of my property in them? Why should not my
+eyes too overflow and share your grief? You should have no one pang
+that I ought not to feel, no one anxiety that ought not to share. My
+heart then, my jealous heart, but too justly reproaches you for every
+single tear you pour not into my bosom. Tell me, thou cold dissembling
+fair, is not every secret of this kind an injury to my passion? Do you
+so soon forget the promise you so lately made! Oh if you loved as I
+do, my happiness would comfort you as much as your concern affects me,
+and you would feel my pleasures as I share your anxieties.
+
+But alas! you consider me as a poor wretch whose reason is lost amidst
+the transports of delight. You are frightened at the violence of my
+joy, and compassionate the extravagance of my delirium, without
+considering that the utmost strength of human nature is not proof
+against endless pleasures? How, think you, can a poor weak mortal
+support the ineffable delights of infinite happiness? How do you
+imagine he can bear such ecstatic raptures without being lost to every
+other consideration. Do not you know that reason is limited, and that
+no understanding can command itself at all times, and upon all
+occasions? Pity then, I beseech you, the distraction you occasion, and
+forgive the errors you, yourself have thrown me into. I own freely to
+you I am no longer master of myself. My soul is absorbed totally in
+yours. However it may affect me in other respects, it fits me at least
+for the reception of your griefs, and the participation of your
+sorrows. Oh my dearest Eloisa! no longer conceal any thing from your
+other self.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXII. Answer.
+
+
+There was a time, my dear friend, when the stile of our letters was as
+easy to be understood as the subject of them was agreeable and
+delightful; animated as they were with the warmth of a generous
+passion, they stood in need of no art to elevate, no colourings of a
+luxuriant fancy to heighten them. Native simplicity was their best,
+their only character. That time, alas, is now no more, it is gone
+beyond the hope of a return; and the first melancholy proof that our
+hearts are less interested, is, that our correspondence is become less
+intelligible.
+
+You have been an eye-witness of my concern, and fondly therefore
+imagine you can discover its true source. You endeavour to relieve me
+by the mere force of elocution, and while you are thinking to delude
+me, are yourself the dupe of your own artifice. The sacrifice I have
+made to my passion is a great one indeed; yet great as it is, it
+provokes neither my sorrow nor my repentance. But I have deprived this
+passion of its most engaging circumstances; ah there’s the cause! that
+virtue which enchanted every thing around it, is itself vanished like
+a dream. Those inexpressible transports which at once gave both vigour
+to our affections, and purity to our desires, are now no more. We have
+made pleasure our sole pursuit, and neglected happiness has bid adieu
+to us for ever. Call but to mind those Halcyon days, when the fervency
+of our passion bore a proportion to its innocence, when the violence
+of our affections gave us weapons against itself; then, the purity of
+our intentions could reconcile us to restraint, while with comfort we
+reflected, that even these restraints served to heighten our desires.
+Compare those charming times with our present situation. Violent
+emotions, disquieting fears, endless suspicions, perpetual alarms, are
+the melancholy substitutes of our former gay companions. Where is that
+zeal for prudence and discretion which inspired every thought,
+directed every action, and sweetened and refined the delicacy of our
+love? Is the passion itself altered, or rather are not we most
+miserably changed? Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate and
+lasting; they are now degenerated into transports, resembling rather
+the fury of madness than the caresses of love. A pure and holy flame
+once lived in our hearts, but now we are sunk into mere common lovers,
+through a blind gratification of sensual indulgencies. We can now
+think ourselves sufficiently happy, if jealousy can give a poignancy
+to those pleasures, which even the very brutes can taste without it.
+
+This, my dear friend, is the subject which nearly concerns us both,
+and which indeed pains me more on your account than my own. I say
+nothing of the distress which is more immediately mine. Your
+disposition, tender as it is, can sufficiently feel it: consider the
+shame of my present situation, and if you still love me, give a sigh
+to my lost honour. My crime is unatonable, my tears then I should hope
+will be as lasting as my dishonour. Do not you then, who are the cause
+of this sorrow, seek to deprive me of this also. My only hope is
+founded in its continuance. Hard as my lot is, it would be still more
+deplorable if I could ever be comforted. The being reconciled to
+disgrace is the last, worst state of the abandoned.
+
+I am but too well acquainted with all the circumstances of my
+condition, and yet amidst all my horror, all my grief, I have one
+comfort left: it is the only one, but it is solid, it is pleasing.
+You, my dear friend, are its constant object; and since I dare no
+longer consider myself, I take the greater satisfaction in thinking of
+you. The great share of self esteem which you, alas, have taken from
+me, is now transferred entirely to yourself; and what should have been
+your crime, is with me your apology, and endearment. Love, even that
+fatal love which has proved my destruction, is become the material
+circumstance in your favour. You are exalted while I am abased; nay,
+my very abasement is the cause of your exaltation. Be henceforward
+then my only hope. Your business is to justify my crime by your
+conduct. Excuse it at least by your virtuous demeanor. May your
+deserts prove a covering to my disgrace, and let the number of your
+virtues make the loss of mine less sensible to my view. Since I am no
+longer any thing, be thou my whole existence. The only honour I have
+left is solely centered in thee; and while thou in any degree art
+respected, I can never be wholly despised or rejected.
+
+However sorry I may be for the quick recovery of my health, yet my
+artifice will no longer stand me in any stead. My countenance will
+soon give the lie to my pretences, and I shall no longer be able to
+impose on my parents a feigned indisposition. Be quick then in taking
+the steps we have agreed on; before I am forced to resume my usual
+business in my family. I perceive but too plainly, that my mother is
+suspicious, and continually watches us. My father, indeed, seems to
+know nothing of the matter. His pride has been hitherto our security.
+Perhaps he thinks it impossible, that a mere common tutor can be in
+love with his daughter. But after all, you know his temper. If you do
+not prevent him, he will you; do not then through a fond desire of
+gaining your usual access, banish yourself entirely from the
+possibility of a return. Take my advice and speak to my mother in
+time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements, in order to prevent your
+teaching me any longer; and let us give up the satisfaction of such
+frequent interviews that we may make sure, at least, of meeting
+sometimes. Consider, if you are once shut out, it is for ever; but if
+you can resolve to deny yourself for a time, you may then come when
+you please, and in time and by management may repeat your visits
+often, without any fear of suspicion. I will tell you this evening
+some other schemes I have in view for our more frequent meeting, and
+you will then be convinced that that _constant_ cousin, whom we used
+so grievously to detest, will now be very useful to two lovers, whom
+in truth she ought never to have left alone.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Ah! my dear friend, what a miserable asylum for lovers is a crowded
+assembly! What inconceivable torment, to see each other under the
+restraints of what is called good breeding! Surely absence were a
+thousand times more supportable! Is calmness and composure compatible
+with such emotions? Can the lover be self-consistent, or with what
+attention can he consider such a number of objects, when one alone
+possesses his whole soul? When the heart is fired, can the body be at
+rest? You cannot conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you were
+coming. Your name seemed a reproach to me, and I could not help
+imagining that the whole company’s attention was fixed upon me alone.
+I was immediately lost, and blushed so exceedingly, that my cousin,
+who observed me, was obliged to cover me with her fan, and pretend to
+whisper me in the ear. This very artifice, simple as it was, increased
+my apprehensions, and I trembled for fear they should perceive it. In
+short, every the most minute circumstance was a fresh subject for
+alarm; never did I so fully experience the truth of that well known
+axiom, that a guilty conscience needs no accuser.
+
+Clara pretended to observe that you was equally embarrassed, uncertain
+what to do, not daring either to advance or retire, to take notice of
+me or not, and looking all around the room to give you a pretence, as
+she said, to look, at last, on me. As I recovered from my confusion by
+degrees, I perceived your distress, till, by Mrs. Belon’s coming up to
+you, you was relieved.
+
+I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner of living, which is
+imbittered with so much constraint, and sweetened with so little
+pleasure, is not suited to us. Our passion is too noble to bear
+perpetual chains. These public assemblies are only fit for those who
+are strangers to love, or who can with ease dispense with ceremony. My
+anxieties are too disquieting, and your indiscretions too dangerous; I
+cannot always have a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diversion. Let us
+return, let us return to that calm state of life from whence I have so
+inadvertently drawn you. It was that situation which gave rise and
+vigour to our passion; perhaps too it may be weakened by this
+dissipated manner of living. The truest passions are formed and
+nourished in retirement. In the busy circle of the world there is no
+time for receiving impressions, and even, when received, they are
+considerably weakened by the variety of avocations which continually
+occur. Retirement too best suits my melancholy, which like my love can
+be supported only by thy dear image. I had rather see you tender and
+passionate in my heart, than under constraint and dissipation in an
+assembly. There may perhaps come a time, when I shall be forced to a
+much closer retreat. O that that time were already come! Common
+prudence, as well as my own inclinations, require that I should inure
+myself betimes to habits which necessity may demand. Oh, if the crime
+itself could produce the cause of its atonement! The pleasing hope of
+being one day----but I shall inadvertently say more than I am willing
+on the design I have in view. Forgive me this one secret, my dear
+friend; my heart shall never conceal any thing that would give you
+pleasure: yet you must, for a time, be ignorant of this. All I can say
+of it at present is, that love, which was the occasion of our
+misfortunes, ought to furnish us with relief. You may reason and
+comment upon this hint as much as you please; but I positively forbid
+all questions.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXIV. The Answer.
+
+
+_No, non vedrete mai
+Cambiar gl’ affeti mici,
+Bei lumi onde imparai
+A sospirar d’amor._
+
+How greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs. Belon for the pleasure she
+procured me! Forgive me, my dearest Eloisa, when I tell you, that I
+even dared to take some pleasure in your distress, and that your very
+anxiety afforded me most exquisite delight. Oh, what raptures did I
+feel at those stolen glances, that downcast modesty, that care with
+which you avoided meeting my eyes! What then, think you, was the
+employment of your too, too happy lover? Was he indeed converting with
+Mrs. Belon? Did you really think so, my lovely Eloisa? Oh, no,
+enchanting fair! he was much more worthily employed. With what an
+amazing sympathy did my heart share each emotion of thine! With what a
+greedy impatience did I explore the beautiful symmetry of thy person!
+Thy love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole soul, which was hardly
+able to contain the ravishing idea. The only allay to all this
+pleasure was, that I feasted at your expense, and felt the tender
+sensations which you, alas, was absolutely unable to participate. Can
+I tell one word that Mrs. Belon said to me? Could I have told it at
+the very time she was speaking? Do I know what answers I made? or did
+she understand me at all? But indeed how could she comprehend the
+discourse of one who spoke without thinking, and answered without
+conceiving the question.
+
+_Com’ buom, che par ch’ ascolti, e nulla intende._
+
+I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She has since told all the
+world, and perhaps you among the rest, that I have not common sense;
+but what is still worse, not a single grain of wit, and that I am as
+dull and foolish as my books. But no matter how she thinks, or what
+she says of me. Is not Eloisa the sole mistress of my fate, and does
+not she alone determine my future rank and estimation? Let the rest of
+the world say of me what they think proper; myself, my understanding,
+and my accomplishments, all absolutely depend on the value you are
+pleased to fix on them.
+
+Be assured, neither Mrs. Belon, nor any superior beauty, could ever
+delude my attention from Eloisa. If after all this, you still doubt my
+sincerity, and can injure my love and your own charms so much as still
+to suspect me, pray tell me, how I became acquainted with every minute
+particular of your conduct? Did not I see you shine among the inferior
+beauties, like the sun among the stars, that were eclipsed by your
+radiance? Did not I see the young fellows hovering about your chair,
+and buzzing in your ear? Did not I perceive you singled out from the
+rest of your sex to be the only object of universal admiration? Did
+not I perceive their studied assiduities, their continual compliments,
+and your cold and modest indifference, infinitely more affecting than
+the most haughty demeanor you could possibly have assumed? Yes, my
+Eloisa, I saw the effect produced by the sight of your snowy delicate
+arm, when you pulled off your glove; I saw too that the young stranger
+who picked it up seemed tempted to kiss the charming hand that
+received it. And did not I see a still bolder swain, whose steady
+stare obliged you to add another pin to your tucker? All this may
+perhaps convince you I was not so absent as you imagine; not that I
+was the least jealous; for I know your heart was not cast in such a
+mold as to be susceptible of every passion: nor will you, I hope,
+think otherwise of mine.
+
+Let us then return to that calm, blest retirement, which I quitted
+with such regret. My heart finds no satisfaction in the tumultuous
+hurry of the world. Its empty tinsel pleasures dispose it only to
+lament the want of more substantial joys the more feelingly, and make
+it prefer its own real sufferings to the melancholy train of continual
+disappointments. Surely, Eloisa, we may attain much more solid
+satisfaction, in any situation, than under our present restraint. And
+yet you seem to forget it. To be so near each other for a whole
+fortnight without meeting! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured
+enraptured heart! Absence itself would be infinitely more supportable.
+Tell me to what end you can make use of a discretion, which occasions
+more misfortunes than it is able to prevent? Of what importance can it
+be to prolong a life, in which every succeeding moment brings fresh
+punishment? Were it not better, yes surely a thousand times, to meet
+once more at all events, and then submit to our fate with resignation.
+
+I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain know the utmost of the
+secret you conceal. There never was a discovery that could interest me
+so deeply: but all my endeavours are in vain. I can however be as
+silent as you would wish, and repress my forward curiosity. But may I
+not hope soon to be satisfied? Perhaps you are still in the castle-
+building system. Oh thou dear object of my affections! surely now it
+is high time to improve all our schemes into reality.
+
+P. S. I had almost forgot to tell you that M. Roguin made me the offer
+of a company in the regiment he is raising for the king of Sardinia. I
+was highly pleased at this brave man’s signal mark of his esteem, and
+thanking him for his kindness, told him, the shortness of my sight,
+and great love of a studious and sedentary life, unfitted me for so
+active an employment. My love can claim no great share in this
+sacrifice. Every one in my opinion owes his life to his country, which
+therefore he should not risk in the service of those princes to whom
+he is no ways indebted; much less is he at liberty to let himself out
+for hire, and turn the noblest profession in the world into that of a
+vile mercenary. These maxims I claim by inheritance from my father;
+and happy enough should I be, could I imitate him as well in his
+steady adherence to his duty, and love to his country. He never would
+enter into the service of any foreign prince, but in the year 1712,
+acquired great reputation in fighting for his country: he served in
+many engagements, in one of which he was wounded, and at the battle of
+Wilmerghen was so fortunate as, in the fight of general Sacconex, to
+take a standard from the enemy.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I could never think, my dear friend, that what I hinted of Mrs. Belon
+in jest could have excited so long or so serious an explanation. An
+over eagerness in one’s own defence is sometimes productive of the
+very reverse of its intention, and fixes a lasting suspicion instead
+of removing or lightening the accusation. The most trifling incidents,
+when attended to minutely, immediately grow up into events of
+importance. Our situation indeed secures us from making this case our
+own; for our hearts are too busy to listen to mere punctilios; though
+all disputes between lovers on points of little moment, have too often
+a much deeper foundation than they imagine.
+
+I am rather glad however of the opportunity which this accident has
+given me, of saying somewhat to you on the subject of jealousy; a
+subject which, alas, but too nearly concerns me. I see, my dear
+friend, by the similitude of our tempers and near alliance of our
+dispositions, that love alone will be the great business of our lives:
+and surely when such impressions as we feel have been once made, love
+must either extinguish or absorb every other passion. The least
+relaxation in our passion must inevitably produce a most dangerous
+lethargy: a total apathy, an indifference to every enjoyment, and a
+disrelish of every present comfort would very soon take place if our
+affections were once cooled, and indeed life itself would then become
+a burthen. With respect to myself, you cannot but perceive, that the
+present transports of my passion could alone veil over the horror of
+my disastrous situation, and the sad alternative proposed to my
+choice, is the extravagance of love, or a death of despair. Judge then
+if after this I am able to determine a point on which the happiness or
+misery of my future life so absolutely depends.
+
+If I may be allowed to know any thing of my own temper and
+disposition, though I am oftentimes distracted with violent emotions,
+it is but seldom that their influence can hurry me into action. My
+sorrows must have preyed on my heart for a long time before I could
+ever be prevailed on to discover the source of them to their author;
+and being firmly persuaded that there can be no offence without
+intention, I would much rather submit to a thousand real subjects of
+complaint than ever come to an explanation. A disposition of this kind
+will neither easily give way to suspicion, nor be anxiously concerned
+at the jealousy of others. Oh, shield me, gracious heaven, from the
+tormenting pangs of causeless jealousy! I am fully assured that your
+heart was made for mine and for no other; but self-deceit is of all
+others the most easy imposition: a transient liking is often mistaken
+for a real passion, as it is difficult to distinguish the effects of
+sudden fancy from the result of a sincere and settled affection. If
+you yourself can doubt your own constancy without any reason, how
+could you blame me were I capable of mistrusting you? But that way
+leads to misery. So cruel a doubt as that would imbitter the remainder
+of my life. I should sigh in secret without complaining, and die an
+inconsolable martyr to my passion.
+
+But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune, the idea of which
+shocks my very soul. Swear to me, my dear, dear friend! but not by
+love, for lover’s oaths are never made but with intention to be
+broken; but swear by the sacred name of honour, which you highly
+revere, that I shall ever be the confident of your inmost thoughts,
+the repository of all your secrets, the witness of all your emotions,
+and if perchance, (which gracious heaven avert!) if any change should
+take place in your affections, swear moreover that you will instantly
+inform me of so interesting a revolution. Think not to excuse yourself
+by alleging, that such a change is impossible. I believe, I hope, nay,
+I am well assured of your sincerity; oblige me, however, and prevent
+all false alarms; take from me the possibility of doubting, and secure
+my present peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard soever it might
+be, were much better than through ignorance of the truth to be
+perpetually exposed to the tortures of imaginary evils. Some comfort,
+some alleviation of my sorrows would arise from your remorse; though
+my affections must cease, you would necessarily become the partner of
+my griefs: and even my own anxiety, when poured into your breast,
+would seem less distracting.
+
+’Tis on this account, my dear friend, that I congratulate myself more
+especially on the fond choice of my heart; that honour strengthens and
+confirms the bond which affection first begun; and that my security
+depends not on the violence of passion, but the more sober and settled
+dictates of principle: ’tis this which cements, at the same time that
+it ensures, the affections; ’tis this virtue that must reconcile us to
+our woes. Had it been my sad misfortune to have fixed my affections on
+a lover void of principle, even supposing those affections should
+continue unchangeable, yet what security should I have of the
+continuance of his lover? By what methods could I silence those
+perpetual misgivings that would be ever rising in my mind, and in what
+manner could I be assured that I was not imposed on, either by his
+artifice or my own credulity? But thou, my dear, my honourable friend,
+who hast no dark designs to cover, no secret frauds to practise, thou
+wilt, I am well assured, preserve the constancy thou hast vowed. You
+will never be shamed out of your duty, through the false bashfulness
+of owning an infidelity, and when you can no longer love your Eloisa,
+you will frankly tell her----yes, you will say, my Eloisa I do not----
+I cannot; indeed I cannot, finish the sentence.
+
+What do you think of my proposal? I am sure it is the only one I can
+think of to pluck up jealousy by the root. There is a certain
+delicacy, a tender confidence which persuades me to rely so entirely
+on your sincerity, as to make me incapable of believing any accusation
+which came not from your own lips. These are the good effects I expect
+from your promise; for though I should easily believe, that you are as
+fickle as the rest of your sex, yet I can never be persuaded, that you
+are equally false and deceitful, and however I might doubt of the
+constancy of your affections, I can never bring myself to suspect your
+honour. What a pleasure do I feel in taking precautions in this
+matter, which I hope will always be useless, and to prevent the very
+possibility of a change, which I am persuaded will never happen! Oh
+how delightful is it to talk of jealousy to so faithful a lover! If I
+thought you capable of inconstancy I should not talk thus. My poor
+heart would not be so discreet in the time of so much danger, and the
+least real distrust would deprive me of the prudence necessary for my
+security.
+
+This subject, _honoured master_, may be more fully discussed this
+evening; for your two _humble scholars_ are to have the honour of
+supping with you at my uncle’s. Your learned commentaries on the
+Gazette have raised you so highly in his esteem, that no great
+artifice was wanting to persuade him to invite you. The daughter has
+put her harpsicord in tune, the father has been poring over Lamberti,
+and I shall perhaps repeat the lesson I first learnt in Clarens grove.
+You who are a master of every science must adapt your knowledge and
+instructions to our several capacities. Mr. Orbe (who is invited you
+may be sure) has had notice given him to prepare a dissertation on the
+nature of the king of Naples’s future homage; this will give us three
+an opportunity of going into my cousin’s apartment. There, vassal, on
+thy knees, before thy sovereign mistress, thy hands clasped in hers,
+and in the presence of her chancellor, thou shalt vow truth and
+loyalty on every occasion; I do not say eternal love, because that is
+a thing which no one can absolutely promise; but truth, sincerity, and
+frankness are in every one’s disposal; to these therefore thou shalt
+swear. You need not vow eternal fealty; but you must and shall vow to
+commit no act of felonious intention, and at least to declare open war
+before you shake off the yoke. This done, you shall seal it with an
+embrace and be owned and acknowledged for a true and loyal knight.
+
+Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I have formed of this evening
+have given me all these spirits. I shall be doubly blessed to see you
+a partaker of my joy.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXVI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Kiss this welcome letter, and leap for joy at the news I am going to
+tell you: but be assured that though my emotions should prove less
+violent, I am not a whit less rejoiced. My father being obliged to go
+to Bern on account of a law suit, and from thence to Soleure for his
+pension, proposes to take my mother along with him, to which she is
+the more willing to consent, as she hopes to receive benefit from the
+journey and change of air. They were so obliging as to offer to take
+me along with them. I did not think proper to say all I thought on the
+occasion; but their not being able to find convenient room for me made
+them change their intentions with respect to my going, and they are
+now all endeavouring to comfort me for the disappointment. I was
+obliged to assume a very melancholy air, as if almost inconsolable;
+and, ridiculous as it is, I have dissembled so long, that I am
+sometimes apt to fancy I feel a real sorrow.
+
+I am not however to be absolutely my own mistress while my parents are
+absent, but to live at my uncle’s; so that during the whole time I
+shall be always with my _constant_ cousin. My mother choses to leave
+her own woman behind; Bab, therefore, will be considered as a kind of
+governess to me. But we need not be very apprehensive of those whom we
+have no need either to bribe or to trust, but who may be easily got
+rid of whenever they grow troublesome, by means of any trifling
+allurement.
+
+You will readily conceive, I dare say, what opportunities we shall
+have of meeting during their absence; but our discretion must furnish
+those restraints, which our situation has taken off for a while, and
+we must then voluntarily submit to that reserve, to which at present
+we are obliged by sad necessity. You must, when I am at my cousin’s,
+come no oftener than you did before, for fear of giving her offence,
+and I hope there will be no need of reminding you of the assiduous
+respect and civility, which her sex and the sacred laws of hospitality
+require; and that you yourself will sufficiently consider what is due
+to the friendship that gives an asylum to your love. I know your eager
+disposition; but I am convinced, at the same time, that there are
+bounds which can restrain it. Had you never governed your violence by
+the known laws of honour, you had not been troubled at present with
+any admonitions, at least with none from me.
+
+But why that downcast look, that louring air? why repine at the
+restraints which duty prescribes? Be it thy Eloisa’s care to sooth and
+soften them. Had you ever cause to repent of having listened to my
+advice? Near the flowery banks of the head of the river _Vevey_ there
+stands a solitary hut, which serves sometimes as a shelter to
+sportsmen, and surely may also shelter lovers. Hard by the mansion
+house which belongs to Mr. Orbe are several thatched dairy houses
+sufficiently remote, which may serve to cover love and pleasure, ever
+the truest friends to rustic simplicity. The prudent milkmaids will
+keep the secret; for they have often need of secrecy. The streams
+which water the adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering shrubs,
+and charming shady groves, while at some little distance the thickness
+of the neighbouring wood seems to promise a more gloomy and secluded
+retreat.
+
+_Al bel seggio riposto, ombroso e fosco,
+Ne mai pastori appressan, ne bifolci._
+
+In this delightful place, no vestiges are seen of human toil, no
+appearance of studied and laborious art; every object around presents
+only a view of the tender care of nature, our common mother. Here
+then, my dear friend, we shall be only under nature’s directions, and
+know no other laws but hers. At Mr. Orbe’s invitation, Clara has
+already persuaded her father to take the diversion of hunting for two
+or three days in this part of the world, and to carry the two
+inseparables with him. These inseparables have others likewise closely
+connected with them, as you know but too well. The one assuming the
+character of master of the house, will consequently do the honours,
+while the other with less parade will do the honours of a dairy-house,
+and this rural hut dedicated to love, will be to them the temple of
+Gnidus. To succeed the more effectually in this charming project,
+there will be wanting a little previous contrivance, which may be
+easily settled between us, and the very consideration of which will
+form a part of those pleasures they are intended to produce. Adieu, my
+dear life! I leave off abruptly for fear of being surprized. The heart
+of thy devoted Eloisa anticipates, alas, too eagerly the pleasures of
+the dairy-house.
+
+P. S. Upon second thoughts, I begin to be of opinion that we may meet
+every day without any great danger; at my cousin’s every other day,
+and in the field on every intermediate one.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXVII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+They left me this very morning; my tender father and still fonder
+mother, took leave of me but just now, overwhelming their beloved
+daughter (too unworthy, alas, of all their affection) with repeated
+caresses. For my own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance at
+this separation! I embraced them with an outward appearance of
+concern, while my ungrateful and unnatural heart was leaping within me
+for joy. Where, alas, is now that happy time, when I led an innocent
+life under their continual observation, when my only joy was their
+approbation, my only concern their absence or neglect? Behold now the
+melancholy reverse! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the very thought
+of them gives me pain, and the recollection of myself makes me blush
+with confusion. All my virtuous ideas now vanish away like a dream,
+and leave in their stead empty disquietudes and barren remorse, which,
+bitter as they are, are nevertheless insufficient to lead me to
+repentance. These cruel reflections have brought on all that sorrow,
+which the taking leave of my parents was unable to effect. And yet
+immediately on their departure, I felt an agony of grief. While Bab
+was setting the things to rights, I went into my mother’s room as it
+were mechanically, without knowing what I did, and seeing some of her
+cloaths lying scattered about, I took them up one by one, kissed them
+and bathed them with my tears. This vent to my anxiety afforded me
+present ease, and it was some comfort to me to reflect, that I was
+still awake to nature’s soft emotions, and that her gentle fires were
+not entirely extinguished in my soul. In vain, cruel tyrant! dost thou
+seek to subject this weak and tender heart, to thy absolute dominion:
+notwithstanding all thy fond illusions, it still retains the
+sentiments of duty, still cherishes and reveres parental rights, much
+more sacred than thy own.
+
+Forgive me, my dear friend, these involuntary emotions, nor imagine
+that I carry these reflections farther than I ought. Love’s soft
+moments are not to be expected amidst the tortures of anxiety. I
+cannot conceal my sufferings from you, and yet I would not overwhelm
+you with them; nay, you must know them, though not to share, yet to
+soften them. But into whose bosom dare I pour them, if not into,
+thine? Are not you my faithful friend, my prudent counselor, my tender
+comfort? Have not you been fostering in my soul the love of virtue,
+when, alas! that virtue itself was no longer within me? How often
+should I have sunk under the pressure of my afflictions had not thy
+pitying hand relieved me from my sorrows, and wiped away my tears? It
+is your tender care alone supports me. I dare not abuse myself while
+you continue to esteem me, and I flatter myself, that if I were indeed
+contemptible, none of you would or could so honour me with your
+regard. I am flying to the arms of my dear cousin, or rather to the
+heart of a tender sister, there to repose the load of grief with which
+I am oppressed. Come thither this evening, and contribute to restore
+to me that peace and serenity, of which I have long been deprived.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXVIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+No, Eloisa, it is impossible! I can never bear to see you every day,
+if I am always to be charmed in the manner I was last night. My
+affection must ever bear proportion to the discovery of your beauties,
+and you are an inexhaustible source of endless wonder and delight,
+beyond my utmost hopes, beyond my most sanguine expectations! What a
+delicious evening to me was the last! What amazing raptures did I
+feel! O enchanting sorrow! How infinitely doth the pleasing languor of
+a heart softened by concern, surpass the boisterous pleasures, the
+foolish gaiety, and the extravagant joy with which a boundless passion
+inspires the ungovernable lover! O peaceful bliss! never, never shall
+thy pleasing idea be torn from my memory! Heavens, what an enchanting
+sight! it was extasy itself, to see two such perfect beauties embrace
+each other so affectionately; your face reclined upon her breast,
+mixing your tender tears together, and bedewing that charming bosom,
+just as heaven refreshes a bed of new blown flowers. I grew jealous of
+such a friendship, and thought there was some thing more interesting
+in it than even in love itself. I was grieved at the impossibility of
+consoling you, without disturbing you at the same time by the violence
+of my emotion. No, nothing, nothing upon earth is capable of exciting
+so pleasing a sensation as your mutual caresses. Even the sight of two
+lovers would have been less delightful.
+
+Oh how could I have admired, nay, adored your dear cousin, if the
+divine Eloisa herself had not taken up all my thoughts! You throw, my
+dearest angel, an irresistible charm on every thing that surrounds
+you. Your gown, your gloves, fan, work, nay every thing that was the
+object of my outward senses, enchanted my very soul; and you yourself
+compleatd the enchantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear, dear Eloisa, nor
+deprive me of all sensation, by making my enjoyment too exquisite. My
+transports approach so nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be
+apprehensive I shall lose my reason. Let me, at least, be sensible of
+my felicity; let me at least have a rational idea of those raptures,
+which are more sublime, and more penetrating, than my glowing
+imagination could paint. How can you think yourself disgraced? This
+very thought is a sure proof that your senses likewise are affected.
+Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I should believe you to
+be of a more exalted purer species, if the violence of my passion did
+not clearly evince, that we are of a kindred frame. No human being
+conceives your excellence; you are unknown even to yourself; my heart
+alone knows and can estimate its Eloisa. Were you only an idol of
+worship, could you have been enraptured with the dull homage of
+admiring mortals? Were you only an angel, how much you would lose of
+your real value!
+
+Tell me, if you can, how such a passion as mine is capable of
+increasing? I am ignorant of the means, yet am but too sensible of the
+fact. You are indeed ever present with me, yet there are some days in
+which thy beautiful image is peculiarly before me, and haunts me as it
+were with such amazing assiduity that neither time nor place can
+deprive me of the delightful object. I even believe you left it with
+me in the dairy-house, at the conclusion of your last letter. Since
+you mentioned that rural spot, I have been continually rambling in the
+fields, and am always insensibly led towards the same place. Every
+time I behold it, it appears still more enchanting.
+
+_Non vide il mondo si leggiadri rami,
+Ne mosse’l vento mai si verdi frondi._
+
+I find the country more delightful, the verdure fresher and livelier,
+the air more temperate and serene than ever I did before; even the
+feathered songsters of the sky seem to tune their tender throats with
+more harmony and pleasure; the murmuring rills invite to love-
+inspiring dalliance, while the blossoms of the vine regale me from
+afar with the choicest perfumes. Some secret charm enlivens every
+object, or raises my sensations to a more exquisite degree. I am
+tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns herself to make a
+nuptial bed for your happy lover, worthy of the passion which he
+feels, and the goddess he adores. O, my Eloisa, my dearer better half!
+let us immediately add to these beauties of the spring, the presence
+of two faithful lovers. Let us carry the true sentiments of pleasures
+to places which comparatively afford but an empty idea of it. Let us
+animate all nature which is absolutely dead without the genial warmth
+of love. Am I yet to stay three days, three whole days? Oh what an age
+to a fond expecting lover! Intoxicated with my passion, I wait that
+happy moment with the most melancholy impatience. Oh how happy should
+we be, if heaven would annihilate those tedious intervals which retard
+the blissful moment!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XXXIX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+There is not a single emotion of your heart, which I do not share with
+the tenderest concern. But talk no more of pleasures, whilst others,
+who have deserved much better than either of us, are suffering under
+the pressure of the severest afflictions. Read the inclosed, and then
+be composed if you can. I indeed, who am well acquainted with the good
+girl who wrote it, was not able to proceed without shedding tears of
+sorrow and compassion. The recollection it gave me of my blameable
+negligence, touched my very soul, and, to my bitter confusion, I
+perceive but too plainly, that a forgetfulness of the principal points
+of my duty, has extended itself to all those of inferior
+consideration. I had promised this poor child to take care of her; I
+recommended her to my mother, and kept her in some degree under my
+continual inspection: but, alas! when I became unable to protect
+myself, I abandoned her too, and exposed her to worse misfortunes than
+even I myself have fallen into. I shudder to think that had I not been
+roused from my carelessness, in two days time my ward would have been
+ruined; her own indigence, and the snares of others, would have
+ruined, for ever ruined, a modest and discreet girl, who may hereafter
+possibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear friend! can there be
+such vile creatures upon earth, who would extort from the depth of
+misery what the heart alone should give? That any one can submit to
+receive the tender embraces of love from the arms of famine itself!
+
+Can you be unmoved at my Fanny’s filial piety, at the integrity of her
+sentiments, and the simplicity of her innocence? But are you not
+affected with the uncommon tenderness of the lover, who will sell even
+himself to assist his poor mistress? Would not you think yourself too
+happy to be the instrument of uniting a couple so well formed for each
+other? If we, alas, (whose situation so much resembles theirs) do not
+compassionate lovers who are united by nature, but divided by
+misfortunes, where else can they seek relief with a probability of
+success? For my own part, I have determined to make some amends for my
+neglect, by contributing my utmost endeavours to unite these two young
+people. Heaven will, I hope, assist the generous undertaking, and my
+success may prove a good omen to us. I desire, nay, conjure you, by
+all that is good and dear to you, to set out for Neufchatel the very
+moment you receive this, or to-morrow morning at farthest. You will
+then go to Mr. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young man’s release;
+spare neither money nor intreaties. Take Fanny’s letter along with
+you. No breast, that is not absolutely void of all sentiments of
+humanity, can read it without emotion. In short, whatever money it may
+cost, whatever pleasure of her own it may defer, be sure not to return
+without an entire free discharge for Claudius Anet; if you do, you may
+be assured, I shall never enjoy a single moment’s satisfaction during
+the remainder of my life.
+
+I am aware that your heart will be raising many objections to the
+proposal I have made; but can you think, that I have not foreseen all
+those objections? Yet, notwithstanding them all, I repeat my request;
+for virtue must either be an empty name, or it requires of us some
+mortifying self-denials. Our appointment, my friend, my dear, dear
+friend, though lost for the present, may be made again and again. A
+few hours of the most agreeable intercourse vanish like a flash of
+lightening; but when the happiness of an honest couple is in your
+power, think, only think, what you are preparing for hereafter, if you
+neglect the opportunity; on the use then of the present time, depends
+an eternity of contentment or remorse. Forgive such frequent
+repetitions, they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have said, more
+than was necessary to any honest man, and an hundred times too much to
+my dear friend. I well know how you abominate that cruel turn of mind
+which hardens us to the calamities of others. You yourself have told
+me a thousand times, that he is a wretch indeed who scruples giving up
+one day of pleasure to the duties of humanity.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XL. From Fanny Regnard to Eloisa.
+
+
+Honoured Madam,
+
+Forgive this interruption, from a poor girl in despair, who being
+ignorant what to do, has taken the liberty of addressing herself to
+your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never weary of comforting the
+afflicted, and I am so unfortunate, alas, that I have tired all but
+God Almighty, and you, with my complaints. I am very sorry I was
+obliged to leave the mistress you had been so kind to put me
+apprentice to, but on my mother’s death, (which happened this winter)
+I was obliged to return home to my poor father, who is confined to his
+bed by the palsy.
+
+I have never forgotten the advice you gave my mother, to try to settle
+me with some honest man, who might be of use to the family. Claud
+Anet (formerly in your father’s service) is a very sober discreet
+person, master of a good trade, and has taken a liking to me. Having
+been already so much indebted to your bounty, I did not dare to apply
+to you for any farther assistance, so that he has been our only
+support during the whole winter. He was to have married me this
+spring, and indeed had set his heart on it; but I have been so teased
+for three years rent due last Easter, that not knowing where to get so
+much money, the young man listed at once in M. Marveilleux’s company,
+and brought me all the money he had received for enlisting. M.
+Merveilleux stays at Neufchatel about a week longer, and Claud Anet is
+to set out in three or four days with the rest of the recruits. So
+that we have neither time nor money to marry, and he is going to leave
+me without any help. If, through your interest or the Baron’s, five or
+six weeks longer might be given us, we would endeavour in that time
+either to get married, or repay the young man his money. But I am sure
+he can never be prevailed on to take the money again.
+
+I received this morning some great offers from a very rich gentleman,
+but thank God, I have refused them. He told me, he would come again
+to-morrow to know my mind; but I desired him not to give himself so
+much trouble, and that he knew it already. By God’s assistance, he
+shall have the same answer to-morrow. I might indeed apply to the
+parish; but one is so despised after that, that my misfortunes are
+better than such a relief, and Claud Anet has too much pride to think
+of me after this. Forgive the liberty I have taken; you are the only
+person I could think of, and I feel so distressed, that I can write no
+more about it.
+
+I am,
+Your humble servant to command.
+Fanny Regnard.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLI. The Answer.
+
+
+I have been wanting in point of memory, and you Fanny have been
+deficient in your confidence in me; in short, we have both of us been
+to blame, but I am the most inexcusable. However, I shall now
+endeavour to repair the injury which my neglect may have occasioned.
+Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to satisfy your more immediate
+wants, and will be with you again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman
+should return. My cousin and I propose calling on you in the evening;
+for I know you cannot leave your poor father alone, and indeed I shall
+be glad of this opportunity, to inspect your economy a little.
+
+You need not be uneasy on Claud Anet’s account; my father is from
+home, but we shall do all we can towards his immediate release. Be
+assured, that I will neither forget you, nor your generous lover.
+Adieu, my dear, and may God ever bless you. I think you much in the
+right for not having recourse to public charity. Such steps as those,
+are never to be taken, while the hearts and purses of benevolent
+individuals are open, and accessible.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I have received your letter, and shall set out this instant. This is
+all the answer I shall make. O Eloisa! how could you cruelly suppose
+me possessed of such a selfish unfeeling heart? But you command, and
+shall be obeyed. I would rather die a thousand times, than forfeit
+your esteem.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I arrived at Neufchatel yesterday morning, and on enquiry was told,
+that M. Merveilleux was just gone into the country. I followed him
+immediately, but as he was out a hunting all day, I was obliged to
+wait till the evening, before I could speak with him. I told him the
+cause of my journey, and desired he would set a price on Claud Anet’s
+discharge; to which he raised a number of objections. I then
+concluded, that the most effectual method of answering them, would be
+to increase my offers, which I did in proportion as his difficulties
+multiplied. But finding, after some time, that I was not likely to
+succeed, I took my leave, having previously desired the liberty to
+wait on him the next morning; determined in my own mind not to stir
+out of the house a second time, till I had obtained my request, by
+dint of larger offers, frequent importunity, or in short by whatever
+means I could think most effectual. I arose early next morning to put
+this resolution in practice, and was just going to mount my horse,
+when I received a note from M. Merveilleux with the young man’s
+discharge, in due form and order. The contents of the note were these.
+
+“Inclosed, Sir, is the discharge, you request. I denied it to your
+pecuniary offers, but have granted it in consideration of your
+charitable design, and desire you would not think that I am to be
+bribed into a good action.”
+
+You will easily conceive by your own satisfaction, what joy I must
+have felt. But why is it not as compleat as it ought to be? I cannot
+possibly avoid going to thank, and indeed to reimburse M. Merveilleux,
+and if this visit, necessary as it is, should retard my return a whole
+day, as I am apprehensive it will, is he not generous at my expense?
+But no matter: I have done my duty to Eloisa, and am satisfied. Oh
+what a happiness it is thus to reconcile benevolence to love! to unite
+in the same action the charms of conscious virtue, with the soft
+sensations of the tendered affection. I own freely, Eloisa, that I
+began my journey, full of sorrow and impatience; I even dared to
+reproach you with feeling too much the calamities of others, while you
+remained insensible to my sufferings, as if I alone of all created
+beings had been unworthy your compassion. I thought it quite barbarous
+in you, after having disappointed me of my sweetest hopes, thus
+unnecessarily and wantonly as it were to deprive me of a happiness
+which you had voluntarily promised. All these secret repinings are now
+happily changed into a fund of contentment, and solid satisfaction, to
+which I have hitherto lived a stranger. I have already enjoyed the
+recompense you bade me expect; you spake from experience. Oh! what an
+amazing kind of empire is yours, which can convert even disappointment
+into pleasure, and cause the same satisfaction in obeying you, as
+could result from the greatest self-gratification! Oh my dearest,
+kindest Eloisa, you are indeed an angel; if any thing could be wanting
+to confirm the truth of this, your unbounded empire over my soul would
+be a sufficient confirmation. Doubtless it partakes much more of the
+divine nature, than of the human; and who can resist the power of
+heaven? And to what purpose should I cease to love you, since you must
+ever remain the object of my adoration?
+
+P. S. According to my calculation we shall have five or six days to
+ourselves before your mother returns. Will it be impossible for you
+during this interval to undertake a pilgrimage to the dairy-house?
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLIV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Repine not, my dear friend, at this unexpected return. It is really
+more advantageous to us than you can possibly imagine, and indeed,
+supposing our contrivances could have effected what our regard to
+appearance has induced us to give up, we should have succeeded no
+better. Judge what would have been the consequence, had we followed
+our inclinations. I should have gone into the country but the very
+evening before my mother’s return, should have been sent for them
+thence, before I could have possibly given you any notice, and must
+consequently have left you in the most dreadful anxiety; we should
+have parted just on the eve of our imaginary bliss, and the
+disappointment would have been cruelly aggravated by the near approach
+of our felicity. Besides, notwithstanding the utmost precautions we
+could have taken, it would have been known that we were both in the
+country; perhaps too, they might have heard that we were together, it
+would have been suspected at least, and that were enough. An imprudent
+avidity of the present moment, would have deprived us of every future
+resource, and the remorse for having neglected such an act of
+benevolence, would have imbittered the remainder of our lives.
+
+Compare then, I beseech you, our present situation with that I have
+been describing. First, your absence has been productive of several
+good effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mother, that you have
+been but seldom at my cousin’s. She is acquainted with the motives of
+your journey; this may probably prove a means of raising you in her
+esteem, and how think you, can they conceive it possible that two
+young people who have an affection for each other should agree to
+separate, at the very time they are left most at liberty? What an
+artifice have we employed to destroy suspicions which are but too well
+founded! The only stratagem in my opinion consistent with honour, is
+the carrying our discretion to such an incredible height, that, what
+is in reality the utmost effort of self-denial, may be mistaken for a
+token of indifference. How delightful, my dear friend, must a passion
+thus concealed be to those who enjoy it! Add to this the pleasing
+consciousness of having united two despairing lovers, and contributed
+to the happiness of so deserving a couple. You have seen my Fanny;
+tell me, is not she a charming girl? Does not she really deserve every
+thing you have done for her? Is not she too beautiful and too
+unfortunate to remain long unmarried, without some disaster? And do
+you think that Claud Anet, whose natural good disposition has
+miraculously preserved him during three years service, could have
+resolution to continue three years more without becoming as
+perfidious, and as wretched as all those of that profession? Instead
+of that, they love, and will be united, they are poor, and will be
+relieved; they are honest, and will be enabled to continue so; for my
+father has promised them a competent provision. What a number of
+advantages then has your kindness procured to them, and to ourselves;
+not to mention the additional obligations you have conferred on me?
+Such, my friend, are the certain effects of sacrifices to virtue;
+which, though they are difficult to perform, are always grateful in
+remembrance. No one ever repented of having performed a good action.
+
+I suppose, you will say, with the _constant_, that all this is mere
+_preaching_, and indeed it is but too true that I no more practise
+what I preach than those who are preachers by profession. However, if
+my discourses are not so elegant, I have the satisfaction to find that
+mine are not so entirely thrown away as theirs. I do not deny it, my
+dear friend, that I would willingly add as many virtues to your
+character, as a fatal indulgence to love has taken away from mine; and
+Eloisa herself having forfeited my regard, I would gladly esteem her
+in you. Perfect affection is all that is required on your part, and
+the consequence will flow easy and natural. With what pleasure ought
+you to reflect, that you are continually increasing those obligations,
+which love itself engages to pay!
+
+My cousin has been made privy to the conversation you had with her
+father, about M. Orbe, and seems to think herself as much indebted to
+you, as if we had never been obliged to her in our lives. Gracious
+heaven, how every particular incident contributes to my happiness! How
+dearly am I beloved, and how I am charmed with their affection!
+Father, mother, friend and lover, all conspire in their tender concern
+for my happiness, and notwithstanding my eager endeavours to requite
+them, I am always either prevented or outdone. It should seem, as if
+all the tenderest feelings in nature verged towards my heart, whilst
+I, alas, have but one sensation to enjoy them.
+
+I forgot to mention a visit you are to receive to-morrow morning. ’Tis
+from L. B---- lately come from Geneva, where he has resided about
+eight months; he told me he had seen you at Sion, in his return from
+Italy. He found you very melancholy, but speaks of you in general
+in the manner you yourself would wish, and in which I have long
+thought. He commended you so a propos to my father yesterday, that
+he has prejudiced me already very much in his favour: and indeed his
+conversation is sensible, lively and spirited. In reciting heroic
+actions, he raises his voice, and his eyes sparkle as men usually do
+who are capable of performing the deeds they relate. He speaks also
+emphatically in matters of taste, especially of the Italian music which
+he extols to the very skies. He often reminded me of my poor brother.
+But his lordship seems not to have sacrificed much to the graces; his
+discourse in general is rather nervous than elegant, and even his
+understanding seems to want a little polishing.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I was reading your last letter, the second time, only, when Lord B----
+came in. But as I have so many other things to say, how can I think of
+his lordship? When two people are entirely delighted and satisfied
+with each other, what need is there of a third person? However since
+you seem to desire it, I will tell you what I know of him. Having
+passed the Semplon, he came to Sion, to wait for a chaise which was to
+come from Geneva to Brigue; and as want of employment often makes men
+seek society, we soon became acquainted, and as intimate, as the
+reserve of an Englishman, and my natural love of retirement, would
+permit. Yet we soon perceived, that we were adapted to each other;
+there is a certain union of souls which is easily discernable. At the
+end of eight days, we were full as familiar, as we ever were
+afterwards, and as two Frenchmen would have been in the same number of
+hours. He entertained me with an account of his travels; and knowing
+he was an Englishman, I immediately concluded he would have talked of
+nothing but pictures or buildings. But I was soon pleased to find,
+that his attention to the politer arts had not made him neglect the
+study of men and manners: yet whatever he said on those subjects of
+refinement was judicious, and in taste, but with modesty and
+diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his opinions seemed rather
+founded on reflection, than science, and that he judged from effects,
+rather than rules, which confirmed me in my idea of his excellent
+understanding. He spake to me of the Italian music with as much
+enthusiasm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a specimen of it; his
+valet plays extremely well on the violin, and he himself tolerably on
+the violencello. He picked out what he called some very affecting
+pieces, but whether it was by being unused to it, or that music,
+which is so soothing in melancholy, loses all its soft charms when
+our grief is extreme, I must own I was not much delighted; the melody
+was agreeable, but wild, and without the least expression.
+
+Lord B---- was very anxious to know my situation. I accordingly told
+him, as much as was necessary for him to know. He made an offer of
+taking me with him into England, and proposed several advantages,
+which were no inducements to me in a country where Eloisa was not. He
+had formerly told me that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva,
+the summer at Lausanne and that he would come to Vevey before he
+returned into Italy.
+
+Lord B---- is of a lively hasty temper, but virtuous and steady. He
+piques himself on being a philosopher, and upon those principles which
+we have frequently discussed. But I really believe his own disposition
+leads him naturally to that which he imagines the effect of method and
+study, and that the varnish of stoicism, which he glosses over all his
+actions, only covers the inclination of his heart.
+
+I do not know what want of polish you have found in his manner; it is
+really not very engaging, and yet I cannot say there is any thing
+disgusting in it. Though his address is not so easy and open as his
+disposition, and he seems to despise the trifling punctilios of
+ceremony, yet his behaviour in the main is very agreeable: though he
+has not that reserved and cautious politeness, which confines itself
+alone to mere outward form, and which our young officers learn in
+France, yet he is less solicitous about distinguishing men and their
+respective situations at first sight, than he is assiduous in paying a
+proper degree of respect to every one in general. Shall I tell you the
+plain truth? Want of elegance is a failing which women never overlook,
+and I fear that in this instance, Eloisa has been a woman for once in
+her life.
+
+Since I am now upon a system of plain dealing, give me leave to assure
+you, my pretty preacher, that it is to no purpose that you endeavour
+to invalidate my pretensions, and that sermons are but poor food for a
+famished lover. Think, think of all the compensations you have
+promised, and which indeed are my due; but though every thing you have
+said is exceeding just and true, one visit to the dairy-house would
+have been a thousand times more agreeable.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLVI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+What, my friend, still the dairy-house? Surely this dairy house sits
+heavy on your heart. Well, cost what it will, I find you must be
+humoured. But is it possible you can be so attached to a place you
+never saw, that no other will satisfy you? Do you think that Love, who
+raised Armida’s palace in the midst of a desert, cannot give us a
+dairy-house in the town? Fanny is going to be married, and my father,
+who has no objection to a little parade and mirth, is resolved it
+shall be a public wedding. You may be sure there will be no want of
+noise and tumult, which may not prove unfavourable to a private
+conversation. You understand me. Do not you think it will be charming
+to find the pleasures we have denied ourselves in the effect of our
+benevolence?
+
+Your zeal to apologize for Lord B---- was unnecessary, as I was never
+inclined to think ill of him. Indeed how should I judge of a man, with
+whom I spent only one afternoon? or how can you have been sufficiently
+acquainted with him in the space of a few days? I spoke only from
+conjecture; nor do I suppose that you can argue on any better
+foundation: his proposals to you are of that vague kind of which
+strangers are frequently lavish, from their being easily eluded, and
+because they give them an air of consequence. But your character of
+his Lordship is another proof of your natural vivacity, and of that
+ease with which you are prejudiced for or against people at first
+sight. Nevertheless, we will think of his proposals more at leisure.
+If love should favour my project, perhaps something better may offer.
+O, my dear friend, patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are
+most delicious!
+
+To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly
+great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than
+agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that
+air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers,
+you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman
+ought ever to belie her sex.
+
+Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your _Republic of
+Plato_, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still
+the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of
+perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and
+defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means
+effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but
+natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which
+may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of
+nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions
+ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views:
+to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite
+tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and
+features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but
+this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the
+Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman
+and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our
+vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule
+of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to
+inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass
+voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to
+be men.
+
+What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me
+of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are
+as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of
+which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to
+give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it
+appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise
+of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the
+enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally
+pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary
+perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your
+prepossessions in my favour.
+
+Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified to tell me my faults. Do
+you think the eyes of love, piercing as they are, can discover
+imperfect? No, ’tis a power which belongs only to honest friendship,
+and in that your pupil Clara is much your superior. Yes, my dear
+friend, you shall praise me, admire me, and think me charming and
+beautiful and spotless. Thy praises please without deceiving me I know
+it to be the language of error and not of deceit; that you deceive
+yourself, but have no design to deceive me. O how delightful are the
+illusions of love! and surely all its flattery is truth; for the heart
+speaks, though the judgment is silent. The lover who praises in us
+that which we do not possess, represents our qualities truly as they
+appear to him; he speaks a falsity without being guilty of a lie; he
+is a flatterer without meanness, and one may esteem without believing
+him.
+
+I have heard, not without some little palpitation, a proposal to
+invite two philosophers to-morrow to supper. One is my Lord B----, and
+the other a certain sage whose gravity hath sometimes been a little
+discomposed at the feet of a young disciple. Do you know the man? If
+you do, pray desire that he will to-morrow preserve the philosophic
+decorum a little better than usual. I shall take care to order the
+young damsel to cast her eyes downward, and to appear in his as little
+engaging as possible.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLVII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Malicious girl! Is this the circumspection you promised? Is it thus
+you spare my heart, and draw a veil over your charms? How often did
+you break your engagement! First, as to your dress; for you were in an
+undress, though you well know that you are never more bewitching.
+Secondly, that modest air and sweetness in your manner so calculated
+for the gradual display of all your graces. Your conversation more
+refined, more studied, more witty than usual, which made every one so
+uncommonly attentive, that they seemed impatiently to anticipate every
+sentence you spoke. That delightful air you sung below your usual
+pitch, which rendered your voice more enchantingly soft, and which
+made your song, though French, please even Lord B----. Your down-cast
+eyes, and your timid glances which pierced me to the soul. In a word,
+that inexpressible enchantment which seemed spread over your whole
+person to turn the brains of the company, even without the least
+apparent design. For my part, I know not how to manage; but if this is
+the method you take to be _as little engaging as possible_, I assure
+you, however, it is being infinitely too much so for people to retain
+their senses in your company.
+
+I doubt much whether the poor English philosopher has not perceived a
+little of the same influence. After we had conducted your cousin home,
+seeing us all in high spirits, he proposed that we should retire to
+his lodgings and have a little music, and a bowl of punch. While his
+servants were assembling, he never ceased talking of you; but with so
+much warmth, that, I confess, I should not hear his praise from your
+lips with as much pleasure as you did from mine. Upon the whole, I am
+not fond of hearing any body speak of you, except your cousin. Every
+word seems to deprive me of a part of my secret, or my pleasure, and
+whatever they say appears so suspicious, or is so infinitely short of
+what I feel, that I would hear no discourse upon the subject but my
+own.
+
+It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined to jealousy: no, I am
+better acquainted with the soul of my Eloisa; and I have certain
+sureties that exclude even the possibility of your inconstancy. After
+your protestations, I have nothing more to say concerning your other
+pretenders; but this Lord, Eloisa----equality of rank----your
+father’s prepossession----In short, you know my life is depending. For
+heaven’s sake, deign to give me a line or two upon this subject: one
+single word from Eloisa, and I shall be satisfied for ever.
+
+I passed the night in attending to, and playing, Italian music; for
+there were some duets, and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet
+tell you what effect it had on me; but I fear, I fear, the impression
+of last night’s supper influenced the harmony, and that I mistook the
+effect of your enchantment for the power of music. Why should not the
+same cause which made it disagreeable at Sion, gave it a contrary
+effect in a contrary situation? Are not you the source of every
+affection of my soul, and am I proof against the power of your magic?
+If it had really been the music which produced the enchantment, every
+one present must have been affected in the same manner; but whilst I
+was all rapture and extasy, Mr. Orbe sat snoring in an armed chair,
+and when I awoke him with my exclamations, all the praise he bestowed
+was to ask, whether your cousin understood Italian.
+
+All this will be better explained to-morrow; for we are to have
+another concert this evening. His Lordship is determined to have it
+compleat, and has sent to Lausanne for a second violin, who, he says,
+is a tolerable hand. On my part, I shall carry some French _scenes_
+and cantatas.
+
+When I first returned to my room I sunk into my chair, quite exhausted
+and overcome; for want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no
+sooner took my pen to write to you, than I found myself gradually
+recover. Yet I must endeavour to sleep a few hours. Come with me; my
+sweet friend, and do not leave me whilst I slumber but whether thy
+image brings me pain or pleasure, whether it reminds me, or not, of
+Fanny’s wedding, it cannot deprive me of that delightful moment, when
+I shall awake and recollect my felicity.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLVIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Ah! my Eloisa, how have I been entertained! What melting sounds! what
+music! delightful source of sensibility and pleasure! Lose not a
+moment; collect your operas, your cantatas, in a word all your French
+music; then make a very hot fire, and cast the wretched, stuff into
+the flames: be sure you stir it well, that, cold as it is, it may once
+at least send forth a little warmth. Make this sacrifice to the God of
+taste, to expiate our mutual crime in having profaned your voice with
+such doleful psalmody, and so long mistaking a noise that stunned our
+ears for the pathetic language of the heart. How entirely your worthy
+brother was in the right; and in what unaccountable ignorance have I
+lived, concerning the productions of that charming art! It gave me but
+little pleasure, and therefore I thought it naturally impotent.
+music, I said, is a vain sound, that only flatters the ear, and makes
+little or no impression upon the mind. The effect of harmonic sounds
+is entirely mechanical or physical; and what have these to do with
+sentiment? Why should I expect to be moved with musical chords more
+than with a proper agreement of colours? But I never perceived, in the
+accents of melody applied to those of language, the secret but
+powerful unison between music and the passions. I had no idea that
+the same sensations which modulate the voice of an orator, gives the
+singer a still greater power over our hearts, and that the energic
+expression of his own feelings is the sympathetic cause of all our
+emotion.
+
+This lesson I was taught by his lordship’s Italian singer, who, for a
+musician, talks pretty sensibly of his own art. Harmony, says he, is
+nothing more than a remote accessory in imitative music; for,
+properly speaking, there is not in harmony the least principle of
+imitation. Indeed, it assures the intonations, confirms their
+propriety, and renders the modulation more distinct; it adds force to
+the expression and grace to the air. But from melody alone proceeds
+that invincible power of pathetic accents over the soul. Let there be
+performed the most judicious succession of chords, without the
+addition of melody, and you would be tired in less than a quarter of
+an hour; whilst on the contrary, a single voice, without the
+assistance of harmony, will continue to please a considerable time. An
+air, be it ever so simple, if there be any thing of the true pathos in
+the composition, becomes immediately interesting; but, on the
+contrary, melody without expression will have no effect, and harmony
+alone can never touch the heart.
+
+In this, continued he, consists the error of the French with regard to
+the power of music. As they can have no peculiar melody in a language
+void of musical accent, nor in their uniform and unnatural poetry,
+they have no idea of any other effect than that of harmony and a loud
+voice, which instead of softening the tones, renders them more
+intolerably noisy; nay they are even so unfortunate in their
+pretensions, that they suffer the very harmony they expect to escape
+them; for in order to render it more compleat, they sacrifice all
+choice, they no longer distinguish the powers and effects of
+particular tones, their compositions are overcharged, they have spoilt
+their ears, and are become insensible to every thing but noise: so
+that, in their opinion, the finest voice is that which roars the
+loudest. Having no original stile or taste of their own, they have
+always followed us heavily and at a great distance, and since their,
+or rather our Lulli, who imitated the operas which were then quite
+common in Italy, we have beheld them, thirty or forty years behind us,
+copying, mutilating and spoiling our ancient compositions, just as
+other nations do by their fashions. Whenever they boast of their
+_chansons_, they pronounce their own condemnation; for if they could
+express the passions, they would not set wit to music: but because
+their music is entirely incapable of any expression, it is better
+adapted to _chansons_ than operas, and ours is more fit for the latter
+because it is extremely pathetic.
+
+He then repeated a few Italian scenes without singing, made me
+sensible of the harmony between the music and the words in the
+recitative, between the sentiment and the music in the airs, and in
+general the energy which was added to the expression by the exact
+measure and the proper choice of chords. In short, after joining to my
+knowledge of the Italian, the most perfect idea in my power of the
+oratorial and pathetic emphasis, namely the art of speaking to the ear
+and to the heart in an inarticulate language, I sat down and gave my
+whole attention to this enchanting music, and, by the emotions I felt,
+soon perceived that there is a power in the art infinitely beyond what
+I imagined. It is impossible to describe the voluptuous sensation
+which imperceptibly stole upon me. It was not an unmeaning succession
+of sounds, as in our musical recitals. Every phrase imprest my brain
+with some new image, or conveyed a fresh sensation to my heart. The
+pleasure did not stop at the ear; it penetrated my soul. The
+performance, without any extraordinary effort, seemed to flow with
+charming facility; and the performers appeared to be all animated by
+one soul. The singer, who was quite master of his voice, expressed,
+with ease, all that the music and the words required. Upon the whole,
+I was extremely happy to find myself relieved from those heavy
+cadences, those terrible efforts of the voice, that continual combat
+between the air and the measure which in our music so seldom agree,
+and which is not less fatiguing to the audience than the musician.
+
+But when, after a succession of agreeable airs, they struck into those
+grand pieces of expression, which, as they paint, excite the more
+violent passions, I every moment lost the idea of music, song,
+imitation; and imagined I heard the real voice of grief, rage,
+despair. Sometimes methought I saw a weeping disconsolate mother, a
+lover betrayed, a furious tyrant, and the sympathy was frequently so
+powerful that I could hardly keep my seat. I was thus affected,
+because I now fully conceived the ideas of the composer, and therefore
+his judicious combination of sounds acted upon me with all its force.
+No, Eloisa, it is impossible to feel those impressions by halves; they
+are excessive or not at all; one is either entirely insensible or
+raised to an immoderate degree of enthusiasm: either it is an
+unintelligible noise, or an impetuosity of sensation that hurries you
+along, and which the soul cannot possibly resist.
+
+Yet I had one cause of regret throughout the whole: it was, that any
+other than my Eloisa should form sounds that were capable of giving me
+pleasure, and to hear the most tender expressions of love from the
+mouth of a wretched eunuch. O my lovely Eloisa! can there be any kind
+of sensibility that belongs not to us? Who is there that can feel and
+express better than we, all that can possibly be exprest or felt by a
+soul melting into tenderness and love? Where are those who in softer
+and more pathetic accents could pronounce the _Cor mio_, the _Idolo
+amato_? Ah! what energy would our hearts add to the expression, if
+together we should ever sing one of those charming duets which draw
+such delicious tears from one’s eyes! I conjure you to taste this
+Italian music as soon as possible, either at home or with your cousin.
+Lord B---- will order his people to attend when and where you shall
+think proper. With your exquisite sensibility, and more knowledge than
+I had of the Italian declamation, one single essay will raise you to a
+degree of enthusiasm at least equal to mine. Let me also persuade you
+to take a few lessons of this virtuoso: I have begun with him this
+morning. His manner of instruction is simple, clear, and consists more
+in example than precept. I already perceive that the principal
+requisite is to feel and mark the _time_, to observe the proper
+emphasis, and instead of swelling every note, to sustain an equality
+of tone; in short to refine the voice from all that French bellowing,
+that it may become more just, expressive and flexible. Yours, which is
+naturally so soft and sweet will be easily reformed, and your
+sensibility will soon instruct you in that vivacity and expression,
+which is the soul of Italian music.
+
+_E ’l cantar che nell’ animo si sente._
+
+Leave then, for ever leave, that tedious and lamentable French sing-
+song, which bears more resemblance to the cries of the cholic than the
+transports of the passion; and learn to breathe those divine sounds
+inspired by sensation, which only are worthy of your voice, worthy of
+your heart, and which never fail to charm and fire the soul.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XLIX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+You know, my dear friend, that I write to you by stealth, and in
+continual apprehension of a surprize. Therefore, as it is impossible
+for me to write long letters, I must confine myself to those parts of
+yours which more especially require answering, or to supply what was
+left unsaid in our conversations, which, alas, are no less clandestine
+than our interchange of letters: at least I shall observe this method
+to day; your mentioning Lord B---- will make me neglect the rest.
+
+And so you are afraid to lose me, yet you talk to me of singing!
+surely this were sufficient cause for a quarrel between two people who
+were less acquainted. No, no, you are not jealous it is evident: nor
+indeed will I be so; for I have dived into your heart, and perceive
+that which another might mistake for indifference, to be absolute
+confidence. O what a charming security is that which springs from the
+sensibility of a perfect union! Hence it is, I know, that from your
+own heart you derive your good opinion of mine; and hence it is you
+are so entirely justified, that I should doubt your affection, if
+you were more alarmed.
+
+I neither know nor care whether Lord B---- has any other regard for me
+than all men have for girls of my age. But of what consequence are his
+sentiments of the matter? Mine and my father’s are the only proper
+subjects of enquiry and these are both the same as they were with
+regard to the two pretended pretenders, of whom you say you will say
+nothing. If his exclusion and theirs will add to your repose, rest
+satisfied. How much soever we might think ourselves honoured in the
+addresses of a man of his Lordship’s rank, never, with her own or her
+father’s consent, would Eloisa D’Etange become Lady B----. Of this you may
+be very certain: not that you are hence to conclude that he was ever
+thought of in that light. I am positive you are the first person who
+supposed that he has the least inclination for me. But be that as it
+will, I know my father’s sentiments as well as if he had already
+declared them. Surely this is sufficient to calm your fears; at least
+it is as much as it concerns you to know. The rest is matter of mere
+curiosity, and you know I have resolved that it shall not be
+satisfied. You may reproach me as you please with reserve, and pretend
+that our concerns and our interest are the same. If I had always been
+reserved, it would now have been less important. Had it not been for
+my indiscretion in repeating to you some of my fathers words, you
+would never have retired to Meillerie, you would never have written
+the letter which was the cause of my ruin, I should still have
+possessed my innocence, and might yet have aspired to happiness. Judge
+then, by my sufferings for one indiscretion, how I ought to dread the
+commission of another! You are too violent to have any prudence. You
+could with less difficulty conquer your passions than disguise them.
+The least suspicion would set you mad, and the most trivial
+circumstance would confirm all your suspicions. Our secrets would be
+legible in your face, and your impetuous zeal would frustrate all my
+hopes. Leave therefore to me the cares of love, and do you preserve
+its pleasures only. You surely have no reason to complain with this
+division: acquiesce, and be convinced that all you can possibly
+contribute to the advancement of our felicity, is, not to interrupt
+it.
+
+But, alas! what avail my precautions now? Is it for me to be cautious
+how I step, who am already fallen headlong down the precipice, or to
+prevent the evils with which I am already oppressed? Ah wretched girl!
+is it for thee to talk of felicity? Was ever happiness compatible with
+shame and remorse? Cruel, cruel fate! neither to be able to bear nor
+to repent of my crime; to be beset by a thousand terrors, deluded by a
+thousand hopes, and not even to enjoy the horrible tranquility of
+despair. The question is not now of virtue and resolution, but of
+fortune and prudence. My present business is not to extinguish a flame
+which ought never to expire, but to render it innocent, or to die
+guilty. Consider my situation, my friend, and then see whether you
+dare depend upon my zeal.
+
+
+
+
+Letter L. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I refused to explain to you, before we parted yesterday, the cause of
+that uneasiness you remarked in me, because you were not in a
+condition to bear reproof. In spite, however, of my aversion to
+explanations, I think I ought to do it now, to acquit myself of the
+promise I then made you.
+
+I know not whether you may remember your last night’s unaccountable
+discourse and strange behaviour; for my part, I shall remember them
+too long for your honour or my repose; indeed they have hurt me too
+much to be easily forgotten. Similar expressions have sometimes
+reached my ears from the street; but I never thought they could come
+from the lips of any worthy man. Of this however I am certain, there
+are no such in the lover’s dictionary, and nothing was farther from my
+thoughts than that they should ever pass between you and me. Good
+heaven! what kind of love must yours be, thus to season its delights!
+It is true, you were flushed with wine, and I perceive how much one
+must over-look in a country where such excess is permitted. It is for
+this reason I speak to you on the subject; for you may be assured
+that, had you treated me in the same manner when perfectly sober, it
+should have been the last opportunity you should ever have had.
+
+But what alarms me most on your account is, that the conduct of men in
+liquor is often no other than the image of what passes in their hearts
+at other times. Shall I believe that, in a condition which disguises
+nothing, you discovered yourself to be what you really are? What will
+become of me if you think this morning as you did last night? Sooner
+than be liable to such insults, I had rather extinguish so gross a
+passion, and lose for ever a lover who, knowing so little how to
+respect his mistress, deserves so little of her esteem.
+
+Is it possible that you who should delight in virtuous sentiments,
+should have fallen into that cruel error, and have adopted the notion,
+that a lover once made happy need no longer pay any regard to decorum,
+and that those have no title to respect whose cruelty is no longer to
+be feared. Alas, had you always thought thus, your power would have
+been less dreadful, and I should have been less unhappy. But mistake
+not, my friend; nothing is so pernicious to true lovers as the
+prejudices of the world; so many talk of love and so few know what it
+is, that most people mistake its pure and gentle laws for the vile
+maxims of an abject commerce, which, soon satiated, has recourse to
+the monsters of imagination, and, in order to support itself, sinks
+into depravity.
+
+Possibly I may be mistaken; but it seems to me that true love is the
+chastest of all human connections; and that the sacred flame of love
+should purify our natural inclinations, by concentring them in one
+object. It is love that secures us from temptation, and makes the
+whole sex indifferent, except the beloved individual.
+
+To a woman indifferent to love, every man is the same, and all are
+men; but to her whose heart is truly susceptible of that refined
+passion, there is no other man in the world but her lover. What do I
+say? Is a lover no more than a man? He is a being far superior! There
+exists not a man in the creation with her who truly loves: her lover
+is more, and all others are less; they live for each other, and are
+the only beings of their species. They have no desires; they love. The
+heart is not led by, but leads, the senses, and throws over their
+errors the veil of delight. There is nothing obscene but in lewdness
+and its gross language. Real love, always modest, seizes not
+impudently its favours, but steals them with timidity. Secrecy,
+silence, and a timorous bashfulness heighten and conceal its delicious
+transports; its flame purifies all its caresses, while decency and
+chastity attend even its most sensual pleasures. It is love alone that
+knows how to gratify the desires without trespassing on modesty. Tell
+me, you who once knew what true pleasures were, how can a cynic
+impudence be consistent with their enjoyment? Will it not deprive that
+enjoyment of all its sweetness? Will it not deface that image of
+perfection that represents the beloved object? Believe me, my friend,
+lewdness and love can never dwell together; they are incompatible. On
+the heart depends the true happiness of those who love; and where love
+is absent, nothing can supply its place.
+
+But, supposing you were so unhappy as to be pleased with such immodest
+discourse, how could you prevail on yourself to make sure of it so
+indifferently, and address her who was so dear to you, in a manner in
+which a virtuous man certainly ought to be ignorant? Since when is it
+become delightful to afflict the object one loves? and how barbarous
+is that pleasure which delights in tormenting others? I have not
+forgotten that I have forfeited the right I had to be respected: but
+if I should ever forget it, is it you that ought to remind of it? Does
+it belong to the author of my crime to aggravate my punishment? Ought
+he not rather to administer comfort? All the world may have reason to
+despise me, but you have none. It is to you I owe the mortifying
+situation to which I am reduced; and surely the tears I have shed for
+my weakness call upon you to alleviate my sorrow, I am neither nice
+nor prudish. Alas, I am but too far from it; I have not been even
+discreet. You know too well, ungrateful as you are, that my
+susceptible heart can refuse nothing to love. But, whatever I may
+yield to love, I will make no concessions to any thing else; and you
+have instructed me too well in its language to be able to substitute
+one so different in its room. No terms of abuse, not even blows could
+have insulted me more than such demonstrations of kindness. Either
+renounce Eloisa, or continue to merit her esteem. I have already told
+you I know no love without modesty; and, how much soever it may cost
+me to give up yours, it will cost me still more to keep it at so dear
+a price.
+
+I have yet much to say on this subject; but I must here close my
+letter, and defer it to another opportunity. In the mean time, pray
+observe one effect of your mistaken maxims regarding the immoderate
+use of wine. I am very sensible your heart is not to blame; but you
+have deeply wounded mine; and, without knowing what you did, afflicted
+a mind too easily alarmed, and to which nothing is indifferent that
+comes from you.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LI.
+
+
+There is not a line in your letter that does not chill the blood in my
+veins; and I can hardly be persuaded, after twenty times reading, that
+it is addressed to me. Who I? Can I have offended Eloisa? Can I have
+profaned her beauties? Can the idol of my soul, to whom every moment
+of my life I offer up my adorations, can she have been the object of
+my insults? No, I would have pierced this heart a thousand times
+before it should have formed so barbarous a design. Alas! you know but
+little of this heart that flies to prostrate itself at your feet; a
+heart anxious to contrive for thee a new species of homage, unknown to
+human beings. Ah! my Eloisa, you know that heart but little, if you
+accuse it of wanting towards you the ordinary respect which even a
+common lover entertains for his mistress. Is it possible I can have
+been impudent and brutal? I, who detest the language of immodesty, and
+never in my life entered into places where it is held! But that I
+should repeat such discourse to you; that I should aggravate your just
+indignation! Had I been the most abandoned of men, had I spent my
+youth in riot and debauchery, had even a taste for sensual and
+shameful pleasures found a place in the heart where you reside, tell
+me, Eloisa, my angel, tell me, how was it possible I could have
+betrayed before you that impudence, which no one can have but in the
+presence of those who are themselves abandoned enough to approve it.
+Ah, no! it is impossible. One look of yours had sealed my lips and
+corrected my heart. Love would have veiled my impetuous desires
+beneath the charms of your modesty; while in the sweet union of our
+souls their own delirium only would have led the senses astray. I
+appeal to your own testimony, if ever in the utmost extravagance of an
+unbounded passion, I ceased to revere its charming object. If I
+received the reward of my love, did I ever take an advantage of my
+happiness, to do violence to your bashfulness? If the trembling hand
+of an ardent but timid lover hath sometimes presumed too far, did he
+ever with brutal temerity profane your charms? If ever an indiscreet
+transport drew aside their veil, though but for a moment, was not that
+of modesty as soon substituted in its place? Unalterable as the
+chastity of your mind, the flame that glows in mine can never change.
+Is not the affecting and tender union of our souls sufficient to
+constitute our happiness? Does not in this alone consist all the
+happiness of our lives? Have we a wish to know, or taste of any other?
+And canst thou conceive that this enchantment can be broken? How was
+it possible for me to forget in a moment all regard to chastity, to
+our love, my honour, and that invincible reverence and respect which
+you must always inspire even in those by whom you are not adored? No;
+I cannot believe it. It was not I that offended you? I have not the
+least remembrance of it; and, were I but one instant culpable, can it
+be that my remorse should ever leave me? No, Eloisa, some demon,
+envious of happiness, too great for a mortal, has taken upon him my
+form to destroy my felicity.
+
+Nevertheless, I abjure, I detest a crime which I must have committed,
+since you are my accuser, but in which my will had no part. How do I
+begin to abhor that fatal intemperance, which once seemed to me
+favourable to the effusions of the heart, and which has so cruelly
+deceived mine! I have bound myself, therefore, by a solemn and
+irrevocable vow, to renounce wine from this day, as a mortal poison.
+Never shall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, bereave me of my
+senses, or involve me in guilt to which my heart is a stranger. If I
+ever break this solemn vow, may the powers of love inflict on me the
+punishment I deserve! May the image of Eloisa that instant forsake my
+heart, and abandon it for ever to indifference and despair!
+
+But, think not I mean to expiate my crime by so slight a
+mortification. There is a precaution and not a punishment. It is from
+you I expect that which I deserve; nay, I beg it of you to console my
+affliction. Let offended love avenge itself and be appeased to punish
+without hating me, and I will suffer without murmuring. Be just and
+severe; it is necessary, and I must submit; but if you would not
+deprive me of life, you must not deprive me of your heart.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+What! my friend renounce his bottle for his mistress! This is indeed a
+sacrifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the four cantons more
+deeply in love than your-self. Not but there may be found some young
+frenchified petit-maîtres among us that drink water through
+affectation; but you are the first Swiss that ever love made a water-
+drinker, and ought to stand as an example for ever in the lover’s
+chronicle of your country. I have even been informed of your abstinent
+behaviour, and have been much edified to hear that, being to sup last
+night with M. de Vueillerans, you saw six bottles go round after
+supper without touching a drop; and that you spared your water as
+little as your companions did their wine. This state of self-denial
+and penitence, however, must have lasted already three days, and in
+three days you must have abstained from wine at least for six meals.
+Now to the abstinence for six meals, observed through fidelity, may be
+added six others, through fear, six through shame, six through habit,
+and six more through obstinacy. How many motives might be found to
+prolong this mortifying abstinence, of which love alone will have all
+the credit? But can love condescend to pride itself in merit, to which
+it hath no just pretensions?
+
+This idle raillery may possibly be as disagreeable to you, as your
+stuff the other night was to me: it is time, therefore, to stop its
+career. You are naturally of a serious turn, and I have perceived ere
+now that a tedious scene of trifling hath heated you as much as a long
+walk usually does a fat man; but I take nearly the same vengeance of
+you as Henry the fourth took of the duke of Maine: your sovereign also
+will imitate the clemency of that best of kings. In like manner, I am
+afraid lest, by virtue of your contrition and excuses, you should in
+the end make a merit of a fault so fully repaired; I will therefore
+forget it immediately, lest by deferring my forgiveness too long it
+should become rather an act of ingratitude than generosity.
+
+With regard to your resolution of renouncing your bottle for ever; it
+has not so much weight with me as perhaps you may imagine; strong
+passions think nothing of these trifling sacrifices, and love will not
+be satisfied with gallantry. There is besides more of address
+sometimes than resolution, in making for the present moment an
+advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reaping before hand the
+credit of an eternal abstinence, which may be renounced at pleasure.
+But, my good friend, is the abuse of every thing that is agreeable to
+the senses inseparable from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenness
+necessarily attached to the taste of wine? and is philosophy so cruel
+or so useless, as to offer no other expedient to prevent the
+immoderate use of agreeable things than that of giving them up
+entirely?
+
+If you keep true to your engagement, you deprive yourself of an
+innocent pleasure, and endanger your health in changing your manner of
+living: on the other hand, if you break it, you commit a double
+offence against love; and even your honour will stand impeached. I
+will make use therefore on this occasion of my privilege; and do not
+only release you from the observance of a vow, which is null and void,
+as being made without my consent; but do absolutely forbid you to
+observe it beyond the term I am going to prescribe. On Tuesday next my
+Lord B---- is to give us a concert. At the collation I will send you a
+cup about half full of a pure and wholesome nectar; which it is my
+will and pleasure that you drink off in my presence, after having
+made, in a few drops, an expiatory libation to the graces. My penitent
+is permitted afterwards to return to the sober use of wine, tempered
+with the chrystal of the fountain; or as your honest Plutarch has it,
+moderating the ardors of Bacchus by a communication with the nymphs.
+
+But to our concert on Tuesday; that blunderer Regianino has got it
+into his head that I am already able to sing an Italian air, and even
+a duo with him. He is desirous that I should try it with you; in
+order to shew his two scholars together; but there are certain tender
+passages in it dangerous to sing before a mother, when the heart is of
+the party: it would be better therefore to defer this trial of our
+skill to the first concert we have at our cousin’s. I attribute the
+facility with which I have acquired a taste for the Italian music to
+that which my brother gave me for their poetry; and for which I have
+been so well prepared by you, that I perceive easily the cadence of
+the verse: and, if may believe Regianino, have already a tolerable
+notion of the true _accent_. I now begin every lesson by reading some
+passages of Tasso, or some scene of Metastasio; after this, he makes
+me repeat and accompany the recitative, so that I seem to continue
+reading or speaking all the while; which I am pretty certain could
+never be the case in the French music. After this I practise, in
+regular time, the expression of true and equal tones; an exercise
+which the noise I had been accustomed to, rendered difficult enough.
+At length we pass on to the air, wherein he demonstrates that the
+justness and flexibility of the voice, the pathetic expression, the
+force and beauty of every part, are naturally affected by the
+sweetness of the melody and precision of the measure; insomuch that
+what appeared at first the most difficult to learn need hardly be
+taught me. The nature of the music is so well adapted to the sound of
+the language, and of so refined a modulation, that one need only hear
+the bass and know how to speak, to decypher the melody. In the Italian
+music all the passions have distinct and strong expressions: directly
+contrary to the drawling, disagreeable tones of the French, it is
+always sweet and easy, while at the same time lively and affecting;
+its smallest efforts produce the greatest effects. In short, I find
+that this music elevates the soul without tearing the lungs, which is
+just the music I want. On Tuesday then, my dear friend, my preceptor,
+my penitent, my apostle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah! why should
+there be only one title wanting!
+
+P. S. Do you know there is some talk of such another agreeable party
+on the water, as we made two years ago, in company with poor Chaillot?
+How modest was then my subtle preceptor! How he trembled when he
+handed me out of the boat? Ah! the hypocrite! He is greatly changed.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Thus every thing conspires to disconcert our schemes, every thing
+disappoints our hopes, every thing betrays a passion which heaven
+ought to sanctify! And are we always to be the sport of fortune, the
+unhappy victims of delusive expectation? Shall we still pant in
+pursuit of pleasure without ever attaining it? Those nuptials, which
+we so impatiently expected, were first to have been celebrated at
+Clarens; but the bad weather opposed it, and the ceremony was
+performed in town: however we had still some hopes of a private
+interview; but we were so closely beset by officious importunity, that
+it was impossible for us both to escape at the same instant. At last a
+favourable opportunity offers, but we are again disappointed by the
+cruelest of mothers, and that which ought to have been the moment of
+our felicity went near to have proved our destruction. Nevertheless, I
+am so far from being abashed by these numberless obstacles, that they
+serve but to inflame my resolution. I know not by what new powers I am
+animated, but I feel an intrepidity of soul to which I have been
+hitherto ignorant; and if you are inspired with the same spirit this
+evening, this very evening I will perform my promises, and discharge
+at once all the obligations of love.
+
+Weigh this affair maturely, and consider well at what rate you
+estimate your life; for the expedient I am going to propose may
+probably lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no farther;
+but if thy heart shrinks no more at the point of a sword than formerly
+at the precipice of Meillerie, mine shares the danger and hesitates no
+longer. Be attentive.
+
+Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has been ill there three days,
+and though I offered to attend her, she is removed in spite of me; but
+as she is now somewhat better, possibly to-morrow she may return. The
+stairs, which lead to my mother’s apartment and mine, are at some
+distance from the room where they sup, and, at that hour, the rest of
+the house, except the kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkness
+of the night will then favour your progress through the streets
+without the least risk of being observed, and you are not unacquainted
+with the house.
+
+I believe I have said enough to be understood. Come this afternoon to
+Fanny’s; I will there explain the rest, and give the necessary
+instructions: but if that should be impossible, you will find them in
+writing, in the old place, to which I consign this letter. The subject
+is too important to be trusted with any person living.
+
+O! I see the violent palpitation of thy heart! How I feel thy
+transports! No, no, my charming friend, we will not quit this short
+existence without having, for a moment, tasted happiness. Yet remember
+that the fatal moment is environed with the horrors of death! That the
+way to bliss is extremely hazardous, its duration full of perils, and
+your retreat beyond measure dangerous; that if we are discovered, we
+are inevitably lost, and that to prevent it fortune must be uncommonly
+indulgent. Let us not deceive ourselves: I know my father too well to
+doubt that he would not instantly pierce your heart, or that even I
+should not be the first victim to his revenge; for certainly he would
+shew me no mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would lead you
+into dangers to which I myself were not exposed.
+
+Remember also that you are not to have the least dependence on your
+courage; it will not bear a thought: I even charge you very expressly,
+to come entirely unarmed; so that your intrepidity will avail you
+nothing. If we are surprized; I am resolved to throw myself into thy
+arms, to grasp thee to my heart, and thus to receive the mortal blow,
+that they may part us no more; so shall my exit be the happiest moment
+of my life.
+
+Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us; it surely is our due, and fortune
+must at last grow weary of her injustice. Come then, soul of my heart,
+life of my life, come and be re-united to thyself. Come, under the
+auspices of love, and receive the reward of thy obedience and thy
+sacrifices. O come and confess, even in the bosom of pleasure, that
+from the union of hearts, proceed its greatest delights.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LIV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Am I then arrived?----how my heart flutters, in entering this asylum
+of love! Yes, Eloisa, I am now in your closet: I am in the sanctuary
+of my soul’s adored. The torch of love lighted my steps, and I passed
+through the house unperceived----Delightful mansion! happy place!
+once the scene of tenderness and infant love suppressed! These
+conscious walls have seen my growing, my successful passion, and will
+now a second time behold it crowned with bliss: witness of my eternal
+constancy, be witness also of my happiness, and conceal for ever the
+transports of the most faithful and most fortunate of men.
+
+How charming is this place of concealment! Every thing around me
+serves to inflame the ardour of my passion. O Eloisa, this delightful
+spot is full of thee, and my desires are kindled by every footstep of
+thine. Every sense is at once intoxicated with imaginary bliss. An
+almost imperceptible sweetness, more exquisite than the scent of the
+rose, and more volatile than that of the Iris, exhales from every
+part. I fancy I hear the delightful sound of your voice. Every part of
+your scattered dress presents to my glowing imagination the charms it
+has concealed. That light head dress, which is adorned by those bright
+locks it affects to hide, that simple elegant dishabille, which
+displays so well the taste of the wearer; those pretty slippers that
+fit so easily on your little feet; these stays, which encircle and
+embrace your slender----Heavens, what a charming shape! how the top
+of the stomacher is waved in two gentle curves? luxurious sight! the
+whalebone has yielded to their impression----delicious impression!
+let me devour it with kisses! O Gods! how shall I be able to bear? Ah!
+methinks I feel already a tender heart beat softly under my happy
+hand; Eloisa, my charming Eloisa, I see, I feel thee at every pore. We
+now breathe the same air. How thy delay inflames and torments me! My
+impatience is insupportable. O, come, Eloisa, fly to my arms, or I am
+undone! How fortunate it was to find pen, ink and paper! By expressing
+what I feel, I moderate my extasy, and give a turn to my transports
+by attempting to describe them.
+
+Ha! I hear a noise----Should it be her inhuman father? I do not
+think myself a coward----but death would terrify me just now. My
+despair would be equal to the ardour which consumes me. Grant me, good
+heaven! but one more hour to live, and I resign the remainder of my
+life to thy utmost rigour. What impatience! what fears! what cruel
+palpitation! Ah! the door opens! It is she, it is Eloisa! I see her
+enter the chamber and lock the door. My heart, my feeble heart, sinks
+under its agitation. Let me recover myself, and gather strength to
+support the bliss that overwhelms me!
+
+
+
+
+Letter LV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+O let us die, my sweet friend! let us die, thou best beloved of my
+heart! How shall we hereafter support an insipid life, whose pleasures
+we have already exhausted? Tell me, if you can, what I experienced
+last night? give me an idea of a whole life spent in the same manner,
+or let me quit an existence which has nothing left that can equal the
+pleasures I have tasted.
+
+I had tasted bliss, and formed a conception of happiness. But, alas! I
+had only dreamt of true pleasure, and conceived only the happiness of
+a child! My senses deceived my unrefined heart; I sought supreme
+delight in their gratification; and I find that the end of sensual
+pleasures is but the beginning of mine. O thou choice master piece of
+nature’s works! divine Eloisa! to the ecstatic possession of whom all
+the transports of the most ardent passion hardly suffice! Yet it is
+not those transports I regret the most. Ah! no: deny me, if it must be
+so, those intoxicating favours, for the enjoyment of which I would
+nevertheless die a thousand deaths, but restore me all the bliss which
+does not depend on them, and it will abundantly exceed them. Restore
+me that intimate connection of souls, which you first taught me to
+know, and have so well instructed me to taste. Restore to me that
+delightful languor, accomplished by the mutual effusions of the heart.
+Restore to me that enchanting slumber that lulled me in your breast!
+Restore to me the yet more delicious moments when I awake, those
+interrupted sighs, those melting tears, those kisses slowly, sweetly
+impressed in voluptuous languishment; let me hear those soft, those
+tender complaints, amidst whose gentle murmurs you pressed so close
+those hearts which were made for each other.
+
+Tell me, Eloisa, you, who ought from your own sensibility to judge so
+well of mine, do you think I ever tasted real love before? My
+feelings, are greatly changed, since yesterday; they seem to have
+taken a less impetuous turn; but more agreeable, more tender, and more
+delightful. Do you remember that whole hour we spent, in calmly
+talking over the circumstances of our love, and of the fearful
+consequences of what might happen hereafter, by which the present
+moment was made the more interesting? That short hour in which a
+slight apprehension of future sorrow rendered our conversation the
+more affecting? I was tranquil, and yet was near my Eloisa. I adored
+her, but my desires were calm. I did not even think of any other
+felicity than to perceive your face close to mine, to feel your breath
+on my cheek, and your arm about my neck. What a pleasing tranquillity
+prevailed over all my senses! How refined, how lasting, how constant
+the delight! The mind possessed all the pleasure of enjoyment, not
+momentary, but durable. What a difference is there between the
+impetuous sallies of appetite, and a situation so calm and delightful!
+It is the first time I have experienced it in your presence; and judge
+of the extraordinary change it has effected. That hour I shall ever
+think the happiest of my life, as it is the only one which I
+could wish should have been prolonged to eternity. Tell me then,
+Eloisa, did I not love you before, or have I ceased to love you since?
+
+If I cease to love you! What a doubt is that? Do I cease to exist or
+does my life not depend more on the heart of Eloisa than my own?
+I feel, I feel you are a thousand times more dear to me than ever; and
+I find myself enabled, from the slumber of my desires, to love you
+more tenderly than before. My sentiments, it is true, are less
+passionate, but they are more affectionate, and are of different
+kinds: without loosing any thing of their force, they are multiplied;
+the mildness of friendship moderates the extravagance of love; and I
+can hardly conceive any kind of attachment which does not unite me to
+you. O my charming mistress! my wife! my sister! my friend! By what
+name shall I express what I feel, after having exhausted all those
+which are dear to the heart of man?
+
+Let me now confess a suspicion which, to my shame and mortification, I
+have entertained; it is that you are more capable of love than myself.
+Yes, my Eloisa, it is on you that my life, my being depends: I revere
+you with all the faculties of my soul; but yours contains more of
+love. I see, I feel, that love hath penetrated deeper into your heart
+than mine. It is that which animates your charms, which prevails in
+your discourse, which gives to your eyes that penetrating sweetness,
+to your voice such moving accents: it is that which your presence
+alone imperceptibly communicates to the hearts of others, the tender
+emotions of your own. Alas! How far am I from such an independent
+state of love! I seek the enjoyment, and you the love, of the beloved
+object: I am transported, and you enamoured; not all my transports are
+equal to your languishing softness; and it is in such sensations as
+yours, only that supreme felicity consists. It is but since yesterday
+that I have known such refined pleasure. You have left me something of
+that inconceivable charm peculiar to yourself; and I am persuaded that
+your sweet breath hath inspired me with a new soul. Haste then, I
+conjure you, to compleat the work you have begun. Take from me all
+that remains of mine, and give me a soul entirely yours. No, angelic
+beauty, celestial mind, no sentiments but such as yours can do honour
+to your charms. You alone are worthy to inspire a perfect passion; you
+alone are capable of feeling it. Ah! give me _your_ heart, my Eloisa,
+that I may love you as you deserve?
+
+
+
+
+Letter LVI. From Clara to Eloisa.
+
+
+I have a piece of information for my dear cousin, in which she will
+find herself a little interested. Last night there happened an affair
+between your friend and Lord B---- which may possibly become serious.
+Thus it was, as I had it from Mr. Orbe, who was present, and who gave
+me the following account this morning.
+
+Having supped with his Lordship, and entertained themselves for a
+couple of hours with their music, they sat down to chat and drink
+punch. Your friend drank only one single glass mixt with water. The
+other two were not quite so sober; for though Mr. Orbe declares he was
+not touched, I intend to give him my opinion of that matter some other
+time. You naturally became the subject of their conversation; for you
+know this Englishman can talk of no body else. Your friend, who did
+not much relish his Lordship’s discourse, seemed so little obliged to
+him for his confidence, that at last, my Lord, slushed with liquor,
+and piqued at the coldness of his manner, dared to tell him, in
+complaining of your indifference, that it was not so general as might
+be imagined, and that those who were silent had less reason to
+complain. You know your friend’s impetuosity: he instantly took fire,
+repeated the words with great warmth and insult, which drew upon him
+the _lie_, and, they both flew to their swords. Lord B----, who was
+half seas over, in running gave his ancle a sudden twist which obliged
+him to stagger to a chair. His leg began immediately to swell, and
+this more effectually appeased their wrath than all Mr. Orbe’s
+interposition. But as he continued attentive to what past, he observed
+your friend, in going out, approach his Lordship, and heard him
+whisper: _As soon as you are able to walk, you will let me know it, or
+shall take care to inform myself----You need not give yourself that
+trouble,_ said the other with a contemptuous smile, _you shall know it
+time enough----We shall see,_ returned your friend, and left the
+room. Mr. Orbe when he delivers this letter, will tell you more
+particularly. It is your prudence that must suggest the means of
+stifling this unlucky affair. In the mean time, the bearer waits your
+commands, and you may depend on his secrecy.
+
+Pardon me, my dear, my friendship forces me to speak: I am terribly
+apprehensive on your account. Your attachment can never continue long
+concealed in this small town; it is indeed a miraculous piece of good
+fortune, considering it is now two years since it begun, that you are
+not already the public talk of the place. But it will very soon
+happen, if you are not extremely cautious. I am convinced your
+character would long since have suffered, if you had been less
+generally beloved; but the people are so universally prejudiced in
+your favour, that no one dares to speak ill of you for fear of being
+discredited and despised. Nevertheless every thing must have an end;
+and must I fear that your mystery draws near its period; I have great
+reason to apprehend that Lord B----’s suspicions proceed from some
+disagreeable tales he has heard. Let me intreat you to think seriously
+of this affair. The watch-man has been heard to say, that, some time
+ago, he saw your friend come out of your house at five o’clock in the
+morning. Fortunately he himself had early intelligence of this report
+and found means to silence the fellow; but what signifies such
+silence? It will serve only to confirm the reports that will be
+privately whispered to all the world. Besides, your mother’s
+suspicions are daily increasing. You remember her frequent hints. She
+has several times spoke to me in such bitter terms, that if she did
+not dread the violence of your father’s temper, I am certain she would
+already have opened her mind to him; but she is conscious that the
+blame would fall chiefly on herself.
+
+It is impossible I should repeat it too often; think of your safety
+before it be too late. Prevent those growing suspicions, which nothing
+but his absence can dispel: and indeed, to be sincere with you, under
+what pretext can he be supposed to continue here? Possibly in a few
+weeks more his removal may be to no purpose. If the least circumstance
+should reach your father’s ear, you will have cause to tremble at the
+indignation of an old officer, so tenacious of the honour of his
+family, and at the petulance of a violent youth. But we must first
+endeavour to terminate the affair with Lord B----, for it were in vain
+to attempt to persuade your friend to decamp, till that is in some
+shape accomplished.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LVII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I have been informed, my friend, of what has passed between you and my
+Lord B----; and from a perfect knowledge of the fact, I have a mind to
+discuss the affair, and give you my opinion of the conduct you ought
+to observe on this occasion, agreeable to the sentiments you profess,
+and of which I suppose you do not make only an idle parade.
+
+I do not concern myself whether you are skilled in fencing, nor
+whether you think yourself capable of contending with a man who is
+famous all over Europe for his superior dexterity in that art, having
+fought five or six times in his life, and always killed, wounded, or
+disarmed his man. I know that in such a case as yours, people consult
+not their skill, but their courage; and that the fashionable method to
+be revenged of a man who has insulted you, is to let him run you
+through the body. But let us pace over this _wise_ maxim; you will
+tell me that your honour and mine are dearer to you than life. This,
+therefore, is the principle on which we must reason.
+
+To begin with what immediately concerns yourself. Can you ever make it
+appear in what respect you were personally offended by a conversation
+that related solely to me? We shall see presently whether you ought on
+such an occasion to take my cause upon yourself: in the mean time, you
+cannot but allow that the quarrel was quite foreign to your own honour
+in particular, unless you are to take the suspicion of being beloved
+by me as an affront. I must own you have been insulted; but then it
+was after having begun the quarrel yourself by an atrocious affront;
+and, as I have had frequent opportunities, from the many military
+people in our family, of hearing these horrible questions debated, I
+am not to learn that one outrage committed in return to another does
+not annul the first, and that he who receives the first insult is the
+only person offended. It is the same in this case, as in a rencounter,
+where the aggressor is only in fault: he who wounds and kills another
+in his own defence, is not considered as being guilty of murder.
+
+To come now to myself; we will agree that I was insulted by the
+conversation of my Lord B----, although he said no more of me than he
+might justify. Do you know what you are about in defending my cause
+with so much warmth and indiscretion? You aggravate his insults; you
+prove he was in the right; you sacrifice my honour to the false
+punctilios of yours, and defame your mistress to gain at most the
+reputation of a good swords-man. Pray tell me what affinity there is
+between your manner of justifying me and my real justification? Do you
+think that to engage in my behalf with so much heat is any great proof
+that there are no connections between us? And that it is sufficient to
+shew your courage to convince the world you are not my lover? Be
+assured, my Lord B----’s insinuations are less injurious to me than
+your conduct. It is you alone who take upon yourself, by this bustle
+to publish and confirm them. He may, perhaps, turn aside the point of
+your sword in conflict; but never will my reputation, nor perhaps my
+being, survive the mortal blow you meditate.
+
+These reasons are too solid to admit of a reply; but I foresee you
+will oppose custom to reason; you will tell me there is a fatality in
+some things which hurries us away in spite of ourselves; that we can,
+in no case whatever, bear the lie; and that, when an affair is gone a
+certain length, it is impossible to avoid fighting or infamy. We will
+examine into the validity of this argument.
+
+Do not you remember a distinction you once made, on an important
+occasion, between real and apparent honour? Under which of these
+classes shall we rank that in question? For my part, I cannot see
+that it will even admit of a doubt. What comparison is there between
+the glory of cutting another’s throat, and the testimony of a good
+conscience? And of what importance is the idle opinion of the world,
+set in competition with true honour, whose foundation is rooted in the
+heart? Can we be deprived of virtues we really possess by false
+aspersions of calumny? Does the insult of a drunken man prove such
+insults deserved? Or does the honour of the virtuous and prudent lie
+at the mercy of the first brute he meets? Will you tell me that
+fighting a duel shews a man to have courage, and that this is
+sufficient to efface the dishonour, and prevent the reproach, due to
+all other vices? I would ask you, what kind of honour can dictate such
+a decision? Or what arguments justify it? On such principles a knave
+need only fight, to cease to be a knave; the assertions of a liar
+become true when they are maintained at the point of the sword; and,
+if you were even accused of killing a man, you have only to kill a
+second, to prove the accusation false. Thus virtue, vice, honour,
+infamy, truth, and falsehood, all derive their existence from the
+event of a duel: a gallery of small arms is the only court of justice;
+there is no other law than violence, no other argument than murder:
+all the reparation due to the insulted, is to kill them, and every
+offence is equally washed away by the blood of the offender or the
+offended. If wolves themselves could reason, would they entertain
+maxims more inhuman than these? Judge yourself, from the situation you
+are in, whether I exaggerate their absurdity? What is it you resent?
+That the lie has been given you on an occasion wherein you actually
+asserted a falsehood. Do you think to destroy the truth, by killing
+him you would punish for having told it? Do you consider that, in
+risking the success of a duel, you call heaven to witness the truth of
+a lie, and impiously bid the supreme disposer of events to support the
+cause of injustice, and give the triumph to falsehood? Does not such
+absurdity shock you? Does not such impiety make you shudder? Good God!
+what a wretched sense of honour is that, which is less afraid of vice
+than reproach; and will not permit that another should give us the
+lie, which our own hearts had given us before?
+
+Do you, who would have every one profit by their reading, make use of
+yours: see if you can find one instance of a challenge being given,
+when the world abounded with heroes? Did the most valiant men of
+antiquity ever think of revenging private injuries by personal combat?
+Did Caesar send a challenge to Cato, or Pompey to Caesar, for their
+many reciprocal affronts? Or was the greatest warrior of Greece
+disgraced, because he put up the threats of being cudgelled? Manners,
+I know, change with the times; but are they all equally commendable?
+Or is it unreasonable to enquire whether those of any times are
+agreeable to the dictates of true honour? This is not of a fickle or
+changeable nature: true honour does not depend on time, place or
+prejudice; it can neither be annihilated nor generated anew; but has
+its constant source in the heart of the virtuous man, and in the
+unalterable rules of his conduct. If the most enlightened, the most
+brave, the most virtuous people upon earth had no duels, I will
+venture to declare it not an institution of honour, but a horrid and
+savage custom worthy its barbarous origin. It remains for you to
+determine whether, when his own life or that of another is in
+question, a man of real honour is to be governed by the mode of the
+times, or if it be not a greater instance of his courage to despise
+than follow it. What do you think he would do in places where a
+contrary custom prevails? At Messina or Naples he would not challenge
+his man, but wait for him at the corner of a street, and stab him in
+the back. This is called bravery in those countries, where honour
+consists in killing your enemy, and not in being killed by him
+yourself. Beware then of confounding the sacred name of honour with
+that barbarous prejudice, which subjects every virtue to the decision
+of the sword, and is only adapted to make men daring villains! Will it
+be said this custom may be made use of as a supplement to the rules of
+probity? Wherever probity prevails, is not such a supplement useless?
+And what shall be said to the man who exposes his life, in order to be
+exempted from being virtuous? Do you not see that the crimes, which
+shame and a sense of honour have not prevented, are screened and
+multiplied by a false shame and the fear of reproach? It is this fear
+which makes men hypocrites and liars: it is this which makes them
+embrue their hands in the blood of their friends, for an indiscreet
+word, which should have been forgotten, for a merited reproach too
+severe to be borne. It is this which transforms the abused and fearful
+maid into an infernal fury: It is this which arms the hand of the
+mother against the tender fruit of----I shudder at the horrible
+idea, and give thanks at least to that being who searcheth the heart,
+that he hath banished far from mine a sense of that horrid honour,
+which inspires nothing but wickedness, and makes humanity tremble.
+
+Look into yourself, therefore, and consider whether it be permitted
+you to make a deliberate attempt on the life of a man, and expose
+yours to satisfy a barbarous and fatal notion, which has no foundation
+in reason or nature. Consider whether the sad reflection of the blood
+spilt on such occasions can cease to cry out for vengeance on him who
+has spilt it. Do you know any crime equal to wilful murder? If
+humanity also be the basis of every virtue, what must be thought of
+the man, whose blood-thirsty and depraved disposition prompts him to
+seek the life of his fellow-creature? Do you remember what you have
+yourself said to me, against entering into foreign service? Have you
+forgot that a good citizen owes his life to his country, and has not a
+right to dispose of it, without the permission of its laws, and much
+less in direct opposition to them? O my friend, if you have a sincere
+regard for virtue, learn to pursue it in its own way, and not in the
+ways of the world. I will own some slight inconvenience may arise from
+it; but is the word virtue no more to you than an empty sound? and
+will you practise it only when it costs you no trouble? I will ask,
+however, in what will such inconvenience consist? In the whispers of a
+set of idle or wicked people, who seek only to amuse themselves with
+the misfortunes of others, and to have always some new tale to
+propagate. A pretty motive, truly, to engage men to cut each other’s
+throats! If the philosopher and man of sense regulate their behaviour,
+on the most important occasions of life, by the idle talk of the
+multitude, to what purpose is all their parade of study, if they are
+at last no better than the vulgar? Dare you not sacrifice your
+resentment to duty, to esteem, to friendship, for fear it should be
+said you are afraid of death? Weigh well these circumstances, my good
+friend, and I am convinced you will find more cowardice in the fear of
+that reproach than in the fear of death. The braggard, the coward,
+would, at all hazards, pass for brave men.
+
+_Ma verace valor, ben che negletto,
+E’ di se stesso a fe freggio assai chiaro._
+
+He, who affects to meet death without fear, is a liar. All men fear to
+die; it is a law with all sensible Beings, without which every species
+of mortals would soon be destroyed. This fear is the simple emotion of
+nature, and that not in itself indifferent, but just and conformable
+to the order of things. All that renders it shameful, or blameable,
+is, that it may sometimes prevent us from well doing, and the proper
+discharge of our duty. If cowardice were to no obstacle to virtue, it
+would never be vicious. Whoever is more attached to life than his
+duty, I own, cannot be truly virtuous; but can you, who pique yourself
+on your judgment, explain to me what sort of merit there is in braving
+death in order to be guilty of a crime?
+
+What though it be true, that a man is despised who refuses to fight;
+which contempt is most to be feared, that of others for doing well, or
+that of ourselves for having acted ill? Believe me, he, who has a
+proper esteem for himself, is little sensible to the unjust reproach
+cast on him by others, and is only afraid of deserving it. Probity and
+virtue depend not on the opinion of the world, but on the nature of
+things; and though all mankind should approve of the action you are
+about, it would not be less shameful in itself. But it is a false
+notion, that to refrain from it, though a virtuous motive, would be
+bringing yourself into contempt. The virtuous man, whose whole life is
+irreproachable, and who never betrayed any marks of cowardice, will
+refuse to stain his hands with blood, and will be only the more
+respected for such refusal. Always ready to serve his country, to
+protect the weak, to discharge his duty on the most dangerous
+occasions, and to defend in every just and reasonable cause whatever
+is dear to him, at the hazard of his life, he displays throughout the
+whole of his conduct that unshaken fortitude, which is inseparable
+from true courage. Animated by the testimony of a good conscience, he
+appears undaunted; and neither flies from, nor seeks, his enemy. It is
+easily observed that he fears less to die than to act basely; that he
+dreads the crime, but not the danger. If at any time the mean
+prejudices of the world raise a clamour against him, the conduct of
+his whole life is his testimony, and every action is approved by a
+behaviour so uniformly irreproachable.
+
+But do you know what makes this moderation so painful to the
+generality of men? It is the difficulty of supporting it with
+propriety. It is the necessity they lie under of never impeaching it
+by an unworthy action: for if the fear of doing ill does not restrain
+men in one case, why should it in another, where that restraint may be
+attributed to a more natural motive? Hence, it is plain, it does not
+proceed from virtue, but cowardice; and it is with justice that such
+scruples are laughed at, as appear only in cases of danger. Have you
+not observed that persons, captious and ready to affront others, are,
+for the most part, bad men, who, for fear of having the contempt in
+which they are universally held publicly exposed, endeavour to screen,
+by some _honourable_ quarrels, the infamy of their lives? Is it for
+you to imitate such wretches as these? Let us set aside men of a
+military profession, who fell their blood for pay, and who, unwilling
+to be degraded from their rank, calculate from their interest what
+they owe to their honour, and know to a shilling the value of their
+lives. Let us, my friend, leave these gentlemen to their fighting.
+Nothing is less honourable than that honour about which they make such
+a noise; and which is nothing more than an absurd custom, a false
+imitation of virtue, which prides itself in the greatest crimes. Your
+honour is not in the power of another: it depends on yourself, and not
+on the opinion of the world; its defence is neither in the sword nor
+the buckler, but in a life of integrity and virtue; a proof of greater
+courage than to brave death in a duel.----
+
+On these principles you may reconcile the encomiums I have always
+bestowed on true valour, with the contempt I have as constantly
+expressed for the base pretenders to magnanimity. I admire men of
+spirit, and hate cowards; I would break with a pusillanimous lover,
+who should betray the want of a proper resolution in cases of danger,
+and think with all the rest of my sex, that the ardours of true
+courage heighten those of love. But, I would have such courage exerted
+only on lawful occasions, and not an idle parade made of it when it is
+unnecessary, as if there was some fear of not having it ready when it
+should be called for. There are cowards who will make one effort to
+exert their courage, that they may have a pretence to avoid danger the
+rest of their lives. True courage is more constant and less impetuous;
+it is always what it ought to be, and wants neither the spur nor the
+rein; the man of real magnanimity carries it always about him; in
+fighting he exerts it against his enemy; in company against
+back-biting and falsehood, and on a sick bed against the attacks of
+pain and the horrors of death. That fortitude of mind which inspires
+true courage is always exerted; it places virtue out of the reach of
+events, and does not consist in braving danger, but in not fearing it.
+Such, my friend, is the merit of that courage I have often commended,
+and which I would admire in you. All other pretences to bravery are
+wild, extravagant, and brutal; it is even cowardice to submit to them;
+and I despise as much the man who runs himself into needless danger,
+as him who turns his back on what he ought to encounter.
+
+If I am not much mistaken, I have now made it clear, that, in this
+your quarrel with Lord B----, your own honour is not at all concerned;
+that you are going to compromise mine by drawing your sword to avenge
+it; that such conduct is neither just, reasonable, nor lawful; that it
+by no means agrees with the sentiments you profess, but belongs only
+to bad men, who make use of their courage as a supplement to virtues
+they do not possess, or to officers that fight not for honour but
+interest; that there is more true courage in despising than adopting
+it, that the inconveniences to which you expose yourself by rejecting
+it are inseparable from the practice of our duty, and are more
+apparent than real; in fine, that men who are the most ready to recur
+to the sword, are always those of the most suspicious characters. From
+all which I conclude, that you cannot either give or accept a
+challenge on this occasion, without giving up at once the cause of
+reason, virtue, honour, and Eloisa. Canvas my arguments as you please,
+heap sophism on sophism, as you will, it will be always found that a
+man of true courage is not a coward, and that a man of virtue cannot
+be without honour. And I think I have demonstrated as clearly that a
+man of true courage despises, and a man of virtue abhors, duelling.
+
+I thought proper, my friend, in so serious and important an affair, to
+speak to you only in the plain language of reason, and to represent
+things simply as they are. If I would have described them as they
+appear to me, and engaged the passions and humanity in the cause, I
+should have addressed you in a different stile. You know that my
+father had the misfortune, in his youth, to kill his antagonist in a
+duel: that antagonist was his friend; they fought with regret, but
+were obliged to it by that absurd notion of a point of honour. That
+fatal blow which deprived the one of life, robbed the other of his
+piece of mind for ever. From that time has the most cruel remorse
+incessantly preyed on his heart; he is often heard to sigh and weep in
+private: his imagination still represents to him the fatal steel pushed
+by his cruel hand into the breast of the man he loved; his slumbers
+are disturbed by the appearances of his pale and bleeding friend: he
+looks with terror on the mortal wound; he endeavours to stop the blood
+that flows from it; he is seized with horror, and cries out, will this
+corpse never cease pursuing me? It is five years since he lost the
+only support of his name, and hope of his family; since when, he has
+reproached himself with his death, as a just judgment from heaven,
+which avenged on him the loss of that unhappy father, whom he deprived
+of an only son.
+
+I must confess that all this, added to my natural aversion to cruelty,
+fills me with such horror at duels, that I regard them as instances of
+the lowest degree of brutality into which mankind can possibly
+descend. I look upon those, who go chearfully to a duel, in no other
+light than as wild beasts going to tear each other to pieces; and, if
+there remains the least sentiment of humanity within them, I think the
+murdered less to be pitied than the murderer. Observe those men who
+are accustomed to this horrid practice; they only brave remorse by
+stifling the voice of nature; they grow by degrees cruel and
+insensible; they sport with the lives of others, and their punishment
+for having turned a deaf ear to humanity, is to lose at length every
+sense of it. How shocking must be such a situation? Is it possible you
+can desire to be like them? No, you were never made for such a state
+of detestable brutality: be careful of the first step that leads to
+it; your mind is yet undepraved and innocent: begin not to debase it,
+at the hazard of your life, by an attempt that has no virtue, a crime
+that has no temptation, and a point of honour founded only on
+absurdity.
+
+I have said nothing to you of your Eloisa; she will be a gainer, no
+doubt, by leaving your heart to speak for her. One word, only one
+word, and I leave her to you. You have sometimes honoured me with the
+endearing name of wife; perhaps I ought at this time to bear that of
+mother. Will you leave me a widow before we are legally united?
+
+P. S. I make use of an authority in this letter, which no prudent man
+ever resisted. If you refuse to submit to it, I have nothing farther
+to say to you: but think of it well before hand. Take a week’s time
+for reflection, and to meditate on this important subject. It is not
+for any particular reason I demand this delay, but for my own
+pleasure. Remember, I make use only on this occasion of a right; which
+you yourself have given me over you, and which extends at least to
+what I now require.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LVIII. From Eloisa to Lord B----.
+
+
+I have no intention in writing to your Lordship, to accuse or complain
+of you; since you are pleased to affront me, I must certainly be the
+offender, though I may be ignorant of my offence. Would any gentleman
+seek to dishonour a reputable family without a cause? Surely no:
+therefore satisfy your revenge, if you believe it just. This letter
+will furnish you with an easy method of ruining an unhappy girl, who
+can never forgive herself for having offended you, and who commits to
+your discretion that honour which you intend to blast. Yes, my Lord,
+your imputations were just: I have a lover, whom I sincerely love; my
+heart, my person, are entirely his, and death only can dissolve our
+union. This lover is the very man whom you honour with your
+friendship, and he deserves it, because he loves you and is virtuous.
+Nevertheless, he must perish by your hand. Offended honour, I know,
+can be appeased only by a human sacrifice. I know that his own courage
+will prove his destruction. I am convinced, that in a combat in which
+you have so little to fear, his intrepid heart will impatiently rush
+upon the point of your sword. I have endeavoured to restrain his
+inconsiderate ardour, by the power of reason; but alas! even whilst I
+was writing, I was conscious of the inutility of my arguments: What
+opinion soever I may have of his virtue, I do not believe it so
+sublime as to detach him from a false point of honour. You may safely
+anticipate the pleasure you will have in piercing the heart of your
+friend: but be assured, barbarous man, that you shall never enjoy that
+of being witness to my tears and my despair. No, I swear by that
+sacred flame which fills my whole heart, that I will not survive, one
+single day, the man for whom alone I breathe! Yes, Sir, you will reap
+the glory of having, in one instant, sent to the grave two unhappy
+lovers, whose offence was not intentional, and by whom you were
+honoured and esteemed.
+
+I have heard, my Lord, that you have a great soul and a feeling heart:
+if these will allow you the peaceful enjoyment of your revenge, heaven
+grant, when I am no more, that they may inspire you with some
+compassion for my poor, disconsolate parents, whose grief for their
+only child will endure for ever.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LIX. From Mr. Orbe to Eloisa.
+
+
+I snatch the first moment, my dear cousin, in obedience to your
+commands, to render an account of my proceedings. I am this instant
+returned from my visit to Lord B---- who is not yet able to walk
+without a support. I gave him your letter, which he opened with
+impatience. He shewed some emotion whilst he was reading; he paused;
+read it a second time, and the agitation of his mind was then more
+apparent. When he had done, these were his words: _You know, Sir, that
+affairs of honour have their fixt rules which cannot be dispensed
+with. You were a witness to what passed in this. It must be regularly
+determined. Chuse two of your friends, and give yourself the trouble
+to return with them hither to-morrow morning, and you shall then know
+my resolution._ I urged the impropriety of making others acquainted
+with an affair which had happened among ourselves. To which he hastily
+replied: _I know what ought to be done, and shall act properly. Bring
+your two friends, or I have nothing to say to you._ I then took my
+leave and have ever since racked my brain ineffectually to penetrate
+into his design. Be it as it will, I shall see you this evening, and
+to-morrow shall act as you may advise. If you think it proper that I
+should wait on his lordship with my attendants, I will take care to
+chuse such as may be depended on, at all events.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LX. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Lay aside your fears, my gentle Eloisa; and from the following recital
+of what has happened, know and partake of the sentiments of your
+friend.
+
+I was so full of indignation when I received your letter, that I could
+hardly read it with the attention it deserved. I should have made fine
+work in attempting to refuse it: I was then too rash and
+inconsiderate. You may be in the right, said I to myself, but I will
+never be persuaded to put up an affront injurious to my Eloisa.----
+Though I were to lose you, and even die in a wrong cause, I will never
+suffer any one to shew you less respect than is your due; but, whilst
+I have life, you shall be revered by all that approach you, even as my
+own heart reveres you. I did not hesitate, however, on the week’s
+delay you required: the accident which had happened to Lord B----, and
+my vow of obedience concurred, in rendering it necessary. In the mean
+time, being resolved agreeable to your commands to employ that
+interval in meditating on the subject of your letter, I read it over
+again and again, and am reflecting on it continually; not with a view,
+however, to change my design, but to justify it.
+
+I had it in my hand this morning, perusing again, with some uneasiness
+of mind, those too sensible and judicious arguments that made against
+me, when somebody knocked at the door of my chamber. It was opened,
+and immediately entered Lord B----, without his sword, leaning on his
+cane; he was followed by three gentlemen, one of whom I observed to be
+Mr. Orbe. Surprized at a visit so unexpected, I waited silently for
+the consequence; when my Lord requested of me a moment’s audience and
+begged leave to say, and do, as he pleased without interruption. You
+must, says he, give me your express permission: the presence of these
+gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuse you from any supposed
+indiscretion. I promised without hesitation not to interrupt him;
+when, to my great astonishment, his Lordship immediately fell upon his
+knee. Surprized at seeing him in such an attitude, I would have raised
+him up; but, after putting me in mind of my promise, he proceeded in
+the following words. “I am come, Sir, to make an open retraction of
+the abuse, which, when in liquor, I uttered in your company. The
+injustice of such behaviour renders it more injurious to me than to
+you; and therefore I ought publicly to disavow it. I submit to
+whatever punishment you please to inflict on me, and shall not think
+my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me the
+pardon I ask, on what conditions you think fit, and restore me your
+friendship.” My Lord, returned I, I have the truest sense of your
+generosity and greatness of mind, and take a pleasure in
+distinguishing between the discourse which your heart dictates, and
+that which may escape you when you are not yourself: let that in
+question be for ever forgotten, I immediately raised him, and, falling
+into my arms, he cordially embraced me. Then, turning about to the
+company, “Gentlemen, said he, I thank you for your complaisance. Men
+of honour, like you,” added he, with a bold air and resolute tone of
+voice, “know that he who thus repairs the injury he has done, will not
+submit to an injury from any man. You may publish what you have seen.”
+He then invited all of us to sup with him this evening, and the
+gentlemen left us. We were no sooner alone, than his lordship embraced
+me again, in a more tender and friendly manner; then, taking me by the
+hand, and seating himself down by me, happy man! said he, may you long
+enjoy the felicity you deserve! The heart of Eloisa is yours, may you
+be both.----What do you mean, my Lord? said I, interrupting him; have
+you lost your senses? No, returned he, smiling, but I was very near
+losing them, and it had perhaps been all over with me, if she who took
+them away, had not restored them. He then gave me a letter that I was
+surprized to see written by a hand, which never before wrote to any
+man but myself. What emotions did I feel in its perusal. I traced the
+passion of an incomparable woman who would make a sacrifice of herself
+to save her lover; and I discovered Eloisa. But when I came to the
+passage, wherein she protests she would never survive the most
+fortunate of men, how did I not shudder at the dangers I had escaped!
+I could not help complaining that I was loved too well, and my fears
+convinced me you are mortal. Ah! restore me that courage of which you
+have deprived me! I had enough to set death at defiance, when it
+threatened only myself, but I shrunk when my better half was in
+danger.
+
+While I was indulging myself in these cruel reflections, I paid little
+attention to his lordship’s discourse; till I heard the name of
+Eloisa. His conversation gave me pleasure as it did not excite my
+jealousy. He seemed extremely to regret his having disturbed our
+mutual passion and your repose; he respects you indeed beyond any
+other woman in the world; and, being ashamed to excuse himself to you,
+begged me to receive his apology in your name, and to prevail on you
+to accept it. “I consider you, says he, as her representative, and
+cannot humble myself too much to one she loves; being incapable,
+without having compromised the affair, to address myself personally to
+her, or even mention her name to you.” He frankly confessed to me he
+had entertained for you those sentiments, which every one must do who
+looks too intensely on Eloisa; but that his was rather a tender
+admiration than love; that he had formed neither hope nor pretension:
+but had given up all thoughts of either, on hearing of our
+connections; and that the injurious discourse which escaped him was
+the effect of liquor, and not of jealousy. He talked of love like a
+philosopher, who thinks his mind superior to the passions; but, for my
+part, I am mistaken if he has not already felt a passion, which will
+prevent any other from taking deep root in his breast. He mistakes a
+weakness of heart for the effect of reason; but I know that to love
+Eloisa, and be willing to renounce her, is not among the virtues of
+human nature.
+
+He desired me to give him the history of our amour, and an account of
+the causes which prevented our happiness. I thought that, after the
+explicitness of your letter, a partial confidence might be dangerous
+and unreasonable. I made it therefore compleat, and he listened to me
+with an attention that convinced me of his sincerity. More than once I
+saw the tears come into his eyes, while his heart seemed most tenderly
+affected: above all, I observed the powerful impressions which the
+triumphs of virtue made on his mind; and I please myself in having
+raised up for Claud Anet a new protector, no less zealous than your
+father. When I had done, there are neither incidents nor adventures,
+said he, in what you have related; and yet the catastrophe of a
+Romance could not equally affect me; so well is a want of variety
+atoned for by sentiments; and of striking actions supplied by
+instances of a virtuous behaviour. Yours are such extraordinary minds
+that they are not to be guided by common rules: your happiness is not
+to be attained in the same manner, nor is it of the same species with
+that of others. They seek power and pre-eminence; you require only
+tenderness and tranquillity. There is blended with your affections a
+virtuous emulation, that elevates both; and you would be less
+deserving of each other if you were not mutually in love. But love, he
+presumed to say, will one day lose its power (forgive him, Eloisa,
+that blasphemous expression, spoken in the ignorance of his heart) the
+power of love, said he, will one day be lost, while that of virtue
+will remain. Oh my Eloisa! may our virtues but subsist as long as our
+love! Heaven will require no more.
+
+In fine, I found that the philosophical inflexibility of his nation
+had no influence over the natural humanity of this honest Englishman;
+but that his heart was really interested in our difficulties. If
+wealth and credit can be useful to us, I believe we have some reason
+to depend on his service. But alas! how shall credit or riches operate
+to make us happy?
+
+This interview, in which we did not count the hours, lasted till
+dinner time; I ordered a pullet for dinner, after which we continued
+our discourse. Among other topics, we fell upon the step his lordship
+had taken, with regard to myself in the morning; on which I could not
+help expressing my surprize at a procedure so solemn and uncommon.
+But, repeating the reasons he had already given me, he added, that to
+give a partial satisfaction was unworthy a man of courage: that he
+ought to make a compleat one or none at all; lest he should only
+debase himself without making any reparation; and lest a concession
+made involuntarily, and with an ill grace, should be attributed to
+fear. Besides, continued he, my reputation is established; I can do
+you justice without incurring the suspicion of cowardice; but you, who
+are young and just beginning the world, ought to clear yourself so
+well of the first affair you are engaged in as to tempt no one to
+involve you in a second. The world is full of those artful cowards,
+who are upon the catch, as one may say, to taste their man; that is,
+to find out some greater coward than themselves to shew their valour
+upon. I would save a man of honour, like you, the trouble of
+chastising such scoundrels; I had rather, if they want a lesson, that
+they should take it of me than you: for one quarrel, more or less, on
+the hands of a man, who has already had many, signifies nothing;
+whereas it is a kind of disgrace to have had but one, and the lover of
+Eloisa should be exempt from it.
+
+This is, in abstract, my long conversation with Lord B----; of which I
+thought proper to give you an account, that you might prescribe the
+manner in which I ought to behave to him.
+
+As you ought now to be composed, chase from your mind, I conjure you,
+those dreadful apprehensions which have found a place there for some
+days past. Think of the care you should take in the uncertainty of
+your present condition. O should you soon give me life in a third
+being! Should a charming pledge----Too flattering hope! Dost thou
+come again to deceive me? I wish! I fear! I am lost in perplexity! Oh!
+Thou dearest charmer of my heart, let us live but to love, and let
+heaven dispose of us, as it may?
+
+P. S. I forgot to tell you that my Lord offered me your letter, and
+that I made no difficulty of taking it; thinking it improper that it
+should remain in the hands of a third person. I will return it you the
+first time I see you: for, as to myself, I have no occasion for it; it
+is deeply engraven in my heart.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Bring my Lord B---- hither to-morrow, that I may throw myself at his
+feet, as he has done at yours. What greatness of mind! What
+generosity! Oh how little, do we seem, compared to him! Preserve so
+inestimable a friend as you would the apple of your eye. Perhaps he
+would be less valuable, were he of a more even temper; was there ever
+a man without some vices who had great virtues?
+
+A thousand distresses of various kinds had sunk my spirits to the
+lowest ebb; but your letter has rekindled my extinguished hopes. In
+dissipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety the more supportable.
+I feel now I have strength enough to bear up under it. You live, you
+love me; neither your own nor the blood of your friend has been spilt,
+and your honour is secured; I am not then compleatly miserable.
+
+Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had so much reason for seeing
+you, nor so little hope of having that pleasure long. Farewell, my
+dear friend, instead of saying let us live but to love, you should
+have said alas! let us love that we may live.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXII. From Clara.
+
+
+Must I be always, my dear cousin, under the necessity of performing
+the most disagreeable offices of friendship? Must I always, in the
+bitterness of my own heart, be giving affliction to yours, by cruel
+intelligence? Our sentiments, alas! are the same, and you are sensible
+I can give no new uneasiness to you which I have not first experienced
+myself. O that I could but conceal your misfortune without increasing
+it! or that a friendship like ours were not as binding as love! How
+readily might I throw off that chagrin I am now obliged to
+communicate. Last night, when the concert was over, and your mother
+and you were gone home, in company with your friend and Mr. Orbe, our
+two fathers and my Lord B---- were left to talk politics together; the
+disagreeableness of the subject, of which indeed I am quite surfeited,
+soon made me retire to my own chamber. In about half an hour, I heard
+the name of your friend repeated with some vehemence; on which I found
+the conversation had changed its subject, and therefore listened to it
+with some attention; when I gathered, by what followed, that his
+lordship had ventured to propose a match between you and your friend,
+whom he frankly called his, and on whom, as such, he offered to make a
+suitable settlement. Your father rejected the proposal with disdain,
+and upon that the conversation began to grow warm. “I must tell you
+sir, said my lord, that, notwithstanding your prejudices, he is of all
+men the most worthy of her, and perhaps the most likely to make her
+happy. He has received from nature every gift that is independent of
+the world; and has embellished them by all those talents, which
+depended on himself. He is young, tall, well-made, and ingenious: he
+has the advantages of education, sense, manners, and courage; he has a
+fine genius and a sound mind; what then does he require to make him
+worthy of your daughter? Is it a fortune? He shall have one. A third
+part of my own will make him the richest man of this country; nay, I
+will give him, if it be necessary, the half. Does he want a title?
+Ridiculous prerogative, in a country where nobility is more
+troublesome than useful! But, doubt it not, he is noble: not that his
+nobility is made out in writing upon an old parchment, but it is
+engraven in indelible characters on his heart. In a word if you prefer
+the dictates of reason and sense to groundless prejudices, and if you
+love your daughter better than empty titles, you will give her to
+him.”
+
+On this your father expressed himself in a violent passion: he treated
+the proposal as absurd and ridiculous. How! my lord! said he, is it
+possible a man of honour, as you are, can entertain such a thought,
+that the last surviving branch of an illustrious family should go to
+lose and degrade its name, in that of nobody knows who; a fellow
+without home, and reduced to subsist upon charity. Hold, sir,
+interrupted my lord, you are speaking of my friend; consider that I
+must take upon myself every injury done him in my company, and that
+such language as is injurious to a man of honour, is more so to him
+who makes use of it. Such _fellows_ are more respectable than all the
+country squires in Europe; and I defy you to point out a more
+honourable way to fortune, than by excepting the debts of esteem, and
+the gifts of friendship. If my friend does not trace his descent, as
+you do, from a long and doubtful succession of ancestors, he will lay
+the foundation, and be the honour of his own house, as the first of
+your ancestors did that of yours. Can you think yourself dishonoured
+by your alliance to the head of your family, without falling under the
+contempt you have for him? How many great families would sink again
+into oblivion, if we respected only those which descended from truly
+respectable originals? Judge of the past by the present; for two or
+three honest citizens ennobled by virtuous means, a thousand knaves
+find every day the way to aggrandize themselves and families. But to
+what end serves that nobility, of which their descendants are so
+proud, unless it be to prove the injustice and infamy of their
+ancestors? [12] There are, I must confess, a great number of bad men
+among the common people; but the odds are always twenty to one against
+a gentleman, that he is descended from a rascal. Let us, if you will,
+set aside descent, and compare only merit and utility. You have borne
+arms in the service and pay of a foreign prince; his father fought
+without pay in the service of his country. If you have well served,
+you have been well paid; and, whatever honour you may have acquired by
+arms, a hundred plebeians may have acquired still more.
+
+In what consists the honour then, continued my lord, of that nobility
+of which you are so tenacious? How does it affect the glory of one’s
+country or the good of mankind? A mortal enemy to liberty and the
+laws, what did it ever produce in most of those countries where it has
+flourished, but the rod of tyranny and the oppression of the people?
+Will you presume to boast, in a republic, of a rank that is
+destructive to virtue and humanity? Of a rank that makes its boast of
+slavery, and wherein men blush to be men? Read the annals of your own
+country; what have any of the nobility merited of her? Were any of her
+deliverers nobles? The _Fursts_, the _Tills_, the _Stauffachers_, were
+they gentlemen? What then is that absurd honour, about which you make
+so much noise?
+
+Think, my dear, what I suffered to hear this respectable man thus
+injure, by an ill-concerted application, the cause of that friend whom
+he endeavoured to serve. Your father, being irritated by so many
+galling, though general invectives, strove to retort them by personal
+ones. He told his lordship plainly, that never any man of his
+condition talked in the manner he had done. Trouble not yourself to
+plead another’s cause, added he roughly, honourable as you are, I
+doubt much if you could make your own good, on the subject in
+question. You demand my daughter for your pretended friend, without
+knowing whether you are yourself an equal match for her; and I know
+enough of the English nobility to entertain, from your discourse, a
+very indifferent opinion of yours.
+
+To this his lordship answered; whatever you may think of me, sir, I
+should be very sorry to be able to give no other proof of my merit
+than the name of a man who died five hundred years ago. If you know
+the nobility of England, you know that it is the least prejudiced,
+best informed, most sensible, and bravest of all Europe; after which
+it is needless to ask whether it be the most ancient; for, when we
+talk of what is, we never mind what was. We are not, it is true, the
+slaves, but the friends of a prince; not the oppressors of a people,
+but their leaders. The guardians of liberty, the pillars of our
+country, and the support of the throne, we maintain an equilibrium
+between the people and the king. Our first regards are due to the
+nation, our second to him that governs: we consult not his will, but
+his just prerogative. Supreme judges in the house of peers, and
+sometimes legislators, we render equal justice to the king and people,
+and suffer no one to say _God and my sword, but only God and my
+right._
+
+Such, sir, continued he, is that respectable nobility with which you
+are unacquainted; as ancient as any other, but more proud of its merit
+than of its ancestors. I am one, not the lowest in rank of that
+illustrious order, and believe, whatever be your pretensions, that I
+am your equal in every respect. I have a sister unmarried; she is
+young, amiable, rich and in no wise inferior to Eloisa, except in
+those qualities which with you pass for nothing. Now, sir, if after
+being enamoured with your daughter, it were possible for any one to
+change the object of his affections and admire another, I should think
+it an honour to accept the man for my brother, though he had nothing,
+whom I propose to you for a son with half my estate.
+
+I knew matters would be only aggravated by your father’s reply; and,
+though I was struck with admiration at my Lord B----’s generosity,
+I saw plainly that he would totally ruin the negotiation he had
+undertaken. I went in, therefore, to prevent things from going farther.
+My entrance broke up the conversation, and immediately after they
+coldly took leave of each other, and parted. As to my father, he
+behaved very well in the dispute. At first he seconded the proposal;
+but, finding that yours would hear nothing of it, he took the side of
+his brother-in-law, and, by taking proper opportunities to moderate
+the contest, prevented them from going beyond those bounds they would
+certainly have trespassed, had they been alone. After their departure,
+he related to me what had happened; and, as I foresaw where his
+discourse would end, I readily told him, that things being in such a
+situation, it would be improper the person in question should see you
+so often here; and that it would be better for him not to come hither
+at all, if such an intimation would not be putting a kind of affront on
+Mr. Orbe, his friend; but that I should desire him to bring Lord B----
+less frequently for the future. This, my dear, was the best I could do
+to prevent our door being entirely shut against him.
+
+But this is not all. The crisis in which you stand at present obliges
+me to return to my former advice. The affair between my Lord B----
+and your friend has made all the noise in town, which was natural to
+expect. For, though Mr. Orbe has kept the original cause of their
+quarrel a secret, the circumstances are too public, to suffer it to lie
+concealed. Every one has suspicions, makes conjectures, and some go
+so far as to name Eloisa. The report of the watch was not so totally
+suppressed but it is remembered; and you are not ignorant that, in
+the eye of the world, a bare suspicion of the truth is looked upon as
+evidence. All that I can say for your consolation is, that in general
+your choice is approved, and every body thinks with pleasure on the
+union of so charming a couple. This confirms me in the opinion that
+your friend has behaved himself well in this country, and is not less
+beloved than yourself. But what is the public voice to your inflexible
+father? All this talk has already reached, or will come to his ear; and
+I tremble to think of the effect it may produce, if you do not speedily
+take some measures to prevent his anger. You must expect from him an
+explanation terrible to yourself, and perhaps still worse for your
+friend. Not that I think, at his age, he will condescend to challenge a
+young man he thinks unworthy his sword: but the influence he has in the
+town will furnish him, if he has a mind to it, with a thousand means to
+stir up a party against him; and it is to be feared that his passion
+will be too ready to excite him to do it.
+
+On my knees, therefore, I conjure you, my dear friend, to think on the
+dangers that surround you, and the terrible risk you run; which
+increases every moment. You have been extremely fortunate to escape
+hitherto, in the midst of such hazards; but, while it is yet time, I
+beg of you to let the veil of prudence be thrown over the secret of
+your amours; and not to push your fortune farther; lest it should
+involve in your misfortunes the man who has been the cause of them.
+Believe me, my dear, the future is uncertain, a thousand accidents may
+happen unexpectedly, in your favour; but, for the present, I have said
+and repeat it more earnestly, send away your friend, or you are
+undone.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXIII. From Eloisa to Clara.
+
+
+All that you foresaw, my dear, is come to pass. Last night, about an
+hour after we got home, my father entered my mother’s apartment, his
+eyes sparkling and his countenance inflamed with anger; in a word, so
+irritated as I never saw him before. I found immediately that he had
+either just left a quarrel, or was seeking occasion to begin one; and
+my guilty conscience made me tremble for the consequence.
+
+He began by exclaiming violently, but in general terms, against such
+mothers as indiscreetly invite to their houses young fellows without
+family or fortune, whose acquaintance only brings shame and scandal on
+those who cultivate it. Finding this not sufficient to draw an answer
+from an intimidated woman, he brought up particularly, as an example,
+what had passed in our own house, since she had introduced a pretended
+wit, an empty chatterer, more fit to debauch the mind of a modest
+young woman than to instruct her in any thing that is good.
+
+My mother, who now saw she should get little by holding her tongue,
+took him up at the word debauch, and asked what he had ever seen in
+the conduct, or knew of the character of the person he spoke of, to
+authorize such base suspicions. I did not conceive, she added, that
+genius and merit were to be excluded from society. To whom, pray,
+would you have your house open, if fine talents and good behaviour
+have no pretensions to admittance? To our equals, Madam, he replied in
+a fury; to such as might repair the honour of a daughter if they
+should injure it. No, sir, said she, but rather to people of virtue
+who cannot injure it. Know, Madam, that the presumption of soliciting
+an alliance with my family, without a title to that honour, is highly
+injurious. So far from thinking it injurious, returned my mother, I
+think it, on the contrary, the highest mark of esteem: but, I know not
+that the person you exclaim against has made any such pretensions. He
+has done it, Madam, and will do worse, if I do not take proper care to
+prevent him; but, for the future, I shall take upon myself the charge
+you have executed so ill.
+
+On this began a dangerous altercation between them; by which I found
+they were both ignorant of those reports, which you say have been
+spread about the town. During this time your unworthy cousin could,
+nevertheless, have wished herself buried a hundred feet in the earth.
+Think of the best and most abused of mothers lavishing encomiums on
+her guilty daughter, and praising her for all those virtues she has
+lost, in the most respectful, or rather to me the most mortifying
+terms. Think of an angry father, profuse of injurious expressions; and
+yet in the height of his indignation, not letting one escape him in
+the least reflecting on the prudence of her, who, torn by remorse and
+humbled with shame, could hardly support his presence.
+
+O the inconceivable torture of a bleeding heart, reproaching itself
+with unsuspected crimes! How depressing and insupportable is the
+burthen of unmerited praise, and of an esteem of which the heart is
+conscious it is unworthy! I was indeed so terribly oppressed, that, in
+order to free myself from so cruel a situation, I was just going, if
+the impetuosity of his temper would have given me time, to confess
+all. But he was so enraged as to repeat over and over a hundred times
+the same things, and to change the subject every moment. He took
+notice of my looks, cast down, and affrighted, in consequence of my
+remorse; and if he did not construe them into those of my guilt he did
+into looks of my love; but, to shame me the more, he abused the object
+of it in terms so odious and contemptible that, in spite of all my
+endeavours, I could not let him proceed without interruption. I know
+not whence my dear, I had so much courage, or how I came so far to
+trespass the bounds of modesty and duty: but, if I ventured to break
+for a moment that respectful silence they dictate, I suffered for it,
+as you will see, very severely. For Heaven’s sake, my dear father,
+said I, be pacified: never could your daughter be in danger from a man
+deserving such abuse. I had scarce spoken, when, as if he had felt
+himself reproved by what I said, or that his passion wanted only a
+pretext for extremities, he flew upon your poor friend, and for the
+first time in my life I received from him a box on the ear: nor was
+this all but, giving himself up entirely to his passion, he proceeded
+to beat me without mercy, notwithstanding my mother threw herself in
+between us, to screen me from his blows, and, received many of those
+which were intended for me. At length, in running back to avoid them,
+my foot slipt, and I fell down with my face against the foot of a
+table.
+
+Here ended the triumph of passion, and begun that of nature. My fall,
+the sight of my blood, my tears, and those of my mother greatly
+affected him. He raised me up with an air of affliction and
+solicitude; and, having placed me in a chair, they both eagerly
+enquired where I was hurt. I had received only a slight bruise on my
+forehead, and bled only at the nose. I saw nevertheless, by the
+alteration in the air and voice of my father, that he was displeased
+at what he had done. He was not, however, immediately reconciled to
+me; paternal authority did not permit so abrupt a change; but he
+apologized with many tender excuses to my mother; and I saw plainly,
+by the looks he cast on me, to whom half of his apologies were
+indirectly addressed. Surely, my dear, these is no confusion so
+affecting as that of a tender father, who thinks himself to blame in
+his treatment of a child.
+
+Supper being ready, it was ordered to be put back that I might have
+time to compose myself; and my father, unwilling the servants should
+see any thing of my disorder, went himself for a glass of water; while
+my mother was bathing the contusion on my forehead. Ah, my dear how I
+pitied her! already in a very ill and languishing state of health, how
+gladly would she have been excused from being witness to such a scene!
+How little less did she stand in need of assistance than I!
+
+At supper my father did not speak to me, but I could see his silence
+was the effect of shame, and not of disdain: he pretended to find
+every thing extremely good, in order to bid my mother help me to it;
+and, what touched me the most sensibly was, that he took all occasions
+to call me his daughter, and not Eloisa, as is customary with him.
+
+After supper the evening was so cold that my mother ordered a fire in
+her chamber; she placing herself on one fire and my father on the
+other. I went to take a chair, to sit down in the middle; when, laying
+hold of my gown and drawing me gently to him, he placed me on his
+knee, without speaking a word. This was done so immediately, and by a
+sort of involuntarily impulse, that he seemed to be almost sorry for
+it a moment afterwards. But I was on his knee, and he could not well
+push me from him again, and, what added to his apparent condescension,
+he was obliged to support me with his arms in that attitude. All this
+passion in a kind of reluctant silence; but I perceived him, every now
+and then, ready to give me an involuntary embrace, which however he
+resisted, at the same time endeavouring to stifle a sigh, which came
+from the bottom of his heart. A certain false shame prevented his
+paternal arms from clasping me with that tenderness he too, plainly
+felt; a certain gravity, he was ashamed to depart from, a confusion he
+durst not overcome, occasioned between a father and his daughter the
+same charming embarrassment, as love and modesty cause between lovers;
+in the mean while a most affectionate mother, transported with
+pleasure, secretly enjoyed the delightful sight. I saw, I felt it all,
+and could no longer support a scene of such melting tenderness. I
+pretended to slip down; and, to save myself, threw my arm round my
+father’s neck, laying my face close to his venerable cheek, which I
+pressed with repeated kisses and bathed with my tears. At the same
+time, by those which flowed plentifully from his eyes, I could
+perceive him greatly relieved; while my mother, embraced us both and
+partook of our transports. How sweet; how peaceful is innocence! which
+alone was wanting to make this the most delightful moment of my life.
+
+This morning, lassitude and the pain I felt from my fall having kept
+me in bed later than usual, my father came into my chamber before I
+was up; when, asking kindly after my health, he sat down by the side
+of my bed; and, taking one of my hands into his, he condescended so
+far as to kiss it several times, calling me at the same time his dear
+daughter, and expressing his sorrow for his resentment. I told him I
+should think myself but too happy to suffer as much every day to have
+the pleasure he then gave me in return; and that the severest
+treatment I could receive from him would be fully recompensed, by the
+smallest instance of his kindness.
+
+Then putting on a more serious air, he resumed the subject of
+yesterday, and signified his pleasure in civil but positive terms. You
+know, says he, the husband I designed for you: I intimated to you my
+intentions concerning him on my arrival, and shall never change them,
+on that head. As to the man whom Lord B---- spoke of, though I shall
+not dispute the merit every body allows him, I know not whether he has
+of himself conceived the ridiculous hopes of being allied to me, or if
+it has been instilled into him by others; but, be assured, that, had I
+even no other person in view, and he was in possession of all the
+guineas in England, I would never accept him for my son-in-law. I
+forbid you, therefore, either to see or speak to him as long as you
+live, and that as well for the sake of his honour as your own. I never
+indeed felt any great regard for him: but I now mortally hate him for
+the outrages he has been the occasion of my committing, and shall
+never forgive him the violence I have been guilty of.
+
+Having said this, he rose and left me, without waiting for my answer,
+and with the same air of severity, which he had just reproached
+himself for assuming before. Ah, my dear cousin, what an infernal
+monster is prejudice, that depraves the best hearts, and puts the
+voice of nature every moment to silence!
+
+Thus ended the explanation you predicted, and of which I could not
+comprehend the reason till your letter informed me. I cannot well tell
+what revolution it has occasioned in my mind; but I find myself ever
+since greatly altered. I seem to look back with more regret to that
+happy time, when I lived content and tranquil with my family friends
+around me; and that the sense of my error increases with that of the
+blessings of which it has deprived me. Tell me, my severe monitor,
+tell me if you dare be so cruel, are the joyful hours of love all gone
+and fled? And will they never more return? Do you perceive, alas, how
+gloomy and horrible is that sad apprehension? And yet my father’s
+commands are positive; the danger of my lover is certain. Think, my
+dear Clara, on the result of such opposite emotions, destroying the
+effects of each other in my heart. A kind of stupidity has taken
+possession of me, which makes me almost insensible, and leaves me
+neither the use of my passions nor my reason. The present moment, you
+tell me, is critical; I know, I feel it is: and yet I was never more
+incapable to conduct myself than now. I have sat down more than twenty
+times to write to my lover: but I am ready to sink at every line. I
+have no resource, my dear friend, but in you. Let me prevail on you
+then to think, to speak, to act, for me. I put myself into your hands:
+whatever step you think proper to take, I hereby confirm before hand
+every thing you do; I commit to your friendship that sad authority
+over a lover which I have bought so dear. Divide me for ever from
+myself. Kill me, if I must die; but do not force me to plunge the
+dagger in my own breast. O my good angel! my protectress! what an
+employment do I engage you in! Can you have the courage to go through
+it? Can you find means to soften its severity? It is not my heart
+alone you will rend to pieces. You know, Clara, yes, you know, how
+sincerely I am beloved; that I have not even the consolation of being
+the most to be pitied. Let my heart, I beseech you, speak from your
+lips, and let yours sympathize with the tender compassion of love.
+Comfort the poor unfortunate youth, tell him, ah, tell him, again and
+again----do you not think so, my dear friend? Do you not think that,
+in spite of prepossessions and prejudice, in spite of all obstacles
+and crosses, Heaven has made us for each other? Yes, tell him so, I am
+sure of it, we are destined to be happy. It is impossible for me to
+lose sight of that prospect: it is impossible for me to give up that
+delightful hope. Tell him, therefore, not to be too much afflicted;
+not to give way to despair. You need not trouble yourself to exact a
+promise of eternal love and fidelity; and still less to make him a
+needless promise of mine. Is not the assurance of both firmly rooted
+in our hearts? Do we not feel that we are indivisible, and that we
+have but one mind between us? Tell him only to hope, and that though
+fortune persecutes us, he may place his confidence in love; which I am
+certain, my cousin, will in some way or other compensate for the evils
+it makes us suffer; as I am that, however heaven may dispose of us, we
+shall not live long from each other.
+
+P.S. After I had written the above, I went into my mother’s apartment,
+but found myself so ill that I was obliged to return, and lie down on
+the bed. I even perceived----alas, I am afraid----indeed, my dear, I
+am afraid, the fall I had last night will be of a much worse
+consequence than I imagined. If so, all is over with me; all my hopes
+are vanished at once.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXIV. Clara to Mr. Orbe.
+
+
+My father has this morning related to me the conversation he had
+yesterday with you. I perceive with pleasure that your expectations of
+what you are pleased to call your happiness, are not without
+foundation: you know I hope that it will prove mine too. Esteem and
+friendship are already in your possession, and all of that more tender
+sentiment of which my heart is capable is also yours. Yet be not
+deceived: as woman, I am a kind of monster; by whatsoever strange whim
+of nature it happens I know not, but this I know, that my friendship
+is more powerful than my love. When I tell you that my Eloisa is
+dearer to me than yourself, you only laugh at, me; and yet nothing can
+be more certain. Eloisa is so sensible of this, that she is more
+jealous for you than you are for yourself, and whilst you are
+contented, she is upbraiding me, that I do not love you sufficiently.
+I am even so strongly interested in every thing which concerns her,
+that her lover and you hold nearly the same place in my heart, though
+in a different manner. What I feel for him is friendship only; but it
+is violent: for you, I think, I perceive something of a certain
+passion called love; but then it is tranquil. Now, though this might
+appear sufficiently equivocal to disturb the repose of a jealous mind,
+I do not believe it will cause much uneasiness in you.
+
+How far, alas, are those two poor souls from that tranquillity which
+we dare presume to enjoy! and how ill does this contentment become us,
+whilst our friends are in despair! It is decreed, they must part, and
+perhaps this may be the very instant of their eternal separation. Who
+knows but their mutual dejection, with which we reproached them at the
+concert, might be a foreboding that it was the last time they would
+ever meet? To this hour your friend is ignorant of his destiny. In the
+security of his heart he still enjoys the felicity of which he is
+already deprived. In the very instant of despair he tastes, in idea,
+the shadow of happiness, and like one who is on the brink of sudden
+death, the poor wretch dreams of existence unapprehensive of his fate.
+O heavens! it is from me he is to receive the sad sentence. O
+friendship divine! the idol of my soul! arm me, I beseech thee, with
+thy sacred cruelty. Inspire me with barbarous resolution, and enable
+me to perform this sad duty with becoming magnanimity!
+
+I depend on your assistance, and I should expect it even if you loved
+me less; for I know your tender heart: it will have no need of the
+zeal of love when humanity pleads. You will engage our friend to come
+to me to-morrow morning; but be sure not to mention a syllable of the
+affair. To day I must not be interrupted. I shall pass the afternoon
+with Eloisa. Endeavour to find Lord B----, and bring him with you
+about eight o’clock this evening, that we may come to some
+determination concerning the departure of this unhappy man, and
+endeavour to prevent his despair.
+
+I have great confidence in his resolution added to our precautions,
+and I have still greater dependence on his passion for Eloisa: her
+will, the danger of her life and honour, are motives which he cannot
+resist. Be it as it will, you may be assured that I shall not dream of
+marriage till Eloisa has recovered her peace of mind. I will not stain
+the matrimonial knot with the tears of my friend, so that if you
+really love me, your interest will second your generosity, and it
+becomes your own affair rather than that of another.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXV. Clara to Eloisa.
+
+
+All is over; and in spite of her indiscretion my Eloisa is in safety.
+Her secrets are buried in silence. She is still loved and cherished in
+the midst of her friends and relations, possessing every one’s esteem,
+and a reputation without blemish. Consider, my friend, and tremble for
+the dangers which, through motives of love or shame, through fear of
+doing too little or too much, you have run. Learn hence, too fond or
+too fearful girl, never more to attempt to reconcile sentiments so
+incompatible; and thank heaven that, through a happiness peculiar to
+yourself, you have escaped the evils that threatened you.
+
+I would spare your sorrowing heart the particulars of your lover’s
+cruel and necessary departure. But you desired to know them; I
+promised you should, and will keep my word with that sincerity which
+ever subsisted between us. Read on then, my dear and unhappy friend;
+read on, but exert your courage and maintain your resolution.
+
+The plan I had concerted, and of which I advised you yesterday, was
+punctually followed in every particular. On my return home, I found
+here Mr. Orbe and my Lord B----; with whom I immediately begun, by
+declaring to the latter how much we were both affected by his heroic
+generosity. I then gave them urgent reasons for the immediate
+departure of your friend, and told them the difficulties I foresaw in
+bringing it about. His Lordship was perfectly sensible that it was
+necessary, and expressed much sorrow for the effects of his imprudent
+zeal. They both agreed it was proper to hasten the separation
+determined, and to lay hold of the first moment of consent, to prevent
+any new irresolution: and to snatch him from the danger of delay. I
+would have engaged Mr. Orbe to make the necessary preparations,
+unknown to your friend; but his Lordship, regarding this affair as his
+own, insisted on taking charge of it. He accordingly promised me that
+his chaise would be ready at eleven o’clock this morning, adding that
+he would carry him off under some other pretext, and accompany him as
+far as it might be necessary; opening the matter to him at leisure.
+This expedient however did not appear to me sufficiently open and
+sincere, nor would I consent to expose him, at a distance, to the
+first effects of a despair, which might more easily escape the eyes of
+Lord B---- than mine. For the same reason I did not close with his
+Lordship’s proposal of speaking himself to him, and prevailing on him
+to depart. I foresaw, that negotiation would be a delicate affair, and
+I was unwilling to trust any body with it but myself; knowing much
+better how to manage his sensibility, and also that there is always a
+harshness in the arguments of the men which a woman best knows how to
+soften. I conceived nevertheless that my Lord might be of use in
+preparing the way for an eclairissement; being sensible of the effects
+which the discourse of a man of sense might have over a virtuous mind;
+and what force the persuasions of a friend might give to the arguments
+of the philosopher.
+
+I engaged Lord B----, therefore, to pass the evening with him, and,
+without saying any thing directly of his situation, to endeavour to
+dispose his mind insensibly to a stoical resolution. You, my Lord, who
+are so well acquainted with Epictetus, says I, have now an opportunity
+of making some real use of him. Distinguish carefully between real and
+apparent good, between that which depends on ourselves and what is
+dependent on others. Demonstrate to him that, whatever threatens us
+from without, the cause of evil is within us; and that the wise man,
+being always on his guard, has his happiness ever in his own power. I
+understood by his Lordship’s answer that this stroke of irony, which
+could not offend him, served to excite his zeal, and that he counted
+much on sending his friend the next day well prepared. This indeed was
+the most I expected; for in reality, I place no great dependence, any
+more than yourself, on all that verbose philosophy. And yet I am
+persuaded a virtuous man must always feel some kind of shame, in
+changing at night the opinions he embraced in the morning, and in
+denying in his heart the next day what his reason dictated for truth
+the preceding night.
+
+Mr. Orbe was desirous of being of their party, and passing the evening
+with them; but to this I objected; as his presence might only disturb
+or lay a restraint on the conversation. The interest I have in him,
+does not prevent me from seeing he is not a match for the other two.
+The masculine turn of thinking in men of strong minds gives a peculiar
+idiom to their discourse, and makes them converse in a language to
+which Mr. Orbe is a stranger. In taking leave of them, I bethought me
+of the effects of his Lordship’s drinking punch; and, fearing he might
+when in liquor anticipate my design, I laughingly hinted as much to
+him: to which he answered, I might be assured he would indulge himself
+in such habits only when it could be of no ill effect; but that he was
+no slave to custom; that the interview intended concerned Eloisa’s
+honour, the fortune and perhaps the life of a man, and that man his
+friend. I shall drink my punch, continued he, as usual, lest it should
+give our conversation an air of reserve and preparation; but that
+punch shall be mere lemonade; and, as he drinks none, he will not
+perceive it. Don’t you think it, my dear, a great mortification to
+have contracted habits that make such precautions as these necessary?
+
+I passed the night in great agitation of mind, not altogether on your
+account. The innocent pleasures of our early youth, the agreeableness
+of our long intimacy, and the closer connections that have subsisted
+between us for a year past, on account of the difficulty he met with
+in seeing you; all this filled me with the most disagreeable
+apprehensions of your separation. I perceived I was going to lose,
+with the half of you, a part of my own existence. Awake and restless I
+lay counting the clock, and when the morning dawned, I shuddered to
+think it was the dawn of that day which might fix the destiny of my
+friend. I spent the early part of the morning in meditating on my
+intended discourse, and in reflecting on the impressions it might
+make. At length the hour drew nigh, and my expected visitor entered.
+He appeared much troubled, and hastily asked me after you; for he had
+heard, the day after your severe treatment from your father, that you
+was ill, which was yesterday confirmed by my Lord B----, and that you
+had kept your bed ever since. To avoid entering into particulars on
+this subject, I told him I had left you better last night, and that he
+would know more by the return of Hans whom I had sent to you. My
+precaution was to no purpose, he went on asking me a hundred
+questions, to which, as they only tended to lead me from my purpose, I
+made short answers, and took upon me to interrogate him in my turn.
+
+I begun by endeavouring to found his disposition of mind, and found
+him grave, methodical, and reasonable. Thank heaven, said I to myself,
+my philosopher is well prepared. Nothing remained therefore but to put
+him to the trial. It is an usual custom to open bad news by degrees;
+but the knowledge I had of the furious imagination of your friend,
+which at half a word’s speaking carries him often into the most
+passionate extremes, determined me to take a contrary method; as I
+thought it better to overwhelm him at once, and administer comfort to
+him afterwards, than needlessly to multiply his griefs and give him a
+thousand pains instead of one. Assuming, therefore, a more serious
+tone, and looking at him very attentively; have you ever experienced,
+my friend, said I, what the fortitude of a great mind is capable of?
+Do you think it possible for a man to renounce the object he truly
+loves? I had scarce spoke before he started up like a madman; and,
+clasping his hands together, struck them against his forehead, crying
+out, I understand you, Eloisa is dead! my Eloisa is dead! repeated he
+in a tone of despair and horror that made me tremble. I see through
+your vain circumspection, your useless cautions, that only render my
+tortures more lingering and cruel. Frightened as I was by so sudden a
+transport, I soon entered into the cause; the news he had heard of
+your illness, the lecture which Lord B---- had read him, our appointed
+meeting this morning, my evading his questions and those I put to him,
+were all so many collateral circumstances combining to give him a
+false alarm. I saw plainly also what use I might have made of his
+mistake, by leaving him in it a few minutes, but I could not be cruel
+enough to do it. The thoughts of the death of the person one loves is
+so shocking, that any other whatever is comparatively agreeable; I
+hastened accordingly to make the advantage of it. Perhaps, said I, you
+will never see her again, yet she is alive and still loves you. If
+Eloisa were dead, what could Clara have to say? Be thankful to heaven
+that, unfortunate as you are, you do not feel all those evils which
+might have overwhelmed you. He was so surprized, so struck, so
+bewildered that, having made him sit down, again, I had leisure to
+acquaint him with what it was necessary for him to know. At the same
+time I represented the generous behaviour of Lord B---- in the most
+amiable light, in order to divert his grief by exciting, in his honest
+mind, the gentler emotions of gratitude. You see, continued I, the
+present state of affairs. Eloisa is on the brink of destruction, just
+ready to see herself exposed to public disgrace, by the resentment of
+her family, by the violence of an enraged father, and by her own
+despair. The danger increases every moment, and, whether in her own or
+in the hand of a father, the poignard is every instant of her life
+within an inch of her heart. There remains but one way to prevent
+these misfortunes, and that depends entirely on you. The fate of
+Eloisa is in your hands. See if you have the fortitude to save her
+from ruin, by leaving her, since she is no longer permitted to see
+you, or whether you had rather stay to be the author and witness of
+her dishonour? After having done every thing for you, she puts your
+heart to the trial to see what you can do for her. It is astonishing
+that she bears up under her distresses. You are anxious for her life;
+know then that her life, her honour, her all depends on you.
+
+He heard me without interruption; and no sooner perfectly comprehended
+me, than that wild gesture, that furious look, that frightful air,
+which he had put on just before, immediately disappeared. A gloomy
+veil of sorrow and consternation spread itself over his features,
+while his mournful eyes and bewildered countenance betrayed the
+sadness of his heart. In this situation he could hardly open his lips
+to make me an answer. Must I then go? said he in a peculiar tone; it
+is well, I will go. Have I not lived long enough? No, returned I, not
+so, you should still live for her who loves you. Have you forgot that
+her life is dependant on yours? Why then should our lives be
+separated? cried he; there was a time. It is not yet too late.----
+
+I affected not to understand the last words, and was endeavouring to
+comfort him with some hopes, which I could see his heart rejected,
+when Hans returned with the good news of your health. In the joy he
+felt at this, he cried out, My Eloisa lives,----let her live, and if
+possible be happy. I will never disturb her repose, I will only bid
+her adieu----and, if it must be so, will leave her for ever.
+
+You surely know, said I, that you are not permitted to see her. You
+have already bidden farewell, and are parted. Consider, therefore, you
+will be more at ease when you are at a greater distance, and will have
+at least the consolation to think you have secured, by your departure,
+the peace and reputation of her you love. Fly then this hour, this
+moment; nor let so great a sacrifice be made too slow. Haste, lest
+even your delay should cause the ruin of her to whose security you
+have devoted yourself. What! said he in a kind of fury, shall I depart
+without seeing her? Not see her again! We will both perish if it must
+be so. I know she will not think much to die with me. But I will see
+her, whatever may be the consequence; I will lay both my heart and
+life at her feet before I am thus torn from myself.----It was not
+difficult for me to shew the absurdity and cruelty of such a project.
+But the exclamation of, _Shall I see her no more!_ repeated in the
+most doleful accents, seemed to demand of me some consolation. Why,
+said I to him, do you make your misfortunes worse than they really
+are? Why do you give up hopes which Eloisa herself entertains? Can you
+believe she would think of thus parting with you, if she conceived you
+were not to meet again? No, my friend, you ought to know the heart of
+Eloisa better. You ought to know how much she prefers her love to her
+life. I fear, alas! too much I fear (this I confess I have added) she
+will soon prefer it to every thing. Believe me, Eloisa lives in hopes,
+since she consents to live: believe me the cautions which her prudence
+dictates, regard yourself more than you are aware of; and that she is
+more careful of herself on your account than her own. I then took out
+your last letter; and, shewing him what were the hopes of a fond
+deluded girl, animated his, by the gentle warmth of her tender
+expressions. These few lines seemed to distil a salutary balsam into
+his envenomed heart. His looks softened, the tears rose into his eyes,
+and I had the satisfaction of seeing a sorrowful tenderness succeed by
+degrees to his former despair; but your last words, so moving, so
+heart-felt, _we shall not live long asunder_, made him burst into a
+flood of tears. No, Eloisa, my dear Eloisa! said he, raising his voice
+and kissing the letter, no, we shall not live long asunder. Heaven
+will either join our hands in this world, or unite our hearts in those
+eternal mansions where there is no more separation. He was now in the
+temper of mind, I wished to have him; his former, sullen sorrow gave
+me much uneasiness. I should not have permitted him to depart in that
+disposition; but, as soon as I saw him weep and heard your endearing
+name come from his lips with so much tenderness, I was no longer in
+apprehensions for his life; for nothing is less tender than despair.
+The soft emotions of his heart now dictated an objection which I did
+not foresee. He spoke to me of the condition in which you lately
+suspected yourself to be; protesting he would rather die a thousand
+deaths than abandon you to those perils that threatened you. I took
+care to say nothing about the accident of your fall; telling him only
+that your expectations had been disappointed, and that there were no
+hopes of that kind. To which he answered with a deep sigh, there will
+remain then no living monument of my happiness; it is gone, and----
+Here his heart seemed too full for expression.
+
+After this, it remained only for me to execute the latter part of your
+commission; and for which I did not think, after the intimacy in which
+you lived, that any preparation or apology was necessary. I mildly
+reproached him, therefore, for the little care he had taken of his
+affairs; telling him that you feared it would be long before he would
+be more careful, and that in the mean time you commanded him to take
+care of himself for your sake, and to that end to accept of that small
+present which I had to make him from you. He seemed neither offended
+at the offer, nor to make a merit of the acceptance; telling me only
+that you well knew nothing could come from you that he should not
+receive with transport; but that your precaution was superfluous: a
+little house, which he had sold at Grandson, the remains of his small
+patrimony, having furnished him with more money than he ever had at
+any one time in his life. Besides, added he, I possess some talents
+from which I can always draw a subsistence. I shall be happy to find,
+in the exercise of them, some diversion from my misfortunes; and,
+since I have seen the use to which Eloisa puts her superfluities, I
+regard it as a treasure sacred to the widow and the orphan, whom
+humanity will never permit me to neglect. I reminded him of his former
+journey to the Valois, your letter, and the preciseness of your
+orders. The same reasons, said I, now subsist----The same! interrupted
+he, in an angry tone. The penalty of my refusal then, was never to see
+her more; if she will permit me now to stay, I will use it on those
+conditions. If I obey, why does she punish me? If I do not, what can
+she do worse than banish me?----The same reasons! repeated he, with
+some impatience. Our union then was just commenced; it is now at an
+end; and I part from her perhaps for ever; there is no longer any
+connection between us, we are going to be torn asunder. He pronounced
+these last words with such an oppression of heart that I trembled with
+the apprehensions of his relapsing into that disposition of mind, out
+of which I had taken so much pains to extricate him. I affected
+therefore an air of gaiety, and told him with a smile, that he was a
+child, and that I would be his tutor, as he stood greatly in need of
+one. I will take charge of this, said I; and, that we may dispose of
+it properly in the business we shall engage in together, I insist upon
+knowing particularly the state of your affairs. I endeavoured thus to
+direct his melancholy ideas by that of a familiar correspondence to be
+kept up in his absence; and he, whose simplicity only sought to lay
+hold of every twig, as one may say, that grew near to you, came easily
+into my design. We accordingly settled the address of our letters;
+and, as the talking about these regulations was agreeable to him, I
+prolonged our discourse on this subject till Mr. Orbe arrived; who, on
+his entrance, made a signal to me that every thing was ready. Your
+friend, who easily understood what was meant, then desired leave to
+write to you; but I would not permit him. I saw that an excess of
+tenderness might overcome him, and that after he had got half way
+through his letter, we might find it impossible to prevail on him to
+depart. Delays, said I, are dangerous; make haste to go; and, when you
+are arrived at the end of your first stage, you may write more at your
+ease. In saying this, I made a sign to Mr. Orbe, advanced towards him
+with a heavy heart, and took leave. How he left me I know not, my
+tears preventing my sight; my head began also to turn round, and it
+was high time my part was ended.
+
+A moment afterwards, however, I heard them go hastily down stairs; on
+which I went to the stair-head to look after them. There I saw your
+friend, in all his extravagance, throw himself on his knees, in the
+middle of the stairs, and kiss the steps; while Mr. Orbe had much to
+do to raise him from the cold stones, which he pressed with his lips,
+and to which he clung with his hands, sighing most bitterly. For my
+part, I retired, that I might not expose myself to the servants.
+
+Soon after Mr. Orbe returned, and, with tears in his eyes, told me it
+was all over, and that they were set out. It seems the chaise was
+ready at his door, where Lord B---- was waiting for our friend, whom
+when his Lordship saw he ran to meet him, and with the most cordial
+expressions of friendship, placed him in the chaise, which drove off
+with them, like lightning.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXVI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+How often have I taken up, and flung down, my pen! I hesitate in the
+first period; I know not how, I know not where, to begin. And yet it
+is to Eloisa I would write. To what a situation am I reduced? That
+time is, alas! no more, when a thousand pleasing ideas crowded on my
+mind, and flowed inexhaustibly from my pen. Those delightful moments
+of mutual confidence, and sweet effusion of souls, are gone and fled.
+We live no longer for each other. We are no more the same persons, and
+I no longer know to whom I am writing. Will you deign to receive, to
+read, my letters? Will you think them sufficiently cautious and
+reserved? Shall I preserve the stile of our former intimacy? May I
+venture to speak of a passion extinguished or despised? and am I not
+to make as defiant approaches to Eloisa, as on the first day I
+presumed to write? Good heavens! how different are the tedious hours
+of my present wretchedness from those happy, those delightful days I
+have passed! I but begin to exist, and am sunk into nothing. The hopes
+of life that warmed my heart are fled, and the gloomy prospect of
+death is all before me. Three revolving years have circumscribed the
+happiness of my days. Would to God I had ended them, ere I had known
+the misery of thus surviving myself! Oh that I had obeyed the
+foreboding dictates of my heart, when once those rapid moments of
+delight were passed, and life presented nothing to my view for which I
+could wish to live! Better, doubtless, had it been that I had breathed
+no longer, or that those three years of life and love I enjoyed could
+be extracted from the number of my days. Happier is it never to taste
+of felicity than to have it snatched from our enjoyment. Had I been
+exempted from that fatal interval of happiness; had I escaped the
+first enchanting look, that animated me to a new life, I might still
+have preserved my reason, have still been fit to discharge the common
+offices of life, and have displayed perhaps some virtues in the
+duration of an insipid existence. One moment of delusion hath changed
+the scene. I have ventured to contemplate with rapture an object I
+should not have dared to look on. This presumption has produced its
+necessary effect, and led me insensibly to ruin; I am become a
+frantic, delirious wretch, a servile dispirited being, that drags
+along his chain in ignominy and despair.
+
+How idle are the dreams of a distracted mind! How flattering, how
+deceitful the wishes of the wandering heart, that disclaims them as
+soon as suggested! To what end do we seek, against real evils,
+imaginary remedies, that are no sooner thought of than rejected? Who,
+that hath seen and felt the power of love, can think it possible there
+should be a happiness which I would purchase at the price of the
+supreme felicity of my first transports. No, it is impossible----Let
+heaven deny me all other blessings; let me be wretched, but I will
+indulge myself in the remembrance of pleasures past. Better is it to
+enjoy the recollection of my past happiness, though imbittered with
+present sorrow, than to be for ever happy without Eloisa. Come then,
+dear image of my love, thou idol of my soul! come, and take possession
+of a heart that beats only for thee; live in exile, alleviate my
+sorrows, rekindle my extinguished hopes, and prevent me from falling
+into despair. This unfortunate breast shall ever be thy inviolable
+sanctuary, whence neither the powers of heaven nor earth shall ever
+expel thee. If I am lost to happiness, I am not to love, which renders
+me worthy of it; a love irresistible as the charms that gave it birth.
+Raised on the immoveable foundations of merit and virtue, it can never
+cease to exist in a mind that is immortal: it needs no future hope for
+its support, the remembrance of what is past will sustain it for ever.
+
+But how is it with my Eloisa? With her, who was once so sensible of
+love? Can that sacred flame be extinguished in her pure and
+susceptible breast? Can she have lost her taste for those celestial
+raptures, which she alone could feel or inspire?----She drives me
+from her presence without pity, banishes me with shame, gives me up to
+despair, and sees not, through the error which misleads her, that, in
+making me miserable, she robs herself of happiness. Believe me, my
+Eloisa, you will in vain seek another heart akin to yours. A thousand
+will doubtless adore you, but mine only is capable of returning your
+love.
+
+Tell me, tell me, sincerely, thou deceived or deceiving girl! What is
+become of those projects we formed together in secret? Where are fled
+those vain hopes, with which you so often flattered my credulous
+simplicity? What say you now to that sacred union my heart panted
+after, the secret cause of so many ardent sighs, and with which your
+lips and your pen have so often indulged my hopes? I presumed alas! on
+your promises, to aspire to the sacred name of husband, and thought
+myself already the most fortunate of men. Say, cruel Eloisa, did you
+not flatter me thus only to render my disappointment the more
+mortifying, my affliction the more severe? Have I incurred this
+misfortune by my own crimes? Have I been wanting in obedience, in
+tractability, in discretion? Have you ever seen me so weak and absurd
+in my desires, as to deserve to be thus rejected? or have I ever
+preferred their gratification to your absolute commands? I have done,
+I have studied, every thing to please you, and yet you renounce me.
+You undertook to make me happy, and you make me miserable. Ungrateful
+woman! account with me for the trust I deposited in your hands;
+account with me for my heart, after having reduced it by a supreme
+felicity that raised me to an equality with angels. I envied not their
+lot; I was the happiest of beings; though now alas! I am the most
+miserable! A single moment has deprived me of every thing, and I am
+fallen instantaneously from the pinnacle of happiness to the lowest
+gulph of misery. I touch even yet the felicity that escapes me. I have
+still hold of, it, and lose it for ever----Ah, could I but believe!
+----if the remains of false hope did not flatter----Why, why, ye
+rocks of Meillerie, whose precipices my wandering eye so often
+measured, why did you not assist my despair! I had then less
+regretted life, ere enjoyment had taught me its value.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXVII. Lord B---- to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Being arrived at Besançon, I take the first opportunity to write you
+the particulars of our journey; which, if not passed very agreeably,
+has at least been attended with no ill accident. Your friend is as
+well in health as can be expected for a man so sick at heart. He even
+endeavours to affect outwardly a kind of tranquillity, to which his
+heart is a stranger; and, being ashamed of his weakness, lays himself
+under a good deal of restraint before me. This only served, however,
+to betray the secret agitations of his mind; and though I seemed to be
+deceived by his behaviour, it was only to leave him to his own
+thoughts, with the view of opposing one part of his faculties to
+repress the effects of the other.
+
+He was much dejected during the first day’s journey, which I made a
+short one, as I saw the expedition of our travelling increased his
+uneasiness. A profound silence was observed on both sides; on my part,
+the rather, as I am sensible that ill-timed condolence only imbitters
+violent affliction. Coldness and indifference easily find words, but
+silent sorrow is in those cases the language of true friendship. I
+began yesterday to perceive the first sparks of the fury which
+naturally succeeded. At dinner time we had been scarce a quarter of an
+hour out of the chaise, before he turned to me, with an air of
+impatience, and asked me with an ill-natured smile, why we rested a
+moment so near Eloisa? In the evening he affected to be very
+talkative, but without saying a word of her, asking the same questions
+over and over again. He wanted one moment to know if we had reached
+the French territories, and the next if we should soon arrive at
+Vevey. The first thing he did at every stage was to sit down to write
+a letter, which he rumpled up, or tore to pieces, the moment
+afterwards. I picked up two or three of these blotted fragments, by
+which you may judge of the situation of his mind. I believe, however,
+he has by this time written a compleat letter.----The extravagance
+which these first symptoms of passion threaten is easily foreseen; but
+I cannot pretend to guess what will be its effect, or how long may be
+its continuance; these depend on a combination of circumstances, as
+the character of the man, the degree and nature of his passion, and of
+a thousand things which no human sagacity can determine. For my part,
+I can answer for the transports of his rage, but not for the
+sullenness of his despair; for, do as we will, every man has always
+his life in his own power. I flatter myself, however, that he will pay
+a due regard to his life and my assiduities; though I depend less on
+the effects of my zeal, which nevertheless shall be exerted to the
+utmost, than on the nature of his passion, and the character of his
+mistress. The mind cannot long employ itself in contemplating a
+beloved object, without contracting a disposition similar to what it
+admires. The extreme sweetness of Eloisa’s temper must therefore have
+softened the harshness of that passion it inspired; and I doubt not
+but love, in a man of such lively passions, is always more alive and
+violent than it would be in others. I have some dependence also upon
+his heart: it was formed to struggle, and to conquer. A love like his
+is not so much a weakness, as strength badly exerted. A violent and
+unhappy passion may smother for a time, perhaps for ever, some of his
+faculties; but it is itself a proof of their excellence, and of the
+use that may be made of them to cultivate his understanding. The
+sublimest wisdom is attained by the same vigour of mind which gives
+rise to the violent passions; and philosophy must be attained by as
+fervent a zeal as that which we feel for a mistress.
+
+Be assured, lovely Clara, I interest myself no less than you in the
+fate of this unfortunate couple; not out of a sentiment of compassion,
+which might perhaps be only a weakness, but out of a due regard to
+justice and the fitness of things, which require that every one should
+be disposed of in a manner the most advantageous to himself and to
+society. Their amiable minds were doubtless formed by the hands of
+nature for each other. In a peaceful and happy union, at liberty to
+exert their talents and display their virtues, they might have
+enlightened the world with the splendor of their examples. Why should
+an absurd prejudice then cross the eternal directions of nature, and
+subvert the harmony of thinking Beings? Why should the vanity of a
+cruel father thus _hide their light under a bushel_, and wound those
+tender and benevolent hearts which were formed to sooth the pangs of
+others? Are not the ties of marriage the most free, as well as the
+most sacred of all engagements? Yes, every law to lay a constraint on
+them is unjust. Every father, who presumes to form, or break them, is
+a tyrant. This chaste and holy tie of nature is neither subjected to
+sovereign power nor paternal authority but to the authority only of
+that common parent who hath the power over our hearts, and, by
+commanding their union, can at the same time make them love each
+other.
+
+To what end are natural conveniences sacrificed to those of opinion? A
+disagreement in rank and fortune loses itself in marriage, nor doth
+any equality therein tend to make the marriage state happy; but a
+disagreement in person and disposition ever remains, and is that which
+makes it necessarily miserable. [13] A child, that has no rule of
+conduct but her fond passion, will frequently make a bad choice; but
+the father, who has no other rule for his than the opinion of the
+world, will make a worse. A daughter may want knowledge and experience
+to form a proper judgment of the discretion and conduct of men; a good
+father ought doubtless in that care to advise her. He has a right, it
+is even his duty, to say “My child, this is a man of probity, or that
+man is a knave, this is a man of sense, or that is a fool.” Thus far
+ought the father to judge, the rest belongs of right to the daughter.
+The tyrants, who exclaim that such maxims tend to disturb the good
+order of society, are those who, themselves, disturb it most.
+
+Let men rank according to their merit; and let those hearts be united
+that are objects of each other’s choice. This is what the good order
+of society requires; those who would confine it to birth or riches are
+the real disturbers of that order; and ought to be rendered odious to
+the public, or punished, as enemies to society.
+
+Justice requires that such abuses should be redressed: it is the duty
+of every man to set himself in opposition to violence, and to
+strengthen the bonds of society. You may be assured therefore, that,
+if it be possible for me to effect the union of these two lovers, in
+spite of an obstinate father, I shall put in execution the intention
+of heaven, without troubling myself about the approbation of men.
+
+You, amiable Madam, are happy in having a father, who doth not presume
+to judge better than yourself of the means of your own happiness. It
+is not, however, from his greater sagacity, perhaps, nor from his
+superior tenderness, that he leaves you thus mistress of your own
+choice: but what signifies the cause if the effect be the same? Or
+whether, in the liberty he allows you his indolence supplies the place
+of his reason? Far from abusing that liberty, the choice you have
+made, at twenty years of age, must meet with the approbation of the
+most discreet parent. Your heart, taken up by a friendship without
+example, had little room for love. You have yet substituted in its
+place every thing that can supply the want of passion; and, though
+less a lover than a friend, if you should not happen to prove the
+fondest wife, you will be certainly the most virtuous; that union,
+which prudence dictated, will increase with age and end but with life.
+The impulse of the heart is more blind, but it is more irresistible;
+and the way to ruin is to lay one’s self under the cruel necessity of
+opposing it. Happy are those whom love unites as prudence dictates,
+who have no obstacles to surmount, nor difficulties to encounter! Such
+would be our friends, were it not for the unreasonable prejudice of an
+obstinate father. And such, notwithstanding, may they be yet, if one
+of them be well advised. By yours and Eloisa’s example, we may be
+equally convinced that it belongs only to the parties themselves to
+judge how far they will be reciprocally agreeable. If love be not
+predominant, prudence only directs the choice, as in your case; if
+passion prevail, nature has already determined it, as in Eloisa’s. So
+sacred also is the law of nature, that no human being is permitted to
+transgress it, or can transgress it with impunity; nor can any
+consideration of rank or fortune abrogate it, without involving
+mankind in guilt and misfortune.
+
+Though the winter be pretty far advanced and I am obliged to go to
+Rome, I shall not leave our friend till I have brought him to such a
+consistency of temper that I may safely trust him with himself. I
+shall be tender of him, as well on his own account, as because you
+have entrusted him to my care. If I cannot make him happy, I will
+endeavour at least to make him prudent; and to prevail on him to bear
+the evils of humanity like a man. I purpose to spend a fortnight with
+him here; in which time I hope to hear from you and Eloisa; and that
+you will both assist me in binding up the wounds of a broken heart, as
+yet unaffected by the voice of reason, unless it speak in the language
+of the passions.
+
+Inclosed is a letter for your friend. I beg you will not trust it to a
+messenger, but give it her with your own hands.
+
+
+
+
+Fragments, Annexed to the Preceding Letter.
+
+
+Why was I not permitted to see you before my departure? You were
+afraid our parting would be fatal! Tender Eloisa! Be comforted----I am
+well----I am at ease----I live----I think of you----I think of the time
+when I was dear to you----My heart is a little oppressed----The chaise
+has made me giddy----My spirits are quite sunk----I cannot write much
+to-day; tomorrow, perhaps, I shall be able to----or I shall have no
+more occasion----
+
+Whither do these horses hurry me so fast? Where is this man, who calls
+himself my friend, going to carry me? Is it from Eloisa? Is it by her
+order that I am dispatched so precipitately away? Mistaken Eloisa!----
+How rapidly does the chaise move! Whence come I? Where am I going?
+Why all this expedition? Are ye afraid, ye persecutors, that I should
+not fly fast enough to ruin? O friendship! O love! is this your
+contrivance? Are these your favours?----
+
+Have you consulted your heart in driving me from you so suddenly? Are
+you capable, tell me Eloisa, are you capable of renouncing me for
+ever? No, that tender heart still loves me, I know it does----In spite
+of fortune, in spite of itself, it will love me for ever.----I see
+it, you have permitted yourself to be persuaded [14]----What lasting
+repentance are you preparing for yourself!----Alas! it will be too
+late----how! forget me! I did not know your heart!----Oh consider
+yourself, consider me, consider----hear me: it is yet time enough----
+’twas cruel to banish me: I fly from you swifter than the wind.----
+Say but the word, but one word, and I return quicker than lightening.
+Say but one word, and we will be united for ever. We ought to be----
+We will be----Alas! I complain to the winds----I am going again----I
+am going to live and die far from Eloisa----Live I did I say? It is
+impossible.----
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXVIII. Lord B---- to Eloisa.
+
+
+Your cousin will give you information concerning your friend. I
+imagine, also, he has written to you himself, by the post. First
+satisfy your impatience on that head, that you may afterwards peruse
+this letter with composure; for, I give you previous notice, the
+subject of it demands your attention. I know mankind; I have lived a
+long time in a few years, and have acquired experience at my own cost;
+the progress of the passions having been my road to philosophy. But of
+all the extraordinary things that have come within the compass of my
+observation, I never saw any thing equal to you and your lover. It is
+not that either the one or the other has any peculiar characteristic,
+whereby you might at first be known and distinguished, and through the
+want of which yours might well enough be mistaken, by a superficial
+observer, for minds of a common and ordinary cast. You are eminently
+distinguished, however, by this very difficulty of distinguishing you,
+and in that the features of a common model, some one of which is
+wanting in every individual, are all equally perfect in you. Thus
+every printed copy that comes from the press has its peculiar defects,
+which distinguish it from the rest of its kind; and if there should
+happen to come one quite perfect, however beautiful it might appear at
+first sight, it must be accurately examined to know its perfection.
+The first time I saw your lover, I was struck as with something new;
+my good opinion of him increasing daily in proportion as I found
+cause. With regard to yourself, it was quite otherwise; and the
+sentiments you inspired were such as I mistook for those of love. The
+impression you made on me, however, did not arise so much from a
+difference of sex, as from a characteristical perfection of which the
+heart cannot be insensible, though love were out of the question. I
+can see what you would be, though without your friend; but I cannot
+pretend to say what he would prove without you. Many men may resemble
+him, but there is but one Eloisa in the world. After doing you an
+injury, which I shall never forgive myself, your letter soon convinced
+me of the nature of my sentiments concerning you. I found I was not
+jealous, and consequently not in love. I saw that you were too amiable
+for me; that you deserved the first fruits of the heart, and that mine
+was unworthy of you.
+
+From that moment, I took an interest in your mutual happiness, which
+will never abate; and, imagining it in my power to remove every
+obstacle to your bliss, I made an indiscreet application to your
+father; the bad success of which is one motive to animate my zeal in
+your favour. Indulge me so far as to hear me, and perhaps I may yet
+repair the mischief I have occasioned. Examine your heart, Eloisa, and
+see if it be possible for you to extinguish the flame with which it
+burns. There was a time, perhaps, when you could have stopt its
+progress; but, if Eloisa fell from a state of innocence, how will she
+resist after her fall? How will she be able to withstand the power of
+love triumphing over her weakness, and armed with the dangerous
+weapons of her past pleasures. Let not your heart impose on itself;
+but renounce the fallacious presumption that seduces you: you are
+undone, if you are still to combat with love: you will be debased and
+vanquished, while a sense of your debasement will by degrees stifle
+all your virtues. Love has insinuated itself too far into your mind,
+for you ever to drive it thence. It has eaten its way, has penetrated
+into its inmost recesses, like a corrosive menstruum, whose
+impressions you will never be able to efface, without destroying at
+the same time all that virtuous sensibility you received from the
+hands of nature: root out love from your mind, and you will have
+nothing left in it truly estimable. Incapable of changing the
+condition of your heart, what then remains for you to do? Nothing sure
+but to render your union legitimate. To this end, I will propose to
+you the only method that now offers. Make use of it, while it is yet
+time, and add to innocence and virtue, the exercise of that good sense
+with which heaven has endowed you.
+
+I have a pretty considerable estate in Yorkshire, which has been long
+in our family, and was the seat of my ancestors. The mansion-house is
+old, but in good condition and convenient; the country about is
+solitary, but pleasant, and variegated. The river Ouse, which runs
+through the park, presents at once a charming prospect to the view,
+and affords a commodious transport for all kinds of necessaries. The
+income of the estate is sufficient for the reputable maintenance of
+the master, and might be doubled in its value, if under his immediate
+inspection. Hateful prepossession and blind prejudices harbour not in
+that delightful country; the peaceful inhabitant of which preserves
+the ancient manners, whose simplicity presents to you a picture of the
+Valois, such as it is described by the affecting touches of your
+lover’s pen. This estate, Eloisa, is yours, if you will deign to
+accept it, and reside there with your friend. There may you see
+accomplished all those tender wishes with which he concludes the
+letter I have just hinted at.
+
+Come, amiable and faithful pair! The choicest pattern of true lovers!
+come, and take possession of a spot, destined for the asylum of love
+and innocence. Come, and, in the face of God and man, confirm the
+gentle ties by which you are united. Come, and let your example do
+honour to a country where your virtues will be revered, and where the
+people, bred up in innocence and simplicity, will be proud to imitate
+them. May you enjoy in that peaceful retirement, and with the same
+sentiments that united you, the happiness of souls truly refined! May
+your chaste embraces be crowned with offspring resembling yourselves!
+may you see your days lengthened to an honourable old age, and
+peacefully end them in the arms of your children and may our
+posterity, in relating the story of your union, affectingly repeat,
+_Here was the asylum of innocence, this was the refuge of the two
+lovers._
+
+Your destiny, Eloisa, is in your own power. Weigh maturely the
+proposal I make to you, and examine only the main point; for, as to
+the rest, I shall take upon myself to settle every thing with your
+friend, and make firm and irrevocable the engagement into which I am
+willing to enter. I shall take charge also for the security of your
+departure, and the care of your person, till your arrival. There you
+may be immediately married without difficulty: for with us a girl that
+is marriageable has no need of any one’s consent to dispose of herself
+as she pleases. Our laws contradict not those of nature; and although
+there sometimes result from their agreement some slight
+inconveniencies, they are nothing compared to those it prevents. I
+have left at Vevey my Valet-de-chambre, a man of probity and courage,
+as well as discreet, and of approved fidelity. You may easily concert
+matters with him, either by word of mouth, or by letter, with the
+assistance of Regianino, without the latter’s knowing any thing of the
+affair. When every thing is ready, we will set out to meet you, and
+you shall not quit your father’s house but under the conduct and
+protection of your husband.
+
+I now leave you to think of my proposal: but give me leave to say
+again, beware of the consequences of prejudice, and those false
+scruples, which too often, under the pretext of honour, conduct us to
+vice. I foresee what will happen to you if you reject my offers. The
+tyranny of an obstinate father will plunge you into an abyss, you will
+not be aware of till after your fall. Your gentleness of disposition
+degenerates sometimes into timidity: you will fall a sacrifice to the
+chimerical distinction of rank; [15] you will be forced into an
+engagement which your heart will abhor. The world may approve your
+conduct, but your heart will daily give the lie to public opinion; you
+will be honoured and yet contemptible in your own opinion. How much
+better is it to pass your life in obscurity and virtue?
+
+P. S. Being in doubt concerning your resolution, I write to you,
+unknown to your friend; lest a refusal on your part should ruin at
+once the expectations I have formed of the good effects my care and
+advice may have upon his mind.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXIX. Eloisa to Clara.
+
+
+Oh, my dear! in what trouble did you leave me last night! and what a
+night did I pass in reflecting on the contents of that fatal letter!
+No, never did so powerful a temptation assail my heart; never did I
+experience the like agitation of mind; nor was ever more at a loss to
+compose it. Hitherto reason has darted some ray of light to direct my
+steps; on every embarrassing occasion I have been able to discern the
+most virtuous part, and immediately to embrace it. But now, debased
+and overcome, my resolution does nothing but fluctuate between
+contending passions: my weak heart has now no other choice than its
+foibles; and so deplorable is my blindness that, if I even chose for
+the best, my choice is not directed by virtue, and therefore I feel no
+less remorse than if I had done ill. You know who my father designs
+for my husband: you know, also, to whom the indissoluble bond of love
+has united me: would I be virtuous, filial obedience and plighted vows
+impose on me contradictory obligations. Shall I follow the
+inclinations of my heart?----Shall I pay a greater regard to a lover
+than to a parent? In listening to the voice of either love or nature,
+I cannot avoid driving the one or the other to despair. In sacrificing
+myself to my duty, I must either way be guilty of a crime, and which
+ever party I take, I must die criminal, and unhappy.
+
+Ah, my dear friend! you, who have been my constant and only resource,
+who have saved me so often from death and despair, O, think of my
+present horrible state of mind; for never were your kind offices of
+consolation more necessary. You know I have listened to your advice,
+that I have followed your counsel: you have seen how far, at the
+expense of my happiness, I have paid a deference to the voice of
+friendship. Take pity on me, then, in the trouble you have brought
+upon me. As you have begun, continue to assist me; sustain my drooping
+spirits, and think for her who can no longer think for herself, but
+through you. You can read this heart that loves you, you know it
+better than I; learn then my difficulties, and chuse in my stead,
+since I have no longer the power to will, nor the reason to chuse for
+myself.
+
+Read over the letter of that generous Englishman; read it, my dear,
+again, and again. Are you not affected by the charming picture he has
+drawn of that happiness which love, peace, and virtue have yet in
+store for your friend? How ravishing that union of souls! What
+inexpressible delight it affords, even in the midst of remorse.
+Heavens! how would my heart rejoice in conjugal felicity? And is
+innocence and happiness yet in my power? May I hope to expire with
+love and joy, in the embraces of a beloved husband amidst the dear
+pledges of his tenderness! Shall I hesitate then a moment, and not fly
+to repair my faults in the arms of him who seduced me to commit them?
+Why do I delay to become a virtuous and chaste mother of an endearing
+family?----Oh that my parents could but see me thus raised out of my
+degeneracy! That they might but see how well I would acquit myself, in
+my turn, of those sacred duties they have discharged towards me!----
+And yours! ungrateful, unnatural daughter, (might they not say) who
+shall discharge yours to them, when you are so ready to forget them?
+Is it, by plunging a dagger into the heart of your own mother, that
+you prepare to become a mother yourself? Can she, who dishonours her
+own family, teach her children to respect theirs? Go, unworthy object
+of the blind fondness of your doting parents! Abandon them to their
+grief for having ever given you birth; load their old age with infamy,
+and bring their grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.----Go, and
+enjoy, if thou canst, a happiness purchased at such a price.
+
+Good God! what horrors surround me! shall I fly by stealth from my
+native country, dishonour my family, abandon at once father, mother,
+friends, relations, and even you, my dear Clara; you my gentle friend,
+so well beloved of my heart; you, who from our earliest infancy have
+hardly ever been absent from me a day; shall I leave you, lose you,
+never see you more?----Ah! no. May never----How wretched, how
+cruelly afflicted is your unhappy friend! She sees before her variety
+of evils; and nothing remains to yield her consolation. But my mind
+wanders----so many conflicts surpass my strength and perplex my
+reason: I lose at once my fortitude and understanding. I have no hope
+but in you alone. Advise me; chuse for me; or leave me to perish in
+perplexity and despair.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXX. Answer to the Preceding.
+
+
+There is too just cause, my dear Eloisa, for your perplexity: I
+foresaw, but could not prevent it: I feel, but cannot remove it: nay,
+what is still worse in your unhappy situation, there is no one that
+can extricate you but yourself. Were prudence only required,
+friendship might possibly relieve your agitated mind; were it only
+necessary to chuse the good from the evil, mistaken passion might be
+over-ruled by disinterested advice. But in your case, whatever side
+you take, nature both authorizes and condemns you; reason, at the same
+time, commends and blames you; duty is silent or contradicts itself;
+the consequences are equally to be dreaded on one part or the other:
+in the mean while you can neither safely chuse nor remain
+undetermined; you have only evils to take your choice of, and your
+heart is the only proper judge which of them it can best support. I
+own, the importance of the deliberation frightens, and extremely
+afflicts me. Whatever destiny you prefer, it will be still unworthy of
+you; and, as I can neither point out your duty, nor conduct you in the
+road to happiness, I have not the courage to decide for you. This is
+the first refusal you ever met with from your friend; and I feel, by
+the pain it costs me, that it will be the last: but I should betray
+your confidence should I take upon me to direct you in an affair,
+about which prudence itself is silent; and in which your best and only
+guide is your own inclination.
+
+Blame me not wrongfully, Eloisa, nor condemn me too soon. I know there
+are friends so circumspect that, not to expose themselves to
+consequences, they refuse to give their advice on difficult occasions,
+and by that reserve increase but the danger of those they should
+serve. Think me not one of those; you will see presently if this
+heart, sincerely yours, is capable of such timid precautions: permit
+me therefore, instead of advising you in your affairs, to mention a
+little of my own.
+
+Have you never observed, my dear, how much every one who knows you is
+attached to your person?----That a father or mother should be fond of
+an only daughter, is not at all surprizing; that an amorous youth
+should be inflamed by a lovely object is also as little extraordinary;
+but that, at an age of sedateness and maturity, a man of so cold a
+disposition as Mr. Wolmar should be so taken with you at first sight;
+that a whole family should be unanimous to idolize you; that you
+should be as much the darling of a man so little affectionate as my
+father, and perhaps more so than any of his own children; that
+friends, acquaintance, domestics, neighbours, that the inhabitants of
+a whole town, should unanimously join in admiring and respecting you;
+this, my dear, is a concurrence of circumstances more extraordinary;
+and which could not have happened, did you not possess something
+peculiarly engaging. Do you know, Eloisa, what this something is? It
+is neither your beauty, your wit, your affability, nor any thing that
+is understood by the talent of pleasing: but it is that tenderness of
+heart, that sweetness of disposition, that has no equal; it is the
+talent of loving others, my dear, that makes you so universally
+beloved. Every other charm may be withstood, but benevolence is
+irresistible; and there is no method so sure to obtain the love of
+others as that of having an affection for them. There are a thousand
+women more beautiful; many are as agreeable; but you alone possess,
+with all that is agreeable, that seducing charm, which not only
+pleases, but affects, and ravishes every heart. It is easily perceived
+that yours requests only to be accepted, and the delightful sympathy
+it pants after flies to reward it in turn.
+
+You see, for instance, with surprize, the incredible affection Lord
+B---- has for your friend; you see his zeal for your happiness; you
+receive with admiration his generous offers; you attribute them to his
+virtue only. My dear cousin, you are mistaken. God forbid I should
+extenuate his Lordship’s beneficence, or undervalue his greatness of
+soul. But, believe me, his zeal, disinterested as it is, would be less
+fervent if under the same circumstances he had to do with different
+people. It is the irresistible ascendant you and your friend have over
+him that, without his perceiving it, determines his resolution, and
+makes him do that out of affection, which he imagines proceeds only
+from motives of generosity. This is what always will be effected by
+minds of a certain temper. They transform, in a manner, every other
+into their own likeness; having a sphere of activity wherein nothing
+can resist their power. It is impossible to know without imitating
+them, while from their own sublime elevation they attract all that are
+about them. It is for this reason, my dear, that neither you nor your
+friend will perhaps ever know mankind; for you will rather see them
+such as you model them, than such as they are in themselves. You will
+lead the way for all those among whom you live; others will either
+imitate or leave you; and perhaps you will meet with nothing in the
+world similar to what you have hitherto seen.
+
+Let us come now to myself; to me whom the tie of consanguinity, a
+similarity of age, and, above all, a perfect conformity of taste, and
+humour, with a very opposite temperament, have united to you from your
+infancy.
+
+_Congiunti eran gl’ alberghi,
+Ma più congiunti i cori:
+Conforme era l’ etate,
+Ma l’ pensier più conforme._
+
+What think you has been the effect of that captivating influence,
+which is felt by every one that approaches you, on her who has been
+intimate with you from her childhood? Can you think there subsists
+between us, but an ordinary connection? Do not my eyes communicate
+their sparkling joy in meeting yours? Do you not perceive in my heart
+the pleasure of partaking your pains, and lamenting with you? Can I
+forget that, in the first transports of a growing passion, my
+friendship was never disagreeable; and that the complaints of your
+lover could never prevail on you to send me from you, or prevent me
+from being a witness to your weakness? This, my Eloisa, was a critical
+juncture. I am sensible how great a sacrifice you made to modesty, in
+making me acquainted with an error I happily escaped. Never should I
+have been your confident had I been but half your friend: no, our
+souls felt themselves too intimately united for any thing ever to part
+them.
+
+What is it that makes the friendships of women, I mean of those who
+are capable of love, so lukewarm and short lived? It is the interests
+of love; it is the empire of beauty; it is the jealousy of conquest.
+Now, if anything of that kind could have divided us, we should have
+been already divided. But, were my heart less insensible to love, were
+I even ignorant that your affections are so deeply rooted as to end
+but with life; your lover is my friend, my brother; whoever knew the
+ties of a sincere friendship broken by those of love? As for Mr.
+Orbe, he may be long enough proud of your good opinion, before it will
+give me the least uneasiness; nor have I any stronger inclination to
+keep him by violence, than you have to take him from me. Would to
+heaven I could cure you of your passion at the expense of his! Though
+I keep him with pleasure, I should with greater pleasure resign him.
+
+With regard to my person, I may make what pretensions I please to
+beauty; you will not set yourself in competition with me; for I am
+sure it will never enter into your head to desire to know which of us
+is the handsomest. I must confess, I have not been altogether so
+indifferent on this head; but know how to give place to your
+superiority, without the least mortification. Methinks I am rather
+proud than jealous of it; for as the charms of your features are such
+as would not become mine, I think myself handsome in your beauty,
+amiable in your graces, and adorned with your talents; thus I pride
+myself in your perfections, and admire myself the most in you. I shall
+never chuse, however, to give pain on my own account being
+sufficiently handsome in myself, for any use I have for beauty. Any
+thing more is needless; and it requires not much humility to yield the
+superiority to you.
+
+You are doubtless impatient to know, to what purpose is all this
+preamble. It is to this. I cannot give you the advice you request, I
+have given you my reasons for it, but, notwithstanding this, the
+choice you shall make for yourself will at the same time be that of
+your friend; for, whatever be your fortune, I am resolved to accompany
+you and partake of it. If you go, I follow you. If you say, so do I. I
+have formed a determined and unalterable resolution. It is my duty,
+nor shall any thing prevent me. My fatal indulgence to your passion
+has been your ruin: your destiny ought therefore to be mine; and, as
+we have been inseparable from our cradles, we ought to be so to the
+grave.----I foresee you will think this an absurd project; it is,
+however, at bottom, a more discreet one, perhaps, than you may
+imagine: I have not the same motives for doubt and irresolution as you
+have. In the first place, as to my family; if I leave an easy father,
+I leave an indifferent one, who permits his children to do just as
+they please, more through neglect than indulgence: for you know he
+interests himself much more in the affairs of Europe than in his own,
+and that his daughter is much less the object of his concern than the
+Pragmatic Sanction. I am besides not like you, an only child, and
+shall be hardly missed from among those that remain.
+
+It is true, I leave a treaty of marriage just on the point of being
+brought to a conclusion. _Manco-male,_ my dear, it is the affair of
+Mr. Orbe, if he loves me, to console himself for the disappointment.
+For my part, although I esteem his character, I am not without
+affection for his person, and regret in his loss a very honest man, he
+is nothing to me in comparison to Eloisa. Tell me, is the soul of any
+sex? I really cannot perceive in mine. I may have my fancies, but very
+little of love. A husband might be useful to me; but he would never be
+any thing to me but a husband; and that a girl who is not ugly, may
+find every where. But take care, my dear cousin, although I do not
+hesitate, I do not say that you ought not; nor would I insinuate that
+you should resolve to do what I am resolved to imitate. There is a
+wide difference between you and me; and your duty is much severer than
+mine. You know that an unparalleled affection for you possesses my
+heart, and almost stifles every other sentiment. From my infancy I
+have been attached to you by an habitual and irresistible impulse; so
+that I perfectly love no one else; and if I have some few ties of
+nature and gratitude to break through, I shall be encouraged to do it
+by your example. I shall say to myself, I have but imitated Eloisa,
+and shall think myself justified.
+
+
+
+
+Billet. Eloisa to Clara.
+
+
+I understand you, my dear Clara, and thank you. For once, at least, I
+will do my duty; and shall not be totally unworthy of your friendship.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXI. Eloisa to Lord B----.
+
+
+Your lordship’s last letter has affected me in the highest degree with
+admiration and gratitude; nor will my friend, who is honoured with
+your protection, be less so, when he knows the obligations you would
+have conferred on us. The unhappy, alas! only know the value of
+benevolent minds. We had before but too many reasons to acknowledge
+that of yours, whose heroic virtue will never be forgotten, tho’ after
+this it cannot again surprize us.
+
+How fortunate should I think myself to live under the auspices of so
+generous a friend, and to reap from your benevolence that happiness
+which fortune has denied me. But I see, my Lord, I see, with despair,
+your good designs will be frustrated; my cruel destiny will counteract
+your friendship; and the delightful prospect of the blessings you
+offer to my acceptance, serves only to render their loss more
+sensible. You offer a secure and agreeable retreat to two persecuted
+lovers; you would render their passion legitimate, their union sacred;
+and I know that, under your protection, I could easily elude the
+pursuits of my irritated relations. This would compleat our love, but
+would it insure our felicity? Ah! no: if you would have Eloisa
+contented and happy, give her an asylum yet more secure, an asylum
+from shame and repentance. You anticipate our wants; and by an
+unparalleled generosity, deprive yourself of your own fortune to
+bestow it on us. More wealthy, more honoured by your benevolence than
+my own patrimony, I may recover every thing I have lost, and you will
+condescend to supply the place of a father. Ah, my Lord, shall I be
+worthy of another father when I abandon him whom nature gave me?
+
+This is the source of the reproaches my wounded conscience makes me,
+and of those secret pangs that rend my heart.
+
+I do not inquire whether I have a right to dispose of myself contrary
+to the will of those who gave me birth; but whether I can do it
+without involving them in a mortal affliction; whether I can abandon
+them without bringing them to despair; whether alas! I have a right to
+take away their life who gave me mine? How long has the virtuous mind
+taken upon itself thus to balance the rights of consanguinity and laws
+of nature? Since when has the feeling heart presumed thus nicely to
+distinguish the bounds of filial gratitude? Is it not a crime to
+proceed in questioning our duty to its very utmost limits? Will any
+one so scrupulously enquire into its extent, unless they are tempted
+to go beyond it? Shall I cruelly abandon those by whom I live and
+breathe, those who so tenderly preserve the life and being they gave
+me; those who have no hope, no pleasure, but in me? A father near
+sixty years of age! A mother weak and languishing? I their only child!
+Shall I leave them without help in the solitude and troubles of old
+age; at a time when I should exercise towards them that tender
+solicitude they have lavished on me? Shall I involve their latter days
+in shame and sorrow? Will not my troubled conscience incessantly
+upbraid me, and represent my despairing parents breathing out their
+last in curses on the ungrateful daughter that forsook and dishonoured
+them? No, my Lord, virtue, whose paths I have forsaken, may in turn
+abandon me, and no longer actuate my heart, but this horrible idea
+will supply its dictates; will follow, will torment me, every hour of
+my life, and make me miserable, in the midst of happiness. In a word,
+if I am doomed to be unhappy the rest of my days, I will run the
+risque of every other remorse; but this is too horrible for me to
+support. I confess, I cannot invalidate your arguments. I have but too
+great an inclination to think them just: but my Lord, you are
+unmarried, don’t you think a man ought to be a father himself to
+advise the children of others? As to me, I am determined what to do:
+my parents will make me unhappy, I know they will: but it will be less
+hard for me to support my own misery than the thought of having been
+the cause of theirs; for which reason I will never forsake my father’s
+house. Be gone then, ye sweet and flattering illusions! Ideas of so
+desirable a felicity! Go, vanish like a dream; for such I will ever
+think ye. And you, too generous friend, lay aside your agreeable
+designs, and let their remembrance only remain in the bottom of a
+heart, too grateful ever to forget them. If our misfortunes, however,
+are not too great to discourage your noble mind; if your generosity is
+not totally exhausted, there is yet a way to exercise it with
+reputation, and he whom you honour under the name of friend may under
+your care be deserving of it. Judge not of him by the situation in
+which you now see him; his extravagance is not the effect of
+pusillanimity, but of an ambitious and susceptible disposition, making
+head against adversity. There is often more insensibility than
+fortitude in apparent moderation: common men know nothing of violent
+sorrow, nor do great passions ever break out in weak minds. He
+possesses all that energy of sentiment which is the characteristic of
+a noble soul; and which is alas! the cause of my present despair. Your
+Lordship may indeed believe me, had he been only a _common_ person,
+Eloisa, had not been undone.
+
+No, my Lord, that secret prepossession in his favour, which was
+followed by your manifest esteem, did not deceive you. He is worthy of
+all you did for him before you were acquainted with his merit; and you
+will do more for him, if possible, as you know him better. Yes, be
+your Lordship his comforter, his patron, his friend, his father; it is
+both for your own sake and his I conjure you to this; he will justify
+your confidence, he will honour your benefactions, he will practise
+your precepts, he will imitate your virtues, and will learn your
+wisdom. Ah! my Lord! if he should become, in your hands, what he is
+capable of being, you will have reason to be proud of your charge.----
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+And do you too, my dear friend! my only hope! do you come to wound
+afresh my heart, oppressed already with a load of sorrow! I was
+prepared to bear the shocks of adversity; long has my foreboding heart
+announced their coming; and I should have supported them with
+patience: but you, for whom I suffer! insupportable! I am struck with
+horror to see my sorrows aggravated by one who ought to alleviate
+them. What tender consolations did not I promise myself to receive
+from you? But all are vanished with your fortitude! How often have I
+not flattered myself that your magnanimity would strengthen my
+weakness; that your deserts would efface my error; and your elevated
+virtues raise up my debased mind! How many times have I not dried up
+my tears, saying to myself, I suffer for him, it is true, but he is
+worthy; I am culpable, but he is virtuous; I have a thousand troubles,
+but his constancy supports me; in his love I find a recompense for all
+my cares. Vain imagination! on the first trial thou hast deceived me!
+Where is now that sublime passion which could elevate your sentiments,
+and display your virtues? What is become of these high-boasted maxims?
+Your imitation of great examples? Where is that philosopher whom
+adversity could not shake, yet falls before the first accident that
+parts him from his mistress? How shall I hereafter excuse my ill
+conduct to myself, when in him that reduced me, I see a man without
+courage, effeminate, one whose weak mind sinks under the first reverse
+of fortune, and absurdly renounces his reason the moment he has
+occasion to make use of it? Good God! that in my present state of
+humiliation I should be reduced to blush for my choice, as much as for
+my weakness.
+
+Reflect a little----think how far you forget yourself; can your
+wandering and impatient mind stoop so low as to be guilty of cruelty?
+Do you presume to reproach me? Do you complain of me?----complain of
+Eloisa? Barbarous man!----How comes it that remorse did not hold your
+hand? Why did not the most endearing proofs of the tenderest passion
+that ever existed, deprive you of the power to insult me? How
+despicable must be your heart, if it can doubt of the fidelity of
+mine!----But no, you do not, you cannot doubt it, I defy your utmost
+impatience to do this; nay even at this instant, while I express my
+abhorrence of your injustice, you must see, too plainly, the cause of
+the first emotion of anger I ever felt in my life.
+
+Was it you that asked me whether I had not ruined myself by my
+inconsiderate confidence, and if my designs had not succeeded? How
+would you not blush for such cruel insinuations, if you knew the fond
+hopes that reduced me, if you knew the projects I had formed for our
+mutual happiness, and how they are now vanished with all my comforts.
+I dare flatter myself still, you will one day know better, and your
+remorse amply revenge your reproaches. You know my father’s
+prohibition; you are not ignorant of the public talk; I foresaw the
+consequences, I had them represented to you by my cousin: you were as
+sensible of them as we, and for our mutual preservation it was
+necessary to submit to a separation.
+
+I therefore drove you away, as you injuriously term it. But for whose
+sake was I induced to this? Have you no delicacy? Ungrateful man! It
+was for the sake of an heart insensible of its own worth, and that
+would rather die a thousand deaths than see me rendered infamous. Tell
+me, what would become of you if I were given up to shame? Do you think
+you could support my dishonour? Come, cruel as you are, if you think
+so; come, and receive the sacrifice of my reputation with the same
+fortitude as I will offer it up. Come back, nor fear to be disclaimed
+by her to whom you were always dear. I am ready to declare, in the
+face of heaven and earth, the engagements of our mutual passion; I am
+ready boldly to declare you my lover, and to expire in your arms with
+affection and shame. I had rather the whole world should know my
+tenderness than that you should one moment doubt it: the shafts of
+ignominy wound not so deep as your reproaches.
+
+I conjure you, let us for ever put an end to these reciprocal
+complaints; they are to me intolerable. Good heavens! how can those
+who love each other, delight in quarreling; and lose, in tormenting
+each other, those moments in which they stand in need of mutual
+consolation? No, my friend, what end does it serve to effect a
+disagreement, which does not subsist? Let us complain of fortune, but
+not of love. Never did it form a more perfect, a more lasting, union;
+our souls are too intimately blended ever to be separated; nor can we
+live a-part from each other, but as two parts of one being. How is it
+then, that you only feel your own griefs? Why do you not sympathize
+with those of your friend? Why do you not perceive in your breast the
+heart-felt sighs of hers? Alas! they are more affecting than your
+impassioned ravings! If you partook of my sufferings, you would even
+more severely feel them than your own.
+
+You say your situation is deplorable! Think of Eloisa’s, and lament
+only for her. Consider, in our common misfortune, the different state
+of your sex and mine, and judge which is most deplorable. Affected by
+violent passions, to pretend to be insensible; a prey to a thousand
+griefs, to be obliged to appear chearful and content; to have a serene
+countenance with an agitated mind; to speak always contrary to one’s
+thoughts; to disguise all we feel; to be deceitful through obligation,
+and to speak untruth through modesty; such is the habitual situation
+of every young woman of my age. Thus we pass the prime of our youth
+under the tyranny of decorum, which is at length aggravated by that of
+our parents, in forcing us into an unsuitable marriage. In vain,
+however, would men lay a restraint on the inclinations; the heart
+gives law to itself; it eludes the shackles of slavery, and bestows
+itself at its own pleasure.
+
+Clogged with a yoke of iron, which heaven does not impose on us, they
+unite the body without the soul; the person and the inclinations are
+separately engaged, and an unhappy victim is forced into guilt, by
+obliging her to enter into a sacred engagement, which she wants, in
+one respect or other, an essential power to fulfill. Are there not
+some young women more discreet? Alas! I know there are. There are
+those that have never loved? Peace be with them! They have withstood
+that fatal passion! I would also have resisted it. They are more
+virtuous! Do they love virtue better than I? Had it not been for you,
+for you alone, I had ever loved it. Is it then true that I love virtue
+no longer?----Is it you that have ruined me, and is it I who must
+console you? But what will become of me? The consolation of friendship
+is weak where that of love is wanting! Who then can give me comfort in
+my affliction? With what a dreadful situation am I threatened? I who,
+for having committed a crime, see myself ready to be plunged into a
+new scene of guilt, by entering into an abhorred, and perhaps
+inevitable, marriage! Where shall I find tears sufficient to mourn my
+guilt and lament my lover, if I yield? On the other hand, how shall I
+find resolution, in my present depression of mind, to resist?
+Methinks, I see already the fury of an incensed father! I feel myself
+already moved by the cries of nature, I feel my heart-strings torn by
+the pangs of love. Deprived of thee, I am without resource, without
+support, without hope; the past is disgraceful, the present
+afflicting, and the future terrible. I thought I had done every thing
+for our happiness, but we are only made more miserable, by preparing
+the way for a more cruel separation. Our fleeting pleasure is past,
+while the remorse it occasioned remains, and the shame which
+overwhelms me is without alleviation.
+
+It belongs to me, to me alone, to be weak and miserable. Let me then
+weep and suffer; my tears are as inexhaustible as my fault is
+irreparable, while time, that sovereign cure for almost every thing,
+brings to me only new motives for tears: but you, who have no violence
+to fear, who are unmortified by shame, whom nothing constrains to
+disguise your sentiments; you, who have only just tasted misfortune
+and possess at least your former virtues unblemished; how dare you
+demean yourself so far as to sigh and sob like a woman, or betray your
+impatience like a madman? Have not I merited contempt enough on your
+account, without your increasing it, by making yourself contemptible;
+without overwhelming me at once with my own infamy and yours? Recall
+then your resolution; learn to bear your misfortunes, and be like a
+man: be yet, if I dare to say so, the lover of Eloisa. If I am no
+longer worthy to animate your courage, remember at least, what I once
+was. Deserve then, what for your sake, I have ceased to be; and though
+you have dishonoured me once, do not dishonour me again. No, my best
+friend, it is not you that I discover in that effeminate letter, which
+I would forget for ever, and which I look upon already as disowned by
+you. I hope, debased and confused as I am, I dare hope, the
+remembrance of me does not inspire sentiments so base; but that I am
+more respected by a heart it was in my power to inflame, and that I
+shall not have additional cause to reproach myself in your weakness.
+
+Happy in your misfortune, you have met with the most valuable
+recompense that was ever known to a susceptible mind. Heaven, in your
+adversity, has given you a friend; and has made it doubtful whether
+what it has bestowed is not a greater blessing than that which it has
+deprived you of. Love and respect that too generous man; who, at the
+expense of his own ease, condescends to interest himself in your peace
+and preservation. How would you be affected, if you knew every thing
+he would have done for you! But what signifies exciting your gratitude
+to aggravate your affliction? You have no need to be informed how much
+he loves you, to know his worth; and you cannot respect him as he
+deserves without loving him as you ought.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXIII. From Clara.
+
+
+Your passion prevails over your delicacy, and you know better how to
+suffer than to make a merit of your sufferings. You would otherwise
+never have written in a strain of reproach to Eloisa, in her present
+situation. Because you are uneasy, truly, you must aggravate her
+uneasiness, which is greater than yours. I have told you a thousand
+times that I never saw so grumbling a lover as you; always ready to
+dispute about nothing; love is to you a state of warfare: or, if
+sometimes you are a little tractable, it is only that you may have an
+opportunity to complain of having been so. How disagreeable must be
+such lovers, and how happy do I think myself in never having had any
+but such as I could dismiss when I pleased, without a tear being shed
+on either side!
+
+You must change your tone, believe me, if you would have Eloisa
+survive her present distress: it is too much for her to support her
+own grief and your displeasure. Learn for once to sooth her too
+susceptible heart: you owe her the most tender consolation; and ought
+to be afraid lest you should aggravate your misfortune, by lamenting
+it. At least, if you must complain, vent your complaints against me;
+who am the only cause of your separation. Yes, my friend, you guessed
+right: I suggested to her the part her honour and security required
+her to take; or rather I obliged her to take it, by exaggerating her
+danger: I prevailed also on you to depart, and we all have but done
+our duty. I did more, however, than this. I prevented her from
+accepting the offers of Lord B----; I have prevented your being happy;
+but the happiness of Eloisa is dearer to me than yours; I knew she
+could not be happy after leaving her parents to shame and despair; and
+I can hardly comprehend, with regard to yourself, what kind of
+happiness you can taste at the expense of hers. Be that what it will,
+such has been my conduct and offence; and since you delight in
+quarrelling with those you love, you see the occasion you have to
+begin with me alone: if in this you do not cease to be ungrateful, you
+will at least cease to be unjust. For my part, in whatever manner you
+behave to me, I shall always behave the same towards you: so long as
+Eloisa loves you, you will be dear to me, and more I cannot say. I am
+not sorry that I never opposed or favoured your passion. The
+disinterested friendship which always actuated me in that affair,
+justifies me equally in what I have done for and against you; and if
+at any time I interested myself in your passion, more perhaps than
+became me, my heart sufficiently excused me. I shall never blush for
+the services I was able to do my friend, nor shall reproach myself
+because they were useless. I have not forgot what you formerly taught
+me, of the fortitude of the wise man under misfortunes; and fancy I
+could remind you of several maxims to that purpose: but I have
+learned, by the example of Eloisa, that a girl of my age is, to a
+philosopher, a bad preceptor, and a dangerous pupil.
+
+
+
+
+Volume II
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXIV. From Lord B---- To Eloisa.
+
+
+Now, charming Eloisa, we gain our point: a lucky mistake of our friend
+hath brought him to reason. The shame of finding himself a moment in
+the wrong has dissipated his phrenzy, and rendered him so tractable
+that we may manage him for the future as we please. It is with
+pleasure I see the fault with which he reproaches himself, attended
+rather with contrition than anger; and I know how highly he esteems
+me, from that humility and confusion he seems to feel when I am
+present; but without affection or constraint. His sensibility of the
+injury he has done me disarms my resentment. When the offender thus
+acknowledges his crime, he reaps more honour by such a reparation of
+his fault, than the offended in bestowing him a pardon. I have taken
+the advantage of this change, and the effect it has produced, to enter
+into some necessary measures with him before my departure, which I now
+cannot defer much longer. As I purpose to return the approaching
+summer, we have agreed that he shall go to wait for me at Paris, from
+whence we shall proceed together to England.
+
+London is the most extensive theatre in the world for the display of
+great talents. [16] Those of our friend are in many respects of the
+first rank; and I despair not of seeing him, with some little
+assistance, soon strike out something in his way to fortune, worthy of
+his merit. I will be more explicit as to my intentions when I see you;
+in the mean time, you will readily conceive the importance of his
+success may encourage him to surmount many difficulties, and that
+there are various modes of distinction which may compensate for
+inferiority of birth, even in the opinion of your father. This appears
+to me the only expedient that remains to be tried, in order to effect
+your mutual happiness, since prejudice and fortune have deprived you
+of all others.
+
+I have written for Regianino to come post hither, and to remain with
+me during the eight or ten days I shall yet stay with our friend. He
+is too deeply afflicted to admit of much conversation: music will
+serve to fill up the vacant hours of silence, indulge his reveries,
+and sooth his grief by degrees into a peaceful melancholy. I wait only
+to see him in such a temper of mind to leave him to himself; and
+before that, I dare not trust him. As for Regianino, I will leave him
+with you as I pass by, and shall not take him from you again till I
+return from Italy; by which time, I imagine, from the progress you
+have both already made, his assistance will be unnecessary. Just at
+present he is certainly useless to Eloisa, and I deprive her of
+nothing by detaining him here for a few days.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXV. To Clara.
+
+
+Ah, why do I live to open my eyes on my own unworthiness! O that I had
+for ever closed them, rather than thus to look on the disgrace into
+which I am fallen; rather than to find myself the most abject, after
+having been the most fortunate of men! generous and amiable friend, to
+whose care I have been so often obliged, still let me pour my
+complaints into your compassionate heart; still let me implore your
+assistance, sensible and ashamed as I am of my own demerits: abandoned
+by myself, it is to you I fly for consolation. Heavens! how can it be
+that a man so contemptible should ever be beloved by her; or that a
+passion for so divine an object should not have refined my soul: let
+her now blush at her choice, she whose name I am no longer worthy to
+repeat. Let her sigh to see her image profan’d by dwelling in a heart
+so abject and mean. What hatred and disdain doth she not owe a wretch,
+that, inspired by love, could be yet servile and base! you shall know,
+my charming [17] cousin, the cause of my disgrace: you shall know my
+crime and penitence. Be you my judge, and let me perish by your
+sentence; or be my advocate, and let the adorable object on whom
+depended the past, conduct my future fortune.
+
+I will say nothing of the effect which so unexpected a separation had
+on me: I will say nothing of the excess of my grief, or the
+extravagance of my despair; you will judge of them too well from the
+unaccountable behaviour into which they betrayed me. The more sensible
+I grew of the misery of my situation, the less I conceived it possible
+for me voluntarily to give up Eloisa; and the bitterness of this
+reflection, joined to the amazing generosity of Lord B----, awaked
+suspicions, on which I shall never reflect without horror, and which I
+can never forget without ingratitude to the friend whose generosity
+could forgive them.
+
+Revolving in my phrenzy the several circumstances attending my
+departure, I imagined I discovered it to be a premeditated scheme,
+which I rashly attributed to the most virtuous of mortals. That
+dreadful suspicion no sooner suggested itself than every circumstance
+appeared to confirm it. My lord’s conversation with the Baron
+D’Etange, and his peremptory manner, which I took to be affected, the
+quarrel which ensued. Eloisa’s being forbid to see me, and their
+resolution to send me away, the diligence and secrecy of the
+preparations made for my departure, his lordship’s discourse with me
+the preceding evening; in short, the rapidity with which I was rather
+forced than conducted hither: all these circumstances seemed to prove
+that my lord had formed a scheme to separate me from Eloisa; and
+lastly, his intended return assured me that I had discovered his
+designs. I resolved, however, to get more particular information
+before I broke with him; and with this design set myself to examine
+the matter with attention. But every thing conspired to increase my
+ridiculous suspicions; all his generous and humane actions in my
+favour, were converted by my jealousy into so many instances of his
+perfidy. I knew that he wrote to Eloisa from Besançon, without
+communicating to me the contents of his letter, or giving me the least
+hint. I thought myself therefore sufficiently assured of the truth of
+what I suspected, and waited only for his receiving answer to his
+letter, which, I hoped, might be disagreeable, to come to the
+explanation I meditated.
+
+Last night we returned home pretty late, and I knew he had received a
+packet from Switzerland, of which however he took no notice when we
+retired. I let him have time to open it, and heard him from my
+apartment reading in a low voice; I listened attentively and overheard
+him thus exclaim to himself, in broken sentences, Alas, Eloisa! I
+strove to render you happy----honoured your virtues,----but I
+grieve at your delusion.----At these and other similar exclamations,
+which I distinctly heard, I was no longer master of myself; I snatched
+up my sword, and taking it under my arm, forced open the door, and
+rushed like a madman into his chamber; but I will not soil my paper,
+nor offend your delicacy with the injurious expressions my rage
+dictated, to urge him to fight me on the spot.
+
+Here, my dear cousin, I must confess to have seen the most
+extraordinary instance of the influence of true wisdom, even over the
+most susceptible mind, when we listen to her dictates. At first he
+could not comprehend whence arose my disorder, and took it for a real
+delirium. But the perfidy of which I accused him, the secret designs
+with which I reproached him, Eloisa’s letter which he held in his
+hand, and which I incessantly mentioned, at length discovered the
+cause of my anger. He smiled, and said to me coldly, you are certainly
+out of your senses; do you think me so void of discretion as to fight
+with a madman? open your eyes, inconsiderate man, he said, with a
+milder tone, is it me that you accuse of betraying you? Something, I
+know not what, in his voice and manner of speaking, struck me
+immediately with a sense of his innocence and my own folly. His
+reproof sunk into my heart, and I had no sooner met his looks than my
+suspicions vanished, and I began to think with horror on the
+extravagance I had committed. He perceived immediately this change of
+sentiment, and taking me by the hand, ’tis well, says he, but if you
+had not recollected yourself before my justification, I would never
+have seen you more. As it is, and you have recovered your reason, read
+that letter, and know for once your friends. I would now have been
+excused from reading it, but the ascendant, which so many advantages
+had given him over me, made him insist on it with an air of authority;
+and, though my suspicions were vanished, I secretly wished to see it.
+
+Think what a situation I was in, on reading a letter that informed me
+of the unparalleled obligations I was under, to a man I had so
+unworthily treated. I threw myself immediately at his feet, struck
+with admiration, affliction and shame: I embraced his knees with the
+utmost humiliation and concern, but could not utter a word. He
+received my penitence in the same manner as he did the outrage I had
+committed; and exacted no other recompense for the pardon he granted,
+than my promise that I would never more oppose his designs to serve
+me. Yes, he shall act for the future as he pleases: his sublime
+generosity is more than human, and it is as impossible to refuse his
+favours as it is to withstand the benevolence of the deity.
+
+He gave afterwards two letters out of the packet, addressed to me, and
+which he would not deliver before he had read his own, that he might
+be made acquainted with the resolution of your cousin. In perusing
+them I found what a mistress and friend heaven had bestowed on me: I
+saw how it had connected me with the most perfect patterns of
+generosity and virtue, to render my remorse the more keen, and
+meanness contemptible. Say, who is that matchless fair, whose beauty
+is her least perfection; who, like the divinity, makes herself equally
+adored for the dispensation of good and evil. It is Eloisa; she has
+undone me; yet cruel as she is, I love and admire her but the more.
+The more unhappy she makes me, the more perfect she appears; and every
+pain she gives, is a new instance of her perfection. The sacrifice she
+has made to _nature_ both afflicts and charms me; it enhances even the
+value of that which she made to _love_. No, my Eloisa can make no
+refusal that is not of equal value to what she bestows. And you, my
+charming, my truly deserving cousin, the only perfect model of
+friendship your sex can boast, an instance which minds, not formed
+like yours, will never believe real: tell not me of philosophy, I
+despise its vain parade of idle terms; I despise that phantom of
+wisdom which teaches us to brave the passions at a distance, but
+flies, and leaves us a prey to them the moment they approach. Abandon
+me not, Clara, to a distracted mind; withdraw not your wonted kindness
+from a wretch, who, though he deserves it no longer, desires it more
+ardently, and stands more in need of it, than ever. Assist me to
+recover my former self, and let your gentle counsel supply the
+dictates of reason to my afflicted heart.
+
+I will yet hope I am not fallen into irretrievable disgrace. I feel
+that pure and sacred flame I once cherished, rekindle within me. The
+sublime examples before me shall not be given in vain. The virtues
+which I love and admire I will imitate. Yes, divine Eloisa! I will yet
+do honour to thy choice; and, you, my friends, whose esteem I am
+determined to regain, my awakened soul shall gather new strength and
+life from yours. Chaste love and sacred friendship shall restore that
+constancy of mind, of which a cowardly despair had deprived me; the
+pure sensations of my heart shall supply the place of wisdom: you
+shall make me every thing I ought to be, and I will compel you to
+forget my fall, in consideration of my endeavours to rise. I know not,
+neither do I desire to know, the future lot which providence assigns
+me; be it what it will, I will render myself worthy of that which I
+have already enjoyed. The image of Eloisa, never to be erazed from my
+mind, shall be my shield, and render my soul invulnerable. I have
+lived long enough for my own happiness, I will now live to her
+honour. Oh, that I could but live so supremely virtuous, that the
+admiring world should say, how could he do less who was loved by
+Eloisa?
+
+P. S. From ties abhorred _and perhaps inevitable!_ what is the meaning
+of those words? they are in Eloisa’s letter. Clara, I am attentive to
+every, the minutest circumstance; I am resigned to fortune: but those
+words,----whatever may happen, I will never leave this place till I
+have an explanation of those words.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXVI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Can it be that my soul has not excluded all delight, and that a sense
+of joy yet penetrates my heart? alas! I conceived it insensible to any
+thing but sorrow: I thought I should do nothing but suffer, when you
+left me, and that absence had no consolations; your letter to my
+cousin has undeceived me; I have read and bath’d it with tears of
+compassion. It has shed a sweet refreshing dew o’er a drooping heart,
+dried up with vexation and sorrow. The peaceful serenity it has caused
+in my soul convinces me of the ascendant you hold, whether present or
+absent, over the affections of Eloisa. Oh! my friend, how much it
+delights me to see you recover that strength of mind which becomes the
+resolution of a man. I esteem you for it the more, and despise myself
+the less, in that the dignity of a chaste affection is not totally
+debased between us, and that our hearts are not both at once
+corrupted. I will say more, as we can at present speak freely of our
+affairs. That which most aggravated my despair, was to see that yours
+deprived us of the only resource which was left us, the exertion of
+your abilities, to improve them. You now know the worth of the
+friendship with which heaven has blessed you, in that of my Lord
+B----, whose generosity merits the services of your whole life, nor
+can you ever sufficiently atone for the offence you have committed.
+I hope you will need no other warning to make you guard for the
+future against your impetuous passions. It is under the protection
+of this honourable friend that you are going to enter on the stage
+of the world; it is under the sanction of his credit, under the
+guidance of his experience, that you go to revenge the cause of
+injured merit, on the cruelty of fortune.
+
+Do that for his sake which you did not for your own. Endeavour at
+least to respect his goodness, by not rendering it useless to
+yourself. Behold a pleasing prospect still before you: contemplate the
+success you have reason to hope for in entering the lists where every
+thing conspires to ensure the victory. Heaven has been lavish to you
+of its bounties; your natural genius, cultivated by taste, has endowed
+you with every necessary and agreeable qualification; at least, at
+four-and-twenty you possess all the charms of youth, matured by the
+reflections of age.
+
+_Frutto simile in su’l gioveriel fiore._
+
+Study has not impaired your vivacity, nor injured your person; insipid
+gallantry has not contracted your genius, nor formality your
+understanding: but love inspiring those sublime sentiments which are
+its genuine offspring, has given you that elevation of mind and
+justness of conception from which it is inseparable. [18] I have seen
+thy mind expanded by its gentle warmth, display its brilliant
+faculties, as a flower that unfolds itself to the rays of the sun; you
+possess at once every talent that leads to fortune, and should set you
+above it: you need only aspire to be considerable, to become so; and I
+hope that object for whose take you should covet distinction, will
+excite in you a greater zeal for those marks of the world’s esteem,
+than of themselves they may deserve.
+
+You are going, my friend, far from me----my best beloved is going to
+fly from his Eloisa.----It must be so,----it is necessary that we
+should part at present, if we ever mean to be happy; on the success of
+your undertakings also depends our last hope of such an event----Oh,
+may the anticipation of it animate and comfort you throughout our
+cruel, perhaps long separation! may it inspire you with that zeal,
+which surmounts every obstacle. The world and its affairs will indeed
+continually engage your attention, and relieve you from the pangs of
+absence. But I, alas! remain alone, abandoned to my own thoughts, or
+subject to the persecution of others, that will oblige me incessantly
+to lament thy absence. Happy, however, shall I be, in some measure, if
+groundless alarms do not aggravate my real afflictions, and if the
+evils I actually suffer be not augmented by those to which you may be
+exposed----I shudder at the thoughts of the various dangers to which
+your life and your innocence will be liable. I place in you all the
+confidence a man can expect; but, since it is our lot to live asunder,
+O, my friend, I could wish you were something more than man. Will you
+not stand in need of frequent advice to regulate your conduct in a
+world, to which you are so much a stranger? It does not belong to me,
+young and unexperienced, and even less qualified by reflection and
+study than yourself, to advise you here. That difficult task I leave
+to Lord B----. I will content myself to recommend to you two things,
+as these depend more on sentiment than experience; and, tho’ I know
+but little of the world, I flatter myself I am not to be instructed in
+the knowledge of your heart: _Be virtuous, and remember Eloisa._
+
+I will not make use of any of those subtle arguments you have taught
+me to despise; and which, though they fill so many volumes, never yet
+made one man virtuous. Peace to those gloomy reasoners! to what
+ravishing delights their hearts are strangers! leave, my friend, those
+idle moralists, and consult your own breast. It is there you will
+always find a spark of that sacred fire, which hath so often inflamed
+us with love for the sublimest virtue. It is there you will trace the
+lasting image of true beauty, the contemplation of which inspires us
+with a sacred enthusiasm; an image which the passions may continually
+defile, but never can efface. [19] Remember those tears of pleasure,
+those palpitations of heart, those transports which raised us above
+ourselves at the recital of heroic examples, which have done honour to
+human nature. Would you know which is most truly desirable, riches or
+virtue? reflect on that which the heart prefers in its unprejudiced
+moments: think on that which interests us most in the perusal of
+history. Did you never covet the riches of Croesus, the honours of
+Caesar, nor the pleasures of Heliogabalus? If they were happy, why did
+you not wish to be placed in the same situation? But they were not,
+you were sensible they were not, happy; you were sensible they were
+vile and contemptible; and that bad men, however fortunate, are not
+objects of envy.
+
+What characters did you then contemplate with the greatest pleasure?
+what examples did you most admire? which did you desire most to
+imitate? inexpressible are the charms of ever-blooming virtue: it was
+the condemn’d Athenian, drinking hemlock; it was Brutus, dying for his
+country: it was Regulus, in the midst of tortures: it was Cato,
+plunging his dagger in his breast. These were the unfortunate heroes,
+whose virtues excited your envy, while your own sensations bore
+witness of that real felicity they enjoyed, under their apparent
+misfortunes. Think not this sentiment peculiar to yourself; it is the
+sentiment of all mankind, and that frequently in spite of themselves.
+That divine image of virtue, imprinted universally on the mind,
+displays irresistible charms even to the least virtuous. No sooner
+doth passion permit us to contemplate its beauty, but we wish to
+resemble it; and, if the most wicked of mankind could but change his
+being, he would chuse to be virtuous.
+
+Excuse this rhapsody, my dear friend, you know it is originally
+derived from you, and it is due to the passion that inspired it. I do
+not take upon me to instruct you, by repeating your own maxims, but
+endeavour to enforce their application to yourself. Now is the time to
+put in practice your own precepts, and to shew how well you can act
+what you so well know to teach. Though it is not expected you should
+be put to the trials of a Cato, or a Regulus, yet every man ought to
+cherish a love for his country, resolution and integrity, and to keep
+his promise inviolable, even at the expense of his life. Private
+virtues are often the more sublime as they less aspire to public
+approbation, but have their end in the testimony of a good conscience,
+which gives the virtuous a more solid satisfaction, than the loudest
+applauses of the multitude. Hence you may see true greatness is
+confirmed to no one station of life, and that no man can be happy who
+is not the object of his own esteem; for, if the height of self-
+enjoyment consists in the contemplation of the truly beautiful, how
+can the vicious man admire the beauty of virtue in others, and not be
+forced to despise himself. I am not apprehensive of your being
+corrupted by sensual pleasures; a heart so refined as yours will be in
+little danger from the gross seductions of appetite. But there are
+others more dangerous and sentimental. I dread the effects of the
+maxims and lessons of the world; I dread the force of vicious
+examples, so constantly present, and so generally extensive: I dread
+those subtle sophisms by which vice is excused and defended: I dread,
+in short, lest your heart should impose upon itself, and render you
+less difficult about the means of acquiring importance than you would
+be, if our union were not to be the consequence. I only caution you,
+my friend, against the danger; your own discretion must do the rest: a
+foresight of accidental evils, however, is no small step towards their
+prevention. I will add but one reflection more, which, in my opinion,
+disproves the false arguments of vice, exposes the mistaken conceits
+of folly, and ought alone to direct a wise man to pursue his sovereign
+good. This is, that the source of true happiness is not confined to
+the desired object, nor to the heart which possesses it, but consists
+in a certain relation between the one and the other: that every object
+of our desires will not produce the happiness sought in its
+possession, nor is the heart at all times in a disposition to receive
+it. If the utmost refinement of intellectual pleasure is not
+sufficient alone to constitute our felicity, surely all the voluptuous
+pleasures on earth cannot make the depraved man happy. There is on
+both sides a necessary preparative, a certain combination of causes,
+from which results that delightful sensation so earnestly sought after
+by every sensible being, and for ever unexperienced by the pretended
+philosopher, who coldly nips his pleasures in the bud, for want of
+knowing how to conduct them to lasting felicity. What helps it, then,
+to obtain one advantage at the expense of another? to gain _without_
+what we lose from _within_; to procure the means of happiness, and
+lose the art of employing them. Is it not better also, if we can but
+enjoy one of these advantages, to sacrifice what the power of fortune
+may restore, to that which once lost can never be recovered? none
+should know better than I, who have imbittered all the sweets of my
+life, by thinking to increase them. Let the vicious and profligate
+then, who display their good fortune but keep their hearts a secret,
+let them advance what they will; be assured that if there be one
+instance of happiness upon earth it must be found in the breast of the
+virtuous. Heaven hath bestowed on you an happy inclination for what is
+virtuous and good: listen then only to your own desires, follow only
+your own inclinations, and think above all on the growth of our infant
+affections. So long as the remembrance of those delightful moments of
+innocence shall remain, it will be impossible that you should cease to
+love that which rendered them so endearing; it will be impossible the
+charms of moral excellence should ever be effaced from your mind, or
+that you should wish to obtain Eloisa by means unworthy of yourself.
+Can anyone enjoy a pleasure for which he has lost the taste? no, to be
+able to possess that which one loves, it is necessary the heart that
+loved it should be still the same.
+
+I come now to my second point: you see I have not forgot my logic; it
+is possible, my friend, without love to have the sublime sentiments of
+a great mind; but a love like ours supplies its flame, which being
+once extinguished, the soul becomes languid; and a heart once
+exhausted is good for nothing. Tell me, what should we be if we ceased
+to love? is it not better to lose our existence than our sensibility?
+or could you resolve to endure the life of an ordinary being, after
+having tasted every delight that can ravish the heart of man? you are
+going to visit populous cities, where your age and figure, rather than
+your merit, will lay a thousand snares for your fidelity. Insinuating
+coquetry will affect the language of tenderness, and please without
+deceiving you. You will not seek love, but enjoyment; you will taste
+it without love, and not know it for the same pleasure. I know not
+whether you will find in another the heart of Eloisa; but of this I am
+certain, you will never experience with another those ecstasies you
+have tasted with her. The vacancy of your exhausted mind will forebode
+the destiny I predict. Sadness and care will overwhelm you in the
+midst of frivolous amusements. The remembrance of our first transports
+will pursue you in spite of yourself; my image, an hundred times more
+beautiful than I ever was, will overtake you. In a moment the veil of
+disgust will be thrown over all your delights, and a thousand bitter
+reflections rush into your mind. My best beloved, my amiable friend,
+Oh, should you ever forget me----Alas! I can but die; but you, you,
+shall live base and unhappy, and my death will be but too severely
+revenged.
+
+Forget not then that Eloisa, who lived for you, and whose heart can
+never be another’s. I can say nothing more regarding that dependence
+in which Providence hath placed me: but, after having recommended
+fidelity to you, it is but just to give you the only pledge of mine
+that is in my power. I have consulted, not my duty, my distracted mind
+knows that no longer, but I have examined my heart, the last guide of
+those who can follow no other; and behold the result of its
+examination: I am determined never to be your wife without the consent
+of my father, but I will never marry another without your consent; of
+this I give you my word, which, whatever happens, I will keep sacred,
+nor is there a power on earth can make me break my promise. Be not,
+therefore, disquieted at what may befall me in your absence. Go, my
+dear friend, pursue, under the auspices of the most tender love, a
+destiny worthy to crown your merit: mine is in your hands, as much as
+it is in my power to commit it, and never shall it be altered but with
+your consent.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXVII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+_O qual fiamma di gloria d’onore,
+Scorrer sento per tutte le sene,
+Alma grande parlando conto!_
+
+O Eloisa, let me breathe a moment,----you make me shudder, my blood
+boils, my heart pants; your letter glows with that sacred love of
+virtue that fires your breast, and communicates its celestial flame to
+the inmost recesses of mine. But why so many exhortations, where you
+should have laid on me your commands? do you think I can so far forget
+myself as to want arguments to excite me to act justly? at least, can
+I want to have them urged by you, whose injunctions alone I should fly
+to obey. Can you be ignorant that I ever will be what you please to
+have me? and that I could even act unjustly before I could disobey
+you? yes, I could set another capitol in flames if you enjoined me,
+for nothing can be so dear to me as you are. But, do you know, my
+incomparable Eloisa, why you are thus dear? it is because you can
+desire nothing but what is virtuous, and that my admiration of your
+virtues exceeds even the love inspired by your charms. I go,
+encouraged by the engagement into which you have entered, the latter
+part of which, however, you might have omitted; for to promise not to
+be another’s without my consent, is it not to promise to be none but
+mine? for my own part, I speak more freely, and pledge with you the
+faith of a man of honour, ever to remain sacred and inviolable: I am
+ignorant to what destiny fortune will lead me in the career I am
+going, for your satisfaction, to enter upon; but never shall the ties
+of love or marriage unite me to any other than Eloisa D’Etange. I
+live, I exist, but for her, and shall either die married to her, or
+not married at all. Adieu! I am pressed for time, and am going to
+depart this instant.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXVIII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I arrived last night at Paris, and he, who once could not live two
+streets length removed from you, is now at the distance of more than
+an hundred leagues. Pity, Eloisa, pity your unhappy friend: had the
+blood gushing from my veins, dy’d with its streams, my long, long
+route, my spirits could not have failed me more; I could not have
+found myself more languid than at present. O that I knew as well when
+we shall meet again, as I know the distance that divides us! the
+progress of time should then compensate for the length of space. I
+would count every day, every hour of my life, my steps, towards
+Eloisa. But that dismal career is hid in the gloom of futurity; its
+bounds are concealed from my feeble sight. How painful, how terrible
+is suspense! my restless heart is ever seeking, but finds you not. The
+sun rises, but gives me no hopes of seeing you; it sets without
+granting me that blessing. My days are void of pleasure, and pass away
+as one long continued night. In vain I endeavour to rekindle my
+extinguished hopes, they offer me nothing but uncertainty and
+groundless consolations. Alas, my gentle friend! what evils have I not
+to expect if they are to be a counterpoise to my past happiness!
+
+But, I conjure you, let not my complaints alarm you; they are only the
+cursory effects of solitude, and the disagreeable reflections of my
+journey. Fear not the return of my former weakness; my heart is in
+your hands, Eloisa, and while you are its support it cannot debase
+itself. One of the comfortable fruits of your last letter is, that
+since I find myself sustained by a double share of spirits; and though
+love should annihilate what is properly mine, I should still be a
+gainer; the resolution with which you have inspired me being able to
+support me better than I could otherwise have supported myself. I am
+convinced it is not good for man to be alone. Human minds must be
+united to exert their greatest strength, and the united force of
+friendly souls, like that of the collateral bars of an artificial
+magnet, is incomparably greater than the sum of their separate forces.
+This is thy triumph, celestial friendship! but what is even friendship
+itself, compared to that perfect union of souls, which connects the
+most perfect, the most harmonious amity, with ties an hundred times
+more sacred? where are the men whose ideas, gross as their appetites,
+represent the passion of love only as a fever in the blood, the effect
+of brutal instinct? let them come to me, let them observe, let them
+feel, what passes in my breast; let them view an unhappy lover
+separated from his beloved object, doubtful whether ever he shall see
+her more, and hopeless of retrieving his lost happiness; animated,
+however, by the never dying flame, which, kindled by your beauties,
+has been nourished by your mental charms, they will see him ready to
+brave the rigours of adversity; to be deprived even of your lovely
+self, and to cherish all those virtues that you have inspired, and
+which embellish that adorable image that shall never be erazed from my
+soul. O, my Eloisa, what should I be without you? informed indeed by
+dispassionate reason, a cold admirer of virtue, I might have respected
+it in any one. I shall now do more, I shall now be enabled to put it
+zealously in practice, and, penetrated by your example, shall excite
+those who have known us to exclaim:----“what happy creatures should
+we be, if all the women in the world were Eloisa’s, and all the men
+had hearts susceptible of their charms!”
+
+As I was meditating during my journey, on your last letter, I formed a
+resolution of collecting together all those you have written to me; as
+I no longer can attend to your delightful counsel from your own mouth.
+For, though there is not one which I have not learnt by heart, I love
+to read them continually, and to contemplate the characters of that
+lovely hand, which alone can make me happy: but the paper wears out by
+degrees, and therefore, before they fall quite in pieces, I design to
+copy each letter in a book, which I have already prepared for that
+purpose. It is pretty large, but I provide for the time to come, and
+even hope to live long enough to fill more than one volume. I set
+apart my evenings for the delightful employment, and proceed but
+slowly, in order to prolong so agreeable a task. This inestimable
+volume I will never part with; it shall be the manual of my devotions,
+my companion through the world which I am going to enter; it shall be
+my antidote against the pernicious maxims of society; it shall comfort
+me under my afflictions; it shall prevent or amend my errors; it shall
+afford me instruction in my youth, and yield me edification in age:
+the first love-letters, Eloisa, that perhaps ever were put to such an
+use! With respect to your last epistle, which I have before me,
+excellent as it appears to me, I find however one thing you should
+have omitted. You may think it strange; but it is much more so, that
+this very article should particularly regard yourself, and that I
+blame you even for writing it at all. Why do you talk to me of
+fidelity and constancy? you once were better acquainted both with my
+passion and your own power. Ah, Eloisa, do you entertain such
+changeable sentiments? what, though I had promised you nothing, should
+I the sooner cease to be yours? Oh, no, it was at the first glance you
+directed to me, at the first word you spoke, at the first motion of my
+heart, that a flame was kindled in my soul which can never be
+extinguished. Had I never seen you since that first moment, it had
+been enough, it had been afterwards too late to have ever forgotten
+you. And is it possible for me to forget you now? now, that,
+intoxicated with my past felicity, the very remembrance of it makes me
+still happy? now, that the soul, which once animated me, is fled, and
+I live only by that which Eloisa hath inspired? now, that I despise
+myself for expressing so coldly what I so sensibly feel? should all
+the beauties in the universe display their charms to seduce me, is
+there one amongst them could eclipse thine? let them all combine to
+captivate my heart; let them pierce, let them wound it, let them break
+to pieces, this faithful mirror of my Eloisa, her unsullied image will
+not cease to be reflected from its smallest fragments, for nothing is
+able to drive it thence. No, not omnipotence itself can go thus far;
+it may annihilate my soul, but it cannot leave its existence and make
+it cease to love Eloisa.
+
+Lord B---- has undertaken to give you an account of my affairs, and
+what he has projected in my favour: but I am afraid he will not
+strictly fulfil his promise with respect to his present plan. For you
+are to know that he has abused the right his beneficence has given him
+over me, in extending it beyond the bounds of generosity. The pension
+he has settled on me, and which he has made independent, has put me in
+a condition to make an appearance here much above my rank, and perhaps
+even that which I shall have occasion to make in London. While I am
+here, as I have nothing to do, I live just as I please, and shall have
+no temptation to throw away the savings of my income in idle expenses.
+You, Eloisa, have taught me that our principal, at least our most
+pressing wants, are those of a benevolent mind; and, as long as one
+individual is deprived of the necessaries of life, what virtuous man
+will riot in its superfluities?
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXIX. To Eloisa. [20]
+
+
+I enter with a secret horror on this vast desert, the world; whose
+confused prospect appears to me only as a frightful scene of solitude
+and silence. In vain my soul endeavours to shake off the universal
+restraint it lies under. It was the saying of a celebrated ancient,
+that he was never less alone than when he was by himself: for my part,
+I am never alone but when I mix with the crowd, and am neither with
+you nor with any body else. My heart would speak, but it feels there
+is none to hear: it is ready to answer, but no one speaks any thing
+that regards it. I understand not the language of the country, and no
+body here understands mine. Yet I own that I am greatly caressed, and
+that all the obliging offices of friendship and civility are readily
+offered to me: this is the very thing of which I complain. The
+officious zeal of thousands is ever on the wing to oblige me, but I
+know not how to entertain immediately a friendship for men I have
+never seen before. The honest feelings of humanity, the plain and
+affecting openness of a frank heart, are expressed in a different
+manner from those false appearances of politeness, and that external
+flattery, which the customs of the world require. I am not a little
+afraid that he, who treats me at first sight, as if I was a friend of
+twenty years standing, if at the end of twenty years I should want his
+assistance, will treat me as a stranger; and, when I see men, lost in
+dissipation, pretend to take so tender a part in the concerns of every
+one, I readily presume they are interested for no body but themselves.
+
+There is, however, some truth in all this profession: the French are
+naturally good-natured, open, hospitable, and generous. But they have
+a thousand modes of expression, which are not to be too strictly
+understood. A thousand apparent offers of kindness which they make
+only to be refused; they are no more than the snares of politeness
+laid for rustic simplicity. I never before heard such profusion of
+promises: _you may depend on my serving you, command my credit, my
+purse, my house, my equipage._----But, if all this were sincere, and
+literally taken, there would not be a people upon earth less attached
+to property. The community of possessions would be in a manner already
+established; the rich always making offers, and the poor accepting
+them, both would naturally soon come upon a level, and not the
+citizens of Sparta itself could ever have been more upon an equality
+than would be the people of Paris. On the contrary, there is not a
+place, perhaps, in the world, where the fortunes of men are so
+unequal, where are displayed at once the most sumptuous opulence and
+the most deplorable poverty. This is surely sufficient to prove the
+insignificance of that apparent commiseration, which every one here
+affects to have for the wants and sufferings of others, and that
+tenderness of heart, which in a moment contracts eternal friendship.
+
+But if, instead of attending to professions so justly to be suspected,
+and assurances so liable to deceive, I desire information, and would
+see knowledge; here is its most agreeable source. One is immediately
+charmed with the good sense which is to be met with in company of the
+French, not only among the learned, but with men of all ranks, and
+even among the women: the turn of conversation is always easy and
+natural, it is neither dull nor frivolous, but learned without
+pedantry, gay without noise, polite without affectation, gallant
+without being fulsome, and jocose without immodesty. Their discourse
+is neither made up of dissertations nor epigrams; they reason without
+argumentation, and are witty without punning: they artfully unite
+reason and vivacity, maxims and rhapsodies; and mix the most pointed
+satire and refined flattery with strictness of morals. They talk about
+every thing, because every one has something to say; they examine
+nothing to the bottom, for fear of being tedious, but propose matters
+in a cursory manner, and treat them with rapidity: every one gives his
+opinion, and supports it in few words; no one attacks with virulence
+that of another, nor obstinately defends his own; they discuss the
+point only for the sake of improvement, and stop before it comes to a
+dispute: every one improves, every one amuses himself, and they part
+all satisfied with each other; even the philosopher himself carrying
+away something worthy his private meditation.
+
+But, after all, what kind of knowledge do you think is to be gained
+from such agreeable conversation? to form a just judgment of life and
+manners; to make a right use of society; to know, at least, the people
+with whom we converse; there is nothing, Eloisa, of all this: all they
+teach is to plead artfully the cause of falsehood, to confound, by
+their philosophy, all the principles of virtue; to throw a false
+colour, by the help of sophistry, on the passions and prejudices of
+mankind; and to give a certain turn to error, agreeable to the
+fashionable mode of thinking. It is not necessary to know the
+characters of men, but their interests, to guess their sentiments on
+any occasion. When a man talks on any subject, he rather expresses the
+opinions of his garb or his fraternity, than his own, and will charge
+them as often as he changes his situation and circumstances.
+
+Dress him up, for instance, by turns, in the robe of a judge, a peer,
+and a divine, and you shall hear him successively stand up, with the
+same zeal, for the rights of the people, the despotism of the prince,
+and the authority of the inquisition. There is one kind of reason for
+the lawyer, another for the officer of the revenue, and a third for
+the soldier. Each of them can demonstrate the other two to be knaves;
+a conclusion not very difficult to be drawn by all three. [21] Thus
+men do not speak their own sentiments but those they would instill
+into others, and the zeal which they affect is only the mask of
+interest. You may imagine, however, that such persons as are
+unconnected and independent, have at least a personal character and an
+opinion of their own. Not at all: they are only different machines,
+which never think for themselves, but are set a going by springs.
+
+You need only inform yourself of their company, their clubs, their
+friends, the women they visit, the authors they are acquainted with;
+and you may immediately tell what will be their opinion of the next
+book that is published, the next play that is acted, the works of this
+or that writer they know nothing of, or this or that system of which
+they have not one idea. As ordinary clocks, also, are wound up to go
+but four and twenty hours, so are these people under the necessity of
+going every evening into company, to know what they are to think the
+next day.
+
+Hence it is, that there is but a small number of both sexes, who think
+for all the rest, and for whom all the rest talk and act. As every one
+considers his own particular interest, and none of them that of the
+public, and as the interests of individuals are always opposed, there
+is amongst them a perpetual clashing of parties and cabals, a
+continual ebb and flow of prepossessions and contrary opinions; amidst
+which the most violent tempers, agitated only by the rest, seldom
+understand a word of the matter in dispute. Every club has its rules,
+its opinions, its principles, which are no where else admitted. An
+honest man at one house is a knave at the next door. The good, the
+bad, the beautiful, the ugly, truth, and even virtue itself, have all
+only a limited and local existence. Whoever chuses a general
+acquaintance, therefore, and goes into different societies, should be
+more pliable than Alcibiades; he should change his principles with his
+company, new-model his sentiments in a manner at every step, and lay
+down his maxims by the rod. He ought at every visit to leave his
+conscience, if he has one, at the door, and take up with that
+belonging to the house as a new servant, on his entrance, puts on its
+livery, which he leaves behind him when turned out, and if he chuses
+it, again takes up his own, which serves him till he gets a new suit
+with a new place. But what is still more extraordinary, is, that every
+one here is perpetually contradicting himself, without being concerned
+at all about it. They have one set of principles for conversation, and
+another for their actions; nor is any body scandalized at their
+inconsistency, it being generally agreed they should be very
+different. It is not required of an author, particularly of a moral
+writer, that he should maintain in conversation what he advances in
+his works; nor that he should put in practice what he inculcates. His
+writings, conversation, and conduct, are three things essentially
+different, which he is not at all obliged to reconcile to each other.
+In a word, every thing is absurd, and yet nothing offends, because
+absurdity is the fashion. Nay, there is attached to this incongruity
+of principles and manners, a fashionable air of which they are proud,
+and which is frequently affected. In fact, although every one
+zealously preaches up the maxims of his profession, he piques himself
+on the carriage and manners of another. The attorney, for instance,
+assumes the martial air of a soldier, and a petty clerk of the
+customs, the supercilious deportment of a lord; the bishop affects the
+gallantry of a fine gentleman; the courtier the precision of a
+philosopher; and the statesman the repartee and raillery of a wit.
+Even the plain mechanic, who knows not how to put on the airs of any
+other profession, dresses himself up in a suit of black on Sundays, in
+order to pass for a practitioner in the law. The military gentlemen
+alone, despising every other profession, preserve, without
+affectation, the manners of their own, which, to say the truth, are
+insufferable. Not that M. de Muralt was in the wrong, when he gave the
+preference to the conversation of a soldier; but, what might be true
+in his time, is no longer so now. The progress of literature has since
+improved conversation in general; and, as the gentlemen of the army
+despised such improvement in theirs, that which used to be the best,
+is at length become the worst. [22]
+
+Hence it is, that the persons we talk to are not those with whom we
+converse; their sentiments do not come from the heart; their knowledge
+is not the acquisition of their own genius; their conversation does
+not discover their thoughts; and one perceives nothing of them but
+their figure. Thus, a man in company here, is nearly in the same
+situation as if he were spectator of a moving picture, where he
+himself is the only figure capable of self-motion.
+
+Such are the notions I have formed of great societies, by that which I
+have seen at Paris. They may, nevertheless, be rather adapted to my
+own particular situation than to the true state of things; and will
+doubtless improve as I become more acquainted with the manners of the
+world. Besides this, I have hitherto kept no other company than that
+into which I have been introduced by the friends of Lord B----, and am
+sensible it is necessary to descend to persons of different ranks, to
+know the peculiar manners of a country; those of the opulent being
+almost every where the same. I shall endeavour to inform myself better
+hereafter; in the mean time, I leave you to judge whether I had not
+sufficient reason to call this crowded scene a desert, and to be
+terrified by a solitude, where I find only an empty appearance of
+sentiments and of sincerity, that falsifies itself in the instant of
+expression; and where I perceive only the mere apparitions of men,
+phantoms that strike the eye for a moment, but are insensible to the
+touch? Hitherto I have seen a great number of masks; when shall I
+behold the faces of mankind?
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Yes, my friend, we shall continue to be united, notwithstanding our
+separation; we shall be happy in spite of fortune. It is the union of
+minds which constitutes their true felicity; the mutual attraction of
+hearts does not follow the _ratio_ of their distance, and ours would
+be in contact, were they distant as the poles asunder. I am sensible
+with you that true lovers have a thousand expedients to sooth the
+pains of absence, and to fly to each other’s arms in a moment. Hence
+have they more frequent interviews even in absence, than when they see
+each other every day; for, no sooner is either alone, than they are
+both together. If you, my friend, can taste that pleasure every
+evening, I feast on it a hundred times a day. I am more alone, and am
+surrounded by objects I cannot look on without calling you to mind,
+without finding you ever near me.
+
+_Qui canto dolcemente e qui s’assise
+Qiu si revolve, e qui ritenne il passo
+Qui co ’begli occhi me trafise il core
+Qui disse una parola, e qui sorrise._
+
+But is it so with you? can you thus alleviate the pains of absence?
+can you experience the sweets of a peaceful and tender passion, that
+speaks to the heart without inflaming the senses? Are your griefs at
+present more prudent than were formerly your desires? the violence of
+your first letter still makes me tremble. I dread those deceitful
+transports, by so much the more dangerous as the imagination which
+excites them, is the less subject to controul; and, I fear, lest even
+your excess of love should prove injurious to the object of it. Alas!
+you know not, your sensations are too indelicate to perceive how
+offensive to love is an irrational homage. You do not consider that
+your life is mine, nor that self-preservation leads us frequently to
+destruction. Sensual man! will you never learn to love? call to mind
+those peaceful, those tender sensations you once felt, and so
+affectingly described. If such be the highest pleasures which even
+happy lovers can taste, they are the only ones wherein those who pine
+in absence are permitted to indulge themselves; and those who once
+have felt them, though but for a moment, should never regret the loss
+of any other. I remember the reflections we made in reading your
+Plutarch, on the sensuality and depravity of taste, which debase our
+nature. Were such wretched pleasures attended only with the
+circumstance of their not being mutual, it were enough, we said, to
+render them insipid and contemptible. Let us apply the same conclusion
+to the sallies of an extravagant imagination, to which it is no less
+applicable. What can the wretch enjoy whose pleasures are confined to
+himself alone? his pleasures are lifeless, but thine, O love! are
+animated and generous delights. It is the union of souls: we receive
+more pleasure from that which we excite, than from our own enjoyment.
+
+But, pray, tell me, my friend, in what language, or rather, in what
+jargon, is the description you give me in your last letter? did you
+not make use of it as an occasional display of your wit? if you intend
+to repeat it in your letters to me, it will be necessary to send me a
+dictionary. What is it you mean by the opinions of a garb? by a
+conscience that is to be put off and on, like a livery? by laying down
+maxims by the rod? how would you have a poor, simple Swiss comprehend
+those sublime tropes and figures? have you not already borrowed some
+of the tinsel understanding of the people you describe? take care, my
+good friend, how you proceed. Do you not think the metaphors of the
+chevalier Marini, which you have so often laughed at, bear some
+resemblance to your own? if a garment may be said to think, in a
+letter, why not that fire may sweat in a sonnet? [23]
+
+To observe in the space of three weeks all the different company that
+is kept in a great city; to pass judgment on their conversation; to
+distinguish precisely the false from the true, the real from the
+affected; the difference between their thoughts and words: this is the
+very thing for which the French are frequently censured by people of
+other countries; but this nation especially deserves to be studied
+more at leisure. I as little approve also of persons speaking ill of a
+country where they reside and are well received: they had better, in
+my judgment, submit to be deceived by appearances, than to moralize at
+the expense of their hosts. In short, I always suspect the candour of
+those observers, who set up for wits. I am always apprehensive lest
+they should insensibly sacrifice the real state of things to the arts
+of description, and affect a brilliancy of stile at the expense of
+truth.
+
+You know, my friend, the saying of Muralt, that wit is the epidemical
+madness of the French: I am mistaken if I do not discover some marks
+of your being yourself infected with this phrenzy. There is this
+difference, however, that while it is agreeable enough in the French,
+the Swiss are of all people in the world those it becomes the least.
+There is something very quaint and far-fetched in many passages of
+your letter. I do not speak of the lively turn or animated
+expressions, which are dictated by any peculiar strength of
+sentiments, but of that affected prettiness of stile, which being
+unnatural in itself, can be natural to no people whatever, but betrays
+the absurd pretensions of the person who uses it. Pretensions, with
+those we love, good God! ought not all our pretensions to be confined
+to the object beloved? It may be permitted to enliven an indifferent
+conversation with such rhetorical flourishes, and they may pass off as
+fine strokes of wit; but this is not the language adapted to the
+intercourse of lovers; the florid jargon of gallantry comes less from
+the heart than the most rude and simple of all dialects. I appeal to
+yourself: did wit ever find an opportunity to intrude into our private
+parties? if those fond, those endearing conversations had a charm to
+dispel and keep wit at a distance, how ill-suited are its
+embellishments to the letters of absence, always clouded in some
+measure with sorrow; and in which the heart expresses itself with
+peculiar tenderness? but, though every passion truly great should be
+serious, excess of joy sooner calling forth our tears than our smiles,
+I would not have love be always sad; its chearfulness should,
+nevertheless, be simple and unaffected, without art, without
+embellishment, and undissembled as the passion itself. In a word, I
+would have love appear in its native graces, and not in the false
+ornaments of wit.
+
+My _constant companion_, in whose apartment I write this letter,
+pretends, that in the beginning of it I had just that pleasantry of
+disposition which love inspires; but I know not what is become of it.
+In proportion as I proceed, a languor invades my heart, and hardly
+leaves me spirits to write the reproaches she would have me make you.
+For you are to know the above hypercriticisms are rather hers than my
+own. It was she that dictated in particular the first article,
+laughing like an idiot, and insisting on my not altering a single
+syllable. She says, it is to teach you to respect Marini, whom she
+patronizes and you have the presumption to ridicule.
+
+But can you guess the cause of our good humour? it is her approaching
+marriage. The contract was signed last night, and the day is fixed for
+Monday sevennight. If ever love was a chearful passion, it is surely
+so with her: surely no girl was ever so droll upon the like occasion.
+
+The good Mr. Orbe, whose head is also a little turned, was highly
+delighted with the comical manner in which he was received. Less
+difficult to be pleased than you were, he takes great pleasure in
+adding to the pleasantry of courtship, and looks upon the art of
+diverting his mistress as a master-piece in making love. For her part,
+we may talk to her as we please of decorum, tell her as much as we
+will of the grave and serious turn she ought to assume on the point of
+matrimony, and of doing honour to the virgin state she is going to
+quit; she laughs at all we can say, as ridiculous grimace, and tells
+Mr. Orbe to his face, that on the wedding day she shall be in the best
+humour in the world; and that one cannot go too chearfully to be
+married. But the little dissembler does not tell all; I surprized her
+this morning wiping her eyes, which were red with crying, and I would
+lay a wager, the tears of the night equal the smiles of the day. She
+is going to bind herself in new chains, that will relax the gentle
+ties of friendship: she is entering on a manner of life very different
+to that which she most affected. Hitherto always pleased and tranquil,
+she is going to run those hazards which are inseparable from the best
+marriage; and, whatever face she may assume, I see that, as a clear
+and smooth water begins to be troubled at the approach of a storm, so
+her chaste and timid heart feels an alarm at her approaching change of
+condition.
+
+May they be happy, my dear friend! they love, and will be united in
+marriage: they will reap the transports of mutual enjoyment without
+obstacles, without fear, without remorse! Adieu, my heart is full----I
+can write no more.
+
+P.S. We have seen Lord B----, but he was in such haste to proceed on
+his journey, that he staid with us but a moment. Impressed with a due
+sense of the obligations we owe him, I would have made him my
+acknowledgments and yours; but, I know not how, I was ashamed. It is
+surely a kind of insult offered to his unparallel’d generosity to
+thank such a man for any thing!
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+What children does the impetuosity of our passions make of us! how
+readily does an extravagant affection nourish itself on chimeras; and
+how easily are our too violent desires prevented by the most frivolous
+objects! I received your letter with as much rapture as your presence
+could have inspir’d: in the excess of my transport, a piece of folded
+paper supplying in my mind the place of Eloisa. One of the greatest
+evils of absence, and the only one which reason cannot alleviate, is
+the inquietude we are under concerning the actual state of the person
+we love. Her health, her life, her repose, her affections, nothing
+escapes the apprehensions of him who has every thing to lose. Nor are
+we more certain of the present condition than of the future; and every
+possible accident is realiz’d in the mind of the timid lover. I
+breathe, and am alive again. You are in health, and still love me; or
+rather ten days ago you loved me, and was well; but who can assure me
+it is so at this instant? How cruel! how tormenting is absence! how
+fatally capricious is that situation in which we can enjoy only the
+past moment and the present not yet arrived.
+
+Had you said nothing about your _constant companion_, I should have
+detected her little malice in the censures passed on my observations,
+and her old grudge in the apology for Marini; but, if it be permitted
+me in turn to apologize for myself, I will not make her wait for a
+reply.
+
+In the first place then, my dear cousin, for it is to her I should
+address my answer, as to the stile of my remarks, I have adopted that
+of the subject: I endeavoured to give you at once both an idea and an
+example of the mode of conversation in fashion; and thus, following an
+ancient precept, I wrote to you in the same manner they talk in some
+companies to each other. Besides, it is not the use of rhetorical
+figures, but the choice of them, which I blame in Marini. If a man has
+the least warmth of imagination, he must necessarily use metaphors and
+figurative expressions to make himself understood. Even your own
+letters are full of them, without your knowing it; and I will maintain
+it, that none but a geometrician or a blockhead can talk without
+metaphor. In effect, the same sentiment may admit of an hundred
+different degrees of energy; and how are we to determine the precise
+degree in which to enforce it, but by the turn of expression? I must
+confess I could not help smiling myself at the absurdity of some
+phrases I used. I thank you for the trouble you took to pick them out.
+But, let them stand where they are, you will find them clear and
+peculiarly emphatical. Let us suppose that your two sprightly
+sparkling eyes, whose language is now expressive, were separated one
+from the other, and from the set of features to which they give such
+lustre; what think you, cousin, they would say, even with all their
+vivacity and fire? Believe me, they would lose all power of
+expression; they would be mute even to Mr. Orbe.
+
+Is not the first thing that presents itself to observation in a
+strange country, the general cast and turn of conversation? And is not
+this the first observation I have made in Paris? I have written to you
+only what is said, and not what is done in this city. If I remarked a
+contrast between the discourse, the sentiments, and the actions of the
+people, it is because the contrast is too striking to escape the most
+superficial observer. When I see the same persons change their maxims
+according to the company they frequent, Molinists in one and
+Jansenists in another, court sycophants with the minister, and
+factious grumblers with an anticourtier: when I see a man in lace and
+embroidery rail at luxury, an officer of the revenue against imposts,
+or a prelate against gluttony; when I hear a court-lady talk of
+modesty, a noble lord of honesty, an author of candour, or an abbé of
+religion, and see nobody surprized at these absurdities, is it not
+natural enough to conclude that people here are as little anxious to
+hear truth as to speak it? And that, so far from endeavouring to
+persuade others into their own opinion, they care not whether they are
+believed or not?
+
+But, let this suffice, in the way of pleasantry, for an answer to our
+cousin. I will lay aside an affectation to which we are all three
+strangers, and I hope you will find in me for the future as little of
+the satirist as the wit. And now, Eloisa, let me reply to you; for I
+am at no loss to distinguish between critical raillery and serious
+reproaches.
+
+I cannot conceive how both you and your cousin could so egregiously
+mistake the object of my description. It was not the French in
+particular, on whom I intended to animadvert. For, if the characters
+of nations can be determined only by their difference, how can I, who
+have as yet no acquaintance with any other, pretend to draw the
+character of this? I should not besides have been so indiscreet as to
+fix on the metropolis for the place of observation. I am not ignorant
+that capital cities differ less from each other, than the national
+characters of the people, which are there in a great measure lost and
+confounded, as well from the influence of courts, all which bear a
+great resemblance to each other, as from the common consequence of
+living in a close and numerous society; which is also every where
+nearly the same, and prevails over the original and peculiar character
+of the country.
+
+Were I to study the national characteristics of a people, I would
+repair to some of the more distant provinces, where the inhabitants
+still pursue their natural inclinations. I would proceed slowly and
+carefully through several of those provinces, and those at greatest
+distance from each other: from the difference I might observe between
+them, I would then trace the peculiar genius of each province; from
+what was theirs in common and not customary to other countries, I
+would trace the genius of the nation in general; and what appeared
+common to all nations, I should regard as characteristics of mankind
+in general. But I have neither formed so extensive a project; nor, if
+I had, am I possessed of the necessary experience to put it in
+execution. My design is to improve myself in the knowledge of mankind
+universally, and my method is to consider man in his several
+relations. I have hitherto been acquainted only with small societies
+scattered up and down, in a manner alone, and without connections. At
+present I am in the midst of others, which are surrounded by
+multitudes on the same spot, from which I shall begin to judge of the
+genuine effects of society; for, if men are constantly made better by
+their association, the more numerous and closely connected they are,
+still better they ought to be; and their manners should be more simple
+and less corrupted at Paris than in the Valais; but if experience
+prove the contrary, we must draw the opposite conclusion.
+
+This method, I confess may in time lead to the knowledge of the
+national characters of people; but by a route so tedious and indirect,
+that I may perhaps never be qualified to determine that of any one
+nation upon earth. I must begin to make my observations on the first
+country in which I reside, proceeding in the others I pass through to
+mark the difference between them and the first: comparing France to
+every other, as we describe an olive-tree by a willow, or a palm-tree
+by a fir, and must defer the forming my judgment of the first people
+observed, till I have finished my observations on all the rest.
+
+Please to distinguish then, my charming monitor, between philosophical
+observation and national satire. It is not the Parisians that I study,
+but the inhabitants of a great city; and I know not whether the
+remarks I have made be not as applicable to those of Rome and London,
+as of Paris. Moral principles do not depend on the customs of a
+people; so in spite of their reigning prejudices I can perceive what
+is wrong in itself but I know not whether I can justly attribute it to
+the Frenchman, or the _man_; whether it be the effect of habit, or of
+nature. Vice is in every place offensive to an impartial eye, and it
+is no more blameable to reprove it in whatever country it is found,
+than to correct the failings of humanity, because we live among men.
+Am not I at present an inhabitant of Paris? perhaps, I may have
+already unconsciously contributed my share, to the disorders I have
+remarked: perhaps too long a stay may corrupt even my inclinations,
+and at the end of a year I may be no more than a Parisian myself; if,
+in order to be deserving of Eloisa, I do not cherish the spirit of
+liberty and the manners of a free citizen. Let me proceed therefore,
+without restraint, in describing objects I should blush to resemble,
+and in animating my zeal for virtue by displaying the disgustful
+pictures of falsehood and vice.
+
+Were my employment and fortune in my own power, I might without doubt
+make choice of other subjects for my letters. You were not displeased
+with those I wrote you from Meillerie, and the Valais: but, my dear
+friend, it is necessary for me, in order to support the noise and
+hurry of the world, in which I am obliged to live, to console myself
+in writing to you; and the thoughts of drawing up my narratives for
+your perusal, should excite me to look out for proper subjects.
+Discouragement would otherwise overtake me at every step, and I must
+entirely relinquish my observations on mankind, if you refuse to hear
+me. Consider that, to live in a manner so little conformable to my
+taste, I make an effort not unworthy of its cause: and to enable you
+to judge of what I must undergo to obtain you, permit me to speak
+sometimes of the maxims I am forced to learn, and the obstacles I am
+obliged to encounter.
+
+In spite of my slow pace, and unavoidable avocations, my collection
+was finish’d when your letter happily arrived to prolong my task of
+copying: but, I admire, in seeing it so short, how you contrive to say
+so much in so few words. I will maintain it, there can be no reading
+so delightful as that of your letters, even to those to whom you are a
+stranger, if their hearts do but sympathise with ours. But how can you
+be a stranger to any one who reads your letters? is it possible that a
+manner so engaging, that sentiments so tender, can belong to any other
+than Eloisa? your enchanting looks accompany every sentence; your
+charming voice pronounces every word. It is impossible for any other
+to love, to think, to speak, to act, to write like Eloisa. Be not
+surprized then if your letters, which so strikingly convey your form
+and feature, should sometimes have the same effect as your presence on
+a lover, who so devoutly idolizes your person. I lose my senses in
+their perusal; my head grows giddy, a devouring flame consumes me; my
+blood boils, and I become frantic with passion. I fancy I see, I feel,
+I press you to my heart, adorable object! bewitching beauty! source of
+rapture and delight! image of those angelic forms, which are the
+fabled companions of the bless’d! come to my arms----she is here----
+I clasp her in my embrace----ah! no, she is vanish’d; and I grasp but
+a shadow.----Indeed, my dear friend, you are too charming; you have
+been too indulgent to the weakness of a heart, that can never forget
+your charms, nor your tenderness. Your beauty even triumphs in its
+absence, it pursues me wherever I go, it makes me dread to be alone,
+and it is my greatest misery that I dare not give myself to the
+contemplation of so ravishing an object.
+
+Our friends then, I find, will be united in spite of all obstacles; or
+rather they are so while I am now writing. Amiable and deserving pair!
+may heaven bestow on them all the blessings their prudent and peaceful
+affections, innocence of manners, and goodness of heart, deserve! may
+it bless them with that happiness it is so sparing of to those who
+were formed by nature to taste its delights! happy indeed will they
+be, if heaven should grant to them what it has taken from us! and
+yet, Eloisa, we may draw some consolation even from our misfortunes.
+Do you not perceive that our severest troubles are not without their
+peculiar satisfactions; and that altho’ our friends may taste
+pleasures of which we are deprived, we enjoy others of which they are
+ignorant? yes, my gentle friend, in spite of absence, losses, fears;
+in spite even of despair itself, the powerful exertion of two hearts,
+longing for each other, is always attended with a secret pleasure
+unknown to those at ease. This is one of the miracles of love, that
+teacheth us how to extract pleasure from pain; and would make us look
+upon a state of indifference as the greatest of all misfortunes. Tho’
+we lament our own situation, then, let us not envy that of others. On
+the whole, perhaps, there is none preferable to our own: as the deity
+derives his happiness from himself, the hearts that glow with a
+celestial passion, find in themselves the source of refined enjoyment,
+independent of fortune.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+At length, Eloisa, behold me swim with the stream. My collection being
+finish’d, I begin to frequent the public diversions, and to sup in
+company; I spend the whole day abroad, and am attentive to every
+striking object: but, perceiving nothing that resembles you, I
+recollect myself in the midst of noise and confusion, and converse in
+secret with my love. It is not however, that this busy and tumultuous
+life has not in it something agreeable, or that such a vast variety of
+objects do not present a considerable fund of gratification to the
+curiosity of a stranger: but, to taste the entertainment they afford,
+the heart should be vacant, and the understanding idle. Both love and
+reason seem to unite in raising my disgust against such amusement.
+Every thing here being confined to appearances, which are every
+instant changing, I have neither the time to be moved with, nor to
+examine, any thing.
+
+Hence I begin to see the difficulties of studying the world, and I
+know not what situation is most likely to make me a proficient in this
+science. The speculatist lives at too great a distance, and the man of
+business too near the object, to view it critically: the one sees too
+much to be able to reflect on any part, and the other too little to
+judge of the whole piece. Every object that strikes the philosopher he
+examines apart, and not being able to discern its connections and
+relations with others, that lie beyond the field of his observation,
+he never sees them placed in their proper point of view, and knows
+neither their real causes nor effects. The man of business sees all,
+and has leisure to think on nothing. The instability of objects
+permits him barely to perceive their existence, and not to examine
+their qualities: they pass in succession before him with such
+rapidity, that they efface the impression of each other, and load his
+memory only with a chaos of confused ideas. It is also as impossible
+to make observations, and meditate on them alternately: as the scene
+requires a constant and unremitted attention, which reflection would
+interrupt. A man who should divide his time by intervals between
+solitude and society, always perplexed in retirement and to seek in
+the world, would be able to do nothing in either. There is but one
+way: and that is to divide the whole period of life into two parts;
+applying the one to observation, and the other to reflection. But this
+is next to impossible; for reason is not a piece of furniture that can
+be thrown aside, and put to use again at pleasure: the man who should
+live ten years without reflection, will never again be capable of
+reflection as long as he lives.
+
+I find it is a folly to think to study mankind in the quality of a
+simple spectator. He, who pretends only to make observations, will be
+able to observe nothing: for, being useless to the men of business,
+and troublesome to those of pleasure, he will find no where
+admittance. We can have the opportunity of seeing others act, in
+proportion only as we act with them; in the school of the world, as
+well as in that of love, we must begin by praising whatever we desire
+to learn.
+
+What method then can I take? I that am a stranger, and can follow no
+employment in this country, and whom the difference of religion alone
+excludes from aspiring to office? I am reduced to be humble, in order
+to instruct myself; and, as I can never be useful, must endeavour to
+make myself agreeable. To this end, I aim as much as possible to be
+polite without flattery, complaisant without meanness, and to put so
+good a face on what is tolerable in society that I may be admitted
+into it, without being under the necessity of adopting its vices.
+Every man that would see the world, and has nothing to do in it, ought
+at least to adopt its manners to a certain degree. For what pretension
+can he have to be admitted into the society of people to whom he can
+be of no service, and to whom he has not the address to make himself
+agreeable? But, if he has found out this art, it is all that is
+required of him, particularly if he be a stranger. Such a one has no
+occasion to take part in their cabals, their intrigues, or their
+quarrels: if he behaves obligingly to every one; if he neither
+excludes, nor prefers women of a certain character; if he keeps the
+secrets of the company into which he is admitted; if he turns not into
+ridicule at one house, what he sees in another; if he avoids making
+confidents; entering into broils; and, in particular, if he maintains
+a certain personal dignity; he may see the world, without molestation,
+preserve the purity of his manners, his probity, and even his
+frankness itself, if it arises from a spirit of liberty, and not from
+that of party. This is what I have endeavoured to do, agreeable to the
+advice of some people of sense, whom I have chosen for my advisers,
+among the acquaintance Lord B----’s interest has procured me. In
+consequence of this, I begin now to be admitted into companies, less
+numerous and more select. Hitherto I have been chiefly invited to
+regular dinners, where the only woman at table is the mistress of the
+family; where open house is kept for all the idle people about Paris,
+with whom they have the slightest acquaintance; and where every one
+pays for his dinner in wit, or flattery, as he can best afford: the
+conversation being in general noisy and confused, and very much
+resembling that of a public ordinary.
+
+I am at present initiated into the more secret mysteries of visiting:
+being intreated to private suppers, where the door is shut against all
+strolling and chance guests, and every one is upon an agreeable
+footing, if not with each other, at least with the provider of the
+entertainment. Here it is that the women are less reserved, and their
+real characters more easily discovered. The conversation is in these
+parties carried on with more decorum, and is more refined and
+satirical: instead of talking of the public news, plays, promotions,
+births, deaths, and marriages, which were the topics of the morning,
+they here take a review of the several anecdotes of Paris, divulge the
+secret articles of the scandalous chronicle, turn the good and bad
+alike into ridicule, and, in artfully describing the characters of
+others, undesignedly display their own. It is in these companies that
+the little circumspection which remains has invented a peculiar kind
+of language, under which they affect to render their satire more
+obscure, while it only makes it more severe. It is here, in a word,
+that they carefully sharpen the poignard, under pretence of making it
+less hurtful; but, in fact, only to make it wound the deeper. To
+judge, however, of this conversation according to our notions of
+things, we should be in the wrong to call it satirical; for it
+consists more of raillery than censure, and turns less upon the
+vicious than the ridiculous. Satire in general is not common in large
+cities, where that which is downright wicked is too simple to be worth
+talking about. What can they condemn where virtue is in no esteem? and
+what should they revile where nothing is held to be villainous? At
+Paris, more particularly, where every thing is seen in an agreeable
+light, the representation of things that ought to raise our
+indignation is well received, if it be but wrapt up in a song or an
+epigram. The fine ladies of this country do not like to be displeased;
+and are therefore displeased at nothing: they love to laugh, but woe
+be to him who happens to be the butt of their ridicule; the fears this
+caustic leaves are never to be effaced; they not only defame good
+manners and virtue, but exaggerate even vice itself. We now return to
+our company.
+
+What strikes me most in these select meetings, is to see that half a
+dozen people, expressly chosen to entertain one another agreeably, and
+between whom there generally subsist very intimate connections, cannot
+converse an hour together without introducing the affairs of half the
+people in Paris; just as if their hearts had nothing to say to each
+other, or that there was no person in company of merit enough to
+engage their attention. You know, Eloisa, how far otherwise it was
+with us, when we supped together at your cousin’s, or your own
+apartment; how we could find means, in spite of constraint and
+secrecy, to turn the discourse on subjects that related to ourselves;
+how at every moving reflection, at every subtle allusion, a look more
+swift than lightening, a sigh rather imagined than perceived, conveyed
+the pleasing sensation from one heart to the other.
+
+If the discourse here turn by accident on any of the company, it is
+commonly carried on in a jargon known only to the persons concerned,
+and which one had need of a vocabulary to understand. Thus by talking
+as it were in cypher, they are enabled to banter each other with
+insipid raillery, in which the greatest blockhead does not always
+shine the least. In the mean time, perhaps, a third part of the
+company, incapable of taking the jest, are either reduced to a
+disagreeable silence, or to laugh at what they do not understand. Of
+this kind, Eloisa, is all the tenderness and affection I have observed
+in the intimacies of this country: those of a more private nature,
+with only a second person, I have not, nor ever shall have
+experienced.
+
+In the midst of all this, however, if a man of any weight and
+consequence should enter on a grave discourse, or begin to discuss a
+serious question, a general attention would be immediately fixed on
+this new object: men and women, old and young, every one would be
+ready to enter into its examination; and it is astonishing how much
+good sense and precision would, as it were, through emulation, sally
+out of their extravagant heads. [24] A point of morality could not be
+better determined in a society of philosophers, than in that of a fine
+lady at Paris: their conclusions would even be less precise and
+severe: for the philosopher, who thinks himself obliged to act as he
+speaks, will be less rigid in his principles; but, where morality is
+nothing more than a topic of discourse, the severity of it is of no
+consequence: and no one is displeased at an opportunity of checking
+philosophical pride, by placing virtue out of its reach.
+
+Besides this, influenced by a knowledge of the world and of their own
+hearts, all agree in thinking human nature as depraved as possible:
+hence their philosophy is always of the gloomy cast; they are ever
+indulging their own vanity by depreciating the virtues of humanity;
+always accounting for good actions from vicious motives, and
+attributing to mankind in general the depravity of their own minds.
+
+And yet, notwithstanding their adopting this abject doctrine, one of
+the favourite topics of these societies is _sentiment_; a word by
+which we are not to understand the sensation of a heart susceptible of
+love or friendship: this would be thought vulgar and disgusting. No,
+sentiment consists in great and general maxims, heightened by the
+most sublime subtilties of metaphysics. I can safely say that in my
+life, I have never heard so much talk of sentiment, nor ever
+comprehended so little what was meant by it; so inconceivable are
+these French refinements! our simple hearts, Eloisa, never were
+governed by any of these fine maxims; and I am afraid it is with
+sentiment in the polite world, as it is with Homer among the pedants,
+who discover in him a thousand imaginary beauties, for want of taste
+to point out his real ones. So much sentiment is here laid out in wit,
+and evaporated in conversation, that none is left to influence their
+actions. Happily politeness supplies its place, and people act from
+custom nearly as they would from sensibility: at least so long as it
+costs them only a few compliments, and such trifling restraints, as
+they willingly lay themselves under in order to be respected; but, if
+any considerable sacrifice of their ease or interest is required,
+adieu to sentiment: politeness does not proceed so far; so far as it
+goes, however, you can hardly believe how nicely every article of
+behaviour is weighed, measured, and estimated. What is not regulated
+by sentiment, is subjected to custom, by which indeed every thing here
+is governed. These people are all professed copyists; and, tho’ they
+abound in originals, nobody knows any thing of them, or presumes to be
+so himself. _To do like other people_, is a maxim of the greatest
+weight in this country: _and this is the mode----that is not the
+mode_, are decisions from which there is no appeal.
+
+This apparent regularity gives to the common, and even the most
+serious transactions of life, the most comical air in the world. They
+have settled even the very moment when it is proper to send cards to
+their acquaintance; when to visit with a card, that is, to visit
+without visiting at all; when to do it in person; when it is proper to
+be at home; when to be denied; what advances it is proper to make, or
+reject on every occasion; what degree of sorrow should be affected at
+the death of such, or such a one; [25] how long to mourn in the
+country; when they may come to console themselves in town; the very
+day, and even the minute, when the afflicted is permitted to give a
+ball, or go to the play. Every body in the same circumstances does the
+same thing: they keep time, and their motions are made all together,
+like the evolutions of a regiment in battalia; so that you would think
+them so many puppets, nailed to the same board, or danced by the same
+wire.
+
+Now, as it is morally impossible that all these people, tho’ they act
+in the same manner, should be at once equally affected, it is plain,
+their peculiar characters are not to be known by their actions; it is
+plain their discourse is only a formal jargon, which assists us less
+to form a judgment of the French manners in general, than the peculiar
+mode of conversing in Paris. In like manner, we learn only here their
+terms of conversation, but nothing by which we can judge of their
+estimation in the conduct of life. I say the same of most of their
+writings; and even of their theatrical representations. The stage,
+since the time of Moliere, being a place where they rather repeat
+agreeable dialogues, than give a representation of life and manners.
+There are here three theatres; on two of which they only introduce
+imaginary characters; such as Harlequin, Pantaloon, and Scaramouch, on
+the one; and, on the other, gods, devils, and conjurers. On the third,
+they represent those immortal dramas, which give us so much pleasure
+in reading, and other new pieces, which are from time to time written
+for the stage; many of which are tragical, but not affecting. And,
+tho’ the sentiments contained in them are sometimes natural, and well
+enough adapted to the human heart, they give us not the least light
+into the peculiar manners of the people to whom they afford
+entertainment.
+
+The institution of tragedy was originally founded on religion, whose
+sanction was sufficient to establish its authority. Besides this, the
+tragic scene always presented to the Greeks an instructive and
+agreeable representation, either in the misfortunes of the Persians
+their enemies, or in the vices and follies of the kings from which
+they themselves were delivered. Should they represent in like manner
+at Berne, at Zurich, or at the Hague, the ancient tyranny of the house
+of Austria, the love of liberty and their country would make such a
+representation peculiarly interesting to the spectators: but I would
+be glad to know of what use are the tragedies of Corneille at Paris;
+and what interest its citizens can take in the fate of a Pompey or
+Sertorius. The Greek tragedies turned upon real events, or such as
+were supposed to be real, being founded on historical tradition. But
+what business has a refined heroic passion in the breasts of the
+great? the conflicts of love and virtue cause them, no doubt, many an
+unhappy day and sleepless night! the heart is doubtless vastly
+concerned in the marriage of kings! judge then of the probability and
+use of so many performances all turning on such imaginary subjects.
+
+As to comedy, it should certainly be a lively representation of the
+manners of the people for whom it is written; that it may serve them
+as a mirror to shew them their vices and follies. Terence and Plautus
+mistook their subjects; but their predecessors, Aristophanes and
+Menander, displayed Athenian manners before an Athenian audience; and
+since these, Moliere, and Moliere only, has represented still more
+ingenuously in France the manners of the French in the last age.
+
+The objects of the picture are since changed; but they have never
+since had so faithful, so masterly a painter. At present, they only
+copy on the theatre the manner of conversing in about an hundred
+families in Paris; and this is their representation of French manners:
+so that there are in this great city five or six hundred thousand
+persons, whose various characters are never introduced on the stage.
+Moliere described the shopkeeper and artisan, as well as the Marquis;
+Socrates introduces the discourses of coachmen, carpenters,
+shoemakers, and masons. But our present writers, quite of another
+stamp, think it beneath them to know what passes in a trader’s
+counting house or the shop of a mechanic: their dramas must consist of
+persons of the first quality; for by the grandeur of their characters,
+they aim at a degree of eminence they never could attain by the
+assistance of genius. Nay, the audience itself is become so very
+delicate, that the chief of the spectators are as jealous of place and
+precedence in going to a play as in making a visit, never
+condescending to be present at the representation of characters of
+inferior condition.
+
+Indeed, the people of fashion here are considered by themselves as the
+only inhabitants of the earth; all the rest of mankind are nobody. All
+the world keep a coach, a Swiss and a _Maitre d’Hotel_: all the world,
+therefore, consist of a very small number of people. Those who walk
+afoot are nobody; they are your common people, human creatures, the
+vulgar, folks in short of another world: so that a coach is not so
+necessary to carry one about, as to give one a title to existence. And
+hence there is a handful of impertinent people, who look upon
+themselves as the only beings of any consequence in the universe:
+though, were it not for the mischief they occasion, they themselves
+would not deserve to be numbered with the rest of mankind. It is
+nevertheless solely for these people that theatrical entertainments
+are made. They are represented by fictitious characters in the middle
+of the theatre, and shew themselves in real ones on each side; they
+are at once persons of the drama on the stage, and comedians in the
+boxes. It is thus that the sphere of the world and genius is
+contracted, while the present dramatic writers absurdly affect to
+introduce only characters of imaginary importance. No man is worthy of
+being brought upon the stage that does not wear a laced coat. A
+stranger would hence be apt to think France peopled only by counts and
+marquises, altho’, in fact, the more miserable and beggarly its
+inhabitants grow, the more splendid and brilliant is their
+representation on the theatre; and hence it is, that the ridiculous
+behaviour of persons of rank, in being exposed on the stage, rather
+gains ground than diminishes, and that the common people, who are ever
+aping the rich, go less to the theatre to laugh at their follies than
+to study them, and to become by imitation greater fools than the
+originals.
+
+The French are indebted even to Moliere in a great measure for this
+evil; he corrected the courtiers by spoiling the citizens, and his
+ridiculous marquises were the first model of those still more
+contemptible petit-maitres, which succeeded them in the city.
+
+There is in general much discourse and but very little action on the
+French stage: the reason of which is, perhaps, that the French talk
+much more than they do, or at least, that they pay a much greater
+regard to what is said than to what is done. I remember the answer of
+a spectator, who, in coming out from the representation of one of the
+pieces of Dionysius the tyrant, was asked, what he had seen? _I have
+seen nothing,_ said he, _but I have heard a deal of talk._ The same
+might be said of the French plays. Racine and Corneille, with all
+their genius, are no more than talkers, and their successor is the
+first of all the French poets, who, in imitation of the English, has
+sometimes ventured to bring scenes of action on the stage. In common,
+their plays consist only of witty, or florid dialogues well disposed;
+where it is obvious the chief design of the speakers is to display
+their talents of wit and elocution. In the mean time, almost every
+sentiment is delivered in the stile of a general maxim. However
+transported they may be with passion, they always preserve their
+respect to the public, of whom they think more constantly than of
+themselves: the pieces of Racine and Moliere excepted, [26] egotism is
+excluded as scrupulously from the French drama as from the writings of
+messieurs de Port-Royal; and the passions of the human heart never
+speak, but with all the modesty of Christian humility, in the third
+person. There is besides a certain affected dignity in theatrical
+discourse and action, which never permits the passions to be expressed
+in their natural language, or suffers the writer to divest himself of
+the poet and attend to the scene of action, but binds him constantly
+down to the theatre and the audience. Hence the most critical
+situations, the most interesting circumstances of the piece, never
+make him forget the nicest arrangement, of phrase or elegancies of
+attitude. Should even despair plunge a dagger in the heart of his
+hero, not contented that, like Polixenes, he should observe a decency
+in falling, he would not let him fall at all: for the sake of decency,
+he is supported bolt upright after he is dead; and continues as erect
+after he has expired as before.
+
+The reason of all this is, that a Frenchman requires on the stage
+neither nature nor deception, but only wit and sentiment: he requires
+only to be diverted, and cares not whether what he sees be a true or
+false representation of nature. No body goes here to the theatre for
+the pleasure of seeing the play, but for the sake of seeing, and being
+seen, by the company, and to catch a subject for conversation after
+the play is over. The actor with them is always the actor, never the
+character he represents. He who gives himself those important airs of
+an universal sovereign is not the emperor Augustus, it is only Baron.
+The relict of Pompey is no other than Adrienne, Alzira is mademoiselle
+Gaussin, and that formidable savage is no other than the civil
+Grandval. The comedians, on the other hand, give themselves no trouble
+to keep up an illusion which no body expects. They place the venerable
+heroes of antiquity between six rows of young, spruce Parisians: they
+have their Roman dresses made up in the French fashion: the weeping
+Cornelia is seen bathed in tears, with her rouge laid on two fingers
+thick: Cato has his hair dressed and powdered, and Brutus struts along
+in a Roman hoop-petticoat; yet no body is shocked at all this
+absurdity, nor doth it hinder the success of the piece; for, as the
+actors only are seen in the characters, so what respects the author is
+the only thing considered in the play; and, though propriety should be
+entirely neglected, it is easily excused, for every one knows that
+Corneille was no tailor, nor Crebillon a peruke-maker.
+
+Thus, in whatever light we view this people, all is verbosity and
+jargon, talk without design, and words without meaning. In the
+theatre, as in the world, be as attentive as ye will to what is said,
+you will learn nothing of what is done; when a man has spoken, it
+would be thought impertinent to enquire after his conduct: he has
+spoken, that’s sufficient, and he must stand or fall by what he has
+said. The respectable man here is not he that does good actions, but
+he that says good things; and a single sentence sometimes
+inadvertently uttered shall cast an odium on a man’s character, that
+forty years of integrity will not be able to eraze. In a word,
+although the conduct of men does not always resemble their discourse,
+yet I see they are characterized by their discourse without any regard
+to their actions: I have remarked also, that in a great city, society
+appears more free, agreeable, and even more safe, than among people
+less knowing and less civilized: but I will not pretend to say the
+latter are therefore less humane, temperate, or just. On the contrary,
+among the former, where every thing is governed by appearances, the
+heart is perhaps more hid by external shew, and lies deeper concealed
+under agreeable deceptions. It does not belong, however, to me, who am
+a stranger, without business, pleasures or connections, to decide
+here. I begin, nevertheless, to perceive in myself that intoxication
+into which such a busy tumultuous life plunges every one who leads it;
+and am affected with a dizziness like that of a man, before whose eyes
+a multitude of successive objects pass with rapidity. Not one of
+these, which thus strike me, affects my heart; but all together they
+so disturb and suspend its affections, that I sometimes forget not
+only myself, but even my Eloisa. Every day, on leaving my apartment, I
+leave my _observations_ locked up behind me, and proceed to make
+others on the frivolous objects which present themselves. Insensibly
+I begin to think and reason in the manner of other people; and, if
+ever I strive to get the better of their prejudices, and look upon
+things as they are, I am immediately borne down by a torrent of words,
+which carry with them a shew of reason. The people here will prove to
+a demonstration, that none but superficial, half-witted reasoners
+regard the reality of things; that the true philosopher considers only
+their appearances; that prejudice and prepossession should pass for
+principle, decorum for law, and that the most profound wisdom consists
+in living like fools.
+
+Thus constrained to pervert the order of the moral affections, to set
+a value on chimeras, and put nature and reason to silence, I see with
+regret, how sullied and defaced is that divine image, which I cherish
+in my breast, once the sole object of my desires, and the only guide
+of my conduct: I am borne by one caprice to another, while my
+inclinations are continually enslaved by the general opinion, and I am
+never certain one day what I shall approve the next.
+
+Abashed and confounded to find my humanity so far debased; to see
+myself fallen so low from that innate greatness of mind, to which our
+passion had reciprocally elevated us, I return home at night, with a
+heart swelling, yet vacant as a ball puffed up with air; sickened with
+disgust, and sunk in sorrow. But with what joy do I recollect myself,
+when alone! with what transports do I feel the sensations of love
+again take possession of my heart, and restore me to the dignity of a
+man! O love! how refined are thy sensations! how do I applaud myself
+when I see the image of virtue preserve its lustre still in my breast;
+when I contemplate thine, my Eloisa! still there, unsullied, sitting
+on a throne of glory, and dissipating in a moment my gloomy delusions.
+I feel my depressed soul revive; I seem to recover my existence, to
+live anew, and to regain, with my love, those sublime sentiments that
+render the passion worthy of its object.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I am just returned, my dear friend, from the enjoyment of one of the
+most delightful sights I shall ever behold. The most prudent, the most
+amiable girl in the world is at length become the most deserving, the
+best of women. The worthy man, to whom she has given her hand, lives
+only to revere, to cherish, to make her happy; and I feel that
+inexpressible pleasure of being a witness to the happiness of my
+friend, and of sharing it with her: nor will you, I am convinced,
+partake of it less than my self; you, for whom she had always the
+tenderest esteem, who were dear to her almost from her infancy, and
+have received from her obligations which should render her yet more
+dear to you. Yes, we will sympathize with all her sensations; if to
+her they give pleasure they shall afford us consolation; for, so great
+is the value of that friendship which unites us, that the happiness of
+either of the three is sufficient to moderate the afflictions of the
+other two. Let us not, however, too highly felicitate ourselves; our
+incomparable friend is going in some measure to forsake us. She is
+now entered on a new scene of life, is bound by new engagements, and
+become subject to new obligations. Her heart, which once was only
+ours, will now find room for other affections, to which friendship
+must give place. We ought therefore, my friend, to be more scrupulous
+hereafter in the services we impose on her zeal; we ought not only to
+consult the sincerity of her attachment, and the need we have of her
+service, but what may with propriety be required in her present
+situation; what may be agreeable or displeasing to her husband. We
+have no business to enquire what virtue demands in such a case, the
+laws of friendship are sufficient. He, who, for his own sake, could
+expose his friend, deserves not to have one. When ours was unmarried,
+she was at liberty; she had no body to call her to account for her
+conduct, and the uprightness of her intentions was sufficient to
+justify her to herself. She considered us as man and wife, destined
+for each other; and, her chaste yet susceptible heart, uniting a due
+regard for herself to the most tender compassion for her culpable
+friend, she concealed my fault without abetting it: but at present,
+circumstances are changed; and she is justly accountable to the man,
+to whom she has not only plighted her vows, but resigned her liberty.
+She is now entrusted not only with her own honour, but with that of
+her husband; and it is not enough that she is virtuous, her virtue
+must be respected, and her conduct approved: She must not only
+_deserve_ the esteem of her husband, but she must _obtain_ it: if he
+blames her, she is to blame: and tho’ she be innocent, she is in the
+wrong the moment she is suspected; for to study appearances, is an
+indispensable part of her duty.
+
+I cannot determine precisely how far I am right in my judgment; I
+leave that to you: but there is a monitor within that tells me it is
+not right, my cousin should continue to be my confident; nor that she
+should be the first to tell me so. I may be frequently mistaken in my
+arguments, but I am convinced I am always right in the sensations on
+which they are founded; and this makes me confide more in those
+sensations than on the deductions of my reason.
+
+From this consideration, I have already formed a pretence to get back
+your letters, which, for fear of a surprise I had put into her hands.
+She returned them with an oppression of heart, which that of mine made
+me easily perceive; and which convinced me I had acted as I ought. We
+entered into no explanation, but our looks were sufficiently
+expressive; she embraced me, and burst into tears: the tender
+sensibility of friendship hath little occasion for the assistance of
+language.
+
+With respect to the future address of your letters, I thought
+immediately of my little Anet, as the safest; but if this young woman
+be inferior in rank to my cousin, is that a reason we should less
+regard her virtue? have I not reason, on the contrary, to fear my
+example may be more dangerous to one of less elevated sentiments; that
+what was only an effort of the sublimest friendship in one, may be the
+first step to corruption in the other; and that, in abusing her
+gratitude, I may make virtue itself subservient to the promotion of
+vice? is it not enough, alas! for me to be culpable, without seducing
+accomplices, and aggravating my own crime, by involving others in my
+guilt? of this, therefore, no more: I have hit on another expedient,
+less safe indeed, but less exceptionable, as it lays nobody open to
+censure, nor requires a confident. It is for you to write to me under
+a fictitious name; as for example, that of Mr. Bosquet, and to send
+your letters under cover addressed to Regianino, whom I shall take
+care to instruct. Thus Regianino himself may know nothing of our
+correspondence, or at most can only form suspicions, which he dares
+not confirm; for Lord B----, on whose favour he depends, has answered
+for his fidelity. In the mean time, while our correspondence is
+maintained by this means, I will try if it be possible to resume the
+method we made use of in your voyage to the Valois, or some other that
+may be durable and safe.
+
+There is something in the turn and stile of your letters, that would
+convince me, were I even unacquainted with the state of your heart,
+that the life you lead at Paris is in no wise agreeable to your
+inclinations. The letters of Muralt, of which they so loudly complain
+in France, are even less satirical and severe than yours. Like a child
+that is angry with its tutors, you revenge the disagreeable necessity
+you are under of studying the world, upon your first teachers.
+
+What I am surprized at the most, however, is, that the very
+circumstance, which usually prejudices foreigners in favour of the
+French, should give you disgust. I mean their polite reception of
+strangers, and their general turn of conversation; tho’ by your own
+confession, you have met with great civility. I have not forgot your
+distinction between Paris in particular, and great cities in general;
+but I see plainly, that, without knowing precisely what belongs to
+either, you censure without considering whether it be truth or
+slander. But, however, this be, the French are my favourites, and you
+don’t at all oblige me in reviling them. It is to the many excellent
+writings France has produced, that I am indebted for most of those
+lessons, by which we have together profited. If Switzerland is emerged
+from its ancient barbarity, to whom is it obliged? the two greatest
+and most virtuous men in modern story, Catinat and Fenelon, were both
+Frenchmen. Henry the fourth, the good king, whose character I admire,
+was a Frenchman. If France be not the country of liberty, it is
+properly that of men; a superior advantage in the eyes of a
+philosopher to that of licentious freedom. Hospitable, protectors of
+the stranger, the French overlook real insult, and a man would be
+pelted in London for saying half so much against the English, as the
+French will bear at Paris. My father, who hath spent the greatest part
+of his life in France, never speaks but with rapture of this agreeable
+people. If he has spilt his blood in the service of its king, he has
+not been forgotten in his retirement, but is still honoured by royal
+beneficence. Hence, I think myself in some degree interested in the
+glory of a nation, to which that of my father is indebted. If the
+people of all nations, my friend, have their good and ill qualities,
+you ought surely to pay the same regard to that impartiality which
+praises, as to that which blames them.
+
+To be more particular with you, I will ask you why you throw away in
+idle visits the time you are to spend at Paris? Is not Paris a
+theatre, wherein great talents may be displayed, as well as London?
+and do strangers find more difficulties in their way to reputation in
+the former, than they do in the latter? believe me, all the English
+are not like Lord B----, nor do all the French resemble those fine
+talkers that give you so much disgust. Try, put them to the proof,
+tho’ it be only to acquire a more intimate acquaintance with their
+manners; and judge of people, that you own speak so well, by their
+deeds. My cousin’s father says, you know the constitution of the
+empire, and the interests of princes. My Lord B---- acknowledges also,
+that you are well versed in the principles of politics, and the
+various systems of government: and I have got it into my head that of
+all countries in the world you will succeed best in that where merit
+is most esteemed, and that you want only to be known, to be honourably
+employed. As to your religion’s being an obstacle, why should yours be
+more so than another’s? is not good sense a security against
+fanaticism and persecution? does bigotry prevail more in France, than
+in Germany? and is there any thing that should hinder your succeeding
+at Paris, as Mr. St. Saphorin has done at Vienna? if you consider the
+end, the more speedy your attempts the sooner may you promise yourself
+success. If you balance the means, it is certainly more reputable for
+a man to advance himself by his own abilities, than to be obliged for
+preferment to his friends. But, if you purpose a longer voyage----
+ah! that _sea!_----I should like England better if it lay on this side
+Paris.----But, a-propos, now I talk of Paris, may I venture to take
+notice of another piece of affection, I have remarked in your letters?
+how comes it that you, who spoke to me so freely of the women of this
+country, say nothing about the Parisian ladies? can those celebrated
+and polite females be less worth your description, than the simple and
+unpolished inhabitants of the mountains? or are you apprehensive of
+giving me uneasiness by a picture of the most charming and seductive
+creatures in the universe? If this be the case, my friend, undeceive
+your-self, and rest assured, that the worst thing you can do for my
+repose is to say nothing about them and that, however, you might
+praise them, your silence in that respect is more suspicious than
+would be your highest encomiums. I shall be glad also to have some
+little account of the opera at Paris, of which we hear such wonders;
+[27] for, after all, the music may be bad, and yet the representation
+have its beauties; but if not, it will at least, afford a subject for
+your criticism, which will offend no body.
+
+I know not whether it be worth while to tell you, that my cousin’s
+wedding produced me two suitors; they met here a few days ago; one of
+them from Yverdon, hunting all the way from castle to castle, and the
+other from Germany, in the stage-coach from Berne. The first is a kind
+of smart, that speaks loud and peremptory enough to make his repartees
+pass for wit, among those who attend only to his manner. The other is
+a great bashful simpleton, whose timidity, however, is not of that
+amiable kind which arises from the fear of displeasing; but is owing
+to the embarrassment of a blockhead, that knows not what to say, and
+the awkwardness of a libertine who is at a loss how to behave himself
+in the company of modest women. As I well know the intentions of my
+father in regard to these two gentlemen, I took, with pleasure, the
+freedom he gave me, of treating them agreeable to my own humour,
+which, I believe, is such as will soon get the better of that which
+brought them hither. I hate them for their presumption, in pretending
+to a heart which is yours, without the least merit to dispute it with
+you; yet if they had ever so much, I should hate them the more; but
+where could they acquire it? they or any other man in the universe?
+no, my dear friend, rest satisfied, it is impossible. Nay, were it
+possible that another should be possessed of equal merit, or even that
+another _you_ should attack my heart, I should never listen to any but
+the first. Be not uneasy, therefore, at these two animals, which I
+have with regret condescended to mention. What pleasure should I have
+in being able to give them both such equal portions of disgust, as
+that they should resolve to depart both together as they came.
+
+M. de Crouzas has lately given us a refutation of the ethic epistles
+of Mr. Pope, which I have read, but it did not please me. I will not
+take upon me to say which of these two authors is in the right, but I
+am conscious that M. de Crouza’s book will never excite the reader to
+do any one virtuous action, while our zeal for every thing great and
+good is awakened by that of Pope. For my own part, I have no other
+rule by which to judge of what I read, than that of consulting the
+dispositions in which I rise up from my book, nor can I well conceive
+what sort of merit any piece has to boast, the reading of which leaves
+no benevolent impression behind it, nor stimulates the reader to any
+thing that is good. [28]
+
+Adieu, my dear friend, I would not finish my letter so soon, but am
+called away. I leave you with regret, for I am at present in a
+chearful disposition, and I love you should partake of my happiness.
+The cause which now inspires it is, that my dear mother is much better
+within these few days; she has indeed found herself so well as to be
+present at the wedding, and to give away her niece, or rather her
+other daughter. Poor Clara wept for joy to see her; and I----but you
+may judge of my sensations, who, deserving her so little, hourly
+tremble at the thoughts of losing her. In fact, she did the honours of
+the table, and acquitted herself on the occasion with as good a grace
+as if she had been in perfect health. Nay, it seemed to me that some
+remains of languor in her disposition rendered her elegant
+complacencies still more affecting. Never did this incomparable parent
+appear so good, so charming, so worthy to be revered!----Do you know
+that she asked Mr. Orbe concerning you several times? Although she
+never speaks of you to me, I am not ignorant of her esteem for you;
+and that if ever she were consulted, your happiness and mine would be
+her first concern. Ah! my friend, if your heart can be truly grateful,
+you owe many, many obligations!
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXIV. To Eloisa.
+
+
+There, my Eloisa, scold me, quarrel with me, beat me; I will endure
+every thing, but I will not cease to acquaint you with my thoughts.
+Who should be the depositary of those sentiments you have enlightened,
+and with whom should my heart hold converse, if you refuse to hear me?
+I give you an account of the observations I have made, and of my own
+opinions, not so much for your approbation, as correction; and the
+more liable I am to fall into error, the more punctual I should be in
+my applications to your judgment. If I censure the manners of the
+people in this great city, I do not seek to be justified for taking
+this liberty, because I write to you in confidence; for I never say
+any thing of a third person, which I would not aver to his face; and
+all I write to you concerning the Parisians, is no more than a
+repetition of what I daily advance in conversation with themselves:
+however, they are not displeased with me, and they even join with me
+in many particulars. They complain of our _Muralt_; I am persuaded,
+they see, and are convinced, how much he hated them, even in his
+panegyricks; but, I am much mistaken, if, in my criticism they do not
+perceive the contrary. The esteem and gratitude their generosity
+inspires, but increases my freedom; it may be serviceable to some of
+them, and, if I may judge from their manner of receiving truth from my
+lips, they do not think me below their regard. When this is the case,
+my Eloisa, true censure is more laudable than even true praise; for
+that only serves to corrupt the heart of those on whom it is bestowed,
+and there are none so eager to obtain it as the most worthless; on the
+contrary, censure may be useful, and can only be endured by the most
+deserving. I sincerely own, I honour the French as the only people in
+the world who really love their fellow creatures, and who are
+naturally benevolent; but, for this very reason, I am less inclined to
+grant them that general admiration they seem to expect, even for the
+faults they acknowledge. If the French had no virtues, I should not
+mention them; if they had no vices they would not be men: they have
+too many excellent qualities for indiscriminate praise.
+
+As to the attempts you mention, they are impracticable, because I
+should be obliged to use means which are not only inconvenient, but
+which you have also interdicted. Republican austerity is not in vogue
+here; they need more flexible virtues, which are more easily adapted
+to the interest of their friends or patrons. They respect merit, I
+confess, but the talents that acquire reputation are very different
+from those which lead to fortune; and, if I am so unfortunate as to
+possess the latter only, will Eloisa consent to become the wife of an
+adventurer? In England it is quite the contrary, and though their
+manners are perhaps less refined than in France, yet they rise to
+fortune by more honourable steps, because the people having more share
+in the government, public esteem is of more consequence. You are not
+ignorant of what Lord B---- proposed to do for me, and of my intention
+to justify his zeal. I can have no objection to any spot on the globe
+except its distance from you. O Eloisa! if it is difficult to procure
+your hand, it is still more difficult to deserve so great a blessing,
+and yet, methinks, ’tis a noble task.
+
+The good account you give of your mother’s health, relieved me from
+the greatest anxiety. I perceived your distress, even before my
+departure, and therefore I durst not express my fears; but I thought
+her so changed, that I was apprehensive she would fall into some
+dangerous illness, Be careful of her, because she is dear to me,
+be cause my heart reveres her, because all my hopes are centered in
+her goodness, and because she is the mother of my Eloisa.
+
+As for the two suitors, I own, I do not like to hear of them, even in
+jest; but the manner in which you mention them expels my fears, and I
+will no longer hate these unfortunate pretenders, since you imagine
+they are hated by you: yet I admire your simplicity in believing
+yourself capable of hatred. Don’t you perceive that what you take for
+hatred, is nothing more than the impatience of insulted love? thus
+anxious mourns the amorous turtle when its beloved mate is in danger
+of being caught. No, Eloisa, no, incomparable maid! when you are
+capable of hatred, I may cease to love you.
+
+P. S. Beset by two importunate rivals! how I pity you! for your own
+sake, hasten their dismission.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I have delivered into Mr. Orbe’s hands a packet which he has engaged
+to forward to M. Sylvester, from whom you will receive it; but I
+caution you, my dear friend, not to open it, till you retire into your
+own chamber, and are quite alone. You will find in this packet a small
+trinket for your particular use.
+
+’Tis a kind of charm which lovers gladly wear. The manner of using it
+is very whimsical. It must be contemplated for a quarter of an hour
+every morning, or until it softens the spectator into a certain degree
+of tenderness. It is then applied to the eyes, the mouth, and next to
+the heart: and it is generally esteemed the best preservative against
+the noxious air of a country infected with gallantry. They even
+attribute an electrical quality, to these talismans, which is very
+singular, but which acts only upon faithful lovers. They say it
+communicates the impression of kisses from one to the other, though at
+the distance of a hundred leagues. I do not pretend to warrant the
+success of this charm from experience; only, this I know, it is your
+own fault if you do not put it to the proof.
+
+Calm your fears with regard to my two gallants, or pretenders, call
+them which you please. They are gone: let them depart in peace; I
+shall no longer hate them, since they are out of my sight.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXVI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+And so, my Eloisa, you insist on a description of these Parisian
+ladies? vain girl! but it is a homage due to your charms.
+Notwithstanding all your affected jealousy, your modesty, and your
+love, I have discovered more vanity than fear disguised under this
+curiosity. Be it as it will, I shall be just; I may safely speak the
+truth; but I should undertake the taste with better spirits if I had
+more to praise. Why are they not a hundred times more lovely! would
+they had sufficient charms, to reflect new excellence upon yours by
+the comparison!
+
+You complain of my silence: good heaven! what could I have written?
+when you have read this letter, you will perceive why I take pleasure
+in speaking of your neighbours, the Valesian ladies, and why I have
+hitherto neglected to mention those of this country: the first
+continually remind me of you, my Eloisa, but the others----read, and
+you will know. Few people think of the French ladies as I do, if
+indeed, I am not quite singular in my opinion. Equity obliges me
+therefore to give you this hint, that you may suppose I delineate
+them, perhaps, not as they are in reality, but as they appear to me.
+Nevertheless, if I am not just in my description, I know you will
+censure me; and then will your injustice be greater than mine, because
+the fault is entirely your own.
+
+Let us begin with their exterior qualities; the greatest number of
+observers proceed no farther should I follow their example, the women
+in this country would have great cause to be dissatisfied: they have
+an _exterior_ character as well as an _exterior_ face, and as neither
+one or the other is much to their advantage, it would be unjust to
+form our opinions of them from either. Their figure, for the most
+part, is only tolerable, and in the general rather indifferent than
+perfect; yet there are exceptions. They are slender rather than well-
+made, and therefore they gladly embrace the fashions which disguise
+them most; but, I find that in other countries, the women are foolish
+enough to imitate there fashions, tho’ contrived merely to hide
+defects which they have not.
+
+Their air is easy and natural, their manner free and unaffected,
+because they hate all restraint; but they have a certain
+_disinvoltura_, [29] which, though it is not entirely destitute of
+grace, they frequently carry, even to a degree of absurdity. Their
+complexion is moderately fair, and they are commonly pale, which does
+not in the least add to their beauty. With regard to their necks, they
+are in the opposite extreme to the Valesians. Conscious of this
+defect, they endeavour to supply it by art; nor are they less
+scrupulous in borrowing an artificial whiteness. Though I have never
+seen these objects but at a distance, they expose so much of
+themselves, that they leave the spectators very little room for
+conjecture. In this case, these ladies seem not to understand their
+own interest; for if the face is but moderately handsome, the
+imagination heightens every concealed charm, and according to the
+gascon philosopher, there is no appetite so strong as that which was
+never satisfied, especially in this sense.
+
+Their features are not very regular, but they have something in their
+countenance which supplies the place of beauty, and which is sometimes
+much more agreeable. Their eyes are quick and sparkling, yet they are
+neither penetrating nor sweet: they strive to animate them by the help
+of rouge, but the expression they acquire by this means, has more of
+anger in it than love; nature has given them sprightliness only, and
+though they sometimes seem to solicit tenderness, they never promise a
+return. [30]
+
+They have acquired so great a reputation for their judgment in dress,
+that they are patterns to all Europe. Indeed, it is impossible to
+adapt such absurd fashions with more taste. They are, of all women,
+the least under subjection to their own modes. Fashion governs in the
+provinces, but the Parisians govern fashion, and every one of them is
+skilled in suiting it to her own advantage: the first are ignorant and
+servile plagiarists, who copy even orthographical errors; the latter
+are like authors, who imitate with judgment, and have abilities to
+correct the mistakes of their original.
+
+Their apparel is more uncommon than magnificent, more elegant than
+rich. The rapid succession of their fashions renders them old and
+obsolete even from one year to another; that neatness which induces
+them to change their dress so frequently, preserves them from much
+ridiculous magnificence; they do not however spend less money on that
+account, but their expenses are, by this means, better conducted. They
+differ greatly in this particular from the Italians; instead of superb
+trimmings and embroidery, their cloaths are always plain and new. Both
+sexes observe the same moderation and delicacy, which is extremely
+pleasing: for my part I like to see a coat neither laced nor foiled.
+There is no nation in the world, except our own, where the people,
+especially the women, wear less gold and silver. The same kind of
+stuffs are wore by people of all ranks, so that it would be difficult
+to distinguish a duchess from a citizen, if the first had not some
+marks of distinction which the other dares not imitate. But this seems
+to have its inconveniences, for whatever is the fashion at court, is
+immediately followed in the city, and you never see in Paris, as in
+other countries, a beau or belle of the last age. Nevertheless, it is
+not here as in most other places, where the people of the highest
+rank, being also the richest, the women of fashion distinguish
+themselves by a degree of luxury which cannot be equalled. Had the
+ladies of the court of France attempted this kind of distinction, they
+would very soon have been eclipsed by the wives of the citizens.
+
+What then do you think was their resource? why they took a much more
+effectual method, and which required more abilities. They knew that
+the minds of the people were deeply impressed with a sense of
+bashfulness and modesty. This suggested to them fashions not to be
+easily imitated. They perceived that the people could not endure the
+thoughts of _rouge_, and that they obstinately persisted in calling it
+by the vulgar name of paint, and therefore they daubed their cheeks,
+not with paint, but with _rouge_; for change but the name, and ’tis no
+longer the same thing. They also perceived that a bare neck was
+scandalous in the eyes of the public; and, for that reason, they chose
+to enlarge the scene. They saw----many things, which, my Eloisa,
+young as she is, will never see. In their manners they are governed
+exactly by the same principle. That charming diffidence which
+distinguishes and adorns the sex, they despise as ignoble and vile;
+they animate their actions and discourse with a noble assurance, and,
+I am confident, they would look any modest man out of countenance.
+Thus they cease to be women, to avoid being confounded with the
+vulgar; they prefer their rank to their sex, and imitate women of
+pleasure that they themselves may be above imitation.
+
+I know not how far they may have carried _their_ imitation, but I am
+certain they have not succeeded in their design to prevent it in
+others. As to _rouge_, and the fashion of displaying those charms,
+which they ought to conceal, they have made all the progress that was
+possible. The ladies of the city had much rather renounce their
+natural complexion, and the charms they might borrow from the amoroso
+_pensier_ [31] of their lovers, than preserve the appearance of what
+they are; and if this example has not prevailed among the lower sort
+of people, ’tis only because they are afraid of being insulted by the
+populace; and thus are an infinite number of women kept within the
+bounds of decency, by the fear of offending the delicacy of the mob.
+Their masculine air, and dragon-like deportment is less striking
+because so universal; it is conspicuous only to strangers. From one
+end of this metropolis to the other there is scarce a woman whose
+appearance is not sufficiently bold to disconcert any man who has
+never been accustomed to the like in his own country; from this
+astonishment proceeds that awkward confusion which they attribute to
+all strangers, and which increases the moment she opens her lips. They
+have not the sweet voice of our country-women; their accent is hoarse,
+sharp, interrogative, imperious, jibing, and louder than that of a
+man. If, in the tone of their voice, they retain any thing feminine,
+it is entirely lost in the impertinence of their manner. They seem to
+enjoy the bashful confusion of every foreigner; but it would probably
+give them less pleasure, if they were acquainted with its true cause.
+
+Whether it be, that I, in particular, am prejudiced in favour of
+beauty, or whether the power of beauty may not universally influence
+the judgment, I know not; but the handsomest women appear to me,
+rather the most decent in their dress, and in general, behave with the
+greatest modesty. They lose nothing by this reserve; conscious of
+their advantages, they know they have no need of borrowed allurements
+to attract our admiration. It may be also, that impudence is more
+intolerably disgusting when joined with ugliness; for certainly, I
+should much sooner be tempted to affront an impertinent ugly woman,
+than to embrace her; whereas, by modesty, she might excite, even a
+tender compassion, which is often a harbinger of love. But, though it
+is generally remarked, that the prettiest women are the best behaved,
+yet they are often so extremely affected, and are always so evidently
+taken up with themselves, that, in this country, there is little
+danger of being exposed to that temptation which M. de Muralt
+sometimes experienced amongst the English ladies, of telling a woman
+she was handsome, only for the pleasure of persuading her to think so.
+
+Neither the natural gaiety of the French, nor their love of
+singularity, is the cause of this freedom of conversation and
+behaviour for which these ladies are so remarkable; but it is rather
+to be deduced from their manners, by which they are authorized to
+spend all their time in the company of men; and hence it is, that the
+behaviour of each sex seems to be copied from the other.
+
+Our Swiss ladies, on the contrary, are fond of little female
+assemblies, in which they are extremely social and happy; [32] for,
+though they probably may not dislike the company of men, yet it is
+certain their presence is some constraint upon them.
+
+In Paris it is quite the reverse; the women are never easy nor
+satisfied without the men. In most companies, the lady of the house is
+seen alone amidst a circle of gentlemen, and this is so generally the
+case, that one cannot help wondering how such an unequal proportion of
+men can be every where assembled. But Paris is full of _avanturiers_,
+priests and abbés, who spend their whole lives in running from house
+to house. Thus the women learn to think, act and speak from the men,
+whilst these, in return, imbibe a certain degree of effeminacy; and
+this seems the only consequence of their trifling gallantry: however,
+they enjoy a fulsome adoration, in which their devotees do not think
+it worth while to preserve even the appearance of sincerity. No
+matter: in the midst of her circle, she is the sole object of
+attention, and that’s sufficient. But, if a second female enters the
+room, familiarity instantly gives place to ceremony, the high airs of
+quality are assumed, the adoration becomes divided, and each continues
+to be a secret constraint upon the other till the company breaks up.
+
+The Parisian ladies are fond of public diversions: that is, they are
+fond of shewing themselves in public; but the great difficulty, every
+time they go, is to find a female companion, for decorum will not
+allow one lady alone to appear in the boxes, even though attended by
+her husband, or by any other man. It is amazing, in this very social
+country, how difficult it is to form these parties; out of ten that
+are proposed, nine generally miscarry: they are projected by the
+desire of being seen, and are broken by the disagreeable necessity for
+a sister petticoat. I should imagine it an easy matter for the ladies
+to abolish this ridiculous custom. What reason can there be why a
+woman should not be seen alone in public? perhaps, there being no
+reason for it, is the very cause of its continuance. However, upon the
+whole, it may be prudent to preserve decency where the abolition would
+be attended with no great satisfaction. What great matter would there
+be in the privilege of appearing alone at the opera? is it not much
+better to reserve this exclusive privilege for the private reception
+of one’s friends in one’s own house?
+
+Nothing can be more certain than that this custom of being alone
+amidst such a number of men, is productive of many secret connections:
+indeed the world is pretty well convinced of it, since experience has
+proved the absurdity of that maxim, which told us, that by multiplying
+temptations we should destroy them; so that they do not defend this
+fashion for its decency, but that it is most agreeable; which, by the
+by, I do not believe. How can any love exist, where modesty is held in
+derision? and what pleasure can there be in a life which is at once
+deprived both of love and decency? but as the want of entertainment is
+the greatest evil which these slaves to dissipation have to fear, the
+ladies are solicitous for amusement rather than love; gallantry and
+attendance is all they require, and provided their danglers are
+assiduous, they are very indifferent about the violence or sincerity
+of their passion. The words _love_ and _lover_ are entirely banished
+even from the most private intercourse of the sexes, and are sunk into
+oblivion with the _darts_ and _flames_ of ancient romance.
+
+One would imagine that the whole order of natural sensations was here
+reversed. A girl is to have no feelings, passions, or attachments;
+that privilege is reserved for the married women, and excludes no
+paramour except their husbands. The mother had better have twenty
+lovers, than her daughter one. Adultery is considered as no crime, and
+conveys no indecency in the idea: their romances, which are
+universally read for instruction, are full of it, and there appears
+nothing shocking in its consequences, provided the lovers do not
+render themselves contemptible by their fidelity. O Eloisa! there are
+many women in this city, who have defiled their marriage-bed a hundred
+times, yet would presume, with the voice of impurity, to slander an
+union like ours, that is yet unsullied with infidelity.
+
+It should seem that in Paris, marriage is a different institution from
+what it is in other parts of the world: they call it a sacrament, and
+yet it has not half the power of a common contract. It appears to be
+nothing more than a private agreement between two persons to live
+together, to bear the same name, and acknowledge the same children;
+but who, in other respects, have no authority one over the other. If
+at Paris a man should pretend to be offended with the ill conduct of
+his wife, he would be as generally despised, as if, in our country, he
+was to take no notice of her scandalous behaviour. Nor are the ladies
+on their parts less indulgent to their husbands; for I have not yet
+heard of an instance of their being punished for having imitated the
+infidelity of their wives. In short, what other effect can be expected
+from an union in which their hearts were never consulted? those who
+marry fortune or title, seem to be under no personal obligation.
+
+Love, even love, has lost its privilege, and is no less degenerated
+than marriage. As man and wife may be looked upon as a bachelor and a
+maid, who live together for the sake of enjoying more liberty; so are
+lovers a kind of people, who, with great indifference, meet for
+amusement, through custom, or out of vanity. The heart is entirely
+unconcerned in these attachments, in which nothing more than certain
+external conveniences are ever consulted: it is, in short, to know
+each other, to dine together, now and then to exchange a few words,
+or, if possible, even less than this. An affair of gallantry lasts but
+a little longer than a visit, and consists chiefly in a few genteel
+conversations, and three or four pretty letters, filled with
+descriptions, maxims, philosophy, and wit. As to experimental
+philosophy, it does not require so much mystery; they have wisely
+discovered the folly of letting slip any opportunity of gratification:
+whether it happens to be the lover or any other man, a man is a man,
+and why should a lady be more scrupulous of being guilty of an
+infidelity to her lover than to her husband? after a certain age they
+may all be considered as the same kind of puppets, made up by the same
+fashion monger, and consequently the first that comes to hand is
+always the best.
+
+Knowing nothing of these matters from experience, I can relate only
+what I have heard; and indeed, the representation is so very
+extraordinary, that I have but an imperfect idea of what I have been
+told. That which I chiefly comprehend is, that the gallant is
+generally regarded as one of the family; that if the lady happens to
+be dissatisfied with him, he is dismissed, or if he meets with a
+service more to his inclination or advantage, he takes his leave, and
+she engages a fresh one. There are, I have been told, some ladies so
+capricious as even to take up with their own husbands for a while,
+considering them, at least, as a kind of male creature; but this whim
+seldom lasts long: as soon as it is past, the good man is entirely
+discarded, or, if he should happen to be obstinate, why then she takes
+another and keeps them both.
+
+But I could not help objecting to the person who gave me this strange
+account, how it was possible, after this, to live among these
+discarded lovers. Live among them, says he, why, they are entire
+strangers to her ever after; and if they should, by chance, take it
+into their heads to renew their amours, they would have to begin anew,
+and would hardly be able to recollect their former acquaintance. I
+understand you, I replied, but I have great difficulty in reconciling
+these extravagancies. I cannot conceive how it is possible, after such
+a tender union, to see each other without emotion; how the heart can
+avoid palpitation, even at the name of a person once beloved; why they
+do not tremble when they meet. You make me laugh, says he, with your
+tremblings: and so you would have our ladies continually fainting
+away.
+
+Suppress a part of this caricature representation; place my Eloisa in
+opposition to the rest, and remember the sincerity of my heart: I have
+nothing more to add.
+
+However, I must confess, that many of these disagreeable impressions
+are effaced by custom. Though the dark side of their character may
+first catch our attention, it is no reason why we should be blind to
+their amiable qualities. The charms of their understanding and good
+humour are no small addition to their personal accomplishments. Our
+first repugnance overcome frequently generates a contrary sentiment.
+It is not just to view the picture only in its worst point of sight.
+
+The first inconveniency of great cities is, that mankind are generally
+disguised, and that in society they appear different from what they
+really are. This is particularly true in Paris with regard to the
+ladies, who derive from the observation of others, the only existence
+about which they are solicitous. When you meet a lady in public,
+instead of seeing a Parisian, as you imagine, you behold only a
+phantom of the fashion: her stature, dimension, gait, shape, neck,
+colour, air, look, language, every thing is assumed; so that, if you
+were to see her in her natural state, you would not know her to be the
+same creature. But this universal mask is greatly to her disadvantage;
+for nature’s substitutes are always inferior to herself: besides, it
+is almost impossible to conceal her entirely; in spite of us, she will
+now and then discover herself, and in seizing her with dexterity
+consists the true art of observation. This is indeed no difficult
+matter in conversing with the women of this country, for, if you take
+them off their grand theatre of representation, and consider them
+attentively, you will see them as they really are, and it is then
+possible that your aversion may be changed into esteem and friendship.
+
+I had an opportunity of verifying this remark last week, on a party of
+pleasure, to which, along with some other strangers, I was, abruptly
+enough, invited by a company of ladies, probably with a design to
+laugh at us without constraint or interruption. The first day the
+project succeeded to their wish: they immediately began to dart their
+wit and pleasantry in showers, but as their arrows were not retorted,
+their quivers were soon empty. They then behaved with great decency,
+and finding themselves unable to bring us to _their_ stile, they were
+obliged to conform to ours. Whether they were pleased with it or not I
+am ignorant; however, the change was very agreeable to me, for I soon
+found that I stood a better chance to profit by the conversation of
+these females, than from the generality of men. Their wit now appeared
+so great an ornament to their natural good sense, that I changed my
+opinion of the sex, and could not help lamenting, that so many amiable
+women should want reason, only because it is their humour to reject
+it. I perceived also that their natural graces began insensibly to
+efface the artificial airs of the city: for, without design, our
+manner is generally influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is
+impossible to introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational
+conversation. They appeared much more handsome after they grew
+indifferent about it, and I perceived, that if they would please, they
+need only throw off their affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude,
+that Paris, the pretended seat of taste, is of all places in the
+world, that in which there is the least; since all their methods of
+pleasing are destructive of real beauty.
+
+Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each
+other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its
+innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our
+whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We
+wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our
+laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.
+
+I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these
+females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would
+come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,
+shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable
+time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this
+correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,
+however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that
+though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.
+But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed
+Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the
+parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of
+their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,
+regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit
+with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a form of hail, was
+going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to
+make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent
+in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in
+favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I
+was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little
+ostentation this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable
+offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,
+she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard
+her with respect, and all her faults vanished.
+
+My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a
+thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before
+appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,
+provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the
+world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more
+judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,
+Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and
+wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my
+Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.
+But if, with a French woman, humour to reject it. I perceived also
+that their natural graces began insensibly to efface the artificial
+airs of the city: for, without design, our manner is generally
+influenced by the nature of our discourse: it is impossible to
+introduce much coquettish grimace in a rational conversation. They
+appeared much more handsome after they grew indifferent about it, and
+I perceived, that if they would please, they need only throw off their
+affectation. Hence, I am apt to conclude, that Paris, the pretended
+seat of taste, is of all places in the world, that in which there is
+the least; since all their methods of pleasing are destructive of real
+beauty.
+
+Thus we continued together four or five days, satisfied with each
+other, and with ourselves. Instead of satirising Paris and its
+innumerable follies, we forgot both the city and its inhabitants. Our
+whole care was to promote the happiness of our little society. We
+wanted no ill-natured wit or sarcasm to excite our mirth, but our
+laughter, like your cousin’s, was the effect of good humour.
+
+I had yet another reason to be confirmed in my good opinion of these
+females. Frequently in the very midst of our enjoyment, a person would
+come in abruptly and whisper the lady of the house. She left the room,
+shut herself up in her closet, and continued writing a considerable
+time. It was natural to suppose, that her heart was engaged in this
+correspondence; and of this one of the company gave a hint, which,
+however, was not very graciously received; a proof at least, that
+though she might possibly have no lovers, she was not without friends.
+But, judge of my surprize, when I was informed that these supposed
+Parisian suitors were no other than the unhappy peasants of the
+parish, who came in their tribulation to implore the protection of
+their lady; one being unjustly taxed, another enrolled in the militia,
+regardless of his age and family, a third groaning under a lawsuit
+with a powerful neighbour, a fourth ruined by a storm of hail, was
+going to be dragged to prison. In short, each had some petition to
+make, each was patiently heard, and the time we supposed to be spent
+in an amorous correspondence, was employed in writing letters in
+favour of these unhappy sufferers. It is impossible to conceive how I
+was astonished to find with what delight, and with how little
+ostentation, this young, this gay woman, performed these charitable
+offices of humanity. Oh, says I to myself, if she were even Eloisa,
+she could not act otherwise! From that moment I continued to regard
+her with respect, and all her faults vanished.
+
+My enquiries had no sooner taken this turn, than I began to discover a
+thousand advantageous particulars in the very women who before
+appeared so insupportable. Indeed all strangers are agreed, that,
+provided you exclude the fashionable topic, there is no country in the
+world whose women have more knowledge, talk more sensibly, with more
+judgment, and are more capable of giving advice. If from the Spanish,
+Italian, or German ladies, we should take the jargon of gallantry and
+wit, what would there remain of their conversation? and you, my
+Eloisa, are not ignorant how it is in general with our country-women.
+But if, with a French woman, a man has resolution to sacrifice his
+pretensions to gallantry, and to draw her out of that favourite
+fortress, she will then make a virtue of necessity, and arming herself
+with reason, will fight manfully in the open field. With regard to
+their goodness of heart. I will not instance their zeal to serve their
+friends; for, as with the rest of mankind, that may partly proceed
+from self-love. But, though they generally love no body but
+themselves, long habit will frequently produce in them the effects of
+a sincere friendship. Those who have constancy enough to support an
+attachment of ten years, commonly continue it to the end of their
+lives, and they will then love their old friends with more tenderness,
+at least with more fidelity than their new lovers.
+
+One common accusation against the women of France is, that they do
+every thing, and consequently more evil than good; but it may be
+observed in their justification, that in doing evil they are
+stimulated by the men, and in doing good are actuated by their own
+principles. This does not in any ways contradict what I said before,
+that the heart has no concern in the commerce between the two sexes;
+for the gallantry of the French has given to the women an universal
+power, which stands in no need of tenderness to support it. Every
+thing depends upon the ladies; all things are done by them or for
+them; Olympus and Parnassus, glory and fortune, are equally subject to
+their laws. Neither books nor authors have any other value or esteem
+than that which the ladies are pleased to allow them. There is no
+appeal from their decree in matters of the nicest judgment or most
+trivial taste. Poetry, criticism, history, philosophy, are all
+calculated for the ladies, and even the bible itself has lately been
+metamorphosed into a polite romance. In public affairs, their
+influence arises from their natural ascendency over their husbands,
+not because they are their husbands, but because they are men, and it
+would be monstrous for a man to refuse any thing to a lady, even
+though she were his wife.
+
+Yet this authority implies neither attachment nor esteem, but merely
+politeness and compliance with custom; for it is as essential to
+French gallantry to despise the women as to oblige them; and this
+contempt is taken as a proof, that a man has seen enough of the world
+to know the sex. Whoever treats them with respect is deemed a novice,
+a knight-errant, one who has known woman only in romances. They judge
+so equitably of themselves, that to honour them is to forfeit their
+esteem; so that the principal requisite in a man of gallantry is
+superlative impertinence.
+
+Let the ladies of this country pretend what they will, they are, in
+spite of themselves, extremely good-natured. All men who are burthened
+with a multiplicity of affairs, are difficult of access, and without
+commiseration; and in Paris, the center of business of one of the most
+considerable nations in Europe, the men of consequence are
+particularly obdurate: those, therefore, who have any thing to ask,
+naturally apply to the ladies, whose ears are never shut against the
+unhappy; they console and serve them. In the midst of all their
+frivolous dissipation, they do not scruple to steal a few moments from
+their pleasure, and devote them to acts of benevolence; and though
+there may be some women mean enough to make an infamous traffic of
+their services, there are hundreds, on the contrary, who are daily
+employed in charitably assisting the distressed. However, it must be
+confessed, that they are sometimes so indiscreet, as to ruin an
+unfortunate man they happen not to know, in order to serve their own
+friend. But how is it possible to know every body in so extensive a
+country? or how can more be expected from good-nature destitute of
+real virtue, whose sublimest effort is not so much to do good, as to
+avoid evil? After all, it must be allowed that their inclinations are
+not naturally bad; that they do a great deal of good; that they do it
+from their hearts; that they alone preserve the remains of humanity,
+which are still to be found in Paris; and that without them, we should
+see the men avaricious and insatiable, like wolves devouring each
+other.
+
+I should have remained ignorant of all this, if I had not consulted
+their comedies and romances, whose authors are, perhaps, too apt to
+stumble upon those foibles from which they themselves are not exempt,
+rather than the virtues they happen not to possess; who, instead of
+encouraging their readers by praising their real virtues, amuse
+themselves with painting imaginary characters too perfect for
+imitation.
+
+Romances are perhaps the last vehicle of instruction that can be
+administered to a corrupt people. It were to be wished that none were
+suffered to prepare this medicine but men of honest principles and
+true sensibility; authors, whose writings should be a picture of their
+own hearts; who, instead of fixing virtue in the heavens, beyond the
+reach of our nature, would, by smoothing the way, insensibly tempt us
+out of the gulph of vice.
+
+But to return to the Parisian ladies; concerning whom, I do not by any
+means agree in the common opinion. They are universally allowed to
+have the most enchanting address, the most seducing manner, to be the
+most refined coquets, to possess the most sublime gallantry, and the
+art of pleasing to a most superlative degree. For my part, I think
+their address shocking, their coquettish airs disgusting, and their
+manner extremely immodest. I should imagine that the heart would
+shrink back at all their advances, and I can never be persuaded, that
+they can for a single moment, talk of love, without shewing themselves
+incapable of either feeling or inspiring that tender passion.
+
+On the other hand, we find them represented frivolous, artful, false,
+thoughtless, inconstant, talking well, but without reflection or
+sentiment, and evaporating all their merit in idle chit-chat. But to
+me, all this appears to be as external as their hoops or _rouge_. They
+are a kind of fashionable vices, which are supposed necessary at
+Paris, but which are not incompatible with sense, reason, humanity and
+good-nature. These ladies are, in many cases, more discreet, and less
+given to tattling than those of any other country. They are better
+instructed, and the things they are taught have a stronger effect
+upon their judgment. In short, if I dislike them for having disfigured
+the proper characteristics of their sex, I esteem them for those
+virtues in which they resemble us; and, my opinion is, that they are
+better calculated to be men of merit, than amiable women.
+
+One word more and I have done. If Eloisa had never been, if my heart
+had been capable of any other attachment than that for which it was
+created, I should never have taken a wife or mistress in Paris; but I
+should gladly have chosen a friend, and such a treasure might possibly
+have consoled me for the want of the others. [33]
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXVII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Since the receipt of your letter, I have been daily with Mr.
+Silvester, to see after the packet you mentioned: but my impatience
+has been seven times disappointed. At length, however, on the eighth
+time of going, I received it; and it was no sooner put into my hands,
+than, without staying to pay the postage, even without asking what it
+came to, or speaking a word to any body, I ran with it out of doors;
+and, as if I had been out of my senses passed by the door of my
+lodgings, though it stood open before me, and traversed a number of
+streets that I knew nothing of, till in about half an hour I found
+myself at the farther end of Paris. I was then obliged to take a
+hackney coach in order to get the more speedily home, which is the
+first time I have made use of those conveniences in a morning; indeed
+it is with regret I use them even in an afternoon, to pay some distant
+visits; for my legs are good, and I should be sorry that any
+improvement in my circumstances should make me neglect the use of
+them.
+
+When I was seated in the coach, I was a good deal perplexed with my
+packet; as you had laid your injunctions on me to open it no where but
+at home. Besides, I was unwilling to be subject to any interruption in
+opening the packet, and indulging myself in that exquisite
+satisfaction, I find in every thing that comes from you. I held it
+therefore with an impatience and curiosity which I could scarce
+contain: endeavouring to discover its contents through the covers, by
+pressing it every way with my hands; from the continual motions of
+which you would have thought the packet contained fire, and burned the
+ends of my fingers. Not but that from its size, weight, and the
+contents of your former letter, I had some suspicion; but then, how
+could I conceive you to have found either the opportunity or the
+artist? but what I then could not conceive, is one of the miracles of
+almighty love: the more it surpasses my conception, the more it
+enchants my heart, and one of the greatest pleasures it gives me
+arises from my ignorance in the manner in which you could effect it.
+
+Arrived at length at my lodgings, I flew to my chamber, locked the
+door, threw myself, out of breath, into a chair, and with a trembling
+hand broke open the seal. ’Twas then, Eloisa, I felt the first effect
+of this powerful talisman. The palpitations of my heart increased at
+every paper I unfolded; till coming to the last, I was forced to stop
+and take breath a moment, before I could open it. It is open----my
+suggestions are true,----it is so,----it is the portrait of Eloisa.
+----O , my love! your divine image is before me; I gaze with rapture
+on your charms! my lips, my heart, pay them the first homage, my
+knees bend;----Again, my eyes are ravished with thy heavenly
+beauties. How immediate, how powerful, is their magical effect! no
+Eloisa, it requires not, as you pretend, a quarter of an hour to make
+itself perceived; a minute, an instant suffices, to draw from my
+breast a thousand ardent sighs, and to recall, with thy image, the
+remembrance of my past happiness. Ah! why is the rapture of having
+such a treasure in possession allayed with so much bitterness? how
+lively is the representation it gives me of days that are no more!
+I gaze on the portrait, I think I see Eloisa, and enjoy in
+imagination those delightful moments, whose remembrance imbitters
+my present hours; and which heaven in its anger bestowed on me only
+to take them away. Alas! the next instant undeceives me; the pangs
+of absence throb with increased violence, after the agreeable
+delusion is vanished, and I am in the fate of those miserable
+wretches, whose tortures are remitted only to render them the more
+cruel. Heavens! what flames have not my eager eyes darted on this
+unexpected object! how has the sight of it roused in me those
+impetuous emotions, which used to be effected by your presence! O,
+my Eloisa, were it possible for this talisman to affect your senses
+with the phrenzy and illusion of mine----But why is it not possible?
+why may not those impressions, which the mind darts forth with such
+rapidity, reach as far as Eloisa? Ah, my charming friend! wherever
+you are, or however you are employed, at the time I am now writing,
+at the time your portrait receives the same homage I pay to the idol
+of my soul, do you not perceive your charming face bedewed with
+tears? do you not sympathize with me in love and sorrow? do you not
+feel the ardour of a lover’s kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your
+breast? do you not glow all over with the flame imparted from my
+burning lips?----Ha! what’s that?----some body knocks----I will hide
+my treasure----an impertinent breaks in upon me,----accursed be the
+cruel intruder, for interrupting me in transports so delightful, may
+he never be capable of love,----or may he be doomed to pine in
+absence, like me.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXVIII. To Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+It is to you, dear cousin, I am to give an account of the French
+opera; for, although you have not mentioned it in your own letters,
+and Eloisa has kept your secret in hers, I am not at a loss to whom to
+attribute that piece of curiosity. I have been once at the opera to
+satisfy myself, and twice to oblige you, but am in hopes, however,
+this letter will be my excuse for going no more. If you command me,
+indeed, I can bear it again; I can suffer, I can sleep there, for your
+service; but to remain awake and attentive is absolutely impossible.
+
+But, before I tell you what I think of this famous theatre, I will
+give you an account of what they say of it here; the opinion of the
+connoisseurs may perhaps rectify mine, where I happen to be mistaken.
+The French opera passes at Paris for the most pompous, the most
+delightful, the most wonderful entertainment that was ever effected by
+the united efforts of the human genius. It is said to be the most
+superb monument of the magnificence of Louis the fourteenth. In fact,
+every one is not so much at liberty, as you imagine, to give his
+opinion on so grave a subject. Every thing may be made a point of
+dispute here, except music and the opera; but with respect to these,
+it may be dangerous not to dissemble one’s thoughts, as the French
+music is supported by an inquisition no less arbitrary than severe.
+Indeed the first lesson which strangers are taught, is, that
+foreigners universally allow that nothing in the whole world is so
+fine as the opera at Paris. The truth is, discreet people are silent
+upon this topic, because they dare not laugh, except in private.
+
+It must be allowed, however, that they represent at the opera, at a
+vast expense, not only all the wonderful things in nature, but many
+others still more wonderful, and which nature never produced. For my
+part, I cannot help thinking Mr. Pope meant this theatre, where he
+said, one might see there, mixed in one scene of confusion, gods,
+devils, monsters, kings, shepherds, fairies, madness, joy, a wild-
+fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball.
+
+This assemblage, so magnificent and well conducted, is regarded by the
+spectators as if all the things and characters exhibited were real. On
+seeing the representation of a heathen temple, they are seized with a
+profound reverence; and, if the goddess be at all pretty, half the men
+in the pit are immediately pagans.
+
+Here the audience is not so nice as at the French comedy. Those very
+spectators, who could not there consider the player as the character
+he represented, cannot, at the opera consider him any otherwise. It
+seems as if they were shocked at a national deception, and could give
+into nothing but what was grossly absurd; or perhaps they can more
+easily conceive players to be gods than heroes. Jupiter being of
+another nature, people may think of him as they please; but Cato was a
+man, and how few men are there, who, to judge from themselves, have
+any reason to think such a man as Cato ever existed.
+
+This opera is not composed, therefore, as in other places, of a
+company of mercenaries, hired to furnish out an entertainment for the
+public. It is true, they are paid by the public, and it is their
+business to attend the opera: but the nature of it is quite changed by
+its becoming a royal academy of music, a sort of sovereign tribunal
+that judges without appeal in its own cause, and is not very
+remarkable for justice and integrity. Thus you see, how much in some
+countries the essence of things depends on mere words, and how a
+respectable title may do honour to that which least deserves it.
+
+The members of this illustrious academy are not degraded by their
+profession: in revenge, however, they are excommunicated, which is
+directly contrary to the custom of all other countries: but, perhaps,
+having had their choice, they had rather live honourably and be
+damned, than go, as plebeians, vulgarly to heaven. I have seen a
+modern chevalier, on the French theatre, as proud of the profession of
+a player, as the unfortunate Laberius was formerly mortified at it,
+although the latter was forced into it by the commands of Caesar, and
+recited only his own works. [34] But then our degraded ancient could
+not afterwards take his place in the circus among the Roman knights;
+whilst the modern one found his every day at the French comedy, among
+the first nobility in the kingdom. And I will venture to say, never
+did they talk at Rome with so much respect, of the majesty of the
+Roman people, as they do at Paris, of the majesty of the opera.
+
+This is what I have gathered chiefly from conversation about this
+splendid entertainment; I will now relate to you what I have seen of
+it myself.
+
+Imagine to yourself the inside of a large box, about fifteen feet
+wide, and long in proportion: this box is the stage; on each side are
+placed screens, at different distances, on which the objects of the
+scene are coarsely painted. Beyond there is a great curtain, bedaubed
+in the same manner; which extends from one side to the other, and is
+generally cut through, to represent caves in the earth, and openings
+in the heavens, as the perspective requires. So that, if any person,
+in walking behind the scenes, should happen to brush against the
+curtain, he might cause an earthquake so violent as to shake----our
+sides with laughing. The skies are represented by a parcel of bluish
+rags, hung up with lines and poles, like wet linen at the washer-
+woman’s. The sun, for he is represented here sometimes, is a large
+candle in a lanthorn. The chariots of the gods and goddesses are made
+of four bits of wood, nailed together in the form of a square, and
+hung up by a strong cord, like a swing: across the middle is fastened
+a board, on which the deity sits a straddle; and in the front of it
+hangs a piece of coarse canvas, bedaubed with paint, to represent the
+clouds that attend on this magnificent car. The bottom of this
+machine is illuminated by two or three stinking, unsnuffed candles,
+which, as often as the celestial personage bustles about and shakes
+his swing, smoke him deliciously, with incense worthy such a divinity.
+
+As these chariots are the most considerable machines of the opera, you
+may judge by them of the rest. A troubled sea is made of long rollers
+covered with canvas or blue paper, laid parallel and turned by the
+dirty understrappers of the theatre. Their thunder is a heavy cart,
+which rumbles over the floor’d ceiling, and is not the least affecting
+instrument of their agreeable music. The flashes of lightning are made
+by throwing powdered rosin into the flame of a link; and the falling
+thunderbolt is a cracker at the end of a squib.
+
+The stage is provided with little square trap doors; which, opening on
+occasion, give notice that the infernal demons are coming out of the
+cellar. And when they are to be carried up into the air, they
+substitute dexterously in their room little devils of brown canvas
+stuffed with straw, or sometimes real chimney-sweepers, that are drawn
+up by ropes, and ride triumphant through the air till they
+majestically enter the clouds, and are lost among the dirty rags I
+mentioned. But what is really tragical is, that when the tackle is not
+well managed, or the ropes happen to break, down come infernal spirits
+and immortal gods together, and break their limbs and sometimes their
+necks. To all this I shall add their monsters; which certainly make
+some scenes very pathetic, such as their dragons, lizards, tortoises,
+crocodiles, and great toads, all which stalk or crawl about the stage
+with a threatening air, and put one in mind of the temptation of St.
+Anthony: every one of these figures being animated by a looby of a
+Savoyard, that has not sense enough to play the brute.
+
+Thus you see, cousin, in what consists, in a great degree, the
+splendid furniture of the opera; at least, thus much I could observe
+from the pit, with the help of my glass; for you must not imagine
+these expedients are much hid, or produce any great illusion: I only
+tell you here what I saw, and what every other unprejudiced spectator
+might have seen as well as myself. I was told, nevertheless, that a
+prodigious quantity of machinery is employed to effect all these
+motions, and was several times offered a sight of it; but I was never
+curious to see in what manner extraordinary efforts were made to be
+productive of insignificant effects.
+
+The number of people engaged in the service of the opera is
+inconceivable. The orchestra and chorus together consist of near an
+hundred persons: there is a multitude of dancers, every part being
+doubly and triply supplied, [35] that is to say, there is always one or
+two inferior actors ready to take the place of the principal, and who
+are paid for doing nothing, till the principal is pleased to do
+nothing in his turn, and which is seldom long before it happens. After
+a few representations, the chief actors, who are personages of great
+consequence, honour the public no more with their presence in that
+piece, but give up their parts to their substitutes, or to the
+substitutes of those substitutes. They receive always the same money
+at the door, but the spectator does not always meet with the same
+entertainment. Every one takes a ticket, as he does in the lottery,
+without knowing what will be his prize; but, be what it will, no body
+dares complain; for you are to know, that the honourable members of
+this academy owe the public no manner of respect, it is the public
+which owes it to them.
+
+I will say nothing to you of their music, because you are acquainted
+with it. But you can have no idea of the frightful cries and hideous
+bellowings, with which the theatre resounds during the representation.
+The actresses, throwing themselves into convulsions as it were, rend
+their lungs with squeaking: in the mean time, with their fists
+clenched against their stomach their heads thrown back, their faces
+red, their veins swelled, and their breasts heaving, one knows not
+which is most disagreeably affected, the eye or the ear. Their actions
+make those suffer as much who see them, as their singing does those
+who hear them; and yet what is inconceivable is, that these howlings
+are almost the only thing the audience applaud. By the clapping of
+their hands, one would imagine them a parcel of deaf people, delighted
+to be able to hear the voice now and then strained to the highest
+pitch, and that they strove to encourage the actors to repeat their
+efforts. For my part, I am persuaded that they applaud the squeaking
+of an actress at the opera, for the same reason as they do the tricks
+of a tumbler or posture-master at the fair: it is displeasing and
+painful to see them; one is in pain while they last, but we are so
+glad to see all pass off without any accident, that we willingly give
+them applause.
+
+Think how well this manner of singing is adapted to express all that
+Quinault has written the most soft and tender. Imagine the muses,
+loves and graces, imagine Venus herself expressing her sentiments in
+this delicate manner, and judge of the effects. As to their devils,
+let us leave their music to something infernal enough to suit it. As
+also that of their magicians, conjurers and witches; all which,
+however meets with the greatest applause at the French opera.
+
+To these ravishing sounds, as harmonious as sweet, we may very
+deservedly join those of the orchestra. Conceive to yourself a
+continual clashing of jarring instruments, attended with the drawling
+and perpetual groans of the base, a noise the most doleful and
+insupportable that I ever heard in my life, and which I could never
+bear a quarter of an hour together without being seized with a violent
+head-ach. All this forms a species of psalmody, which has commonly
+neither time nor tune. But when, by accident they hit on an air a
+little lively, the feet of the audience are immediately in motion, and
+the whole house thunders with their clattering. The pit in particular,
+with much pains and a great noise, always imitate a certain performer
+in the orchestra. [36] Delighted to perceive for a moment that cadence
+which they so seldom feel, they strain their ears, voice, hands, feet,
+and in short, their whole body to keep that time, which is every
+moment ready to escape them. Instead of this the Italians and Germans,
+who are more easily affected with the measures of their music, pursue
+them without any effort, and have never any occasion to beat time. At
+least, Regianino has often told me, that, at the opera in Italy, where
+the music is so affecting and lively, you will never see, or hear, in
+the orchestra or among the spectators, the least motion of either
+hands or feet. But in this country, every thing serves to prove the
+dullness of their musical organs; their voices are harsh and
+unpleasing, their tones affected and drawling, and their transitions
+hard and dissonant: there is no cadence nor melody in their songs;
+their martial instruments, the fifes of the infantry, the trumpets of
+their cavalry, their horns, their hautboys, the ballad-singers in the
+streets, and the fiddlers in their public-houses, all have something
+so horribly grating as to shock the most indelicate ear. [37] All
+talents are not bestowed on the same men, and the French in general
+are of all the people in Europe those of the least aptitude for music.
+Lord B---- pretends that the English have as little, but the
+difference is, that they know it, and care nothing about the matter,
+whereas the French give up a thousand just pretensions, and will
+submit to be censured in any other point whatever, sooner than admit
+they are not the first musicians in the world. There are even people
+at Paris who look upon the cultivation of music as the concern of the
+state, perhaps because the improvement of Timotheus’s lyre was so at
+Sparta. However this be, the opera here may, for aught I know, be a
+good political institution, in that it pleases persons of taste no
+better. But to return to my description.
+
+The _ballets_, which are the most brilliant parts of the opera,
+considered of themselves, afford a pleasing entertainment, as they are
+magnificent and truly theatrical; but, as they enter into the
+composition of the piece, it is in that light we must consider them.
+
+You remember the operas of Quinault; you know in what manner the
+diversions are there introduced; it is much the same or rather worse
+with his successors. In every act, the action of the piece is stopt
+short, just at the most interesting period, by an interlude which is
+represented before the actors, who are seated on the stage while the
+audience in the pit are kept standing. From these interruptions it
+frequently happens, that the characters of the piece are quite
+forgotten, and always that the spectators are kept looking at actors
+that are looking at something else. The fashion of these interludes is
+very simple. If the prince is in a good humour, it partakes of the
+gaiety of his disposition, and is a dance; if he is displeased, it is
+contrived in order to bring him to temper again, and it is also a
+dance. I know not whether it be the fashion at court to make a ball
+for the entertainment of the king, when he is out of humour; but this
+I know, with respect to our opera kings, that one cannot sufficiently
+admire their stoical firmness and philosophy, in sitting so tranquil
+to see comic dances and attend to songs, while the fate of their
+kingdoms, crowns and lives, is sometimes determined behind the scenes.
+But they have besides many other occasions for the introduction of
+dances; the most solemn actions of human life are here performed in a
+dance. The parsons dance, the soldiers dance, the gods dance, the
+devils dance, the mourners dance at their funerals, and in short all
+their characters dance upon all occasions.
+
+Dancing is thus the fourth of the fine arts employed in the
+constitution of the lyric drama: the other three are arts of
+imitation; but what is imitated in dancing? nothing.----It is
+therefore foreign to the purpose, for what business is there for
+minuets or rigadoons in a tragedy? nay, I will venture to say, dancing
+would be equally absurd in such compositions, though something was
+imitated by it: for of all the dramatic unities the most indispensable
+is that of language or expression; and an opera made up partly of
+singing, partly of dancing, is even more ridiculous than that in which
+they sing half French half Italian.
+
+Not content to introduce dancing as an essential part of the
+composition, they even attempt to make it the principal, having
+operas, which they call ballets, and which so badly answer their
+title, that dancing is no less out of character in them than in all
+the rest. Most of these ballets consist of as many different subjects
+as acts; which subjects are connected together by certain meta-
+physical relations, of which the spectator would never form the least
+suspicion or conjecture, if the author did not take care to advise him
+of it in the prologue. The seasons, ages, senses, elements, are the
+subjects of a dance; but I should be glad to know what propriety there
+is in all this, or what ideas can by this means be conveyed to the
+mind of the spectator? some of them again are purely allegorical, as
+the _carnival_, the _folly_, and are the most intolerable of all,
+because with a good deal of wit and finesse, they contain neither
+sentiment, description, plot, business, nor any thing that can either
+interest the audience, set off the music to advantage, flatter the
+passions, or heighten the illusion. In these pretended ballets the
+action of the piece is performed in singing, the dancers continually
+finding occasion to break in upon the singers, tho’ without meaning or
+design.
+
+The result of all this, however, is, that these ballets, being less
+interesting than their tragedies, their interruptions are little
+remarked. Were the piece itself more affecting, the spectator would be
+more offended; but the one defect serves to hide the other, and, in
+order to prevent the spectators being tired with the dancing, the
+authors artfully contrive it so that they may be more heartily tired
+with the piece itself.
+
+This would lead me insensibly to make some queries into the true
+composition of the lyric drama, but there would be too prolix to be
+compressed in this letter; I have therefore written a little
+dissertation on that subject, which you will find inclosed, and may
+communicate to Regianino. I shall only add, with respect to the French
+opera, that the greatest fault I observed in it is a false taste for
+magnificence; whence they attempt to represent the marvellous, which,
+being only the object of imagination, is introduced with as much
+propriety in an epic poem, as it is ridiculously attempted on the
+stage. I should hardly have believed, had not I seen it, that there
+could be found artists weak enough to attempt an imitation of the
+chariot of the sun, or spectators so childish as to go to see it.
+Bruyere could not conceive how so fine a sight as the opera could be
+tiresome. For my part, who am no Bruyere, I can conceive it very well,
+and will maintain, that to every man who has a true taste for the fine
+arts, the French music, their dancing, and the marvellous of their
+scenery put together, compose the most tiresome representation in the
+world. After all, perhaps the French do not deserve a more perfect
+entertainment, especially with respect to the performance not because
+they want ability to judge of what is good, but because the bad
+pleases them better. For, as they had rather censure than applaud, the
+pleasure of criticizing compensates for every defect, and they had
+rather laugh after they get home, than be pleased with the piece
+during the representation.
+
+
+
+
+Letter LXXXIX. From Eloisa.
+
+
+Yes, I see it well: Eloisa is still happy in your love, the same fire
+that once sparkled in your eyes, glows throughout your last letter,
+and kindles all the ardour of mine. Yes, my friend, in vain doth
+fortune separate us; let our hearts press forward to each other, let
+us preserve by such a communication, their natural warmth against the
+chilling coldness of absence and despair; and let every thing that
+tends to loosen the ties of our affections, serve only to draw them
+closer and bind them fast.
+
+You will smile at my simplicity, when I tell you, that since the
+receipt of your letter, I have experienced something of those charming
+effects therein mentioned, and that the jest of the talisman, although
+purely my own invention, is turned upon myself and become serious. I
+am seized a hundred times a day, when alone, with a fit of trembling,
+as if you were before me. I imagine you are gazing on my portrait, and
+am foolish enough to feel, in conceit, the warmth of those embraces,
+the impression of those kisses you bestow on it. Sweet illusion!
+charming effects of fancy; the last resources of the unhappy. Oh, if
+it be possible, be ye to us a pleasing reality! ye are yet something
+to those who are deprived of real happiness.
+
+As to the manner in which I obtained the portrait, it was indeed the
+contrivance of love; but, believe me, if mine could work miracles, it
+would not have made choice of this. I will let you into the secret. We
+had here some time ago a miniature painter, on his return from Italy:
+he brought letters from Lord B----, who perhaps had some view in
+sending him. Mr. Orbe embraced this opportunity to have a portrait of
+my cousin; I was desirous of one also. In return, she and my mother
+would each have one of me, of which the painter at my request took
+secretly a second copy. Without troubling myself about the original, I
+chose of the three that which I thought the most perfect likeness,
+with a design to send it to you. I made but little scruple, I own, of
+this piece of deceit; for, as to the likeness of the portrait, a
+little more or less can make no great difference with my mother and
+cousin but the homage you might pay to any other resemblance than
+mine, would be a kind of infidelity, by so much the more dangerous, as
+my picture might be handsomer than me; and I would not, on any
+account, that you should nourish a passion for charms I do not
+possess. With respect to the drapery, I could have liked to have been
+not so negligently dressed; but I was not heard, and my father himself
+insisted on the portrait’s being finished as it is. Except the head-
+dress, however, nothing of the habit was taken from mine, the painter
+having dressed the picture as he thought proper, and ornamented my
+person with the works of his own imagination.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XC. To Eloisa.
+
+
+I must talk to you still, my dear Eloisa, of your portrait; no longer,
+however, in that rapturous strain which the first sight of it
+inspired; and with which you yourself were so much affected; but, on
+the contrary, with the regret of a man deceived by false hopes, and
+whom nothing can recompense for what he has lost. Your portrait, like
+yourself, is both graceful and beautiful; it is also a tolerable
+likeness, and is painted by the hand of a master; but to be satisfied
+with it I ought never to have known you.
+
+The first fault I find in it is, that it resembles you, and yet is not
+yourself; that it has your likeness, and is insensible. In vain the
+painter thought to copy your features; where is that sweetness of
+sentiment that enlivens them, and without which, regular and beautiful
+as they are, they are nothing? your heart, Eloisa, no painting can
+imitate. This defect, I own, should be attributed to the imperfection
+of the art; but it is the fault of the artist not to have been exact
+in every thing that depended on himself. He has, for instance, brought
+the hair too forward on the temples, which gives the forehead a less
+agreeable and delicate air. He has also forgotten two or three little
+veins, seen through the transparent skin in winding branches of
+purple, resembling those on the Iris we once stood admiring in the
+gardens of _Clarens_. The colouring of the cheeks is also too near the
+eyes, and is not softened into that glowing blush of the rose toward
+the lower part of the face, which distinguishes the lovely original.
+One would take it for an artificial _rouge_, plastered on like the
+carmine of the French ladies. Nor is this defect a small one, as it
+makes the eyes appear less soft, and its looks more bold.
+
+But pray what has he done with those dimples, wherein the little
+cupids lurk at the corners of your mouth; and which in my fortunate
+days I used to stifle with kisses? he has not given half their beauty
+to these charming lips. He has not given the mouth that agreeable
+serious turn, which changing in an instant into a smile, ravishes the
+heart with inconceivable enchantment, inspires it with an
+instantaneous rapture which no words can express. It is true, your
+portrait cannot pass from the serious to a smile. This is, alas! the
+very thing of which I complain. To paint all your charms you should be
+drawn every instant of your life.
+
+But to pass over the injustice the painter has done you, in
+overlooking your beauties, he has done you more, in having omitted
+your defects. He has left out that almost imperceptible mole under
+your right eye, as well as that on the right side of your neck. He has
+not----heavens! was the man a statue? he has forgot the little scar
+under your lip; he has made your hair and eyebrows of the same colour:
+which they are not. Your eye-brows are more upon the chestnut, and
+your hair rather of the ash-colour.
+
+_Bionda testa occhi azurri e bruno ciglio._
+
+He has made the lower part of the face exactly oval; not observing the
+small hollow between your cheeks and chin, which makes their out-lines
+less regular and more agreeable. These are the most palpable defects,
+but he has omitted several others, for which I owe him no goodwill:
+for I am not only in love with your beauties, but with Eloisa herself,
+just as she is. If you would not be obliged for any charm to the
+pencil, I would not have you lose by it the smallest defect; my heart
+can never be affected by charms that are not your own.
+
+As to the drapery, I shall take the more notice of it, as, whether in
+a dishabille or otherwise, I have always seen you dressed with more
+taste than you are in the portrait: the head-dress is too large; you
+will say it is composed only of flowers. That’s true; but there are
+too many. Don’t you remember the ball, at which you were dressed like
+a country girl, and your cousin told me I danced like a philosopher?
+You had then no other head-dress than your long tresses, turned up and
+fastened at top with a golden bodkin, in the manner of the villagers
+of Berne. No, the sun glittering in all its radiance displays not half
+that lustre, with which you then engaged the eyes and hearts of the
+beholders; and there is no one who saw you that day, that can ever
+forget you during his whole life. It is thus, my Eloisa, your head
+ought to have been dressed. It is your charming hair that should adorn
+your face, and not those spreading roses. Tell my cousin, for I
+discover her choice and direction, that the flowers with which she has
+thus covered and profaned your tresses, are in no better taste than
+those she gathers in _Adonis_. One might overlook them did they serve
+as an ornament to beauty, but I cannot permit them to hide it.
+
+With respect to the bust, it is singular that a lover should be more
+nice in this particular than a father; but, to say the truth, I think
+you are too carelessly dressed. The portrait of Eloisa should be
+modest as herself. These hidden charms should be sacred to love. You
+say the painter drew them from his imagination. I believe it; indeed,
+I believe it. Had he caught the least glimpse of thine, his eyes would
+have gazed on them for ever, but his hand would not have attempted to
+paint them: why was it necessary the rash artist should form them in
+imagination? this was not only an offence against decency, but I will
+maintain it also to be want of taste. Yes, your countenance is too
+modest to support the disorder of your breast; it is plain that one of
+these objects ought to hinder the other from being seen: it is the
+privilege of love alone to see both together, and when its glowing
+hand uncovers the charms that modesty conceals, the sweet confusion of
+your eyes shews that you forget not that you expose them.
+
+Such are the criticisms that a continual attention has occasioned me
+to make on your portrait: in consequence of which I have formed a
+design to alter it, agreeable to my own taste. I have communicated my
+intentions to an able master, and from what he has already done, I
+hope to see you soon more like yourself. For fear of spoiling the
+picture, however, we try our alterations first on a copy, which I have
+made him take; and make them in the original only when we are quite
+sure of their effect. Although I design but indifferently, my artist
+cannot help admiring the subtilty of my observations, but he does not
+know that love, who dictates them, is a greater master than he. I seem
+to him also sometimes very whimsical: he tells me I am the first lover
+that ever chose to hide objects which others think cannot be too much
+exposed; and when I answer him, it is in order to have a full view of
+you, that I dress you up with so much care, he stares at me, as if he
+thought me a fool. Ah! my Eloisa, how much more affecting would be
+your portrait, if I could but find out the means to display it in your
+mind, as well as your face; to paint at once your modesty and your
+charms! what would not the latter gain by such an amendment! at
+present those only are seen which the painter imagined, and the
+ravished spectator thinks them such as they are. I know not what
+secret enchantment is about your person, but every thing that touches
+you seems to partake of its virtue: one need only perceive the corner
+of your garment to revere the wearer of it. One perceives in your
+dress how the veil of the graces affords a covering to the model of
+beauty; and the taste of your modest apparel displays to the mind all
+those charms it conceals.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCI. To Eloisa.
+
+
+Oh, Eloisa! you whom once I could call mine, though now I profane your
+virtuous name! my pen drops from my trembling hand, I blot the paper
+with my tears, I can hardly trace the first words of a letter, which
+ought never to be written; alas! I can neither speak nor be silent.
+Come, thou dear and respectable image of my love, come, purify and
+strengthen a heart depressed with shame and torn to pieces by remorse.
+Support my resolution that fails me, and give my contrition the power
+to avow the involuntary crime into which the absence of Eloisa has
+plunged me.
+
+Oh! Eloisa, how contemptible will you think me! and yet you cannot
+hold me in greater contempt than I do myself. Abject as I may seem in
+your eyes, I am yet a hundred times more so in my own; for, in
+reflecting on my own demerits, what mortifies me most is to see, to
+feel you still in my heart, in a place henceforward so little worthy
+of your image and to think that the remembrance of the truest
+pleasures of love could not prevent me from falling into a snare that
+had no lure, from being led into a crime that had presented no
+temptation.
+
+Such is the excess of my confusion, that I am afraid, even in
+recurring to your clemency, lest the perusal of the lines in which I
+confess my guilt should offend you. Let your purity and chastity
+forgive me a recital which should have been spared your modesty, were
+it not the means to expiate, in some degree, my infidelity. I know I
+am unworthy of your goodness; I am a mean, despicable wretch, but I
+will not be an hypocrite or deceive you, for I had rather you should
+deprive me of your love, and even life itself, than to impose on
+Eloisa for a moment. Lest I should be tempted, therefore, to seek
+excuses to palliate my crime, which will only render me the more
+criminal, I will confine myself to an exact relation of what has
+happened to me; a relation that shall be as sincere as my repentance,
+which is all I shall say in my defence.
+
+I had commenced acquaintance with some officers in the guards, and
+other young people among my countrymen, in whom I found a good innate
+disposition, which I was sorry to see spoiled by the imitation of I
+know not what false airs, which nature never designed for them. They
+laughed at me in their turn, for preserving in Paris the simplicity of
+our ancient Helvetian manners; and, construing my maxims and behaviour
+into an indirect censure of theirs, resolved to make me a convert to
+their own practices at all hazards. After several attempts which did
+not succeed, they made another too well concerted to fail of success.
+Yesterday morning they came to me, with a proposal to go with the lady
+of a certain colonel they mentioned, who, from the report, they were
+pleased to say, of my good sense, had a mind to be acquainted with me.
+Fool enough to give into this idle story, I represented to them the
+propriety of first making her a visit; but they laughed at my
+punctilios, telling me the frankness of a Swiss did not at all agree
+with such formality, and that so much ceremony would only serve to
+give her a bad opinion of me. At nine o’clock then in the evening, we
+waited on the lady. She came out to receive us on the stair-case,
+through an excess of civility which I had never seen practised before.
+Having entered the apartment, I observed a servant lighting up pieces
+of old wax candles over the chimney, and over all an air of
+preparation which did not at all please me. The mistress of the house
+appeared handsome, tho’ a little past her prime: there were also
+several other women with her much about the same age and figure; their
+dress, which was rich enough, had more of finery in it than taste; but
+I have already observed to you that this is not a sure sign by which
+to judge of the condition of the women of this country.----The first
+compliments were made as usual, custom teaching one to cut them short,
+or to turn them into pleasantry, before they grew tiresome. Something
+unusual however appeared as soon as our discourse became general and
+serious. I thought the ladies seemed to wear an air of restraint as if
+it were not familiar to them, and now, for the first time since I have
+been at Paris, I saw women at a loss to support a rational
+conversation. To find an easy topic, they brought up at length their
+family affairs, and as I knew none of them, I had little share in the
+conversation. Never before did I hear so much talk of the colonel, and
+the colonel; which not a little surprized me, in a country where it is
+the custom to distinguish people rather by their names than by their
+profession, and in which almost every man of rank in the army has
+besides some other title of distinction.
+
+This affectation of dignity soon gave way to a behaviour more natural
+to them: they began to talk low, and, running insensibly into an air
+of indecent familiarity, they laughed and whispered every time they
+looked at me; while the lady of the house asked me the situation of my
+heart, with a certain boldness of manner, not at all adapted to make a
+conquest of it. The table was spread, and that freedom which seems to
+make no distinction of persons, but generally puts every one without
+design in the proper place, fully convinced me what sort of company I
+was in. But it was too late to recede: putting my confidence therefore
+in my aversion, I determined to apply that evening to observation, and
+to employ in the study of that order of women, the only opportunity I
+might ever have. Little, however, was the fruit of my attention: I
+found them so insensible to their present situation, so void of
+apprehensions for the future, and, excepting the tricks of their
+profession, so stupid in all respects, that the contempt into which
+they sunk in my opinion, soon effaced the pity I first entertained for
+them. In speaking even of pleasure itself, I saw they were incapable
+of feeling it. They appeared rapacious after every thing that could
+gratify their avarice; and, excepting what regarded their interest, I
+heard not a word drop from their lips that came from the heart. I was
+astonished to think how men, not abandoned like themselves, could
+support so disgustful a society. It were, in my opinion, the most
+cruel punishment that could be inflicted, to oblige them to keep such
+company.
+
+We sat a long while at supper, and the company at length began to grow
+noisy. For want of love, the wine went briskly round to inflame the
+guests: the discourse was not tender but immodest, and the women
+strove by the disorder of their dress to excite those passions which
+should have caused that disorder. All this had a very different effect
+upon me, and their endeavours to reduce me only heightened my disgust.
+Sweet modesty! said I to myself, it is thine to inspire the sublimest
+raptures love can bestow! how impotent are female charms when thou
+hast left them! if the sex did but know thy power, what pains would
+they not take to preserve thee inviolate; if not for the sake of
+virtue, at least for their interest! but modesty is not to be assumed.
+There is not a more ridiculous artifice in the world than that of the
+prude who affects it. What a difference, thought I, is there between
+the impudence of these creatures, with their licentious expressions,
+and those timid and tender looks, those conversations so full of
+modesty, so delicate, so sentimental, which----but I dare not finish
+the sentence; I blush at the comparison.----I reproach myself, as if
+it were criminal, with the delightful remembrance of her who pursues
+me wherever I go. But how shall I now dare to think of her?----alas!
+it is impossible to eraze your image from my heart: let me then strive
+to conceal it there.
+
+The noise, the discourse I heard, together with the objects that
+presented themselves to my view, insensibly inflamed me; my two
+neighbours plied me incessantly with wine. I found my head confused,
+and, though I drank all the while a good deal of water in my wine, I
+now took more water, and at length determined to drink water only. It
+was then I perceived the pretended water set before me was white wine,
+and that I had drank it from the first. I made no complaints, as they
+would only have subjected me to raillery, but gave over drinking
+entirely. But it was too late, the mischief was already done, and the
+intoxicating effects of what I had already drank soon deprived me of
+the little sense that remained. I was surprized, in recovering my
+senses, to find myself in a retired closet, locked in the embraces of
+one of those creatures I had supped with, and in the same instant had
+the mortification to find myself as criminal as I could possibly be.
+
+I have finished this horrible relation. Would to heaven it might never
+more offend your eyes, nor torture my memory. O Eloisa! it is from you
+I expect my doom; I demand, I deserve, your severity. Whatever be my
+punishment it will be less cruel than the remembrance of my crime.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCII. The Answer.
+
+
+You may be easy as to the fear of having offended me. Your letter
+rather excited my grief than my anger. It is not me, it is your-self
+you have offended, by a debauch in which the heart had no share. I am
+at this, however, but the more afflicted; for I had much rather you
+should affront Eloisa than debase yourself; and the injury you have
+done to yourself is that only which I cannot forgive.----To regard
+only the fault of which you accuse yourself, you are not so culpable
+as you imagine: I can reproach you on that account only with
+imprudence. But what I blame you for, is of a greater moment, and
+proceeds from a failing, that has taken deeper root than you imagine,
+and which it is the part of a friend to lay before you.
+
+Your primary error lies in having at first taken a wrong path, in
+which, the farther you advance the more you will go astray; and I
+tremble to see that, unless you tread back the steps you have taken,
+you are inevitably lost. You have suffered yourself to be led
+insensibly into the very snares I dreaded. The more gross and palpable
+allurements of vice I knew could not seduce you, but the bad company
+you keep, hath begun by deluding your reason, to corrupt your morals,
+and hath already made the first essay of its maxims on your behaviour.
+
+You have told me nothing, it is true, in particular, of the
+acquaintance you have made in Paris; but it is easy to judge of your
+companions by your letters, and of those who point out the objects, by
+your manner of describing them. I have not concealed from you how
+little satisfied I have been with your remarks; you have nevertheless
+continued them in the same stile, which has only increased my
+displeasure. In fact, one would rather take your observations for the
+sarcasms of some petit-maitre, than for the animadversions of a
+philosopher; and it is hardly possible to believe them written by the
+same hand that wrote your former letters. Do you think to study
+mankind by the confined behaviour of a few societies of finical prudes
+and other idlers? do none of your remarks penetrate beyond the
+exterior and changeable varnish which ought hardly to have engaged
+your attention? was it worthwhile to collect with so much care those
+peculiarities of manners and decorum, which ten years hence will no
+longer exist; while the unalterable springs of the human heart, the
+constant and secret workings of the passions have escaped your
+researches? let us turn to your letter concerning women: in what have
+you instructed me to know them? you have given indeed a description of
+their dress, which all the world might be as well acquainted with; and
+have made some malicious observations on the address and behaviour of
+some, as also of the irregularities of a few others, which you have
+unjustly attributed to them all, as if no person of virtuous
+sentiments was to be found in Paris, and every woman flaunted about
+there in her chariot, and sat in the front boxes. Have you told me any
+thing that can throw real light upon their true character, taste or
+maxims? and is it not strange, that in describing the women of a
+country, a man of sense should omit what regards their domestic
+concerns and education of their children? [38] the only circumstance
+in that letter characteristic of its author, is the apparent
+satisfaction with which you commend the goodness of their natural
+disposition, which, I must confess, doth honour to yours. And yet,
+what have you done more in that than barely justice to the sex in
+general? for in what country are not gentleness of manners and
+compassion for the distressed, the amiable qualities of the women?
+
+What a difference had there been in the picture, if you had described
+what you had seen, rather than what you had heard; or, at least, if
+you had only consulted people of sense and solidity on the occasion?
+was it for you, who have taken so much pains to cultivate your genius,
+to throw away your time deliberately in the company of a parcel of
+inconsiderate young fellows, who take pleasure in the society of
+persons of virtue and understanding, not to imitate, but only to
+seduce and corrupt them. You lay a stress on the equality of age, with
+which you should have nothing to do, and forgot that of sense and
+knowledge, which is more peculiarly essential. In spite of your
+violent passions, you are certainly the most pliable man in the world;
+and, notwithstanding the ripeness of your judgment, permit yourself to
+be conducted so implicitly by those you converse with, that you cannot
+keep company with young people of your own age without condescending
+to become a mere infant in their hands. Thus you mistake in your
+choice of proper companions, and demean yourself in not fixing upon
+such as have more understanding than yourself.
+
+I do not reproach you with having been inadvertently taken into a
+dishonest house; but with having been conducted thither by a party of
+young officers, who ought never to have known you; or at least, whom
+you should never have permitted to direct your amusements. With
+respect to your project of making them converts to your own
+principles, I discover in it more zeal than prudence; if you are of
+too serious a turn to be their companion, you are too young to be
+their tutor, and you ought not to think of reforming others till there
+is nothing left to reform in yourself.
+
+The next fault, which is of more moment and less pardonable, is to
+have passed voluntarily the evening in a place so unworthy of you, and
+not to have left the house the moment you knew what it was. Your
+excuses on this head are mean and pitiful. You say _it was too late to
+recede_, as if any decorum was necessary to be observed in such a
+place, or as if decorum ought ever to take place of virtue, and that
+it were ever too late to abstain from doing evil. As to the security
+you found in your aversion to the manners of such a company, I will
+say nothing of it; the event has shewn you how well it was founded.
+Speak more freely to one who so well knows how to read your heart;
+say, you were ashamed to leave your companions. You were afraid they
+would laugh at you, a momentary hiss struck you with fear, and you had
+rather expose yourself to the bitterness of remorse than the tartness
+of raillery. Do you know what a maxim you followed on this occasion?
+that which first vitiates every innocent mind, drowns the voice of
+conscience in public clamour, and represses the resolution of doing
+well by the fear of censure. Such a mind may overcome temptations, and
+yet yield to the force of bad examples, may blush at being really
+modest and become impudent through bashfulness, a false bashfulness
+that is more destructive to a virtuous mind than bad inclinations.
+Look well then to the security of yours; for, whatever you may
+pretend, the fear of ridicule which you affect to despise, prevails
+over you, in spite of yourself. You would sooner face a hundred
+dangers than one raillery, and never was seen so much timidity united
+to so intrepid a mind.
+
+Not to make a parade of precepts which you know better than I, I shall
+content myself with proposing a method more easy and sure perhaps
+than all the arguments of philosophy. This is on such occasions to
+make in thought a slight transposition of circumstances, to anticipate
+a few minutes of time. If, at that unfortunate supper, you had but
+fortified yourself against a moment’s raillery, by the idea of the
+state of mind you should be in as soon as you got into the street; had
+you represented to yourself that inward contentment you should feel at
+having escaped the snares laid for you, the consciousness of having
+avoided the danger, the pleasure it would give you to write me an
+account of it, that which I should myself receive in reading it: had
+you, I say, called these circumstances to mind, is it to be supposed
+they would not have over-balanced the mortification of being laughed
+at for a moment; a mortification you would never have dreaded, could
+you but have foreseen the consequences? but what is this
+mortification, which gives consequence to the raillery of people for
+whom one has no esteem? this reflection would infallibly have saved
+you, in return for a moment’s imaginary disgrace, much real and more
+durable shame, remorse and danger; it would have saved (for why should
+I dissemble?) your friend, your Eloisa, many tears.
+
+You determined, you tell me, to apply that evening to your
+observations. What an employment! what observations! I blush for your
+excuses. Will you not also, when an opportunity offers, have the same
+curiosity to make observations on robbers in their dens? and to see
+the methods they take to seize their prey, and strip the unhappy
+passengers that fall into their hands? are you ignorant that there
+are objects too detestable for a man of probity to look on, and that
+the indignation of virtue cannot support the sight of vice?
+
+The philosopher remarks indeed the public licentiousness which he
+cannot prevent; he sees it, and his countenance betrays the concern it
+gives him: but as to that of individuals, he either opposes it or
+turns away his eyes from the sight, lest he should give it a sanction
+by his presence. May I not ask besides what necessity there was to be
+eye-witness of such scenes, in order to judge of what passed, or the
+conversation that was held there? for my part, I can judge more easily
+of the whole, from the intention and design of such a society, than
+from the little you tell me of it, and the idea of those pleasures
+that are to be found there, gives me a sufficient insight into the
+characters of such as go to seek them.
+
+I know not if your commodious scheme of philosophy has already adopted
+the maxims, which, it is said, are established in large towns, for the
+toleration of such places: but I hope, at least, you are not one of
+those who debase themselves so much as to put them in practice, under
+the pretext of I know not what chimerical necessity, that is known
+only to men of debauched lives; as if the two sexes were in this
+respect of a different constitution; and, that during absence or
+celibacy, a virtuous man is under a necessity of indulging himself in
+liberties which are denied to a modest woman. But if this error does
+not lead you to prostitutes, I am afraid it will continue to lead your
+imagination astray. Alas! if you are determined to be despicable, be
+so at least without pretext; and add not the vice of lying to that of
+drunkenness. All those pretended necessities have no foundation in
+nature, but in the voluntary depravation of the senses. Even the fond
+illusions of love are refined by a chaste mind, and pollute it only
+when the heart is first depraved. On the contrary, chastity is its own
+support; the desires constantly repressed accustom themselves to
+remain at rest, and temptations are only multiplied by the habit of
+yielding to them. Friendship has made me twice overcome the reluctance
+I had to write on such a subject, and this shall be the last time: for
+on what plea can I hope to obtain that influence over you, which you
+have refused to virtue, to love, and to reason?
+
+But I return to that important point, with which I began this letter;
+at one and twenty years of age you sent me, from the Valais, grave and
+judicious descriptions of men and things: at twenty-five you write me,
+from Paris, a pack of trifling letters, wherein good sense is
+sacrificed to a certain quaintness and pleasantry, very incompatible
+with your character. I know not how you have managed; but since you
+have resided among people of refined talents, yours appear to be
+diminished: you profited among clowns, and have lost by the wits. This
+is not, however, the fault of the place you are in, but of the
+acquaintance you have made: for nothing requires greater judgment than
+to make a proper choice in a mixture of the excellent and execrable.
+If you would study the world, keep company with men of sense, who have
+known it by long experience and observations made at leisure; not with
+giddy-headed boys, who see only the superficies of things, and laugh
+at what they themselves make ridiculous. Paris is full of sensible
+men, accustomed to reflection, and to whom every day presents a
+fertile field for observation. You will never make me believe that
+such grave and studious persons run about, as you do, from house to
+house, and from club to club, to divert the women and young fellows,
+and turn all philosophy into chit chat. They have too much dignity
+thus to debase their characters, prostitute their talents, and give a
+sanction by their example, to modes which they ought to correct. But,
+if even most of them should, there are certainly many who do not, and
+it is those you ought to have chosen for companions.
+
+Is it not extraordinary, that you should fall into the very same error
+in your behaviour, which you blame in the writings of the comic poets:
+from which you say one would imagine Paris was peopled only by persons
+of distinction. These are your constant theme, while those of your own
+rank escape your notice; as if the ridiculous prejudices of nobility
+had not cost you sufficiently dear, to make you hate them for ever; or
+that you thought you degraded yourself in keeping company with honest
+citizens and tradesmen, the most respectable order of men, perhaps in
+the whole country. It is in vain you endeavour to excuse yourself, in
+that yours are the acquaintance of Lord B----: with the assistance of
+these, you might easily have made others of an inferior rank. So many
+people are desirous to rise, that it is always easy to descend; and by
+your own confession the only way, to come at the true manners of a
+nation is to study the private life of the most numerous order among
+them; for to confine your observations to those who only personate
+assumed characters, is only to observe the actions of a company of
+comedians.
+
+I would have your curiosity exerted still farther. How comes it that,
+in so opulent a city, the poor people are so miserable; while such
+extreme distress is hardly ever experienced among us, where, on the
+other hand, we have no examples of immense wealth? This question is,
+in my opinion, well worth your asking; but it is not the people you
+converse with that are to resolve it. It is in the splendid apartments
+of the rich that the novice goes to learn the manners of the world;
+but the man of sense and experience betakes himself to the cottages of
+the poor. These are the places for the detection of those iniquitous
+practices, that in polite circles are varnished over and hid beneath a
+specious shew of words. It is here that the rich and powerful, by
+coming to the knowledge of the basest arts of oppression, feel for the
+unhappy what in public they only affect. If I may believe our old
+officers, you will learn many things in the garrets of a fifth floor,
+which are buried in profound silence at the _hotels_, in the suburbs
+of St. Germain: you will find that many fine talkers would be struck
+dumb, if all those they have made unhappy were present to contradict
+their boasted pretensions to humanity.
+
+I know the sight of misery that excites only fruitless pity is
+disagreeable; and that even the rich turn away their eyes from the
+unhappy objects to whom they refuse relief: but money is not the only
+thing the unfortunate stand in need of; and they are but indolent in
+well-doing who can exert themselves only with their purse in their
+hands. Consolation, advice, concern, friends, protection, there are
+all so many resources which compassion points out to those who are not
+rich, for relief of the indigent. The oppressed often stand in need
+only of a tongue, to make known their complaints. They often want no
+more than a word they cannot speak, a reason they are ashamed to give,
+entrance at the door of a great man which they cannot obtain. The
+intrepid countenance of disinterested virtue may remove infinite
+obstacles, and the eloquence of a man of probity make even a tyrant
+tremble in the midst of his guards.
+
+If you would then act as a man, learn to descend again. Humanity, like
+a pure salutary stream, flows always downwards to its level;
+fertilising the humble vales, while it leaves dry those barren rocks,
+whose threatening heads cast a frightful shade, or tumbling headlong
+down involve the plain in ruins.
+
+Thus, my friend, may you make use of the past, by drawing thence
+instructions for your future conduct; and learn how goodness of heart
+may be of advantage to the understanding: whoever lives among people
+in office, cannot be too cautious of the corruptible maxims they
+inculcate; and it is only the constant exercise of their benevolence
+that can secure the best hearts from the contagion of ambition. Try
+this new kind of study: it is more worthy of you, than those you have
+hitherto adopted; and; believe me, as the genius is impoverished in
+proportion as the mind is corrupted, you will soon find, on the
+contrary, how much the practice of virtue elevates and improves it:
+you will experience how much the interest you take in the misfortunes
+of others will assist you in tracing their source, and will thereby
+learn to escape the vices that produce them.
+
+I ought to take all the freedom with you that friendship authorises in
+the critical situation in which you at present appear: lest a second
+step towards debauchery should plunge you beyond recovery, and that,
+before you have time to recollect yourself. I cannot conceal from you,
+my friend, how much your ready and sincere confession has affected me;
+as I am sensible how much shame and confusion it must have cost you,
+and from thence how heavy this piece of ill-conduct must sit upon your
+heart; an involuntary crime, however, is easily forgiven and forgot.
+But, for the future, remember well that maxim, from which I shall
+never recede: he who is a second time deceived on these occasions,
+cannot be said to have been deceived the first.
+
+Adieu, my friend, be careful, I conjure you, of your health; and be
+assured I shall not retain the least remembrance of a fault I have
+once forgiven.
+
+P. S. I have seen, in the hands of Mr. Orbe, the copies of several of
+your letters to Lord B----, which oblige me to retract part of the
+censure I have passed on the matter and manner of your observations.
+These letters, I must  confess, treat of important subjects, and appear
+to be full of serious and judicious reflections. But hence it is
+evident, that you either treat my cousin and me disdainfully, or that
+you set little value on our esteem, in sending us such trivial
+relations as might justly forfeit it, while you transmit so much
+better to your friend. It is, in my opinion, doing little honour to
+your instructions to think your scholars unworthy to admire your
+talents: for you ought to affect at least, were it only through
+vanity, to think us capable of it.
+
+I own political matters are not proper subjects for women: and my
+uncle has tired us with them so heartily, that I can easily conceive
+you were afraid of doing so too. To speak freely, also, these are not
+the topics I prefer: their utility is too foreign to affect me, and
+their arguments too subtle to make any lasting impression. Bound to
+respect the government, under which it is my fate to have been born, I
+give myself no trouble to enquire whether there are any better. To
+what end should I be instructed in the knowledge of governments, who
+have so little power to establish them? and why should I afflict
+myself with the consideration of evils too great for me to remedy,
+when I am surrounded with others that are in my power to redress? but,
+for my love to you, the interest I should not take in the subject, I
+should take in the writer. I collect, with a pleasing admiration, all
+the fruits of your genius; and, proud of merit so deserving of my
+heart, I beseech of love only so much wit as to make me relish yours.
+Refuse me not then the pleasure of knowing and admiring your works of
+merit. Will you mortify me so much as to give me reason to think that,
+if heaven should ever unite us, you will not judge your companion
+worthy to know and adopt your sentiments?
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+We are undone! all is discovered! your letters are gone! they were
+there last night, and could have been taken away but to day. ’Tis my
+mother: it can be no body else. If my father should see them, my life
+is in danger. But why should he not see them, if I must renounce----
+Heavens! my mother sends for me, whither shall I fly? how shall I
+support her presence? O that I could hide myself in the centre of the
+earth! I tremble every limb, and am unable to move one step----the
+shame, the mortification, the killing reproaches----I have deserved
+it, I will support it all. But oh! the grief, the tears of a weeping
+mother----O, my heart, how piercing!----she waits for me; I can stay
+no longer----she will know----I must tell her all----Regianino
+will be dismissed. Write no more till you hear further----who knows
+if ever----yet I might----what? deceive her?----deceive my
+mother!----alas! if our safety lies in supporting a falsehood,
+farewell, we are indeed undone!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCIV. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+O how you afflict all those who love you! what tears have already been
+shed on your account, in an unfortunate family, whose tranquillity has
+been disturbed by you alone! Fear to add to these tears by covering us
+with mourning: tremble lest the death of an afflicted parent should be
+the last effect of the poison you have poured into the heart of her
+child, and that your extravagant passion will at length fill you with
+eternal remorse. My friendship made me support your folly, while it
+was capable of being nourished by the shadow of hope; but how can it
+allow a vain constancy condemned by honour and reason, and which
+producing nothing but pain and misfortune can only deserve the name of
+obstinacy?
+
+You know in what manner the secret of your passion, so long concealed
+from the suspicions of my aunt, has been discovered by your letters.
+How sensibly must such a stroke be felt by a tender and virtuous
+mother, less irritated against you, than against herself! she blames
+her blind negligence, she deplores her fatal delusion, her deepest
+affliction arises from her having had too high an esteem for her
+daughter, and her grief has filled Eloisa with a hundred times more
+sorrow than all her reproaches.
+
+My poor cousin’s distress is not to be conceived. No idea can be
+formed of it without seeing her. Her heart seems stifled with grief,
+and the violence of the sensations by which it is oppressed, gives her
+an air of stupidity more terrifying than the most piercing cries. She
+continues night and day by her mother’s bed, with a mournful look, her
+eyes fixed on the floor, and profoundly silent; yet serving her with
+greater attention and vivacity than ever; then instantly relapsing
+into a state of dejection, she appears to be no longer the same
+person. It is very evident, that the mother’s illness supports the
+spirits of her daughter; and if an ardent desire to serve her did not
+give her strength, the extinguished lustre of her eyes, her paleness,
+her extreme grief, make me apprehensive she would stand in great need
+of the assistance she bestows. My aunt likewise perceives it, and I
+see from the earnestness with which she recommends Eloisa’s health to
+my care, how her poor heart is agitated, and how much reason we have
+to hate you for disturbing such a pleasing union.
+
+This anxiety is still increased by the care of hiding from a
+passionate father, a dangerous secret, which the mother, who trembles
+for the life of her daughter, would conceal. She has resolved to
+observe in his presence their former familiarity; but if maternal
+tenderness with pleasure takes advantage of this pretext, a daughter
+filled with confusion, dares not yield her heart to caresses which she
+believes feigned, and which are the more painful, in proportion as
+they would be engaging, could she presume to think them real. At the
+fond caresses of her father she looks towards her mother with an air
+so tender, and so humble, that she seems to say: Ah! why am I not
+still worthy of your tenderness!
+
+In my frequent conversations with the baroness D’Etange I could easily
+find by the mildness of her reprimands, and by the tone in which she
+spoke of you, that Eloisa has endeavoured, to the utmost of her power,
+to calm her too just indignation, and that she has spared no pains to
+justify us both at her own expense. Even your letters, besides a
+violent passion, contain a kind of excuse which has not escaped her:
+she reproaches you less for abusing her confidence, than she does her
+own weakness for putting it in your power. She has such an esteem for
+you, as to believe that no other man in your place would have made a
+better resistance; and that your faults even spring from virtue. She
+now, she says, perceives the vanity of that boasted probity which does
+not secure a person in love, who is in other respect a worthy man,
+from the guilt of corrupting a virtuous girl, and without scruple
+dishonouring a whole family, to indulge a momentary madness. But to
+what purpose do we recur to what is past? our present business is to
+conceal, under an everlasting veil, this odious mystery; to efface, if
+possible, the least vestige of it, and to second the goodness of
+heaven, which has left no visible proof of your folly. The secret is
+confined to six safe persons. The repose of all you have loved, the
+life of a mother reduced to despair, the honour of a respectable
+family, your own virtue, all these still depend on you, all these
+point out your duty: you may repair the evil you have done, you may
+render yourself worthy of Eloisa, and justify her fault by renouncing
+your pretensions. If I am not deceived in my opinion of your heart,
+nothing but the greatness of such a sacrifice can be equal to the love
+that renders it necessary. Relying on the sublimity of your
+sentiments, I have promised, in your name, every thing you ought to
+perform: dare to undeceive me, if I have presumed too much on your
+merit, or be now what you ought to be. It is necessary to sacrifice
+either your mistress or your love, and to shew yourself the most
+abject, or the most virtuous of mankind.
+
+This unfortunate mother resolved to write to you: she even began the
+painful task. Oh! what stabs would her bitter complaints have given
+you! how would her affecting reproaches have wounded your heart! and
+her humble intreaties have filled you with shame! I have torn in
+pieces this distressful letter, which you would never have been able
+to support. I could not endure the preposterous sight of a mother
+humbling herself before the seducer of her child: you are worthy, at
+least, that we should not use means that would rend a heart of
+adamant, and drive to the extremes of despair, a man of uncommon
+sensibility.
+
+Were this the first effort love had demanded from you, I might doubt
+of the success, and hesitate as to the degree of esteem you deserve:
+but the sacrifice you have made to the honour of Eloisa, by quitting
+this country, is a pledge of that you are going to make to her repose,
+by putting a stop to a useless correspondence. The first efforts of
+virtue are always the most painful; and you will lose the advantage of
+that which has cost you so dear, by obstinately maintaining a vain
+correspondence, attended with such danger to her you love, without the
+least advantage to either of you; and which can only serve to prolong
+the torments of both. No longer doubt it; it is become absolutely
+necessary that this Eloisa, who was so dear to you, should be
+forgotten by the man she loved so well: in vain you dissemble your
+misfortunes, she was lost to you at the moment you left her. Or rather
+heaven disposed of her, before she gave herself to you; for her father
+had promised her to another before his return, and you too well know
+that the promise of that inexorable man is irrevocable. In what
+manner soever you regulate your conduct your desires are opposed by an
+inevitable fate, and you can never possess her. The only choice you
+have left, is either to plunge her into an abyss of misfortunes and
+reproach, or to honour what you have adored, and restore to her,
+instead of the happiness she has lost, at least, the prudence, peace,
+and safety, of which she has been deprived by your fatal connections.
+
+How would you be afflicted, how would you be stung with remorse, could
+you contemplate the real state of this unhappy friend, and the
+abasement to which she is reduced by remorse and shame? how is her
+lustre tarnished, how languid all her gracefulness? how are all her
+noble and engaging sentiments unhappily absorbed in this one passion?
+her friendship itself is cooled; scarcely does she partake of the
+pleasure I feel when we meet, her sick heart is only sensible of love
+and grief. Alas! what is become of that fondness and sensibility, of
+that delicacy of taste, of that tender interest in the pains and
+pleasures of others? she is still, I confess mild, generous,
+compassionate; the amiable habit of doing well cannot be effaced, but
+’tis only a blind habit, a taste without reflection. Her actions are
+the same, but they are not performed with the same zeal; those sublime
+sentiments are weakened, that divine flame is extinguished, this angel
+is now no more than woman. Oh, what a noble mind have you seduced from
+the path of virtue!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCV. To The Baroness D’Etange.
+
+
+Overwhelmed with endless sorrow, I throw myself at your feet, madam,
+not to shew a repentance that is out of my power; but to expiate an
+involuntary crime, by renouncing all that could render life a
+blessing. As no human passion ever equalled that inspired by your
+celestial daughter, never was there a sacrifice equal to that I am
+going to make to the most respectable of mothers; but Eloisa has too
+well taught me how to sacrifice happiness to duty; she has too
+courageously set me the example, for me, at least, in one instance,
+not to imitate her. Were my blood capable of removing your distress, I
+would shed it in silence, and complain of being able to give you only
+so feeble a proof of my affection; but to break the most sweet, the
+most pure, the most sacred bond that ever united two hearts, is alas!
+an effort which the whole universe could not oblige me to make, and
+which you alone could obtain.
+
+Yes, I promise to live far from her, as long as you require it; I will
+abstain from seeing and writing to her; this I swear by your precious
+life, so necessary to the preservation of hers. I submit, not without
+horror, but without murmuring, to whatever you condescend to enjoin
+her and me. I will even add, that her happiness is capable of
+alleviating my misery, and that I shall die contented, if you give her
+a husband worthy of her. Oh, let him be found! and let him dare to
+tell me that his passion for Elois is greater than mine! In vain, may
+he have every thing that I want; if he has not my heart, he has
+nothing for Eloisa; but I have only this honest and tender heart.
+Alas! I have nothing more. Love, which levels all, exalts not the
+person, it elevates only the sentiments. Oh, had I dared to listen to
+mine for you, how often, in speaking to you, madam, would my lips have
+pronounced the tender name of mother?
+
+Deign to confide in oaths, which shall not be vain, and in a man who
+is not a deceiver. If I ever dishonour your esteem, I must first
+dishonour myself. My unexperienced heart knew not the danger, till it
+was too late to fly: I had not then learned of your daughter the cruel
+art she has since taught me, of conquering love with its own weapons.
+Banish your fears, I conjure you. Is there a person in the world to
+whom her repose, her felicity, her honour, is dearer than it is to me?
+no, my word and my heart are securities for the engagement into which
+I now enter, both in my own name, and in that of my lovely friend.
+Assure yourself that no indiscreet word shall ever pass my lips, and
+that I will breathe my last sigh without divulging the cause of my
+death. Calm therefore that affliction which consumes you, and which
+adds infinitely to my sufferings; dry up the tears that pierce my very
+soul; try to recover your health; restore to the most affectionate
+daughter the world ever produced, the happiness she has renounced for
+you; be happy; live, that she may value life; for regardless of our
+misfortunes, to be the mother of Eloisa, is still sufficient cause for
+happiness.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCVI. To Mrs. Orbe,
+
+
+_With the preceding Letter inclosed._
+
+There, cruel friend! is my answer. When you read it, if you know my
+heart, you will burst into tears, unless yours has lost its
+sensibility; but no longer overwhelm me with that merciless esteem,
+which I so dearly purchase, and which serves but to increase my
+torture.
+
+Has your barbarous hand then dared to break the gentle union formed
+under your eye, even almost from infancy, and which your friendship
+seemed to share with so much pleasure? I am now as wretched as you
+would have me, and as there is a possibility of being. Do you conceive
+all the evil you have done? are you sensible that you have torn me
+from my soul? that what I have lost is beyond redemption, and that it
+is better to die an hundred times, than not to live for each other?
+why do you urge the happiness of Eloisa? can she be happy without
+contentment? why do you mention the danger of her mother? ah! what is
+the life of a mother, of mine, of yours, of hers itself, what is the
+existence of the whole world, to the delightful sensation by which we
+were united? O senseless and savage virtue! I obey thy unmeaning
+voice, I abhor thee, while I sacrifice all to thy dictates. What avail
+thy vain consolations against the distressful agonies of the soul? go,
+thou sullen idol of the unhappy, thou only knowest to augment their
+misery, by depriving them of the resources which fortune offers: yet I
+obey; yes, cruel friend, I obey; I will become, if possible, as
+insensible and savage as yourself. I will forget every thing upon
+earth that was dear to me. I will no longer hear or pronounce Eloisa’s
+name, or yours. I will no more recall their insupportable remembrance.
+An inflexible vexation and rage shall preserve me from such
+misfortunes. A steady obstinacy shall supply the place of courage: I
+have paid too dearly for my sensibility; it were better to renounce
+humanity itself.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCVII. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Your letter is indeed extremely pathetic, but there is so much love
+and virtue in your conduct, that it effaces the bitterness of your
+complaints: you are so generous, that I have not the courage to
+quarrel with you; for whatever extravagancies we may commit, if we are
+still capable of sacrificing all that is dear to us, we deserve praise
+rather than reproach; therefore, notwithstanding your abuse, you never
+was so dear to me, as since you have made me so fully sensible of your
+worth.
+
+Return thanks to that virtue you believe you hate, and which does more
+for you than even your love. There is not one of us, not even my aunt,
+whom you have not gained by a sacrifice, the value of which she well
+knows. She could not read your letter without melting into tears: she
+had even the weakness to shew it to her daughter; but poor Eloisa’s
+endeavours while she read it, to stifle her sighs and tears, quite
+overcame her, and she fainted away.
+
+This tender mother, whom your letters had already greatly affected,
+begins to perceive from every circumstance, that your hearts are of a
+superior mould, and that they are distinguished by a natural sympathy,
+which neither time nor human efforts will ever be able to efface. She
+who stands in such need of consolation would herself freely console
+her daughter, if prudence did not restrain her; and I see her too
+ready to become her confident, to fear that she can be angry with me.
+Yesterday I heard her say, even before Eloisa, perhaps a little
+indiscreetly, “ah! if it only depended on me!”----and tho’ she said no
+more, I perceived by a kiss which Eloisa impressed on her hand, that
+she too well understood her meaning. I am even certain that she was
+several times inclined to speak to her inflexible husband, but whether
+the danger of exposing her daughter to the fury of an enraged father,
+or whether it was fear for herself, her timidity has hitherto kept her
+silent: and her illness increases so fast, that I am afraid she will
+never be able to execute her half-formed resolution.
+
+However, notwithstanding the faults of which you are the cause, that
+integrity of heart, visible in your mutual affection, has given her
+such an opinion of you, that she confides in the promise you have both
+made, of discontinuing your correspondence, and has not taken any
+precaution to have her daughter more closely watched: indeed, if
+Eloisa makes an ill return to her confidence, she will no longer be
+worthy of her affection. You would both deserve the severest
+treatment, if you were capable of deceiving the best of mothers, and
+of abusing her esteem.
+
+I shall not endeavour to revive in your mind the hopes which I myself
+do not entertain; but I would shew you, that the most honest, is also
+the wisest part, and that if you have any resource left, it is in the
+sacrifice which reason and honour require. Mother, relations, and
+friends are now all for you, except the father, who will by this
+method be gained over, if any thing can do it. Whatever imprecations
+you may utter in the moment of despair, you have a hundred times
+proved to us, that there is no path more sure of leading to happiness
+than that of virtue. Therefore resume your courage, and be a man! be
+yourself. If I am well acquainted with your heart, the most cruel
+manner of losing Eloisa, would be by rendering yourself unworthy of
+her.
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCVIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+She is no more! my eyes have seen hers closed for ever; my lips have
+received her last sigh; my name was the last word she pronounced; her
+last look was fixed on me. No, ’twas not life she seemed to quit; too
+little had I known how to render that valuable! From me alone she was
+torn. She saw me without a guide, and void of hope, overwhelmed by my
+misfortunes and my crime: to her, death was nothing; she grieved only
+to leave her daughter in such a state of misery. She had but too much
+reason. What had she to regret on earth? what could there be here
+below, in her eye, worth the immortal prize of patience and virtue,
+reserved for her in a better world? what had she to do on earth, but
+to lament my shame? Oh! most incomparable woman! thou now dwellest in
+the abode of glory and felicity! thou livest; whilst I, given up to
+repentance and despair, deprived for ever of thy care, of thy counsel,
+of thy sweet caresses, am dead to happiness, to peace, to innocence!
+Nothing do I feel but thy loss; nothing do I see but my reproach: my
+life is only pain and grief. Oh my dear, my tender mother alas, I am
+more dead than thou art!
+
+Good God! to whom do I shed these tears, and vent these sighs? the
+cruel man who caused them, I make my confident! with him who has
+rendered my life unhappy, I dare to deplore my misfortunes! yes, yes,
+barbarous as you are, share the torments you have made me suffer. You,
+for whom I have plunged the poignard into a mother’s bosom, tremble at
+the misfortunes you have occasioned, and shudder with me at the horrid
+act you have committed. To what eyes dare I presume to appear, as
+despicable as I really am? before whom shall I degrade myself to the
+bent of my remorse? to whom, but to the accomplice of my crime, can I
+sufficiently make it known? it is my insupportable punishment, to have
+no accuser but my own heart, and to see attributed to the goodness of
+my disposition the impure tears that flow from a bitter repentance. I
+saw, I trembling saw the poisonous sorrow put a period to the life of
+my unhappy mother. In vain did her pity for me prevent her confessing
+it; in vain she affected to attribute the progress of her illness to
+the cause by which it was produced; in vain was my cousin induced to
+talk in the same strain. Nothing could deceive a heart torn with
+regret; and to my lasting torment, I shall carry to my tomb the
+frightful idea of having shortened her life, to whom I am indebted for
+my own.
+
+O thou, whom heaven in its anger raised up to render me guilty and
+unhappy, for the last time receive into thy bosom the tears thou hast
+occasioned! I come not, as formerly, to share with thee the grief that
+ought to be mutual. These are the sighs of a last adieu, which escape
+from me in spite of myself. It is done: the empire of love is subdued
+in a soul condemned wholly to despair. I will consecrate the rest of
+my days to lamentation for the best of mothers. To her I will
+sacrifice that passion which was the cause of her death: happy shall I
+be, if the painful conquest be sufficient to expiate my guilt! Oh, if
+her immortal mind penetrates into the bottom of my heart, she will
+know that the sacrifice I make, is not entirely unworthy of her! Share
+with me then an effort which you have rendered necessary. If you have
+any remaining respect for the memory of an union, once so dear and
+fatal, by that I conjure you to fly from me for ever; no more to write
+to me; no more to exasperate my remorse; but suffer me to forget, if
+possible, our former connection. May my eyes never behold you more! may
+I never more hear your name pronounced! may the remembrance of you
+never more agitate my mind! I dare still intreat, in the name of that
+love which ought never to have existed, that to so many causes of
+grief, you add not that of seeing my last request despised. Adieu then
+for the last time, dear and only----Ah, fool that I am, adieu for ever!
+
+
+
+
+Letter XCIX. To Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+At last the veil is rent; the long illusion is vanished; all my
+flattering hopes are extinguished; nothing is left to feed the eternal
+flame, but a bitter, yet pleasing remembrance, which supports my life,
+and nourishes my torments with the vain recollection of a happiness
+that is now no more.
+
+Is it then true, that I have tasted supreme felicity? am I the same
+being whose happiness was once so perfect? could any one be
+susceptible of such torments, who was not doomed to eternal misery?
+Can he who has enjoyed the blessings I have lost, be deprived of
+felicity, and still exist? and can such contrary sensations affect the
+same mind? O ye glorious and happy days, surely ye were immortal! ye
+were too celestial ever to perish! your whole duration was one
+continued extasy, by which ye were converged like eternity into a
+single point. I knew neither of past nor future, and I tasted at once
+the delights of a thousand ages. Alas! ye are vanished like a shadow!
+that eternity of happiness was but an instant of my life. Time now
+resumes his tardy pace, and slowly measures the sad remains of my
+existence.
+
+To render my distress still more insupportable, my increasing
+affliction is cruelly aggravated by the loss of all that was dear to
+me. It is possible, madam, that you have still some regard for me: but
+you are busied by other cares, and employed in other duties. These my
+complaints, to which you once listened with concern, are now
+indiscreet. Eloisa! Eloisa herself discourages and abandons me. Gloomy
+remorse has banished love for ever. All is changed with respect to me;
+except the steadfastness of my own heart, which serves but to render
+my fate still more dreadful.
+
+But, to what purpose is it to say what I am, and what I ought to be?
+Eloisa suffers! is it a time to think of myself? her sorrow adds
+bitterness to mine. Yes, I had rather she would cease to love me, and
+that she were happy----cease to love me!----can she----hope it?----
+never, never! She has indeed forbid me to see or write to her. Alas!
+she removes the comforter, but never can the torment! should the loss
+of a tender mother deprive her of a still more tender friend? does she
+think to alleviate her griefs, by multiplying her misfortune? O love!
+can nature be revenged only at thy expense?
+
+No, no; in vain she pretends to forget me. Can her tender heart ever
+be separated from mine? do I not retain it in spite of herself? are
+sensations like those we have experienced, to be forgotten; and can
+they be remembered; without feeling them still? Triumphant love was
+the bane of her felicity; and having conquered her passion, she will
+only be the more deserving of pity. Her days will pass in sorrow,
+tormented at once by vain regret, and vain desires, without being ever
+able to fulfil the obligations either of love or virtue.
+
+Do not however imagine, that in complaining of her errors, I cease to
+respect them. After so many sacrifices, it is too late for me to begin
+to disobey. Since she commands, it is sufficient; she shall hear of me
+no more. Is my fate now sufficiently dreadful? renounce my Eloisa!
+yes, but that’s not the chief cause of my despair; it is for her I
+feel the keenest pangs; and her misfortunes render me more miserable
+than my own. You, whom she loves more than all the world, and who next
+to me, are best acquainted with her worth; you, my amiable friend, are
+the only blessing she has left: a blessing so valuable as to render
+the loss of all the rest supportable. Be you her recompense for the
+comforts of which she is deprived, and for those also which she
+rejects: let a sacred friendship supply at once the tenderness of a
+parent, and a lover, by administering every consolation that may
+contribute to her happiness. O let her be happy, if she can, how great
+soever the purchase! may she soon recover the peace of mind of which
+I, alas, have robbed her! I shall then be less sensible of the torment
+to which I am doomed. Since in my own eyes I am nothing; since it is
+my fate to pass my life in dying for her; let her regard me as already
+dead; I am satisfied, if this idea will add to her tranquillity.
+Heaven grant, that by your kindness she may be restored to her former
+excellence, and her former happiness.
+
+Unhappy daughter! alas, thy mother is no more! this is a loss that
+cannot be repaired, and for which so long as she reproaches herself,
+she can never be consoled. Her troubled conscience requires of her
+this dear and tender mother; and thus the most dreadful remorse is
+added to her affliction. O Eloisa! oughtest thou to feel these
+terrible sensations? thou who wert a witness of the sickness and of
+the last moments of that unfortunate parent! I intreat, I conjure you
+to tell me, what I ought to believe? If I am guilty, tear my heart in
+pieces: if our crimes were the cause of her death, we are two monsters
+unworthy of existence, and it were a double crime to think of so fatal
+an union: O, it were even a crime to live! But, no; I cannot believe
+that so pure a flame could produce such black effects. Surely the
+sentiments of love are too noble. Can heaven be unjust? and could she,
+who sacrificed her happiness to the author of her life, ever deserve
+to be the cause of her death?
+
+
+
+
+Letter C. The Answer.
+
+
+How can I cease to love you, when my esteem for you is daily
+increasing? how can I stifle my affection, whilst you are growing
+every day more worthy of my regard? No, my dear, my excellent friend;
+what we were to each other in early life, we shall continue to be for
+ever; and if our mutual attachment no longer increases, it is because
+it cannot be increased. All the difference is, that I then loved you
+as my brother, and that now I love you as my son; for tho’ we are both
+younger than you, and were even your scholars, I now in some measure
+consider you as ours. In teaching us to think, you have learnt of us
+sensibility; and whatever your English philosopher may say, this
+education is more valuable than the other; if it is reason that
+constitutes the man, it is sensibility that conducts him.
+
+Would you know why I have changed my conduct towards you? it is not,
+believe me, because my heart is not still the same; but because your
+situation is changed. I favoured your passion, while there remained a
+single ray of hope; but since, by obstinately continuing to aspire to
+Eloisa, you can only make her unhappy, to flatter your expectations
+would be to injure you, I had even rather increase your discontent,
+and thus render you less deserving of my compassion. When the
+happiness of both becomes impossible, all that is left for a hopeless
+lover, is to sacrifice his own to that of his beloved.
+
+This, my generous friend, you have performed in the most painful
+sacrifice that ever was made; but, by renouncing Eloisa, you will
+purchase her repose, tho’ at the expense of your own.
+
+I dare scarce repeat to you the ideas that occur to me on this
+subject; but they are fraught with consolation, and that emboldens me.
+In the first place, I believe, that true love, as well as virtue, has
+this advantage, that it is rewarded by every sacrifice we make to it,
+and that we in some measure enjoy the privations we impose on
+ourselves, in the very idea of what they cost us, and of the motives
+by which we were induced. You will be sensible that your love for
+Eloisa was in proportion to her merit; and that will increase your
+happiness. The exquisite self-love, which knows how to reap advantage
+from painful virtue, will mingle its charm with that of love. You will
+say to yourself, I know how to love, with a pleasure more durable and
+more delicate than even possession itself would have afforded. The
+latter wears out the passion by constant enjoyment; but the other
+sails for ever; and you will still enjoy it even when you cease to
+love.
+
+Besides, if what Eloisa and you have so often told me be true, that
+love is the most delightful sensation that can enter into the human
+heart, every thing that prolongs and fixes it, even at the expense of
+a thousand vexations, is still a blessing. If love is a desire, that
+is increased by obstacles, as you still say, it ought never to be
+satisfied; it is better to preserve it at any rate, than that it
+should be extinguished in pleasure. Your passion, I confess, has stood
+the proof of possession, of time, of absence, and of dangers of every
+kind; it has conquered every obstacle, except the most powerful of
+all, that of having nothing more to conquer, and of feeding only on
+itself. The world has never seen the passion stand this proof; what
+right have you then to hope, that yours would have stood the test?
+Time which might have joined to the disgust of a long possession, the
+progress of age, and the decline of beauty, seems by your separation
+fixed and motionless in your favour; you will be always to each other
+in the bloom of your years; you will incessantly see her, as she was
+when you beheld her at parting, and your hearts, united even to the
+grave, will prolong, by a charming illusion, your youth and your love.
+
+Had you never been happy, you might have been tormented by
+insurmountable inquietudes; your heart might have panted after a
+felicity of which it was not unworthy; your warm imagination would
+have incessantly required that which you have not obtained. But love
+has no delights which you have not tasted, and to write like you, you
+have exhausted in one year the pleasures of a whole life. Remember the
+passionate letter you wrote after a rash interview. I read it with an
+emotion I had never before experienced; it had no traces of the
+permanent state of a truly tender heart, but was filled with the last
+delirium of a mind inflamed with passion, and intoxicated with
+pleasure. You yourself may judge that such transports are not to be
+twice experienced in this life, and that death ought immediately to
+succeed. This, my friend, was the summit of all, and whatever love or
+fortune might have done for you, your passion and your felicity must
+have declined. That instant was also the beginning of your disgrace,
+and Eloisa was taken from you, at the moment when she could inspire no
+new sensations, as if fate intended to secure your passion from being
+exhausted, and to leave in the remembrance of your past pleasures, a
+pleasure more sweet than all those you could now have enjoyed.
+
+Comfort yourself then with the loss of a blessing that would certainly
+have escaped you, and would besides have deprived you of that you now
+possess. Happiness and love would have vanished at once; you have at
+least preserved that passion, and we are not without pleasure, while
+we continue to love. The idea of extinguished love is more terrifying
+to a tender heart, than that of an unhappy flame; and to feel a
+disgust for what we possess, is an hundred times worse than regretting
+what is lost.
+
+If the reproaches made you, by my afflicted cousin, on the death of
+her mother, were well founded, the cruel remembrance would, I confess,
+poison that of your love, which ought for ever to be destroyed by so
+fatal an idea; but give no credit to her grief; it deceives her; or
+rather the cause to which she would ascribe her sorrow, is only a
+pretence to justify its excess. Her tender mind is always in fear that
+her affliction is not sufficiently severe, and she feels a kind of
+pleasure in adding bitterness to her distress; but she certainly
+imposes on herself, she cannot be sincere.
+
+Do you think she could support the dreadful remorse she would feel, if
+she really believed she had shortened her mother’s life? no, no, my
+friend, she would not then weep, she would have sunk with her into the
+grave. The baronet D’Etange’s disease is well known; it was a dropsy
+of the pericardium, which was incurable, and her life was despaired
+of, even before she had discovered your correspondence. I own it
+afflicted her much, but she had great consolation. How comfortable was
+it to that tender mother to see, while she lamented the fault of her
+daughter, by how many virtues it was counter-balanced, and to be
+forced to admire the dignity of her soul, while she lamented the
+weakness of nature? how pleasing to perceive with what affection she
+loved her? such indefatigable zeal! such continual solicitude! such
+grief at having offended her! what regret, what tears, what affecting
+caresses, what unwearied sensibility! In the eyes of the daughter were
+visible all the mother’s sufferings; it was she who served her in the
+day, and watched her by night; it was from her hand that she received
+every assistance: you would have thought her some other Eloisa, for
+her natural delicacy disappeared, she was strong and robust, the most
+painful services caused no fatigue, and the intrepidity of her soul
+seemed to have created her a new body. She did every thing, yet
+appeared to be unemployed; she was every where, and yet rarely left
+her; she was perpetually on her knees by the bed, with her lips
+pressed to her mother’s hand, bewailing her illness and her own
+misfortunes, and confounding these two sensations, in order to
+increase her affliction. I never saw any person enter my aunt’s
+chamber, during the last days, without being moved even to tears, at
+this most affecting spectacle, to behold two hearts more closely
+uniting, at the very moment when they were to be torn asunder. It was
+visible that their only cause of anguish was their separation, and
+that to live or die would have been indifferent to either, could they
+have remained, or departed together.
+
+So far from adopting Eloisa’s gloomy ideas, assure yourself that every
+thing that could be hoped for from human assistance and consolation,
+have on her part concurred to retard the progress of her mother’s
+disease, and that her tenderness and care have undoubtedly preserved
+her longer with us, than she would otherwise have continued. My aunt
+herself has told me a hundred times that her last days were the
+sweetest of her life, and that the happiness of her daughter was the
+only thing wanting to compleat her own.
+
+If grief must be supposed in any degree to have hastened her
+dissolution, it certainly sprang from another source. It is to her
+husband it ought to be ascribed. Being naturally inconstant, he
+lavished the fire of his youth on a thousand objects infinitely less
+pleasing, than his virtuous wife; and when age brought him back to
+her, he treated her with that inflexible severity with which faithless
+husbands are accustomed to aggravate their faults. My poor cousin has
+felt the effects of it. An high opinion of his nobility, and that
+roughness of disposition which nothing can ever soften, have produced
+your misfortunes and hers. Her mother, who had always a regard for
+you, and who discovered Eloisa’s love when it was too violent to be
+extinguished, had long secretly bemoaned the misfortune of not being
+able to conquer either the inclinations of her daughter, or the
+obstinacy of her husband, and of being the first cause of an evil
+which she could not remedy. When your letters unexpectedly fell into
+her hands, and she found how far you had misused her confidence, she
+was afraid of losing all by endeavouring to save all, and to hazard
+the life of her child in attempting to restore her honour. She several
+times sounded her husband without success. She often resolved to
+venture an entire confidence in him, and to shew him the full extent
+of his duty; but she was always restrained by her timidity. She
+hesitated while it was in her power, and when she would have told him,
+she was no longer able to speak; her strength failed her, she carried
+the fatal secret with her to the grave, and I who know this austerity,
+without having the least idea how far it may be tempered by natural
+affection, am satisfied, since Eloisa’s life is in no danger.
+
+All this she knows; but you will ask, what I think of her apparent
+remorse? in answer to which I must tell you, that Love is more
+ingenuous than she. Overcome with grief for the loss of her mother,
+she would willingly forget you, and yet in spite of herself, Love
+disturbs her conscience in order to bring you to her memory. He
+chuses that her tears should be connected with the object of her
+passion, but she not daring to employ her thoughts directly on you, he
+deceives her into it under the mask of repentance: thus he imposes on
+her with so much art, that he is willing to increase her woes rather
+than banish you from her thoughts. Your heart may perhaps be ignorant
+of such subterfuges, but they are not the less natural; for though
+your passion may be equal in degree, its nature in each of you is very
+different. Yours is warm and violent, hers soft and tender; your
+sensations are breathed forth with vehemence, but hers retort upon
+herself, and pierce and poison her very inmost soul. Love animates and
+supports your heart, whilst hers is oppressed and dejected with its
+weight, all its springs are relaxed, her strength is gone, her courage
+is extinguished, and her virtue has lost its power. Her heroic
+faculties are not however annihilated but suspended: a momentary
+crisis may restore them to their full vigour, or totally destroy their
+existence. One step farther in this gloomy path and she is lost; but
+if her incomparable soul should recover itself, she will be greater,
+more heroic, more virtuous than ever, and there will be no danger of a
+relapse. Learn then, in this perilous situation, to revere the object
+of your love. Any thing that should come from you, though it were
+against yourself, would at this time prove mortal. If you are
+determined to persist, your triumph will be certain, but you will
+never possess the same Eloisa.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CI. From Lord B----.
+
+
+I had some pretentions to your friendship, you were become serviceable
+to me, and I was prepared to meet you. But what are my pretensions, my
+necessities, or my eagerness to you? you have forgot me, you do not
+even deign to write to me. I am not ignorant of your solitude, nor of
+your secret design; you are weary of existence. Die then, weak youth:
+yes die, thou daring yet cowardly mortal; but, in thy last moments,
+remember that thou hast stung the soul of thy sincere friend with the
+recollection having served an ungrateful man.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CII. The Answer.
+
+
+Yes, my kind friend, you may come. I was determined to taste no more
+pleasure upon earth, but we will meet once more. You are wrong; it is
+as impossible that you should meet with ingratitude as that I should
+ever be ungrateful.
+
+
+
+
+Billet. From Eloisa.
+
+
+It is time to renounce the errors of youth, and to abandon an illusive
+hope. I can never be yours. Restore to me that liberty of which my
+father chuses to dispose; or compleat my misery by a refusal which
+will ruin me for ever, without producing any advantage to yourself.
+
+_Eloisa Etange._
+
+
+
+
+Letter CIII. From the Baron D’Etange.
+
+
+_In which the preceding billet was inclosed._
+
+If there remains in the mind of a seducer the least sentiment of
+honour or humanity, answer the billet of an unhappy girl, whose heart
+you have corrupted, and who would no longer exist, if I could suppose
+her to have carried the forgetfulness of herself any farther. I should
+not indeed be much surprized if the same philosophy which taught her
+to catch at the first man she saw, should also instruct her to
+disobey her father. Think of this matter. I always chuse to proceed
+with lenity and decency, when those methods are likely to succeed; but
+because I act thus with you, you are not to suppose me ignorant in
+what manner a gentleman should take revenge of those beneath him.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CIV. The Answer.
+
+
+Let me intreat you, Sir, to spare those vain menaces, and that unjust
+reproach, which can neither terrify nor humble me. Between two persons
+of the same age there can be no seducer but love, and you can have no
+right to vilify a man whom your daughter honoured with her esteem.
+
+What concessions do you expect, and from what authority are they
+imposed? is it to the author of all my misfortunes that I must
+sacrifice my remaining glimpse of hope? I will respect the father of
+Eloisa; but let him deign to be mine if he expects obedience. No, Sir,
+what opinion soever you may entertain of your proceedings, they will
+not oblige me, for your sake, to relinquish such valuable and just
+pretensions. As you are the sole cause of my misery, I owe you nothing
+but hatred; your pretensions are without foundation. But Eloisa
+commands: her I shall never disobey; therefore you have my consent.
+Another may possess her, but I shall be more worthy.
+
+If your daughter had deigned to consult me concerning the limits of
+your authority, doubt not but I would have taught her to disregard
+your unjust pretensions. How despotic soever may be the empire you
+assume, my rights are infinitely more sacred. The chain by which we
+are united marks the extent of paternal dominion, even in the
+estimation of human laws, and whilst you appeal to the law of nature,
+you yourself are trampling upon its institutions.
+
+Do not alledge that delicate phantom honour, which you seem so
+determined to vindicate; for here again you are the sole offender.
+Respect Eloisa’s choice, and your honour is secure; for I honour you
+in my heart, regardless of your insults. Notwithstanding all your
+gothic maxims, one honest man was never dishonoured by his alliance
+with another. If my presumption offends you, attempt my life; against
+you I shall never defend it. As to the rest, I am little anxious to
+know in what consists the honour of a gentleman; but with regard to
+that of an honest man, I own, it concerns me, and therefore I shall
+defend and preserve it pure and spotless to the end of my life.
+
+Go, inhuman father, and meditate the destruction of your only child,
+whilst she, full of duty and affection, stands ready to yield her
+happiness a victim to prejudice and opinion: but be assured your own
+remorse will one day severely revenge my injuries, and you will then
+perceive, when it is too late, that your blind and unnatural hatred
+was no more fatal to me than to yourself. That I shall be wretched, is
+most certain; but if ever the just feelings of nature should emerge
+from the bottom of your heart, how infinitely greater will be your
+unhappiness in having sacrificed the only daughter of your bosom to a
+mere phantom: a daughter who has no equal in beauty, merit or virtue,
+and on whom indulgent heaven has bestowed every blessing, except a
+kind father.
+
+
+
+
+Billet.
+
+
+_Inclosed in the foregoing._
+
+I restore to Eloisa Etange the power to dispose of herself, and to
+give her hand without consulting her heart.
+
+_S. G._
+
+
+
+
+Letter CV. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I designed to give you a description of the scene which produced the
+billet you have received; but my father took his measures so
+skilfully, that it ended only the instant before the post went out.
+His letter as certainly saved the mail as this will be too late; so
+that your resolution will be taken, and your answer dispatched before
+it can possibly reach you: therefore all detail would now be useless.
+I have done my duty; you will do yours: but fate will overwhelm us,
+and we are betrayed by honour. We are divided for ever! and to
+increase my horror, I am going to be forced into the----O heavens! it
+was once in my power to live in thine. Just God!----we must tremble
+and be silent.
+
+The pen falls from my hand. I have been of late much indisposed. This
+morning’s affair has hurt me not a little----Oh, my head, my poor
+heart! I feel, I feel, I shall faint----Will heaven have no mercy on
+my sufferings?----I am no longer able to support myself----I will
+retire to my bed, and console myself, in the hope of rising no more.
+Adieu, my only love! adieu, for the last time, my dear, my tender
+friend. Ah! I live no longer for thee! have I not then already ceased
+to live?
+
+
+
+
+Letter CVI. From Eloisa to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Can it be true, my dear, my cruel friend, that you have called me back
+to life and sorrow? I saw the happy instant when I was going to be
+again united to the tenderest of mothers; but thy inhuman kindness has
+condemned me to bemoan her yet longer: when my desire to follow her
+had almost snatched me from this earth, my unwillingness to leave thee
+behind held me fast. If I am at all reconciled to life, it is from the
+comfort of not having entirely escaped the hand of death. Thank
+heaven! that beauty is no more for which my heart has paid so dearly.
+The distemper from which I have risen has happily deprived me of it.
+This circumstance I hope will abate the gross ardour of a man so
+indelicate as to dare to marry me without my consent. When the only
+thing which he admired no longer exists, surely he will be little
+anxious about the rest. Without breach of promise to my father,
+without injuring that friend whose life is in his power, I shall be
+able to repulse this importunate wretch: my lips will be silent, but
+my looks will speak for me. His disgust will defend me against his
+tyranny, and he will find me too disagreeable to dare to make me
+unhappy.
+
+Ah, my dear cousin! you know a constant tender heart that would not be
+so repulsed. His passion was not confined to outward form or charms of
+person; it was me that he loved, and not my face; we were united in
+every part of our being, and so long as Eloisa had remained, her
+beauty might have fled, but love would for ever have continued. And
+yet he could consent----ungrateful youth!----yet it was but just,
+since I could ask it. Who would wish to retain by promise those who
+could withdraw their heart? and did I attempt to withdraw mine?----
+have I done it?----O heavens! why must every thing conspire to remind
+me of times that are no more, and to increase a flame which ought to
+be extinguished? In vain, Eloisa, are thy endeavours to tear the dear
+image from thy heart: ’tis too firmly attached; thy heart itself would
+first be torn in pieces, and all thy endeavours serve but to engrave
+it the deeper.
+
+May I venture to tell you a vision of my delirium during my fever,
+which has continued to torment me ever since my recovery? Yes, learn
+and pity the distraction of your unhappy friend, that you may thank
+heaven for preserving your heart from the horrid passion by which it
+is occasioned. During the most violent moment of my phrenzy, when my
+fever was at the height, I thought I beheld the unhappy youth kneeling
+by my bed-side: not such as when he charmed my senses during the short
+period of my felicity; but pale, wild, and lost in despair. He took my
+hand, not disgusted with its appearance, and fearless of the sad
+infection, eagerly kissed and bathed it with his tears. I felt at the
+sight of him that pleasing emotion which his unexpected appearance
+used formerly to occasion. I endeavoured to dart towards him, but was
+restrained. You tore him from me, and what affected me most was his
+sighs and groans, which seemed to increase as he went farther from me.
+
+It is impossible to describe the effect of this strange dream. My
+fever was long and violent; I continued many days insensible; I have
+seen him often in my phrenzy; but none of my dreams have left half the
+impression on my memory which this last did: it is impossible to drive
+it from my imagination. Methinks I see him every moment in that
+attitude. His air, his dress, his manner, his sorrowful and tender
+look, are continually before my eyes. His lips seem still to press my
+hand; I feel it wet with his tears. His plaintive voice melts my
+heart; now I behold him dragged far from me, whilst I endeavour in
+vain to hold him fast. In short, the whole imaginary scene appears in
+my mind more real than reality itself.
+
+I deliberated long before I could resolve to tell you this. Shame kept
+me silent when we were together; but the idea grows every day
+stronger, and torments me to such a degree, that I can no longer
+conceal my folly. Would that I were entirely a fool! why should I wish
+to preserve that reason which serves only to make me wretched?
+
+But to return to my dream. Rally me, my dear friend, if you will, for
+my simplicity; but surely there is something mysterious in this
+vision, which distinguishes it from common phrenzy. Can it be a
+presage of his death? or is he already dead? and was it thus that
+heaven deigned, for once to be my guide, and invite me to follow him
+whom I was ordained to love? Alas! a summons to the grave would be the
+greatest blessing I could receive.
+
+To what purpose do I recall these vain maxims of philosophy which
+amuse only those who have no feelings? they impose on me no longer,
+and I cannot help despising them. I believe that spirits are
+invisible; but is it impossible that, between two lovers so closely
+united, there should be an immediate communication, independent of the
+body and the senses? may not their mutual impressions be transmitted
+through the brain?----Poor Eloisa, what extravagant ideas! how
+credulous are we rendered by our passions! and how difficult it is for
+a heart severely affected to relinquish its errors, even after
+conviction!
+
+
+
+
+Letter CVII. The Answer.
+
+
+Ah, thou most unfortunate and tender girl! art thou then destined to
+be unhappy? I try in vain to keep thee from sorrow, but thou dost seem
+to court affliction; thy evil genius is more powerful than all my
+endeavours. Do not however add chimerical apprehensions to so many
+real causes of inquietude: and since my caution has been more
+prejudicial than serviceable to you, let me free you from a mistake
+which aggravates your misery; perhaps the melancholy truth will be
+less tormenting. Know then that your dream, was not a dream; that it
+was not the phantom of your friend which you beheld, but his real
+person; and that the affecting scene, which is ever present to your
+imagination, did actually pass in your room, on the day after your
+disorder was at the crisis.
+
+On the preceding day, I left you very late; and Mr. Orbe, who would
+take me from you that night, was ready to depart; when on a sudden we
+perceived that unhappy wretch, whose condition is truly deplorable,
+enter hastily, and throw himself at our feet. He took post horses
+immediately on the receipt of your last letter. By travelling day and
+night, he performed the journey in three days, and never stopped till
+the last stage; where he waited in order to enter the town under
+favour of the night. I am ashamed to confess, that I was less eager
+than Mr. Orbe to embrace him: without knowing the intent of his
+journey, I foresaw the consequence. The bitter recollection of former
+times, your danger and his, his manifest discomposure of mind, all
+contributed to check so agreeable a surprize; and I was too powerfully
+affected to salute him with eagerness. I nevertheless embraced him
+with a heart-felt emotion in which he sympathized, and which
+reciprocally displayed itself in a kind of mute grief, more eloquent
+than tears and lamentations. The first words he uttered were----“How
+does she? O, how is my Eloisa? am I to live or die?” I concluded from
+thence, that he was informed of your illness, and upon the
+supposition that he was likewise acquainted with the nature of it, I
+spoke without any other precaution than that of extenuating the
+danger. When he understood that it was the small-pox, he made dreadful
+lamentation, and was taken suddenly ill. Fatigue and the want of
+sleep, together with perturbation of mind, had so entirely overcome
+him, that it was some time before we could bring him to himself. He
+had scarce strength to speak; we persuaded him to take rest.
+
+Nature being quite spent, he slept twelve hours successively, but with
+so much agitation that such a sleep must rather impair than recruit
+his strength. The next day gave birth to new perplexity: he was
+absolutely determined to see you. I represented to him the danger
+there was that his presence might occasion some fatal revolution in
+your distemper. He proposed to wait till there was no risque; but his
+stay itself was a terrible risque, of which I endeavoured to make him
+sensible. He rudely interrupted me. “Cease, said he, with a tone of
+indignation, your cruel eloquence: it is too much, to exert it for my
+ruin. Do not hope to drive me from hence as you did when I was forced
+into exile. I would travel a hundred times from the farthest extremity
+of the world for one glance of my Eloisa: but I swear, added he with
+vehemence, by the author of my being, that I will not stir till I have
+seen her. We will try for once, whether I shall move you with
+compassion, or you make me guilty of perjury.”
+
+His resolution was fixed. Mr. Orbe was of opinion that we should
+contrive some means to gratify him, that we might send him away before
+his return was discovered: for he was only known to one person in the
+house, of whose secrecy I was assured; and we called him by a feigned
+name before the family. [39] I promised him that he should see you the
+next night, upon condition that he staid but a minute, that he did not
+utter a syllable, and that he departed the next morning before break
+of day. To these conditions, I exacted his solemn promise; then I was
+easy, I left my husband with him, and returned to you.
+
+I found you much better, the irruption was quite compleat; and the
+physician raised my courage, by giving me hope. I laid my plan
+beforehand with Bab, and the increase of your fever, though a little
+abated, leaving you still somewhat light-headed, I took that
+opportunity to dismiss every body, and send my husband word to
+introduce his guest, concluding that before the paroxysm of your
+disorder was over, you would be less likely to recollect him. We had
+all the difficulty in the world to get rid of your disconsolate
+father, who was determined to sit up with you every night. At length
+I told him with some warmth, that he would spare nobody the trouble
+of watching, for that I was determined likewise to sit up with you,
+and that he might be assured, though he was your father, his
+tenderness for you was not more diligent than mine. He departed with
+reluctance, and we remained by ourselves Mr. Orbe came about eleven,
+and told me that he had left your friend in the street. I went in
+search of him: I took him by the hand: he trembled like a leaf. As he
+went through the anti-chamber, his strength failed him: he drew his
+breath with difficulty, and was forced to sit down.
+
+At length, having singled out some objects by the faint glimmering of
+a distant light----yes, said he, with a deep sigh, I recollect these
+apartments. Once in my life I traversed them----about the same hour
+----with the same mysterious caution----I trembled as I do now----My
+heart fluttered with the same emotion----O! rash creature that I was
+----though but a poor mortal, I nevertheless dared to taste.----What
+am I now going to behold in that same spot, where every thing
+diffused a delight with which my soul was intoxicated? what am I
+going to view, in that same object which inspired and shared my
+transports?----the retinue of melancholy, the image of death,
+afflicted virtue, and expiring beauty!
+
+Dear cousin; I will spare thy tender heart the dismal detail of such
+an affecting scene. He saw you, and was mute. He had promised to be
+silent;----but such a silence! he fell upon his knees; he sobbed, and
+kissed the curtains of your bed; he lifted up his hands and eyes; he
+fetched deep and silent groans; he could scarce stifle his grief and
+lamentations. Without seeing him, you accidentally put one of your
+hands out of bed; he seized it with extravagant eagerness; the ardent
+kisses he impressed on your sick hand, awaked you sooner than all the
+noise and murmur which buzzed about you. I perceived that you
+recollected him, and in spite of all his resistance and complaints, I
+forced him from your chamber directly, hoping to elude the impression
+of such a fleeting apparition, under the pretence of its being the
+effect of your delirium. But finding that you took no notice of it, I
+concluded that you had forgot it. I forbad Bab to mention it, and I am
+persuaded she has kept her word. A needless caution which love has
+disconcerted, and which has only served to aggravate the pain of a
+recollection which it is too late to efface.
+
+He departed as he had promised, and I made him swear not to stop in
+the neighbourhood. But, my dear girl, this is not all; I must acquaint
+you with another circumstance, of which likewise you cannot long
+remain ignorant. Lord B---- passed by two days afterwards; he hastened
+to overtake him; he joined him at Dijon, and found him ill. The
+unlucky wretch had caught the small-pox. He kept it secret from me
+that he had never had the distemper, and I introduced him without
+precaution. As he could not cure your disorder, he was determined to
+partake of it. When I recollect the eagerness with which he kissed
+your hand, I make no doubt but he underwent inoculation purposely. It
+is impossible to have been worse prepared to receive it; but it was
+the inoculation of love, and it proved fortunate. The author of life
+preserved the most tender lover that ever existed; he is recovered,
+and according to my lord’s last letter, they are by this time actually
+set out for Paris.
+
+You see, my too lovely cousin, that you ought to banish those
+melancholy terrors, which alarm you without reason. You have long
+since renounced the person of your friend, and you find that his life
+is safe. Think of nothing therefore, but how to preserve your own, and
+how to make the promised sacrifice to paternal affection with becoming
+grace. Cease to be the sport of vain hope, and to feed yourself with
+chimeras. You are in great haste to be proud of your deformity; let me
+advise you to be more humble; believe me you have yet too much reason
+to be so. You have undergone a cruel infection, but it has spared your
+face. What you take for seams, is nothing but a redness which will
+quickly disappear. I was worse affected than you, yet nevertheless you
+see I am tolerable. My angel, you will still be beautiful in spite of
+yourself; and do you think that the enamoured Wolmar, who, in three
+years absence, could not conquer a passion conceived in eight days, is
+likely to be cured of it, when he has an opportunity of seeing you
+every hour? Oh! if your only resource is the hope of being
+disagreeable, how desperate is your condition!
+
+
+
+
+Letter CVIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+It is too much. It is too much. O my friend! the victory is yours. I
+am not proof against such powerful love; my resolution is exhausted.
+My conscience affords me the consolatory testimony, that I have
+exerted my utmost efforts. Heaven, I hope, will not call me to account
+for more than it has bestowed upon me. This sorrowful heart which cost
+you so dear, and which you have more than purchased, is yours without
+reserve; it was attached to you the first moment my eyes beheld you;
+and it will remain yours to my dying breath. You have too much
+deserved it, ever to be in danger of losing it; and I am weary of
+being the slave of a chimerical virtue, at the expense of justice.
+
+Yes, thou most tender and generous lover, thy Eloisa will be ever
+thine, will love thee ever: I must, I will, I ought. To you I resign
+the empire which love has given you; a dominion of which nothing shall
+ever deprive thee more. The deceitful voice which murmurs at the
+bottom of my soul, whispers in vain: it shall no longer betray me.
+What are the vain duties it prescribes, in opposition to a passion
+which heaven itself inspire? is not the obligation which binds me to
+you, the most solemn of all? is it not to you alone that I have given
+an absolute promise? was not the first vow of my heart never to forget
+you; and is not your insoluble attachment a fresh tie to secure my
+constancy? ah! in the transports of love with which I once more
+surrender my heart to thee, my only regret is, that I have struggled
+against sentiments so agreeable and so natural. Nature, O gentle
+nature, resume thy rights! I abjure the savage virtues which conspire
+to thy destruction. Can the inclinations which you have inspired, be
+more seductive, than a specious reason which has so often misled me?
+
+O my dear friend, have some regard for the tenderness of my
+inclinations; you are too much indebted to them, to abhor them; but
+allow of a participation which nature and affection demands; let not
+the rights of blood and friendship be totally extinguished by those of
+love. Do not imagine that to follow you, I will ever quit my father’s
+house. Do not hope that I will refuse to comply with the obligations
+imposed on me by parental authority. The cruel loss of one of the
+authors of my being, has taught me to be cautious how I afflict the
+other. No, she whom he expects to be his only comfort hereafter, will
+not increase the affliction of his soul, already oppressed with
+disquietude: I will not destroy all that gave me life. No, no, I am
+sensible of my crime, but cannot abhor it. Duty, honour, virtue, all
+these considerations have lost their influence, but yet I am not a
+monster; I am frail, but not unnatural. I am determined, I will not
+grieve any of the object of my affection. Let a father, tenacious of
+his word, and jealous of a vain prerogative, dispose of my hand
+according to his promise, but let love alone dispose of my heart; let
+my tears incessantly trickle down the bosom of my tenderest friend.
+Let me be lost and wretched, but, if possible, let every one dear to
+me, be happy and contented. On you three my existence depends, and may
+your felicity make me forget my misery and despair.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CIX. The Answer.
+
+
+We revive my Eloisa; all the real sentiments of our souls resume their
+wonted course. Nature has preserved our existence, and love has
+restored us to life. Did you suppose, could you be rash enough to
+imagine you could withdraw your affections from me? I am better
+acquainted with your heart than yourself: that heart which heaven
+destined to be mine! I find them united by one common thread, which
+death alone can divide. Is it in our power to separate them, or ought
+we even to attempt it? are they joined together by ties which man hath
+formed, and which man can dissolve? No, no, my Eloisa! if cruel
+destiny bars our claim to tender conjugal titles, yet nothing can
+deprive us of the character of faithful lovers; that shall be the
+comfort of our melancholy days, and we will carry it with us to the
+grave.
+
+Thus we recover life only to renew our sufferings, and the
+consciousness of our existence is nothing more than a sense of
+affliction. Unfortunate beings! how we are altered? how have we ceased
+to be what we were formerly? where is that enchantment of supreme
+felicity? where are those exquisite raptures which enlivened our
+passion? nothing is left of us but our love; love alone remains, and
+all its charms are eclipsed. O, thou dear and too dutiful girl, thou
+fond fair one without resolution! all our misfortunes are derived from
+thy errors. Alas! a heart of less purity would not have so fatally
+misled thee! yes, the honour of thy heart has been our ruin, the
+upright sentiments which fill thy breast, have banished discretion.
+You would endeavour to reconcile filial tenderness with unconquerable
+love; by attempting to gratify all your inclinations, you confound
+instead of conciliating them, and your very virtue renders you guilty.
+O Eloisa, how incredible is your power! by what strange magic do you
+fascinate my reason! even while you endeavour to make me blush at our
+passion, you have the art of appearing amiable in your very failings.
+You force me to admire you, even while I partake of your remorse----
+your remorse!----does it become you to feel remorse?----you, whom I
+loved----you, whom I shall never cease to adore----can guilt ever
+approach thy spotless heart?----O cruel Eloisa! if you mean to
+restore the heart which belongs to me alone, return it to me such as
+it was, when you first bestowed it.
+
+What do you tell me?----will you venture to intimate----you, fall
+into the arms of another?----shall another possess you?----will you
+be no longer mine?----or, to compleat my horror, will you not be
+solely mine?----I----shall I suffer such dreadful punishment----
+shall I see you survive yourself?----no I had rather lose you
+entirely, than share you with another.----Why has not heaven armed
+me with courage equal to the rage which distracts me?----sooner than
+_thy_ hand should debase itself by a fatal union which love abhors,
+and honour condemns, I would interpose my own, and plunge a poignard
+in thy breast. I would drain thy chaste heart of blood which
+infidelity never tainted: with that spotless blood I would mix my
+own, which burns in my veins with inextinguishable ardour; I would
+fall in thy arms; I would yield my last breath on thy lips----I would
+receive thine----How! Eloisa expiring! those lovely eyes closed by
+the horrors of death!----that breast, the throne of love, mangled by
+my hand, and pouring forth copious streams of blood and life!----No,
+live and suffer, endure the punishment of my cowardice. No, I wish
+thou wert no more, but my passion is not so violent as to stab thee.
+O, that you did but know the state of my heart, which is ready to
+burst with anguish! Never did it burn with so pure a flame. Never were
+your innocence and virtue so dear to me. I am a lover, I know how to
+prize an amiable object, I am sensible that I do: but I am no more
+than man, and it is not within the compass of human power to renounce
+supreme felicity. One night, one single night, has made a thorough
+change in my soul. Preserve me, if thou canst, from that dangerous
+recollection, and I am virtuous still. But that fatal night is sunk to
+the bottom of my soul, and the remembrance of it will darken all the
+rest of my days. O Eloisa, thou most adorable object! if we must be
+wretched for ever, yet let us enjoy one hour of transport, and then
+resign ourselves to eternal lamentations.
+
+Listen to the man who loves you. Why should we alone affect to be
+wiser than the rest of mankind, and pursue, with puerile simplicity,
+those chimerical virtues, which all the world talks of, and no one
+practises. What! shall we pretend to be greater moralists than the
+crowd of philosophers which people London and Paris, who all laugh at
+conjugal fidelity, and treat adultery as a jest? instances of this
+nature are far from being scandalous; we are not at liberty even to
+censure them, and people of spirit would laugh at a man who should
+stifle the affections of his heart out of respect to matrimony. In
+fact, say they, an injury which only consists in opinion, is no injury
+while it remains secret. What injury does a husband receive from an
+infidelity to which he is a stranger? by how many obliging
+condescensions, does a woman compensate for her failings? [40] what
+endearments she employs to prevent, and to remove his suspicions?
+deprived of an imaginary good, he actually enjoys more real felicity,
+and this supposed crime which makes such a noise, is but an additional
+tie, which secures the peace of society.
+
+O God forbid, thou dear partner of my soul, that I should wish to
+preserve thy affections by such shameful maxims. I abhor them, though
+I am not able to confute them, and my conscience is a better advocate
+than my reason. Not that I pride myself upon a spirit which I detest,
+or that I am fond of a virtue bought so dear: but I think it less
+criminal to reproach myself with my failings, than to attempt to
+vindicate them, and I consider an endeavour to stifle remorse, as the
+strongest degree of guilt.
+
+I know not what I write. I find my mind in a horrid state, much worse
+than it was, even before I received your letter. The hope you tender
+me, is gloomy and melancholy; it totally extinguishes that pure light,
+which has so often been our guide; your charms are blasted, and yet
+appear more affecting; I perceive that you are affectionate and
+unhappy: my heart is overwhelmed with the tears which flow from your
+eyes, and I vent bitter reproaches on myself for having presumed to
+taste a happiness, which I can no longer enjoy, but at the hazard of
+your peace.
+
+Nevertheless I perceive that a secret ardour fires my soul, and
+revives that courage which my remorse has subdued. Ah, lovely Eloisa,
+do you know how many losses a love like mine can compensate for? do
+you know how far a lover, who only breathes for you, can make your
+life agreeable? are you sensible that it is for you alone I wish to
+live, to move, to think? no, thou delicious source of my existence, I
+will have no soul but thine, I will no longer be any thing but a part
+of thy lovely self, and you will meet with such a kind reception in
+the inmost recesses of my heart, that you will never perceive any
+decay in your charms. Well, we shall be guilty, yet we will not be
+wicked; we shall be guilty, yet we will be in love with virtue: so far
+from attempting to palliate our failings, we will deplore them; we
+will lament together; if possible, we will work our redemption, by
+being good and benevolent. Eloisa! O Eloisa! what will you do? what
+can you do? you can never disengage yourself from my heart: is it not
+espoused to thine?
+
+I have long since bid adieu to those vain prospects of fortune which
+so palpably deluded me. I now solely confine my attention to the
+duties I owe Lord B----; he will force me with him to England; he
+imagines I can be of service to him there. Well, I will attend him.
+But I will steal away once every year; I will come in secret to visit
+you. If I cannot speak to you, at least I shall have the pleasure of
+gazing on you; I may at least kiss your footsteps; one glance from
+your eyes will support me ten months. When I am forced to return, and
+retire from her I love, it will be some consolation to me, to count
+the steps which will bring me back again. These frequent journeys will
+be some amusement to your unhappy lover; when he sets out to visit
+you, he will anticipate the pleasure of beholding you; the remembrance
+of the transports he has felt, will enchant his imagination during his
+absence; in spite of his cruel destiny, his melancholy time will not
+be utterly lost; every year will be marked with some tincture of
+pleasure, and the short-lived moments he passes near you, will be
+multiplied during his whole life.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CX. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Your mistress is no more; but I have recovered my friend, and you too
+have gained one, whose affection will more than recompense your loss.
+Eloisa is married, and her merit is sufficient to make the gentleman
+happy, who has blended his interest with hers. After so many
+indiscretions, thank heaven which has preserved you both, her from
+ignominy, and you from the regret of having dishonoured her. Reverence
+her change of condition; do not write to her, she desires you will
+not. Wait till she writes to you, which she will shortly do. Now is
+the time to convince me that you merit that esteem I ever entertained
+for you, and that your heart is susceptible of a pure and
+disinterested friendship.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXI. From Eloisa.
+
+
+I have been so long accustomed to make you the confident of all the
+secrets of my soul, that it is not in my power to discontinue so
+agreeable a correspondence. In the most important occurrences of life
+I long to disclose my heart to you. Open yours, my beloved friend, to
+receive what I communicate; treasure up in your mind the long
+discourse of friendship, which, though it sometimes renders the
+speaker too diffusive, always makes the friendly hearer patient.
+
+Attached to the fortune of a husband, or rather to the will of a
+parent, by an indissoluble tie, I enter upon a new state of life,
+which death alone can terminate: let us for a moment cast our eyes on
+that which I have quitted; the recollection of former times cannot be
+painful to us. Perhaps it will afford some lessons, which will teach
+me how to make a proper use of the time to come: perhaps it will open
+some lights which may serve to explain those particulars of my
+conduct, which always appeared mysterious in your eyes. At least, by
+reflecting in what relation we lately stood to each other, our hearts
+will become more sensible of the reciprocal duties, from which death
+alone can release us.
+
+It is now near six years since I first saw you. You was young,
+genteel, and agreeable. I had seen others more comely, and more
+engaging; but no one ever excited the least emotion within me, and my
+heart surrendered itself to you [41] on the first interview. I
+imagin’d that I saw, in your countenance, the traces of a soul which
+seemed the counterpart of mine. I thought that my senses only served
+as organs to more refined sentiments; and I loved in you, not so much
+what I saw, as what I imagined, I felt within myself. It is not two
+months since, that I still flattered myself I was not mistaken: blind
+Love, said I, was in the right; we were made for each other, if human
+events do not interrupt the affinity of nature; and if we are allowed
+to enjoy felicity in this life, we shall certainly be happy together.
+
+These sentiments were reciprocal; I should have been deceived, had I
+entertained them alone. The love I felt, could not arise but from a
+mutual conformity and harmony of souls. We never love, unless we are
+beloved; at least our passion is short-lived. Those affections which
+meet with no return, and which are supposed to make so many wretched,
+are only founded on sensuality; if ever they penetrate the heart, it
+is by means of some false resemblance, and the mistake is quickly
+discovered. Sensual love cannot subsist without fruition, and dies
+with it: the sublimer passion cannot be satisfied without engaging the
+heart, and is as permanent as the analogy which gave it birth. [42]
+Such was ours from the beginning; and such, I hope, it will ever be to
+the end of our days. I perceived, I felt that I was beloved, and that
+I merited your affection. My lips were silent, my looks were
+constrained; but my heart explained itself: we quickly experienced I
+know not what, which renders silence eloquent, which gives utterance
+to the downcast eye, which occasions a kind of forward bashfulness
+which discovers the tumult of desire through the veil of timidity, and
+conveys ideas which it dares not express.
+
+I perceived the situation of my heart, and gave myself over for lost,
+the first word you spoke. I found what pain your reserve cost you. I
+approved of the distance you observed, and admired you the more; I
+endeavoured to recompense you for such a necessary and painful
+silence, without prejudice to my innocence; I offered violence to my
+natural disposition; I imitated my cousin; I became, like her, arch
+and lively, to avoid too serious explanations, and to indulge a
+thousand tender caresses, under cover of that affected sprightliness.
+I took such pains to make your situation agreeable, that the
+apprehensions of a change increased your reserve. This scheme turned
+to my disadvantage: we generally suffer for assuming a borrowed
+character. Fool that I was! I accelerated my ruin, instead of
+preventing it; I employed poison as a palliative, and what should have
+induced you to preserve silence, was the occasion which tempted you to
+explain yourself. In vain did I attempt, by an affected indifference,
+to keep you at a distance in our private interviews; that very
+constraint betrayed me: you wrote. Instead of committing your first
+letter to the fire, or delivering it to my mother, I ventured to open
+it. That was my original crime, and all the rest was a necessary
+consequence of that first fault. I endeavoured to avoid answering
+those fatal letters, which I could not forbear reading. This violent
+struggle affected my health. I saw the abyss in which I was going to
+plunge. I looked upon myself with horror, and could not resolve to
+endure your absence. I fell into a kind of despair; I had rather that
+you had ceased to live, than not to live to me: I even went so far as
+to wish, and to desire your death. Heaven knew my heart; these efforts
+may make amends for some failings.
+
+Finding you disposed to implicit obedience, I was determined to speak.
+Chaillot had given me some instructions, which made me too sensible of
+the danger of avowing my passion. But love, which extorted the
+confession, taught me to elude its consequence. You was my last
+resort; I had such an entire confidence in you, that I furnished you
+with arms against my weakness; such was my opinion of your integrity,
+that I trusted you would preserve me from myself, and I did you no
+more than justice. When I found the respect you paid to so valuable a
+trust, I perceived that my passion had not blinded me in my opinion of
+those virtues with which I supposed you endowed. I resigned myself
+with greater security, as I imagined that we should both of us be
+contented with a sentimental affection. As I discovered nothing at the
+bottom of my heart but sentiments of honour, I tasted without reserve
+the charms of such a delightful intimacy. Alas! I did not perceive
+that my disorder grew inveterate from inattention, and that habit was
+still more dangerous than love. Being sensibly affected by your
+reserve, I thought I might relax mine without any risk; in the
+innocence of my desires, I hoped to lead you to the heights of virtue,
+by the tender caresses of friendship. But the grove at Clarens soon
+convinced me that I trusted myself too far, and that we ought not to
+grant the least indulgence to the senses, where prudence forbids us to
+gratify them to the full. One moment, one single moment, fired me with
+a desire which nothing could extinguish; and if my will yet resisted,
+my heart was from that time corrupted.
+
+You partook of my distraction; your letter made me tremble. The danger
+was double: to preserve me from you and from myself, it was necessary
+to banish you. This was the last effort of expiring virtue; but by
+your flight, you made your conquest sure, and when I saw you no more,
+the languor your absence occasioned, deprived me of the little
+strength I had left to resist you.
+
+When my father quitted the service, he brought M. Wolmar home with
+him. His life which he owed to him, and an intimacy of twenty years,
+rendered this friend so dear, that he could never part from him. M.
+Wolmar was advanced in years, and tho’ of high birth, he had met with
+no woman who had fixed his affections. My father mentioned me to him,
+as to a man whom he wished to call his son: he was desirous to see me,
+and it was with this intent that they came together. It was my fate to
+be agreeable to him, who was never susceptible of any impression
+before. They entered into secret engagements, and M. Wolmar, who had
+some affairs to settle in one of the northern courts, where his family
+and fortune were, desired time, and took leave upon their mutual
+engagement. After his departure, my father acquainted my mother and
+me, that he designed him for my husband; and commanded me, with a tone
+which cut off all reply from my timidity, to prepare myself to receive
+his hand. My mother, who too plainly perceived the inclinations of my
+heart, and who had a natural liking for you, made several attempts to
+shake my father’s resolution; she durst not absolutely propose you,
+but she spoke of you in such terms as she hoped might make my father
+esteem you, and wish to be acquainted with you; but your rank in life
+made him insensible to all your accomplishments; and though he
+allowed, that high birth could not supply them, yet he maintained that
+birth alone could make them of any value.
+
+The impossibility of being happy, fanned the flame which it ought to
+have extinguished. A flattering delusion had supported me under all my
+troubles; when that was gone, I had no strength to oppose them. While
+I had the least hope of being yours, I might have triumphed over my
+inclinations; it would have cost me less to have spent my whole life
+in resistance, than to renounce you for ever; and the very idea of an
+everlasting opposition, deprived me of fortitude to subdue my passion.
+
+Grief and love preyed upon my heart; I fell into a state of dejection,
+which you might perceive in my letters: yours, which you wrote to me
+from Meillerie, compleatd my affliction; to the measure of my own
+troubles, was added the sense of your despair. Alas! the weakest mind
+is always destined to bear the troubles of both. The scheme you
+ventured to propose to me, put the finishing stroke to my perplexity.
+Misery seemed to be the infallible lot of my days, the inevitable
+choice which remained for me to make, was to add to it either my
+parents or your infelicity. I could not endure the horrible
+alternative; the power of nature has its bounds; such agitations
+overpowered my strength. I wished to be delivered from life. Heaven
+seemed to take pity of me; but cruel death spared me for my
+destruction. I saw you, I recovered, and was undone.
+
+If my failings did not contribute to my felicity, I was not
+disappointed: I never considered them as the means to procure
+happiness. I perceived that my heart was formed for virtue, without
+which I could never be happy; I fell through weakness, not from error;
+I had not even blindness to plead in excuse for my frailty, I was
+bereaved of every hope; it was impossible for me to be otherwise than
+unfortunate. Innocence and love were equally requisite to my peace: as
+I could not preserve them both, and was witness to your distraction, I
+consulted your interest alone in the choice I made, and to save you, I
+ruined myself.
+
+But it is not so easy, as many imagine to forsake virtue. She
+continues for some time, to torment those who abandon her, and her
+charms, which are the delight of refined souls, constitute the chief
+punishment of the wicked, who are condemned to be in love with her
+when they can no longer enjoy her. Guilty, yet not depraved, I could
+not escape the remorse which pursued me; honour was dear to me, even
+after it was gone; though my shame was secret, it was not less
+grievous; and though the whole world had been witness to it, I could
+not have been more sensibly affected. I comforted myself under my
+affliction, like one who having a wound, dreads a mortification; and
+who, by the sense of pain, is encouraged not to despair of a cure.
+
+Nevertheless, my shameful state was insupportable. By endeavouring to
+stifle the reproach of guilt, without renouncing the crime, I
+experienced what every honest mind feels when it goes astray, and is
+fond of its mistake. A new delusion lent its aid to assuage the
+bitterness of repentance; I flattered myself, that my frailty would
+afford me the means of repairing my indiscretion, and I ventured to
+form a design of forcing my father to unite our hands. I depended on
+the first pledge of our love to close this delightful union. I prayed
+to heaven for offspring as the pledge of my return to virtue, and of
+our mutual happiness: I wished for it with as much earnestness as
+another, in my place, would have dreaded it. The tenderness of love,
+by its soft illusion, allayed the murmurs of my conscience; the
+effects I hoped to derive from my frailty inspired me with
+consolation, and this pleasing expectation was all the hope and
+comfort of my life.
+
+Whenever I should discover evident symptoms of my pregnancy, I was
+determined to make a public declaration of my condition to Mr. Perret,
+[43] in the presence of the whole family. I am timorous, it is true; I
+was sensible how dear such a declaration would cost me, but honour
+itself inspired me with courage, and I chose rather to bear at once
+the confusion I deserved, than to nourish everlasting infamy at the
+bottom of my soul. I knew that my father would either doom me to
+death, or give me to my lover; this alternative had nothing in it
+terrible to my apprehension, and whatever might be the event, I
+concluded that this step would put an end to all my sufferings.
+
+This, my dear friend, was the mystery which I concealed from you, and
+which you endeavoured to penetrate with such solicitous curiosity. A
+thousand reasons conspired to make me use this reserve with a man of
+your impetuosity, not to mention that it would have been imprudent to
+have furnished you with a new pretence for pressing your indiscreet
+and importunate application. It was above all things requisite to
+remove you during such a perilous situation, and I was very sensible
+that you would never have consented to leave me in such an extremity,
+had you known my danger.
+
+Alas! I was once more deceived by such a flattering expectation.
+Heaven refused to favour designs which were conceived in wickedness. I
+did not deserve the honour of being a mother; my scheme was abortive,
+and I was even deprived of an opportunity of expiating my frailty, at
+the expense of my reputation. Disappointed in my hope, the indiscreet
+assignation which exposed your life to danger, was a rashness which my
+fond love coloured with this gentle palliation: I imputed the ill
+success of my wishes to myself, and my heart, misled by its desires,
+flattered itself that its eagerness to gratify them arose entirely
+from my anxiety to render them lawful hereafter.
+
+At one time I thought my wishes accomplished: that mistake was the
+source of my most bitter affliction, and after nature had granted the
+petition of love, the stroke of destiny came with aggravated cruelty.
+You know the accident which destroyed my last hopes, together with the
+fruit of my love. That misfortune happened during our separation, as
+if heaven at that time intended to oppress me with all the evils I
+merited, and to separate me at once from every connection which might
+contribute to our union.
+
+Your departure put an end to my delusion and to my pleasures; I
+discovered, but too late the chimeras which had imposed upon me. I
+perceived that I had fallen into a state truly despicable, and I felt
+myself compleatly wretched; which was the inevitable consequence of
+love without innocence, and hopeless desires which I could never
+extinguish. Tortured by a thousand fruitless griefs, I stifled
+reflections which were as painful as unprofitable; I no longer looked
+upon myself as worthy of consideration, and I devoted my life to
+solitude for you: I had no honour, but yours; no hope, but in your
+happiness, and the sentiments which you communicated were alone
+capable of affecting me.
+
+Love did not make me blind to your faults, but it made those faults
+dear to me; and its delusion was so powerful, that, had you been more
+perfect, I should have loved you less. I was no stranger to your
+heart, to your impetuosity. I was sensible, that with more courage
+than I, you had less patience, and that the afflictions which
+oppressed my soul, would drive yours to despair. It was for this
+reason that I always carefully kept my father’s promise a secret from
+you, and at our parting, taking advantage of Lord B----’s zeal for
+your interest, and with a view to make you more attentive to your own
+welfare, I flattered you with a hope which I myself did not entertain.
+Yet more; apprized of the danger which threatened us, I took the only
+precaution for our mutual security, and by a solemn engagement having
+made you, as much as possible, master of my will, I hoped to inspire
+you with confidence, and myself with fortitude, by mean of a promise
+which I never durst violate, and which might ensure your peace of
+mind. I own it was a needless obligation, and yet I should never have
+infringed it. Virtue is so essential to our souls, that when we have
+once abandoned that which is real, we presently fashion another after
+the same model, and we keep the more strongly attached to this
+substitute, because, perhaps, it is of our own election.
+
+I need not tell you what perturbation I felt after your departure. The
+worst of my apprehensions was the dread of being forsaken. The place
+of your residence made me tremble. Your manner of living increased my
+terror. I imagined that I already saw you debased into a man of
+intrigue. An ignominy of this nature touched me more sensibly than all
+my afflictions; I had rather have seen you wretched than contemptible;
+after so many troubles to which I had been inured, your dishonour was
+the only one I could not support.
+
+My apprehensions, which the stile of your letters confirmed, were
+quickly removed; and that by such means as would have made any other
+compleatly uneasy. I allude to the disorderly course of life into
+which you was seduced, and of which your ready and frank confession
+was, of all the proofs of your sincerity, that which affected me most
+sensibly. I knew you too well to be ignorant what such a confession
+must have cost you, even if I had been no longer dear to you. I
+perceived that love alone had triumphed over shame, and extorted it
+from you. I concluded that a heart so sincere, was incapable of
+disguised infidelity; I discovered less guilt in your failing, than
+merit in the confession; and calling to mind your former engagements,
+I was entirely cured of jealousy.
+
+My worthy friend, my cure did not increase my felicity; for one
+torment less, a thousand others rose up incessantly, and I was never
+more sensible of the folly of seeking that repose in an unsettled
+mind, which nothing but prudence can bestow. I had for a long time
+secretly lamented the best of mothers, who insensibly wasted away with
+a fatal decay. Bab, whom the unhappy consequence of my misconduct
+obliged me to make my confident, betrayed me, and discovered our
+mutual love, and my frailty, to my mother. I had just received your
+letters from my cousin, when they were seized. The proofs were too
+convincing; grief deprived her of the little strength her illness had
+left her. I thought I should have expired at her feet with remorse. So
+far from consigning me to the death I merited, she concealed my shame,
+and was contented to bemoan my fall. Even you, who had so ungratefully
+abused her kindness, was not odious to her. I was witness to the
+effect which your letter produced on her tender and affectionate mind.
+Alas! she wished for your happiness and mine. She attempted more than
+once----but why should I recall a hope which is now for ever
+extinguished? heaven decreed it otherwise. She closed her melancholy
+days with the afflicting consideration of being unable to move a rigid
+husband, and of leaving a daughter behind her so little worthy of such
+a parent.
+
+Oppressed with such a crude loss, my soul had no other strength than
+what it received from that impression; the voice of nature uttered
+groans which stifled the murmurs of love. I regarded the author of my
+troubles with a kind of horror. I endeavoured to stifle the detestable
+passion which had brought them upon me, and to renounce you for ever.
+This, no doubt, was what I ought to have done; had I not sufficient
+cause of lamentation the remainder of my days, without being in
+continual quest of new subjects of affliction? every thing seemed to
+favour my resolution. If melancholy softens the mind, deep affliction
+hardens it. The remembrance of my dying mother effaced your image; we
+were distant from each other; hope had entirely abandoned me; my
+incomparable friend was never more great or more deserving wholly to
+engross my heart. Her virtue, her discretion, her friendship, her
+tender caresses, seemed to have purified it; I thought I had forgotten
+you, and imagined myself cured. But it was too late; what I took for
+the indifference of extinguished love, was nothing but the heaviness
+of despair.
+
+As a sick man who falls into a weak state when free from pain, is
+suddenly revived by more acute sensations, so I quickly perceived all
+my troubles renewed when my father acquainted me with Mr. Wolmar’s
+approaching return. Invincible love then gave me incredible
+strength. For the first time I ventured to oppose my father to his
+face. I frankly protested that I could never like Mr. Wolmar; that I
+was determined to die single; that he was master of my life, but not
+of my affections, and that nothing could ever make me alter my
+resolution. I need not describe the rage he was in, nor the treatment
+I was obliged to endure. I was immoveable; my timidity once
+vanquished, carried me to the other extreme, and if my tone was less
+imperious than my father’s, it was nevertheless equally resolute.
+
+He found that I was determined, and that he should make no impression
+on me by dint of authority. For a minute I thought myself freed from
+his persecution. But what became of me, when on a sudden I saw the
+most rigid father softened into tears, and prostrate at my feet?
+without suffering me to rise, he embraced my knees, and fixing his
+streaming eyes on mine, he addressed himself to me in a plaintive
+voice, which still murmurs within me. O my child! have some respect
+for the grey hairs of your unhappy father; do not send me with sorrow
+to the grave, after her who bore thee. Ah! will you be the death of
+all your family?
+
+Imagine my grief and astonishment. That attitude, that tone, that
+gesture, those words, that horrible idea, overpowered me to that
+degree, that I dropped half dead into his arms, and it was not till
+after repeated sobs, which for some time stifled utterance, that I was
+able to answer him in a faint and faltering voice. O my father! I was
+armed against your menaces, but I am not proof against your tears. You
+will be the death of your daughter.
+
+We were both of us in such violent agitation that it was a long while
+before we could recover. In the mean time, recollecting his last
+words, I concluded that he was better informed of the particulars of
+my conduct than I had imagined, and being resolved to turn those
+circumstances of information against him, I was preparing, at the
+hazard of my life, to make a confession which I had too long deferred,
+when he hastily interrupted me, and as if he had foreseen and dreaded
+what I was going to declare, he spoke to me in the following terms.
+
+“I know you have encouraged inclinations unworthy a girl of your
+birth. It is time to sacrifice to duty and honour a shameful passion
+which you shall never gratify but at the expense of my life. Attend to
+what your father’s honour, and your own require of you, and then
+determine for yourself.”
+
+“Mr. Wolmar is of noble extraction, one who is distinguished by all
+the accomplishments requisite to maintain his dignity; one who enjoys
+the public esteem, and who deserves it. I am indebted to him for my
+life; and you are no stranger to the engagement I have concluded with
+him. You are farther to understand that on his return home to settle
+his concerns, he found himself involved by an unfortunate turn of
+affairs: he had lost the greatest part of his estate, and it was by
+singular good luck that he himself escaped from exile to Siberia: he
+is coming back with the melancholy wreck of his fortune, upon the
+strength or his friend’s word, which never yet was forfeited. Tell me
+now, in what manner I shall receive him on his, return? shall I say to
+him? Sir, I promised you my daughter while you were in affluent
+circumstances, but now your fortune is ruined I must retract my word,
+for my daughter will never be yours. If I do not express my refusal in
+these words, it will be interpreted in this manner. To alledge your
+pre-engagement, will be considered as a pretence, or it will be
+imputed as an additional disgrace to me, and we shall pass, you for an
+abandoned girl, and I for a dishonest man, who has sacrificed his word
+and honour to forbid interest, and has added ingratitude to
+infidelity. My dear child, I have lived too long, now to close an
+unblemished life with infamy, and sixty years spent with honour are
+not to be prostituted in a quarter of an hour.”
+
+“You perceive therefore, continued he, how unreasonable is every
+objection which you can offer. Judge whether the giddy passion of
+youth, whether attachments which modesty disavows, are to be put in
+competition with the duty of a child, and the honour by which a parent
+stands bound. If the dispute was, which of us two should fall a victim
+to the happiness of the other, my tenderness would challenge the right
+of making that sacrifice to affection; but honour, my child, calls
+upon me, and that always determines the resolution of him whose blood
+you inherit.”
+
+I was not without a pertinent answer to these remonstrances; but my
+father’s prejudices confirmed him in his principles, so different from
+mine, that reasons which appeared to me unanswerable, would not have
+had the least weight with him. Besides, not knowing whence he had
+gathered the intelligence he seemed to have gained with respect to my
+conduct, or how far his information extended; apprehending likewise by
+his eagerness to interrupt me, that he had formed his resolution with
+regard to the matter I was going to communicate, and above all, being
+restrained by a sense of shame which I could never subdue, I rather
+chose to avail myself of an excuse, which I thought would have greater
+weight, as it squared more with my father’s peculiarity of thinking. I
+therefore made a frank declaration of the engagement I had made with
+you; I protested that I would never be false to my word, and that
+whatever was the consequence, I would never marry without your
+consent.
+
+In truth, I was delighted to find that my scruples did not offend him;
+he reproached me severely for entering into such an engagement, but he
+made no objection to its validity. So exalted are ideas which a
+gentleman of honour naturally entertains with regard to the faith of
+engagements, and so sacred a thing does he esteem a promise! instead
+of attempting therefore to dispute the force of my obligation to you,
+he made me write a note, which he inclosed in a letter and sent away
+directly. [44] With what agitation did I expect your answer! how often
+did I wish that you might shew less delicacy than you ought! but I
+knew you too well, however, to doubt your compliance, and was sensible
+that the more painful you felt the sacrifice required of you, the
+readier you would be to undergo it. Your answer came, it was kept a
+secret from me during my illness; after my recovery, my fears were
+confirmed, and I was cut off from all farther excuses. At least, my
+father declared he would admit of no more, and the dreadful expression
+he had made use of gave him such an ascendency over my will that he
+made me swear never to say any thing to M. Wolmar which might make him
+averse from marrying me; for, he added, that will appear to him like a
+trick concerted between us, and at all events the marriage must be
+concluded.
+
+You know, my dear friend, that my constitution, which is strong enough
+to endure fatigue and inclemency of weather, is not able to resist the
+violence of passion, and that too exquisite a sensibility is the
+source of all the evils which have afflicted my mind and body. Whether
+continued grief had tainted my blood, or whether nature took that
+opportunity to purify it from the fatal effects of fermentation,
+however it was, I found myself violently disordered at the end of our
+conversation. When I left my father’s room, I endeavoured to write a
+line to you, but found myself so ill, that I was obliged to go to bed,
+from whence I hoped never to rise. You are too well acquainted with
+the rest. My imprudence led you to indiscretion. You came, I saw you,
+and thought that I had only beheld you in one of those dreams, which,
+during my delirium, so often presented your image before me. But when
+I found that you had really been there, that I had actually seen you,
+that being resolved to partake of my distemper which you could not
+cure, you had purposely caught the infection; I could no longer resist
+this last proof, and finding that the tenderness of your affection
+survived even hope itself, my love which I had taken such pains to
+smother, instantly broke through all restraint, and revived with more
+ardour than ever. I perceived that I was doomed to love in spite of
+myself; I was sensible that I must be guilty; that I could neither
+resist my father nor my love, and that I could never reconcile the
+rights of love and consanguinity, but at the expense of honour. Thus
+all my noble sentiments were utterly extinguished; all my faculties
+were altered; guilt was no longer horrible in my sight; I felt a
+thorough change within me; at length, the unruly transports of a
+passion, rendered impetuous by opposition, threw me into the most
+dismal dejection with which human nature was ever oppressed; I even
+dared to despair of virtue. Your letter, which was rather calculated
+to awaken remorse than to stifle it, put the finishing stroke to my
+distraction. My heart was so depraved, that my reason could not
+withstand the arguments of your plausible philosophy. Horrible ideas
+ventured to crowd into my mind, with which it had never been tainted
+before. My will still opposed them, but my imagination grew familiar
+with them, and if my soul did not harbour anticipated guilt, yet I was
+no longer mistress of that noble resolution which alone is capable of
+resisting temptation.
+
+I am scarce able to proceed. Let me stop a while. Recall to your mind
+those days of innocence and felicity, when the lively and tender
+passion with which we were mutually animated, only served to refine
+our sentiments, when that holy ardour contributed to render modesty
+more lovely, and honour more amiable, when our very desires seemed
+kindled only that we might have the glory of subduing them, and of
+rendering ourselves more worthy of each other. Look over our first
+letters; reflect on those moments so fleeting and so little enjoyed,
+when love appeared to us arrayed in all the charms of virtue, and when
+we were too fond of each other to enter into any connections which she
+condemned.
+
+What were we then, and what are we now? Two tender lovers spent a
+whole year together in painful silence; they scarce ventured to
+breathe a sigh, but their hearts understood each other; they thought
+their sufferings great, but, had they known it, they were happy. Their
+mutual silence was so intelligible, that at length they ventured to
+converse; but, satisfied with the power of triumphing over their
+inclinations, and with giving each other the glorious proofs of their
+victory, they passed another year in a reserve scarce less severe;
+they imparted their troubles to each other, and were happy. But these
+violent struggles were too painful to be supported long; one moment’s
+weakness led them astray; they forgot themselves in their transports;
+but if they were no longer chaste, they were still constant; at least,
+heaven and nature authorized the ties which united them; at least
+virtue was still dear to them; they still loved and honoured her
+charms; they were less corrupted than debased. Though they were less
+worthy of felicity, they still continued happy.
+
+What now are those affectionate lovers who glowed with so refined a
+passion, and were so sensible of the worth of honour? who can be
+acquainted with their condition, without sighing over them?----behold
+them a prey to guilt. Even the idea of defiling the marriage bed does
+not now strike them with horror----they meditate adultery!----how,
+is it possible that they can be the same pair? Are not their souls
+entirely altered? how could that lovely image which the wicked never
+behold, be effaced in the minds where it once shone so bright? are not
+they, who have once felt the charms of virtue, for ever after
+disgusted with vice? how many ages have passed to produce this
+astonishing alteration? what length of time could be capable of
+destroying so delightful a remembrance, and of extinguishing the true
+sense of happiness in those who had once enjoyed it? Ah! if the first
+step of irregularity moves with slow and painful pace, how easy and
+precipitate are those which follow! O, the illusion of passion! it is
+that which fascinates reason, betrays prudence, and new models nature,
+before we perceive the change. A single moment leads us astray; one
+step draws us out of the right path. From that time an irresistible
+propensity hurries us on to our ruin. From that time we fall into a
+gulph, and arise frightened to find ourselves oppressed with crimes,
+with a heart formed to virtue. My dear friend, let us drop the
+curtain. Can it be necessary to see the dangerous precipice it
+conceals from us, in order to avoid approaching it? I resume my
+narrative.
+
+M. Wolmar arrived, and made no objection to the alteration in my
+features. My father pressed me. The mourning for my mother was just
+over, and my grief was proof against time. I could form no pretence to
+elude my promise; and was under a necessity of fulfilling it. I
+thought the day which was to separate me for ever from you and from
+myself, would have been the last of my life. I could have beheld the
+preparations for my funeral, with less horror than those for my
+marriage. The nearer the fatal moment drew, the less I found myself
+able to root out my first affections from my soul; my efforts rather
+served to inflame than to extinguish them. At length I gave over the
+fruitless struggle. At the very time that I was prepared to swear
+eternal constancy to another, my heart still vowed eternal love to
+thee, and I was carried to the temple as a polluted victim, which
+defiles the altar on which it is sacrificed.
+
+When I came to the church, I felt, at my entrance, a kind of emotion
+which I had never experienced before. An inconceivable terror seized
+my mind in that solemn and august place which was full of the Being
+worshipped there. A sudden horror made me shiver. Trembling and ready
+to faint, it was with difficulty that I reached the altar. Far from
+being composed, I found my disorder increase during the ceremony, and
+every object I beheld struck me with terror. The gloomy light of the
+temple, the profound silence of the spectators, their decent and
+collected deportment, the train of all my relations, the awful look of
+my venerable father, all contributed to give the ceremony an air of
+solemnity which commanded my attention and reverence, and which made
+me tremble at the very thought of perjury. I imagined that I beheld
+the instrument of Providence, and that I heard the voice of heaven, in
+the minister who pronounced the holy liturgy with uncommon solemnity.
+The purity, the dignity, the sanctity of marriage, so forcibly
+expressed in the words of scripture, the chaste, the sublime duties it
+inculcates, and which are so important to the happiness, the order,
+the peace, the being of human nature, so agreeable in themselves to be
+observed; all conspired to make such an impression upon me, that I
+felt a thorough revolution within ne. An invisible power seemed
+suddenly to rectify the disorder of my affections, and to settle them
+according to the laws of duty and nature. The eternal and omnipresent
+Power, said I to myself, now reads the bottom of my soul; he compares
+my secret will with my verbal declaration: heaven and earth are
+witness to the solemn engagement I am going to contract; and they
+shall be witness of my fidelity in observing the obligation. What
+human duty can they regard, who dare to violate the first and most
+sacred of all?
+
+A casual glance on Mr. and Mrs. Orbe, whom I saw opposite to each
+other, fixing their tender looks on me, affected me more powerfully
+than all the other objects around me. O most amiable and virtuous
+pair! though your love is less violent, are you therefore less closely
+attached to each other? duty and honour are the bonds which unite you;
+affectionate friends! faithful couple! you do not burn with that
+devouring flame which consumes the soul, but you love each other with
+a gentle and refined affection, which nourishes the mind, which
+prudence authorizes, and reason directs; you therefore enjoy more
+substantial felicity. Ah! that, in an union like yours, I could
+recover the same innocence, and attain the same happiness! if I have
+not like you deserved it, I will at least endeavour to make myself
+worthy of it by your example.
+
+These sentiments renewed my hopes, and revived my courage. I
+considered the sacred tie I was preparing to form, as a new state
+which would purify my soul, and restore me to a just sense of my duty.
+When the minister asked me, whether I promised perfect obedience and
+fidelity to him whom I received for my husband, I made the promise not
+only with my lips but with my heart; and I will keep it inviolably
+till my death.
+
+When we returned one, I sighed for an hour’s solitude and
+recollection. I obtained it, not without difficulty; and however eager
+I was to make the best advantage of it, I nevertheless entered into
+self-examination with reluctance, being afraid lest I should discover
+that I had only been affected by some transitory impressions, and that
+at the bottom I should find myself as unworthy a wife, as I had been
+an indiscreet girl. The method of making the trial was sure, but
+dangerous; I began it by turning my thoughts on you. My heart bore
+witness that no tender recollection had profaned the solemn engagement
+I had lately made. I could not conceive, without astonishment, how
+your image could have forborne its obstinate intrusion, and have left
+me so long at rest, amidst so many occasions which might have recalled
+you to my mind; I should have mistrusted my insensibility and
+forgetfulness, as treacherous dependencies, which were too unnatural
+to be lasting. I found however that I was in no danger of delusion: I
+was sensible that I still loved you as much, if not more than ever;
+but I felt my affection for you without a blush. I found that I could
+venture to think of you, without forgetting that I was the wife of
+another. When a tacit self-confession reported how dear you was to me,
+my heart was affected, but my conscience and my senses were composed;
+and from that moment I perceived that my mind was changed in reality.
+What a torrent of pure joy then rushed into my soul! what tranquil
+sensations, so long effaced, then began to revive a heart which
+ignominy had stained, and to diffuse an unusual serenity through my
+whole frame! I felt as if I had been new born; and I fancied that I
+was entering into another life. O gentle and balmy virtue! I am
+regenerated for thee; thou alone canst make life dear to me; to thee
+alone I consecrate my being. Oh I have too fatally experienced the
+loss of thee, ever to abandon thee a second time.
+
+In the rapture of so great, so sudden, so unexpected a change I
+ventured to reflect on the state I was in the preceding day: I
+trembled on thinking what a state of unworthy debasement I had been
+reduced by forgetting what I owed to myself; and I shuddered at all
+the dangers I had since my first step of deviation. What a happy
+revolution of mind enabled me to discover the horror of the crime which
+threw temptation before me; and how did the love of discretion revive
+within me! by what uncommon accident, said I, could I hope to be more
+faithful to love, than to honour, which I held in such high esteem?
+what good fortune would prevent your inconstancy or my own, from
+delivering me a prey to new attachments? how could I oppose to another
+lover, that resistance which the first had conquered, and that shame
+which had been accustomed to yield to inclination? should I pay more
+regard to the rights of extinguished love, than I did to the claim of
+virtue, while it maintained its full empire in my soul? what security
+could I have to love no other but you, except that inward assistance
+which deceives all lovers, who swear eternal constancy, and
+inconsiderately perjure themselves upon every change of their
+affections? thus one deviation from virtue would have led to another;
+and vice, grown habitual, would no longer have appeared horrible in my
+sight. Fallen from honour to infamy, without any hold to stop me; from
+a seduced virgin I should have become an abandoned woman, the scandal
+of my sex and the torment of my family. What has saved me from so
+natural a consequence of my first transgression? what checked me after
+my first guilty step? what has preserved my reputation, and the esteem
+of my beloved friends? what has placed me under the protection of a
+virtuous and discreet husband, whose character is amiable, whose
+person is agreeable, and who is full of that respect and affection for
+me, which I have so little deserved? what, in short, enables me to
+aspire after the character of a virtuous wife, and gives me courage to
+render myself worthy of that title? I see it, I feel it; it is the
+friendly hand which has conducted me thro’ the paths of darkness, that
+now removes the veil of error from my eyes; and, in my own despite,
+restores me to myself. The gentle voice which incessantly murmured
+within me, now raised its tone, and thundered in my ears, at the very
+moment that I was near being lost for ever. The author of all truth
+would not allow me to quit his presence with the conscious guilt of
+detestable perjury; and preventing my crime by my remorse, he has
+shewn me the frightful abyss into which I was ready to fall. Eternal
+Providence! who dost make the insect crawl, and the heavens revolve,
+thou art watchful over the least of all thy works! thou hast recalled
+me to that virtue, which I was born to revere! deign therefore to
+receive, from a heart purified by thy goodness, that homage which thou
+alone hast rendered worthy thy acceptance.
+
+That instant, being impressed with a lively sense of the danger I had
+escaped, and of the state of honour and security in which I was
+happily re-established, I prostrated myself on the ground, and lifting
+my suppliant hands to heaven, I invoked that Being enthroned on high,
+whole pleasure supports or destroys, by means of our own strength,
+that free-will he has bestowed. I eagerly, said I, embrace the
+professed good, of which Thou alone art the author. I will love the
+husband to whom thou hast attached me. I will be faithful, because it
+is the chief duty which unites private families and society in
+general. I will be chaste, because it is the parent virtue which
+nourishes all the rest. I will adhere to everything relative to the
+order of nature which thou hast established, and to the dictates of
+reason which I derive from thee. I recommend my heart to thy
+protection, and my desires to thy guidance. Render all my actions
+conformable to my steadfast will, which is ever thine, and never more
+permit momentary error to triumph over the settled choice of my life.
+
+Having finished this short prayer, the first I ever made with true
+devotion, I found myself confirmed in virtuous resolutions; it seemed
+so easy and so agreeable to follow these dictates, that I clearly
+perceived where I must hereafter resort for that power to resist my
+inclinations, which I could not derive from myself. From this new
+discovery, I acquired fresh confidence, and lamented that fatal
+blindness, which had so long disguised it from me. I had never been
+devoid of religion, but perhaps I had better have been wholly so, than
+to have professed one which was external and mechanical; and which
+satisfied the conscience, without affecting the heart; one which was
+confined to set forms; and taught me to believe in God at stated
+hours, without thinking of him the remainder of my time. Scrupulously
+attendant on public worship, I nevertheless drew no advantage from it
+to assist me in the practice of my duty. Knowing that I was of good
+family, I indulged my inclinations, I was fond of speculation, and put
+my trust in reason. Not being able to reconcile the Spirit of the
+Gospel with the manners of the world, nor faith with works, I steered
+a middle course which satisfied the vanity of my wisdom; I had one set
+of maxims for speculation, and another for practice; I forgot in one
+place, the opinions I formed in another; I was devotee at church, and
+a philosopher at home: Alas! was nothing any where; my prayers were
+but words, my reasoning mere sophistry, and the only light I followed
+was the false glimmering of an _ignis fatuus_ which guided me to
+destruction.
+
+I cannot describe to you how much this inward principle, which had
+escaped me till now, made me despise those which had so shamefully
+misled me. Tell me, I intreat you, what was the strongest reason in
+their support, and on what foundation did they rest? A favourable
+instinct directs me to good, some impetuous passion rises in
+opposition: it takes root in the same instant, and what must I do to
+destroy it? From a contemplation on the order of nature, I discover
+the beauty of virtue; and from its general utility, I derive its
+excellence. But what do these arguments avail, when they stand in
+competition to my private interest; and which in the end is of most
+consequence to me, to procure my own happiness at the expense of
+others, or to promote the felicity of others at the expense of my own
+happiness? if the dread of shame or punishment deter me from
+committing evil for the sake of my own private good, I have nothing
+more to do than to sin in secret; virtue then cannot upbraid me, and
+if I am detected, I shall be punished, as at Sparta, not on account of
+my crime, but because I had not ingenuity to conceal it. In short,
+admitting the character and the love of virtue to be imprinted in my
+heart by nature, it will serve me as a rule of conduct till its
+impressions are dead; but how shall I be sure always to preserve this
+inward effigies in its original purity, which has no model, among
+sublunary beings, to which it can be referred? Is it not evident, that
+irregular afflictions corrupt the judgement as well as the will, and
+that conscience changes, and in every age, in every people, in every
+individual, accommodates itself to inconstancy of opinion and
+diversity of prejudice.
+
+Adore the supreme Being, my worthy and prudent friend; with one puff
+of breath you will be able to dissipate those chimeras of reason,
+which have a visionary appearance, and which fly like so many others,
+before immutable truth. Nothing exists but through him, who is self-
+existent. It is he who directs the tendency of justice, fixes the
+basis of virtue, and gives a recompense to a short life spent
+according to his will; it is he who proclaims aloud to the guilty that
+their secret crimes are detected, and gives assurance to the righteous
+in obscurity, that their virtues are not without a witness; it is he,
+it is his unalterable substance, that is the true model of those
+perfections, of which we all bear the image within us. It is in vain
+that our passions disfigure it; its traces which are allied to the
+infinite Being, ever present themselves to our reason, and serve to
+re-establish what error and imposture have perverted. These
+distinctions seem to me extremely natural; common sense is sufficient
+to point them out. Every thing which we cannot separate from the idea
+of divine essence, is God; all the rest is the work of men. It is by
+the contemplation of this divine model, that the soul becomes refined
+and exalted, that it learns to despise low desires, and to triumph
+over base inclinations. A heart impressed with these sublime truths,
+is superior to the mean passions of human nature; the idea of infinite
+grandeur subdues the pride of man; the delight of contemplation
+abstracts him from gross desires; and if the immense Being, who is the
+subject of his thoughts had no existence, it would nevertheless be of
+use to exercise his mind in such meditations, in order to make him
+more master of himself, more vigorous, more discreet, and more happy.
+
+Do you require a particular instance of the vain subtleties framed by
+that self sufficient reason, which so vainly relies on its own
+strength? Let us coolly examine the arguments of those philosophers,
+those worthy advocates of a crime, which never yet reduced any whose
+minds were not previously corrupted. Might one not conclude that, by a
+direct attack of the most holy and most solemn of all contracts, these
+dangerous disputants were determined at one stroke to annihilate human
+society in general, which is founded on the faith of engagements? But
+let us consider, I beseech you, how they exculpate secret adultery? it
+is because, say they, no mischief arises from it; not even to the
+husband, who is ignorant of the wrong. But, can they be certain that
+he will always remain ignorant of the injury offered him? is it
+sufficient to authorise perjury and infidelity, that they do no wrong
+to others? is the mischief which the guilty do to themselves, not
+sufficient to create an abhorrence of guilt? is it no crime to be
+false to our word, to destroy, as far as we are able, the obligation
+of oaths, and the most inviolable contracts? is it no crime to take
+pains to render ourselves false, treacherous, and perjured? is it no
+crime to form attachments, which occasion you to desire the prejudice,
+and to wish the death of another? even the death of one whom we ought
+to love above others, and with whom we have sworn to live? is not that
+state in itself an evil, which is productive of a thousand
+consequential crimes? even good itself, if attended with so many
+mischiefs, would, for that reason only, be an evil.
+
+Shall one of the parties pretend to innocence, who may chance to be
+disengaged, and have pledged his faith to no one? He is grossly
+mistaken. It is not only the interest of husband and wife, but it is
+the common benefit of mankind, that the purity of marriage be
+preserved unsullied. Whenever two persons are joined together by that
+solemn contract, all mankind enter into a tacit engagement to respect
+the sacred tie, and to honour the conjugal union; and this appears to
+be a powerful reason against clandestine marriages, which, as they
+express no public sign of such an union, expose innocent maids to the
+temptation of adulterous passion. The public are in some measure
+guarantees of a control which passes in their presence; and we may
+venture to say, that the honour of a modest woman is under the special
+protection of all good and worthy people. Whoever therefore dares to
+seduce her, sins; first because he has tempted her to sin, and that
+every one is an accomplice in those crimes which he persuades others
+to commit: in the next place, he sins directly himself, because he
+violates the public and sacred faith of matrimony, without which no
+order or regularity can subsist in society.
+
+The crime, say they, is secret, consequently no injury can result from
+it to any one. If these philosophers believe the existence of a God
+and the immortality of the human soul, can they call that crime
+secret, which has for its witness the Being principally offended, and
+the only righteous judge? it is a strange kind of a secret, which is
+hid from all eyes, except those from which it is our interest most to
+conceal it! if they do not however admit of the omnipresence of the
+Divinity, yet how can they dare to affirm that they do injury to no
+one? how can they prove that it is a matter of indifference to a
+parent to educate heirs who are strangers to his blood; to be
+encumbered perhaps with more children than he would otherwise have
+had, and to be obliged to distribute his fortune among those pledges
+of his dishonour, without feeling for them any sensations of parental
+tenderness, and natural affection. If we suppose these philosophers to
+be materialists, we have then a stronger foundation for opposing their
+tenets by the gentle dictates of nature, which plead in every breath
+against the principles of a vain philosophy, which have never yet been
+controverted by sound reasoning. In short, if the body alone produces
+cogitation, and sentiment depends entirely on organization, will there
+not be a more strict analogy between two beings of the same blood;
+will they not have a more violent attachment to each other, will there
+not be a resemblance between their souls as well as their features,
+which is a most powerful motive to inspire mutual affection?
+
+Is it doing no injury therefore, in your opinion, to destroy or
+disturb this natural union by the mixture of adulterate blood, and to
+pervert the principle of that mutual affection, which ought to cement
+all the members of one family? who would not shudder with horror at
+the thoughts of having one infant changed for another by a nurse? and
+is it a less crime to make such a change before the infant is born?
+
+If I consider my own sex in particular, what mischiefs do I discover
+in this incontinency, which is supposed to do no injury! the
+debasement of a guilty woman, who, after the loss of her honour, soon
+forfeits all other virtues, is alone sufficient. What manifest
+symptoms convey to a tender husband the intelligence of that injury
+which they think to justify by secrecy! the loss of the wife’s
+affection is sufficient proof. To what purpose will all her affected
+endeavours serve, but to manifest her indifference the more? can we
+impose upon the jealous eye of love by feigned caresses? and what
+torture must he feel, who is attached to a beloved object, whose hand
+embraces, while her heart rejects him! Admitting however that fortune
+should favour a conduct which she has so often betrayed, and to say
+nothing of the rashness of trusting our own affected innocence and
+another’s peace to precautions which Providence often thinks proper to
+disconcert----yet what deceit, what falsehood, what imposture, is
+requisite to conceal a criminal commerce, to deceive a husband, to
+corrupt servants, and to impose upon the public! what a disgrace to
+the accomplices! what an example to children! what must become of
+their education amidst so much solicitude how to gratify a guilty
+passion with impunity! how is the peace of the family and the union of
+the heads of it to be maintained? what! in all these circumstances
+does the husband receive no injury? but who can make him recompense
+for a heart which should have been devoted to him? who can restore him
+the affections of a valuable woman? who can give him peace of mind,
+and conjugal confidence! who can cure him of his well-grounded
+suspicions? who can engage a father to trust the feelings of nature,
+when he embraces his child?
+
+With regard to the pretended connections which may be formed in
+families by means of adultery and infidelity, it cannot be considered
+as a serious argument, but rather as an absurd and brutal mockery,
+which deserves no other answer than disdain and indignation. The
+treasons, the quarrels, the battles, the murders with which this
+irregularity has in all ages pestered the earth, are sufficient proofs
+how far the peace and union of mankind is to be promoted by
+attachments founded in guilt. If any social principle results from
+this vile and despicable commerce, it may be compared to that which
+unites a band of robbers, and which ought to be destroyed and
+annulled, in order to ensure the safety of lawful communities.
+
+I have endeavoured to suppress the indignation which these principles
+excited in me, in order to discuss them with greater moderation. The
+more extravagant and ridiculous I find them, the more I am interested
+to refute them, in order to make myself ashamed of having listened to
+them with too little reserve. You see how ill they can endure the test
+of sound reason; but from whence can we derive the sacred dictates of
+reason, if not from him who is the source of all? and what shall we
+think of those who, in order to mislead mankind, pervert this heavenly
+ray, which he gave them as an unerring guide to virtue? Let us abandon
+this philosophy of words; let us distrust a fallacious virtue which
+undermines all other virtues, and attempts to vindicate every vice, to
+authorize the practice of every species of guilt. The surest method of
+discovering our duty is diligently to examine what is right, and we
+cannot long continue the examination, without recurring to the author
+of all goodness. This is what I have done, since I have taken pains to
+rectify my principals, and improve my reason: this is a task you will
+perform better than I, when you are disposed to pursue the same
+course. It is a comfort to me to reflect, that you have frequently
+nourished my mind with elevated notions of religion, and you whose
+heart disguised nothing from me, would not have talked to me in that
+strain, had your sentiments differed from your declaration. I
+recollect that conversations of this kind were ever delightful to us.
+We never found the presence of the supreme Being troublesome: it
+rather filled us with hope than terror: it never yet dismayed any but
+guilty souls; we were pleased to think that he was witness to our
+interviews, and we loved to exalt our minds to the contemplation of
+the deity. If we were now and then abased by shame, we reflected, that
+at least he was privy to our in most thoughts, and that idea renewed
+our tranquillity.
+
+If this confidence led us astray, nevertheless the principle on which
+it was founded, is alone capable of reclaiming us to virtue. Is it not
+unworthy of a man to be always at variance with himself, to have one
+rule for his actions, another for his opinions, to think as if he was
+abstracted from matter, to act as if he was devoid of soul, and never
+to be capable of appropriating a single action of his life to his own
+entire self? for my own part, I think the principles of the ancients
+are sufficient to fortify us, when they are not confined to mere
+speculation. Weakness is incident to human nature, and the merciful
+Being who made man frail, will no doubt pardon his frailty; but guilt
+is a quality which belongs only to the wicked, and will not remain
+unpunished by the author of all justice. An infidel, who is otherwise
+well inclined, praises those virtues he admires; he acts from taste,
+not from choice. If all his desires happen to be regular, he indulges
+them without reserve. He would gratify them in the same manner, if
+they were irregular; for what should restrain him? But he who
+acknowledges and worships the common father of mankind, perceives that
+he is destined for nobler purposes. An ardent wish to fulfil the end
+of his being, animates his zeal; he follows a more certain rule of
+action than appetite; he knows how to do what is right at the expense
+of his inclinations, and to sacrifice the desires of his heart to the
+call of duty. Such, my dear friend, is the heroic sacrifice required
+of us both. The love which attached us would have proved the delight
+of our lives; it survived hope, it bid defiance to time and absence,
+it endured every kind of proof. So sincere a passion ought not ever to
+have decayed of itself; it was worthy to be sacrificed to virtue
+alone.
+
+I must observe farther. All circumstances are altered between us, and
+your heart must accommodate itself to the change. The wife of Mr.
+Wolmar is not your former Eloisa; your change of sentiment, with
+regard to her, is unavoidable; and it depends upon your own choice to
+make the alteration redound to your honour, according to the election
+you make of vice or virtue. I recollect a passage in an author, whose
+authority you will not controvert. Love, says he, is destitute of its
+greatest charm, when it is abandoned by honour. To be sensible of its
+true value, it must warm the heart, and exalt us by raising the object
+of our desires. Take away the idea of perfection, and you deprive love
+of all its enthusiasm; banish esteem, and love is no more. How can a
+woman honour the man whom she ought to despise? how can he himself
+honour her, who has not scrupled to abandon herself to a vile seducer?
+thus they will soon entertain a mutual contempt for each other. Love,
+that celestial principle, will be debased into a shameful commerce
+between them. They will have lost their honour without attaining
+felicity. [45] This, my dear friend, is our lesson, penned by your own
+hand! Never were our hearts more agreeably attached, and never was
+honour so dear to us as in those happy days when this letter was
+written. Reflect then, how we should be misled at this time by a
+guilty passion, nourished at the expense of the most agreeable
+transports which can inspire the soul! The horror of vice which is so
+natural to us both, would soon extend to the partner of our guilt; we
+should entertain mutual hatred, for having loved each other
+indiscreetly, and remorse would quickly extinguish affection. Is it
+not better to refine a generous sentiment, in order to render it
+permanent? is it not better at least to preserve what we may grant
+with innocence? is not this preserving what is more delightful than
+all other enjoyments? yes, my dear and worthy friend, to keep our love
+inviolable, we must renounce each other. Let us forget all that has
+passed, and continue the lover of my soul. This idea is so agreeable
+that it compensates for every thing.
+
+Thus have I drawn a faithful picture of my life, and given you a
+genuine detail of every inward sentiment. Be assured that I love you
+still. I am still attached to you with such a tender and lively
+affection, that any other than myself would be alarmed: but I feel a
+principle of a different kind within me, which secures me against any
+apprehensions from my attachment. I perceive that the nature of my
+affection is entirely altered, and in this respect, my past failings
+are the grounds of my present security; I know that scrupulous decorum
+and the parade of virtue might require more of me, and not be
+satisfied unless I utterly forgot you. But I have a more certain rule
+of conduct, and I will abide by it. I attend to the secret dictates of
+conscience; I find nothing there which reproaches me, and it never
+deceives those who consult it with sincerity. If this is not
+sufficient to justify me before the world, it is enough to restore me
+to composure of mind. How has this happy change been produced? I know
+not how. All I know is, that I wished for it most ardently. God alone
+has accomplished the rest. I am convinced that a mind once corrupted,
+will ever remain so, and will never recover of itself, unless some
+sudden revolution, some unexpected change of fortune and condition,
+entirely alters its connections. When all its habits are destroyed,
+and all its passions modified, by that thorough revolution, it
+sometimes resumes its primitive characters, and becomes like a new
+being recently formed by the hands of nature. Then the recollection of
+its former unworthiness may serve as a preservative against relapse.
+Yesterday we were base and abject; to-day we are vigorous and
+magnanimous. By thus making a close compassion between the two
+different states, we become more sensible of the value of that which
+we have recovered, and more attentive to support it.
+
+My marriage has made me experience something like the change I
+endeavour to explain to you. This tie, which I dreaded so much, has
+extricated me from a slavery much more dreadful; and my husband
+becomes dearer to me, for having restored me to myself.
+
+You and I were, however, too closely attached, for a change of this
+kind to destroy the unison between us. If you lose an affectionate
+mistress, you gain a faithful friend; and whatever we may have
+imagined in our state of delusion, I cannot believe that the
+alteration is to your prejudice. Let it, I conjure you, encourage you
+to take the same resolution that I have formed, to become hereafter
+more wise and virtuous, and to refine the lessons of philosophy, by
+the precepts of Christian morality. I shall never be thoroughly happy,
+unless you likewise enjoy happiness, and I am more convinced than
+ever, that there is no real felicity without virtue. If you sincerely
+love me, afford me the agreeable consolation to find that our hearts
+correspond in their return to virtue, as they unhappily agreed in
+their deviation from it.
+
+I need not make any apology for the length of my epistle. Were you
+less dear to me, I should have shortened it. Before I conclude, I have
+one favour to request of you. M. Wolmar is a stranger to my past
+conduct; but a frank sincerity is part of the duty I owe to him; I
+should have made the confession a hundred times; you alone have
+restrained me. Though I am acquainted with M. Wolmar’s discretion and
+moderation, yet to mention your name, is always to bring you in
+competition, and I would not do it without your consent. Can this
+request be disagreeable to you, and when I flatter myself to obtain
+your leave, do I depend too much on you or on myself? consider, I
+beseech you, that this reserve is inconsistent with innocence, that it
+grows every day more insupportable, and that I shall not enjoy a
+moment’s rest till I receive your answer.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXII. To Eloisa.
+
+
+And will you no longer be my Eloisa? ah! do not tell me so, thou most
+worthy of all thy sex! Thou art more mine than ever. Thy merit claims
+homage from the whole world. It was thee whom I adored, when I first
+became susceptible of the impressions of beauty: and I shall never
+cease to adore thee, even after death, if my soul still retains any
+recollection of those truly celestial charms, which were my sole
+delight when living. The courageous effort by which you have recovered
+all your virtue, renders you more equal to your lovely self. No,
+whatever torment the sensation and the confession give me, yet I must
+declare that you never were my Eloisa more perfectly, than at this
+moment in which you renounce me. Alas! I regain my Eloisa, by losing
+her for ever. But I, whose heart shudders even at an attempt to
+imitate your virtue, I, who am tormented with a criminal passion which
+I can neither support nor subdue, am I the man whom I vainly imagined
+myself to be? was I worthy of your esteem? what right had I to
+importune you with my complaints and my despair? did it become me, to
+presume so high for you? Ah! what was I, that I should dare to love
+Eloisa?
+
+Fool that I am! as tho’ I did not feel myself sufficiently humbled,
+without taking pains to seek fresh circumstances of humiliation! why
+should I increase my mortification by enumerating distinctions unknown
+to love? It was that which exalted me; and which made me your equal.
+Our hearts were blended, we shared our sentiments in common, and mine
+partook of the elevation of yours. Behold me now sunk into my pristine
+baseness! thou gentle hope, which didst so long feed my soul to
+deceive me, art thou then extinguished without a prospect of return?
+will she not be mine? must I lose her for ever? does she make another
+happy?----O rage! O torments of hell!----O faithless! ought you
+ever----pardon me, pardon me! dearest madam! have pity on my
+distraction. O! you had too much reason when you told me, she is no
+more----She is indeed no more than affectionate Eloisa, to whom I
+could disclose every emotion of my heart. How could I complain when I
+found myself unhappy? could she listen to my complaints? was I
+unhappy?----what then am I now? No, I will not make you blush for
+yourself or me. Hope is no more, we must renounce each other; we must
+part. Virtue herself has pronounced the decree; and your hand has been
+capable of transcribing it. Let us forget each other----Forget me, at
+least. I am determined, I swear, that I will never speak to you of
+myself again.
+
+May I yet venture to talk of you, and to interest myself in what is
+now the only object of my concern; I mean your happiness? In
+describing to me the state of your mind, you say nothing of your
+present situation. As a reward of the sacrifice I have made, of which
+you ought to be sensible, at least deign to deliver me from this
+insupportable doubt. Eloisa, are you happy? if you are, give me the
+only comfort of which my despair is susceptible; if you are not, be
+compassionate enough to tell me so; my misery then will be less
+durable.
+
+The more I reflect on the confession you propose to make, the less I
+am inclined to consent to it, and the same motive which always
+deprived me of resolution to deny your requests, renders me inexorable
+in this particular. It is a subject of the last importance, and I
+conjure you to weigh my reasons with attention. First, your excessive
+delicacy seems to lead you into a mistake, and I do not see on what
+foundation the most rigid virtue can exact such a confession from you.
+No engagement whatever can have any retro-active effect. We cannot
+bind ourselves with respect to time past, nor promise what is not in
+our power to perform! how can you be obliged to give your husband an
+account of the use you formerly made of your liberty, or how can you
+be responsible to him for a fidelity which you never promised to him?
+Do not deceive yourself, Eloisa; it is not to your husband, it is to
+your friend, that you have violated your engagement. Before we were
+separated by your father’s tyranny, heaven and nature had formed us
+for each other. By entering into other connections, you have been
+guilty of a crime, which love and honour can never forgive; and it is
+I who have a right to reclaim the prize, which M. Wolmar has ravished
+from my arms.
+
+If, under any circumstances, duty can exact such a confession, it is
+when the danger of a relapse obliges a prudent woman to take
+precautions for her security. But your letter has given me more light
+into your real sentiments than you imagine. In reading it, I felt in
+my own heart, how much yours, upon a near approach, nay even in the
+bosom of love, would have abhorred a criminal connection, the horror
+of which was only diminished by its distance.
+
+As duty and honour do not require such confidence, prudence and reason
+forbid it; for it is running a needless risk of forfeiting every
+thing that is dear in wedlock, the attachment of a husband, mutual
+confidence, and the peace of the family. Have you thoroughly weighed
+the consequences of such a step? are you sufficiently acquainted with
+your husband, to be certain of the effect it will produce in his
+disposition? do you know how many men there are, who, from such a
+confession, would conceive an immoderate jealousy, and an invincible
+contempt, and would probably be provoked, even to attempt your life?
+in such a nice examination, we ought to attend to time, place, and the
+difference of characters. In the country where I reside at present,
+such a confidence would be attended with no danger; and they who make
+so light of conjugal fidelity, are not people to be violently affected
+by any frailty of conduct prior to the engagement. Not to mention
+reasons which sometimes render those confessions indispensable, and
+which cannot be applied to your case, I knew some women of tolerable
+estimation, who, with very little risk, have made a merit of that kind
+of sincerity, in order perhaps by that sacrifice, to obtain a
+confidence which they might afterwards abuse at will. But in those
+countries where the sanctity of marriage is more respected, in those
+countries where that sacred tie forms a solid union, and where
+husbands have a real attachment to their wives, they require a more
+severe account of their conduct; they expect that their hearts should
+never have felt any tender affections but for themselves; usurping a
+right which they have not, they unreasonably expect their wives to
+have been theirs, even before they belonged to them, and they are as
+unwilling to excuse an abuse of liberty, as a real infidelity.
+
+Believe me, virtuous Eloisa, and distrust this fruitless and
+unnecessary zeal. Keep this dangerous secret, which nothing can oblige
+you to reveal; the discovery of which might utterly ruin you, without
+being of any advantage to your husband. If he is worthy of such a
+confession, it will disturb his peace of mind; and you will have the
+mortification of having afflicted him without reason; if he is
+unworthy, why will you give him a pretence for using you ill? How do
+you know whether your virtue, which has defended you from the assaults
+of your heart, will likewise support you against the influence of
+domestic troubles daily reviving? Do not voluntarily increase your
+misfortunes, lest they become too powerful for your resistance, and
+you should at length relapse by means of your scruples into a worse
+condition, than that from which you have with so much difficulty
+disengaged yourself. Prudence is the basis of every virtue; consult
+that, I intreat you, in this most important crisis of your life; and
+if the fatal secret oppresses you so violently, wait at least, before
+you unbosom yourself, till time and a length of years, shall have made
+you more perfectly acquainted with your husband: stay till his heart,
+now affected by the power of your beauty, shall be susceptible of
+those more lasting impressions, which the charms of your disposition
+cannot fail to make, and till he is become habitually sensible of your
+perfections. After all, if these reasons, powerful as they are, should
+not convince you, yet do not refuse to listen to the voice which
+utters them. O Eloisa, hearken to a man who is yet, in some degree,
+susceptible of virtue, and who has a right to expect some concession
+from you at least, in return for the sacrifice he has made to you to-
+day.
+
+I must conclude this letter. I find that I cannot forbear resuming a
+strain, to which you must no longer give ear. Eloisa, I must part with
+you! young as I am, am I already destined to renounce felicity? O
+time, never to be recalled! time irrevocably past, source of ever-
+lasting sorrows! pleasures, transports, delightful ecstasies,
+delicious moments, celestial raptures! my love, my only love, the
+honour and delight of my soul! Farewell for ever.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXIII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+You ask me, whether I am happy? The question affects me, and by your
+manner of asking it, you facilitate my answer; for so far from wishing
+to banish you from my memory as you desire me, I confess that I should
+not be happy was your affection for me to cease: yet at present I am
+happy in most respects, and nothing but your felicity is wanting to
+compleat mine. If, in my last, I avoided making any mention of Mr.
+Wolmar, it was out of tenderness to you. I was too well acquainted
+with your sensibility of temper, not to be under apprehensions of
+irritating your pain; but your solicitude with regard to my felicity,
+obliging me to mention him on whom it depends, I cannot speak of him
+without doing justice to his worth, as becomes his wife, and a friend
+to truth.
+
+Mr. Wolmar is near fifty years of age; but by means of an uniform
+regular course of life, and a serenity not ruffled by any violent
+passions, he has preserved such a healthy constitution, and such a
+florid complexion, that he scarce appears to be forty, and he bears no
+symptoms of age, but prudence and experience. His countenance is noble
+and engaging, his address open and unaffected, his manner rather
+sincere than courteous, he speaks little and with great judgment, but
+without any affectation of being concise and sententious. His
+behaviour is the same to every one, he neither courts nor shuns any
+individual, and he never gives any preference but what reason
+justifies.
+
+In spite of his natural indifference, his heart, seconding my father’s
+inclinations, entertained a liking for me, and for the first time
+formed a tender attachment. This moderate and lasting affection has
+been governed by such strict rules of decorum, and observed such a
+constant uniformity, that he was under no necessity of altering his
+manners on changing his condition, and, without violating conjugal
+decorum, his behaviour to me now is the time as it was before
+marriage. I never saw him either gay or melancholy, but always
+contented; he never talks to me of himself, and seldom of me; he is
+not in continual search after me, but he does not seem displeased that
+I should seek his company, and he seems to part from me unwillingly.
+He is serious without disposing others to be grave; on the contrary,
+his serenity of manners seems an invitation to me to be sprightly; and
+as the pleasures I relish are the only pleasures of which he is
+susceptible, an endeavour to amuse myself is among the duties I owe to
+him. In one word, he wishes to see me happy; he has not told me so,
+but his conduct declares it; and to wish the happiness of a wife,
+is to make her really happy.
+
+With all the attention with which I have been able to observe him, I
+cannot discover any particular passion to which he is attached, except
+his affection for me; it is however so even and temperate, that one
+would conclude he had power to limit the degree of his passion, and
+that he had determined not to love beyond the bounds of discretion. He
+is in reality what Lord B---- is in his own imagination; in this
+respect I find him greatly preferable to those passionate lovers, of
+whom we are so fond; for the heart deceives us a thousand ways, and
+acts from a suspicious principle; but reason always proposes a just
+end; the rules of duty which it enjoins are sure, evident and
+practicable; and whenever our reason is led astray we enter into idle
+speculations, which were never intended to be objects of her
+examination.
+
+Mr. Wolmar’s chief delight is observation. He loves to judge of men’s
+characters and actions. He generally forms his judgment with perfect
+impartiality and profound penetration. If an enemy was to do him an
+injury, he would discuss every motive and expedient with as much
+composure, as if he was transacting any indifferent concern. I do not
+know by what means he has heard of you, but he has often spoken of
+you, with great esteem, to me; and I am sure he is incapable of
+disguise. I have imagined sometimes that he took particular notice of
+me during these conversations; but in all probability, the observation
+I apprehended, was nothing but the secret reproach of an alarmed
+conscience. However it be, in this respect I did my duty; neither fear
+nor shame occasioned me to shew an unjust reserve; and I did you
+justice before him, as I now do him justice before you.
+
+I forgot to tell you concerning our income, and the management of it.
+The wreck of Mr. Wolmar’s inheritance, with the addition from my
+father, who has only reserved a pension for himself, makes up a
+handsome and moderate fortune, which Mr. Wolmar uses with generosity
+and discretion, by maintaining in his family, not an inconvenient and
+vain display of luxury, [46] but plenty, with the real conveniences of
+life; and by distributing necessaries among his indigent neighbours.
+The economy he has established in his houshold, is the image of that
+order which reigns in his own breast; and his little family seems to
+be a model of that regularity, which is observable in the government
+of the world. You neither discover that inflexible formality which is
+rather inconvenient than useful, and which no one but he who exerts it
+can endure; nor do you perceive that mistaken confusion, which, by
+being encumbered with superfluities, renders every thing useless. The
+master’s hand is seen throughout, without being felt, and he made his
+first arrangement with so much discretion, that every thing now goes
+on by itself; and regularity is preserved, without any abridgment of
+liberty.
+
+This, my worthy friend, is a succinct but faithful account of Mr.
+Wolmar’s character, as far as I have been able to discover it since I
+lived with him. Such as he appeared to me the first day, such he
+seemed the last, without any alteration; which induces me to hope that
+I know him thoroughly, and that I have no farther discoveries to make;
+for I cannot conceive any change in his behaviour which will not be to
+his disadvantage.
+
+From this account, you may anticipate the answer to your question, and
+you must think despicably of me not to suppose me happy, when I have
+so much reason to be so. What led me into a mistake, and what perhaps
+still misleads you, is the opinion, that love is necessary to make the
+married state happy. My good friend, this is a vulgar error; honour,
+virtue a certain conformity, not so much of age and condition as of
+temper and inclination, are the requisites in the conjugal state:
+nevertheless it must not be inferred from hence that this union does
+not produce an affectionate attachment, which, though it does not
+amount to love, is not less agreeable, and is much more permanent.
+Love is attended with a continual inquietude of jealousy, or the dread
+of separation, by no means suitable with a married life, which should
+be a state of peace and tranquillity. The intent of matrimony is not
+for man and wife to be always taken up with each other, but jointly to
+discharge the duties of civil society, to govern their family with
+prudence, and educate their children with discretion. Lovers attend to
+nothing but each other, they are incessantly engaged with each other;
+and all that they regard, is how to shew their mutual affection. But
+this is not enough for a married pair, who have so many other objects
+to engage their attention. There is no passion whatever which exposes
+us to such delusion, as that of love. We take its violence for a
+symptom of its duration; the heart over-burthened with such an
+agreeable sensation, extends itself to futurity; and while the heat of
+love continues, we flatter ourselves that it will never cool. But, on
+the contrary, it is consumed by its own ardour; it glows in youth, it
+grows faint with decaying beauty, it is utterly extinguished by the
+frost of age; and since the beginning of the world, there never was an
+instance of two lovers who sighed for each other, when they became
+grey-headed. We may be assured that, sooner or later, adoration will
+cease; then the idol which we worshipped being demolished, we
+reciprocally see each other in a true light. We look with surprise,
+for the object on which we doated; not being able to discover it more.
+We are displeased with that which remains in its stead, and which our
+imagination often disfigures, as much as it embellished it before;
+there are few people, says Rochefoucauld, who are not ashamed of
+having loved each other, when their affection is extinguished. How
+much is it to be dreaded therefore, lest these two lively sensations
+should be succeeded by an irksome state of mind, lest their decline
+instead of stopping at indifference, should even reach absolute
+disgust; lest, in short, being entirely satiated, they, who were too
+passionately fond of each other as lovers, should come to hate each
+other as husband and wife! My dear friend, you always appeared amiable
+in my eyes, too fatally so for my innocence and repose, but I never
+yet saw you but in the character of a lover, and how do I know in what
+light you would have appeared, when your passion was no more? I must
+confess, that when love expired, it would still have left you in
+possession of virtue; but is that alone sufficient to make an union
+happy, which the heart ought to cement? and how many virtuous men have
+made intolerable husbands? In all these respects, you may say the same
+of me.
+
+As to Mr. Wolmar, no delusion is the foundation of our mutual liking;
+we see each other in a true light; the sentiment which unites us is
+not the blind transport of passionate desire; but a constant and
+invariable attachment between two rational people, who being destined
+to pass the remainder of their lives together, are content with their
+lot, and endeavour to make themselves mutually agreeable. It seems as
+if we could not have suited each other better, had we been formed on
+purpose for our union. Had his heart been as tender as mine, it is
+impossible but so much sensibility on each side must sometimes have
+clashed, and occasioned disagreements. If I was as composed as he,
+there would be too much indifference between us, and our union would
+be less pleasing and agreeable. If he did not love me, we should be
+uneasy together; if his love for me was too passionate, he would be
+troublesome to me. We are each of us exactly made for the other; he
+instructs me, I enliven him; the value of both is increased by our
+union, and we seem destined to form but one soul between us; to which
+he gives intelligence, and I direct the will. Even his advanced age
+redounds to our common advantage; for with the passion which agitated
+me, it is certain that had he been younger, I should have married him
+with more unwillingness, and my extreme reluctance would probably have
+prevented the happy revolution I have experienced.
+
+My worthy friend, heaven directs the good intention of parents, and
+rewards the docility of children. God forbid that I should wish to
+insult your affliction. Nothing but a strong desire of giving you the
+firmest assurance with respect to my present condition, could induce
+me to add what I am going to mention. If, with the sentiments I
+formerly entertained for you, with the knowledge I have since
+acquired, I was once more my own mistress, and at liberty to chuse a
+husband, I call that Being, who has vouchsafed to enlighten me, and
+who reads the bottom of my heart, to witness my sincerity when I
+declare that I should make choice, not of you, but Mr. Wolmar.
+
+Perhaps it may be necessary, to compleat your cure, that I should
+inform you of what farther remains in my mind. Mr. Wolmar is much
+older than me. If, to punish my failings, heaven should deprive me of
+a worthy husband, whom I so little deserved, it is my firm resolution
+never to espouse another. If he has not had the good fortune to meet
+with a chaste virgin, at least he will leave behind him a continent
+widow. You know me too well, to imagine that, after I have made this
+declaration, I shall ever recede from it.
+
+What I have said to remove your doubts, may, in some measure, serve to
+resolve your objections against the confession which I think it my
+duty to make to my husband. He is too discreet to punish me for a
+mortifying step which repentance alone may atone for, and I am not
+more incapable of the artifice common to the women you speak of, than
+he is of harbouring such a suspicion. With respect to the reason you
+assign why such a confession is needless, it is certainly sophistical;
+for, though we can be under no obligation to a husband, as such,
+before marriage, yet that does not authorise one to pass upon him, for
+what one really is not. I perceived this before I married him, and
+tho’ the oath which my father extorted from me prevented me from
+discharging my duty in this respect, I am not the less blameable,
+since it is a crime to take an unjust oath, and a farther crime to
+keep it. But I had another reason, which my heart dared not avow, and
+which made my guilt greater still. Thank heaven, that reason subsists
+no longer.
+
+A consideration more just, and of greater weight with me, is the
+danger of unnecessarily disturbing the peace of a worthy man, who
+derives his happiness from the esteem he bears to his wife. It
+certainly is not now in his power to break the tie which binds us
+together, nor in mine to have been more worthy of his choice.
+Therefore, by an indiscreet confidence, I run the risk of afflicting
+him without any advantage, and without reaping any other benefit from
+my sincerity, than that of discharging my mind of a cruel secret which
+oppresses me heavily. I am sensible that I shall be more composed when
+I have made the discovery; but perhaps he would be less happy, and to
+prefer my own peace to his, would be a bad method of making reparation
+for my faults.
+
+What then shall I do in this dilemma? Till heaven shall better
+instruct me in my duty, I will follow your friendly advice; I will be
+silent; conceal my failings from my husband, and endeavour to repair
+them by a conduct, which may hereafter secure me a pardon.
+
+To begin this necessary reformation, you must consent, my dear friend,
+that from this time, all correspondence between us shall cease. If Mr.
+Wolmar had received my confession, he might have determined how far we
+ought to gratify the sensations of friendship, and give innocent
+proofs of our mutual attachment; but since I dare not consult him in
+this particular, I have learned to my cost, how far habits the most
+justifiable in appearance, are capable of leading us astray. It is
+time to grow discreet. Notwithstanding I think my heart securely
+fortified, yet I will no longer venture to be judge in my own cause,
+nor now am I a wife, will I gave way to the same presumption which
+betrayed me when I was a maid. This is the last letter you will ever
+receive from me. I intreat you never to write to me again.
+Nevertheless, as I shall always continue to interest myself with the
+most tender concern for your welfare, and as my sentiment in this
+respect is as pure as the light, I shall be glad to hear of you
+occasionally, and to find you in possession of that happiness you
+deserve. You may write to Mr. Orbe from time to time when you have any
+thing interesting to communicate. I hope that the integrity of your
+soul will be expressed in your letters. Besides, my cousin is too
+virtuous and discreet, to shew me any part which is not fit for my
+perusal, and would not fail to suppress the correspondence, if you
+were capable of abusing it.
+
+Farewell, my dear and worthy friend; if I thought that fortune could
+make you happy, I should desire you to go in pursuit of her; but
+perhaps you have reason to despise her, being master of such
+accomplishments as will enable you to thrive without her assistance. I
+would rather desire you to seek happiness, which is the fortune of the
+wise; we have ever experienced that there is no felicity without
+virtue but examine carefully whether the word virtue, taken in too
+abstracted a sense, has not more pomp than solidity in it, and whether
+it is not a term of parade, more calculated to dazzle others, than to
+satisfy ourselves. I shudder when I reflect that they who secretly
+meditated adultery, should dare to talk of virtue! do you know in what
+sense we understood this respectable epithet, which we abused while we
+were engaged in a criminal commerce? it was the impetuous passion with
+which we were mutually inflamed, that disguised its transports under
+this sacred enthusiasm, in order to render them more dear to us, and
+to hold us longer in delusion. We were formed, I dare believe, to
+practise and cherish real virtue, but we were misguided in our pursuit
+it, and we pursued a vain phantom. It is time to recover from this
+delusion; it is time to return from a deviation which has carried us
+too far astray. My dear friend, your return to wisdom will not be so
+difficult as you conceive. You have a guide within yourself, whose
+directions you have disregarded, but never entirely rejected. Your
+mind is sound, it is attached to what is right, and if just principles
+sometimes forsake you, it is because you do not use your utmost
+efforts to maintain them. Examine your conscience thoroughly, see
+whether you will not discover some neglected principle, which might
+have served to put your actions under better regulations, to have made
+them more consistent with each other, and with one common object.
+Believe me, it is not sufficient that virtue is the basis of your
+conduct, unless that basis itself is fixed on a firm foundation. Call
+to your mind those Indians, who imagine the world is supported by a
+great elephant, that elephant by a tortoise, and when you ask them on
+what the tortoise rests, they can answer you no farther.
+
+I conjure you to regard the remonstrances of friendship, and to chuse
+a more certain road to happiness than that which has so long misguided
+us. I shall incessantly pray to heaven to grant us pure felicity, and
+I shall never be satisfied till we both enjoy it. And, if our hearts,
+spite of our endeavours, recall the errors of our youth, let the
+reformation they produced at least warrant the recollection, that we
+may say, with the ancient philosopher----Alas! we should have
+perished, if we had not been undone.
+
+Here ends the tedious sermon I have preached to you. I shall have
+enough to do hereafter to preach to myself. Farewell, my amiable
+friend, farewell for ever! so inflexible duty decrees: but be assured
+that the heart of Eloisa can never forget what was so dear to her----
+my God! what am I doing? the condition of the paper will tell you. Ah!
+is it not excusable to dissolve in tenderness, when we take the last
+farewell of a friend?
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXIV. To Lord B----.
+
+
+Yes, my Lord, I confess it; the weight of life is too heavy for my
+soul. I have long endured it as a burthen; I have lost every thing
+which could make it dear to me, and nothing remains but irksomeness
+and vexation. I am told however, that I am not at liberty to dispose
+of my life, without the permission of that Being from whom I received
+it. I am sensible likewise, that you have a right over it by more
+titles than one. Your care has twice preserved it, and your goodness
+is its constant security. I will never dispose of it, till I am
+certain that I may do it without a crime, and till I have not the
+least hope of employing it for your service.
+
+You told me that I should be of use to you; why did you deceive me?
+Since we have been in _London_, so far from thinking of employing me
+in your concerns, you have been kind enough to make me your only
+concern. How superfluous is your obliging solicitude! My lord, you
+know I abhor a crime, even worse than I detest life; I adore the
+supreme Being.----I owe every thing to you. I have an affection for
+you, you are the only person on earth to whom I am attached.
+Friendship and duty may chain a wretch to this earth: sophistry and
+vain pretences will never detain him. Enlighten my understanding,
+speak to my heart; I am ready to hear you, but remember, that despair
+is not to be imposed upon.
+
+You would have me apply to the test of reason: I will; let us reason.
+You desire me to deliberate in proportion to the importance of the
+question in debate; I agree to it. Let us investigate truth with
+temper and moderation. Let us discuss this general proposition with
+the same indifference we would treat any other. Robeck wrote an
+apology for suicide before he put an end to his life. I will not,
+after his example, write a book on the subject, neither am I well
+satisfied with that which he has penned, but I hope in this
+discussion, at least to imitate his moderation.
+
+I have for a long time meditated on this awful subject. You must be
+sensible that I have; for you know my destiny, and yet I am alive. The
+more I reflect, the more I am convinced that the question may be
+reduced to this fundamental proposition. Every man has a right by
+nature, to pursue what he thinks good, and avoid what he thinks evil,
+in all respects which are not injurious to others. When our life
+therefore becomes a misery to ourselves, and is of advantage to no
+one, we are at liberty to put an end to our being. If there is any
+such thing as a clear and self-evident principle, certainly this is
+one, and if this is subverted, there is scarce an action in life,
+which may not be made criminal.
+
+Let us hear what the philosophers say on this subject. First, they
+consider life as something which is not our own, because we hold it as
+a gift; but because it has been given to us, it is for that reason our
+own. Has not God given these sophists two arms? nevertheless when they
+are under apprehensions of a mortification, they do not scruple to
+amputate one, or both if there is occasion. By a parity of reasoning,
+we may convince those who believe in the immortality of the soul; for
+if I sacrifice my arm to the preservation of something more precious,
+which is my body, I have the same right to sacrifice my body to the
+preservation of something more valuable, which is the happiness of my
+existence. If all the gifts which heaven has bestowed, are naturally
+designed for our good, they are certainly too apt to change their
+nature; and Providence has endowed us with reason, that we may discern
+the difference. If this rule did not authorize us to chuse the one
+and reject the other, to what use would it serve among mankind?
+
+But they turn this weak objection into a thousand shapes. They
+consider a man living upon earth, as a soldier placed on duty. God,
+say they, has fixed you in this world, why do you quit your station
+without his leave. But you, who argue thus, has he not stationed you
+in the town where you was born, why therefore do you quit it without
+his leave? is not misery, of itself, a sufficient permission? whatever
+station Providence has assigned me, whether it be in a regiment, or on
+the earth at large, he intended me to stay there while I found my
+situation agreeable, and to leave it when it became intolerable. This
+is the voice of nature, and the voice of God. I agree that we must
+wait for an order; but when I die a natural death, God does not order
+me to quit life, he takes it from me: it is by rendering life
+insupportable, that he orders me to quit it. In the first case, I
+resist with all my force; in the second, I have the merit of
+obedience.
+
+Can you conceive that there are some people so absurd as to arraign
+suicide as a kind of rebellion against Providence, by an attempt to
+fly from his laws? but we do not put an end to our being, in order to
+withdraw ourselves from his commands, but to execute them. What! does
+the power of God extend no farther than my body? is there a spot in
+the universe, is there any being in the universe which is not subject
+to his power, and will that power have less immediate influence over
+me, when my being is refined and thereby becomes less compound, and of
+nearer resemblance to the divine essence? no, his justice and goodness
+are the foundation of my hopes, and if I thought that death would
+withdraw me from his power I would give up my resolution to die.
+
+This is one of the quibbles of the Phaedo, which, in other respects,
+abounds with sublime truths. If your slave destroys himself says
+_Socrates_ to _Cebes_, would you not punish him, for having unjustly
+deprived you of your property: prithee, good Socrates, do we not
+belong to God after we are dead? The case you put, is not applicable;
+you ought to argue thus: if you incumber your slave with a habit which
+confines him from discharging his duty properly, will you punish him
+for quitting it in order to render you better service? the grand error
+lies in making life of too much importance; as if our existence
+depended upon it, and that death was a total annihilation. Our life is
+of no consequence in the sight of God; it is of no importance in the
+eyes of reason, neither ought to be of any in our sight, and when we
+quit our body, we only lay aside an inconvenient habit. Is this
+circumstance so painful, to be the occasion of so much disturbance? my
+lord, these declaimers are not in earnest. Their arguments are absurd
+and cruel, for they aggravate the supposed crime, as if it put a
+period to existence, and they punish it, as if that existence was
+eternal.
+
+With respect to Plato’s Phaedo, which has furnished them with the only
+specious argument that has ever been advanced, the question is
+discussed there in a very light and desultory manner. Socrates being
+condemned, by an unjust judgement, to lose his life in a few hours,
+had no occasion to enter into an accurate inquiry whether he was at
+liberty to dispose of it himself. Supposing him really to have been
+the author of those discourses which Plato ascribes to him, yet
+believe me, my lord, he would have meditated with more attention on
+the subject, had he been in circumstances which required him to reduce
+his speculations to practice;----and a strong proof that no objection
+can be drawn from that immortal work against the right of disposing of
+our own lives is, that Cato read it twice through the very night that
+he destroyed himself.
+
+The same sophisters make it a question whether life can ever be an
+evil? but when we consider the multitude of errors, torments and vices
+with which it abounds, one would rather be inclined to doubt whether
+it can ever be a blessing. Guilt incessantly besieges the most
+virtuous of mankind. Every moment he lives, he is in danger of falling
+a prey to the wicked, or of being wicked himself. To struggle, and to
+endure, is his lot in this world; that of the dishonest man is to do
+evil, and to suffer. In every other particular they differ, and only
+agree in sharing the miseries of life in common. If you required
+authorities and facts, I could cite you the oracles of old, the
+answers of the sages; and produce instances where acts of virtue have
+been recompensed with death. But let us leave these considerations, my
+lord; it is to you whom I address myself, and I ask you what is the
+chief attention of a wise man in this life, but, if I may be allowed
+the expression, to collect himself inwardly, and endeavour, even while
+he lives, to be dead to every object of sense? The only way by which
+wisdom directs us to avoid the miseries of human nature, is it not to
+detach ourselves from all earthly objects, from every thing that is
+gross in our composition, to retire within ourselves, and to raise our
+thoughts to sublime contemplations? If therefore our misfortunes are
+derived from our passions and our errors, with what eagerness should
+we wish for a state which will deliver us both from the one and the
+other? what is the fate of those sons of sensuality, who indiscreetly
+multiply their torments by their pleasures? they in fact destroy their
+existence, by extending their connections in this life; they increase
+the weight of their crimes by their numerous attachments; they relish
+no enjoyments but what are succeeded by a thousand bitter wants; the
+more lively their sensibility, the more acute their sufferings; the
+stronger they are attached to life, the more wretched they become.
+
+But admitting it, in general, a benefit to mankind to crawl upon the
+earth with gloomy sadness; I do not mean to intimate that the human
+race ought with one common consent to destroy themselves, and make the
+world one immense grave. But there are miserable beings, who are too
+much exalted to be governed by vulgar opinion; to them, despair and
+grievous torments are the passports of nature. It would be as
+ridiculous to suppose that life can be a blessing to such men, as it
+was absurd in the sophister Posidonius to deny that it was an evil, at
+the same time that he endured all the torments of the gout. While life
+is agreeable to us, we earnestly wish to prolong it, and nothing but a
+sense of extreme misery can extinguish the desire of existence; for we
+naturally conceive a violent dread of death, and this dread conceals
+the miseries of human nature from our sight. We drag a painful and
+melancholy life, for a long time before we can resolve to quit it; but
+when once life becomes so insupportable as to overcome the horror of
+death, then existence is evidently a great evil, and we cannot
+disengage ourselves from it too soon. Therefore, though we cannot
+exactly ascertain the point at which it ceases to be a blessing, yet
+at least we are certain that it is an evil long before it appears to
+be such, and with every sensible man the right of quitting life, is by
+a great deal precedent to the temptation.
+
+This is not all. After they have denied that life can be an evil, in
+order to bar our right of making away with ourselves; they confess
+immediately afterwards that it is an evil, by reproaching us with want
+of courage to support it. According to them, it is cowardice to
+withdraw ourselves from pain and trouble, and there are none but
+dastards who destroy themselves. O Rome, thou victrix of the world,
+what a race of cowards did thy empire produce! let Arria, Eponina,
+Lucretia, be of the number; they were women. But Brutus, but Cassius,
+and thou great and divine Cato, who didst share with the gods the
+adoration of an astonished world, thou whose sacred and august
+presence animated the Romans with holy zeal, and made tyrants tremble,
+little did thy proud admirers imagine that paltry rhetoricians immured
+in the dusty corner of a college, would ever attempt to prove that
+thou wert a coward, for having preferred death to a shameful
+existence.
+
+O the dignity and energy of your modern writers! how sublime, how
+intrepid you are with your pens? but tell me thou great and valiant
+hero, who dost so courageously decline the battle, in order to endure
+the pain of living somewhat longer; when a spark of fire lights upon
+your hand, why do you withdraw it in such haste? how! are you such a
+coward that you dare not bear the scorching of fire? nothing, you say,
+can oblige you to endure the burning spark; and what obliges me to
+endure life? was the creation of a man of more difficulty to
+Providence, than that of a straw, and is not both one and the other
+equally the work of his hands?
+
+Without doubt, it is an evidence of great fortitude to bear with
+firmness the misery which we cannot shun; none but a fool however,
+will voluntarily endure evils which he can avoid without a crime, and
+it is very often a great crime to suffer pain unnecessarily. He who
+has not resolution to deliver himself from a miserable being by a
+speedy death, is like one who would rather suffer a wound to mortify,
+than trust to the surgeon’s knife for his cure. Come, thou worthy----
+cut off this leg, which endangers my life. I will see it done without
+shrinking, and will give that hero leave to call me coward, who
+suffers his leg to mortify, because he does not dare to undergo the
+same operation.
+
+I acknowledge that there are duties owing to others, the nature of
+which will not allow every man to dispose of his life; but in return,
+how many are there which give him a right to dispose of it? let a
+magistrate on whom the welfare of a nation depends, let a father of a
+family who is bound to procure subsistence for his children, let a
+debtor who might ruin his creditors, let these at all events discharge
+their duty; admitting a thousand other civil and domestic relations to
+oblige an honest and unfortunate man to support the misery of life, to
+avoid the greater evil of doing injustice, is it therefore, under
+circumstances totally different, incumbent on us to preserve a life
+oppressed with a swarm of miseries, when it can be of no service but
+to him who has not courage to die? “Kill me, my child, says the
+decrepit savage to his son who carries him on his shoulders, and bends
+under his weight; the enemy is at hand; go to battle with thy
+brethren, go and preserve thy children, and do not suffer thy helpless
+father to fall alive into the hands of those whose relations he has
+mangled.” Though hunger, sickness and poverty, those domestic plagues,
+more dreadful than savage enemies, may allow a wretched cripple to
+confuse, in a sick bed, the provisions of a family which can scarce
+subsist itself; yet he who has no connections, whom heaven has reduced
+to the necessity of living alone, whose wretched existence can produce
+no good, why should not he, at least, have the right of quitting a
+station where his complaints are troublesome, and his sufferings of no
+benefit.
+
+Weigh these considerations, my lord; collect these arguments, and you
+will find that they may be reduced to the most simple of nature’s
+rights, of which no man of sense yet ever entertained a doubt. In
+fact, why should we be allowed to cure ourselves of the gout, and not
+to get rid of the misery of life? do not both evils proceed from the
+same hand? to what purpose is it to say, that death is painful? are
+drugs agreeable to be taken? no, nature revolts against both. Let them
+prove therefore that it is more justifiable to cure a transient
+disorder by the application of remedies, than to free ourselves from
+an incurable evil by putting an end to life; and let them shew how it
+can be less criminal to use the bark for a fever, than to take opium
+for the stone. If we consider the object in view, it is in both cases
+to free ourselves from painful sensations; if we regard the means,
+both one and the other are equally natural; if we consider the
+repugnance of our nature, it operates equally on both sides; if we
+attend to the will of Providence, can we struggle against any evil, of
+which he is not the author? can we deliver ourselves from any torment
+which his hand has not inflicted? what are the bounds which limit his
+power, and when is resistance lawful? are we then to make no
+alteration in the condition of things, because every thing is in the
+state he appointed? must we do nothing in this life, for fear of
+infringing his laws, or is it in our power to break them if we would?
+no, my lord, the occupation of man is more great and noble. God did
+not give him life, that he should remain supinely in a state of
+constant inactivity. But he gave him freedom to act, conscience to
+will, and reason to chuse what is good. He has constituted him sole
+judge of all his actions. He has engraved this precept in his heart,
+do whatever you conceive to be for your own good, provided you thereby
+do injury to no one. If my sensations tell me that death is eligible,
+I resist his orders by an obstinate resolution to live, for by making
+death desirable, he directs me to put an end to my being.
+
+My lord, I appeal to your wisdom and candour; what more infallible
+maxims can reason deduce from religion, with respect to suicide. If
+Christians have adopted contrary tenets, they are neither drawn from
+the principles of religion, nor from the only sure guide, the
+scriptures, but borrowed from the pagan philosophers. Lactantius and
+Augustine, the first who propagated this new doctrine, of which Jesus
+Christ and his apostles take no notice, ground their arguments
+entirely on the reasoning of Phaedo, which I have already
+contraverted; so that the believers, who, in this respect, think they
+are supported by the authority of the gospel, are in fact only
+countenanced by the authority of Plato. In truth, where do we find
+throughout the whole bible any law against suicide, or so much as a
+bare disapprobation of it; and is it not very unaccountable, that
+among the instances produced of persons who devoted themselves to
+death, we do not find the least word of improbation against examples
+of this kind? nay, what is more; the instance of Samson’s voluntary
+death is authorized by a miracle, by which he revenges himself of his
+enemies. Would this miracle have been displayed to justify a crime,
+and would this man who lost his strength; by suffering himself to be
+seduced by the allurements of a woman, have recovered it to commit an
+authorized crime, as if God himself would practise deceit on men?
+
+Thou shalt do no murder, says the decalogue? what are we to infer from
+this? if this commandment is to be taken literally, we must not
+destroy malefactors, nor our enemies: and Moses, who put so many
+people to death, was a bad interpreter of his own precept. If there
+are any exceptions, certainly the first must be in favour of suicide,
+because it is exempt from any degree of violence and injustice; the
+two only circumstances which can make homicide criminal; and because
+nature, moreover, has in this respect, thrown sufficient obstacles in
+the way.
+
+But still, they tell us, we must patiently endure the evils which God
+inflicts; and make a merit of our sufferings. This application however
+of the maxims of Christianity is very ill calculated to satisfy our
+judgment. Man is subject to a thousand troubles, his life is a
+complication of evils, and he seems to have been born only to suffer.
+Reason directs him to shun as many of these evils as he can avoid; and
+religion, which is never in contradiction to reason, approves of his
+endeavours. But how inconsiderable is the account of these evils, in
+comparison with those he is obliged to endure against his will? It is
+with respect to these, that a merciful God allows man to claim the
+merit of resistance; he receives the tribute he has been pleased to
+impose, as a voluntary homage, and he places our resignation in this
+life to our profit in the next. True repentance is derived from
+nature; if man endures patiently whatever he is obliged to suffer, he
+does, in this respect, all that God requires of him; and if any one is
+so inflated with pride, as to attempt more, he is a madman, who ought
+to be confined, or an impostor, who ought to be punished. Let us
+therefore, without scruple, fly from all the evils we can avoid; there
+will still be too many left for us to endure. Let us, without remorse,
+quit life itself when it becomes a torment to us, since it is in our
+own power to do it; and that in so doing, we neither offend God nor
+man. If we would offer a sacrifice to the supreme Being, is it nothing
+to undergo death? let us devote to God that which he demands by the
+voice of reason, and into his hands let us peaceably surrender our
+souls.
+
+Such are the liberal precepts which good sense dictates to every man,
+and which religion authorises. [47] Let us apply these precepts to
+ourselves. You have condescended to disclose your mind to me; I am
+acquainted with your uneasiness; you do not endure less than myself;
+your troubles, like mine, are incurable; and they are the more
+remediless, as the laws of honour are more immutable than those of
+fortune. You bear them, I must confess, with fortitude. Virtue
+supports you; advance but one step farther, and she disengages you.
+You intreat me to suffer; my lord! I dare importune you to put an end
+to your sufferings; and I leave you to judge which of us is most dear
+to the other.
+
+Why should we delay doing that, which we must do at last? shall we
+wait till old age and decrepit baseness attach us to life, after they
+have robbed it of its charms, and till we are doomed to drag an infirm
+and decrepit body with labour, ignominy, and pain. We are at an age
+when the soul has vigour to disengage itself with ease from its
+shackles, and when a man knows how to die as he ought; when farther
+advanced in years, he suffers himself to be torn from life, which he
+quits with groans. Let us take advantage of this time when the tedium
+of life makes death desirable; and let us tremble for fear it should
+come in all its horrors, at the moment when we could wish to avoid it.
+I remember the time, when I prayed to heaven only for a single hour of
+life, and when I should have died in despair, if it had not been
+granted. Ah! what a pain it is to burst asunder the ties which attach
+our hearts to this world, and how advisable it is to quit life the
+moment the connection is broken! I am sensible, my lord, that we are
+both worthy of a purer mansion; virtue points it out, and destiny
+invites us to seek it. May the friendship which unites us, preserve
+our union to the latest hour. O what a pleasure for two sincere
+friends voluntarily to end their days in each other’s arms, to
+intermingle their latest breath, and at the same instant to give up
+the soul which they shared in common! What pain, what regret can
+infect their last moments? what do they quit by taking leave of the
+world? They go together; they quit nothing.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXV. Answer.
+
+
+Thou art distracted, my friend, by a blind passion; be more discreet;
+do not give council, while you stand in need of advice. I have known
+greater evils than yours. I am armed with fortitude of mind; I am an
+English man, and not afraid to die; for I know how to live and suffer,
+as becomes a man. I have seen death near at hand, and have viewed it
+with too much indifference to go in search of it.
+
+It is true, I thought you might be of use to me; my affection stood in
+need of yours: your endeavours might have been serviceable to me; your
+understanding might have enlightened me in the most important concern
+of my life; if I do not avail myself of it, who are you to impute it
+to? where is it? what is become of it? what are you capable of? of
+what use can you be in the condition you are in? what service can I
+expect from you? a senseless grief renders you stupid and unconcerned.
+Thou art no man; thou art nothing; and if I did not consider you might
+be, in your present state I cannot conceive any being more abject.
+
+There is need of no other proof than your letter itself. Formerly I
+could discover in you good sense and truth. Your sentiments were just,
+your reflections proper, and I liked you not only from judgment but
+choice; for I considered your influence as an additional motive to
+excite me to study of wisdom. But what do I perceive now in the
+arguments of your letter, with which you appear to be to highly
+satisfied? A wretched and perpetual sophistry, which, in the erroneous
+deviations of your reason, shew the disorder of your mind; and which I
+would not stoop to refute, if I did not commiserate your delirium.
+
+To subvert all your reasoning with one word, I would only ask you a
+single question. You who believe in the existence of a God, in the
+immortality of the soul, and in the free-will of man; you surely
+cannot suppose that an intelligent being is embodied, and stationed on
+the earth by accident only, to exist, to suffer, and to die. It is
+certainly most probable that the life of man is not without some
+design, some end, some moral object. I intreat you to give me a direct
+answer to this point; after which we will deliberately examine your
+letter, and you will blush to have written it.
+
+But let us wave all general maxims, about which we often hold violent
+disputes, without adopting any of them in practice; for in their
+application, we always find some particular circumstances, which make
+such an alteration in the state of things, that every one thinks
+himself dispensed from submitting to the rules, which he prescribes to
+others; and it is well known, that every man who establishes general
+principles, deems them obligatory on all the world, himself excepted.
+Once more let us speak to you in particular.
+
+You believe that you have a right to put an end to your being. Your
+proof is of a very singular nature; “because I am disposed to die, say
+you, I have a right to destroy myself.” This is certainly a very
+convenient argument for villains of all kinds: they ought to be very
+thankful to you, for the arms with which you have furnished them;
+there can be no crimes, which, according to your arguments, may not be
+justified by the temptation to perpetrate them, and as soon as the
+impetuosity of passion shall prevail over the horror of guilt, their
+disposition to do evil will be considered as a right to commit it.
+
+Is it lawful for you therefore to quit life? I should be glad to know
+whether you have yet begun to live? what! was you placed here on earth
+to do nothing in this world? did not heaven when it gave you
+existence, give you some task or employment? If you have accomplished
+your day’s work before evening, rest yourself for the remainder of the
+day, you have a right to do it; but let us see your work. What answer
+are you prepared to make the supreme judge, when he demands an account
+of your time? Tell me, what can you say to him----I have seduced a
+virtuous girl: I have forsaken a friend in his distress. Thou unhappy
+wretch! point out to me that just man who can boast that he has lived
+long enough; let me learn from him in what manner I ought to have
+spent my days, to be at liberty to quit life.
+
+You enumerate the evils of human nature. You are not ashamed to
+exhaust common place topics, which have been hackney’d over a hundred
+times; and you conclude that life is an evil. But search, examine into
+the order of things; and see whether you can find any good which is
+not intermingled with evil. Does it therefore follow that there is no
+good in the universe, and can you confound what is in its own nature
+evil, with that which is only an evil accidentally? You have confessed
+yourself, that the transitory and passive life of man is of no
+consequence, and only bears respect to matter, from which he will soon
+be disencumbered; but his active and moral life, which ought to have
+most influence over his nature, consists in the exercise of free-will.
+Life is an evil to a wicked man in prosperity, and a blessing to an
+honest man in distress: for it is not its casual modification, but its
+relation to some final object, which makes it either good or bad.
+After all, what are these cruel torments which force you to abandon
+life? do you imagine that under your affected impartiality in the
+enumeration of the evils of this life, I did not discover that you was
+ashamed to speak of your own? Trust me, and do not at once abandon
+every virtue. Preserve at least your wonted sincerity, and speak thus
+openly to your friend; I have lost all hope of seducing a modest
+woman, I am obliged therefore to be a man of virtue; I had much rather
+die.”
+
+You are weary of living; and you tell me, that life is an evil. Sooner
+or later you will receive consolation, and then you will say life is a
+blessing. You will speak with more truth, though not with better
+reason; for nothing will have altered but yourself. Begin the
+alteration then from this day, and since all the evil you lament is
+in the disposition of your own mind, correct your irregular
+appetites, and do not set your house on fire, to avoid the trouble of
+putting it in order.
+
+I endure misery, say you; is it in my power to avoid suffering? But
+this is changing the state of the question for the subject of enquiry
+is, not whether you suffer, but whether your life is an evil? Let us
+proceed. You are wretched, you naturally endeavour to extricate
+yourself from misery. Let us see whether, for that purpose, it is
+necessary to die.
+
+Let us for a moment examine the natural tendency of the afflictions of
+the mind, as in direct opposition to the evils of the body, the two
+substances being of contrary natures. The latter become worse and more
+inveterate the longer they continue, and at length utterly destroy
+this mortal machine. The former, on the contrary, being only external
+and transitory modifications of an immortal and uncompounded essence,
+are insensibly effaced, and leave the mind in its original form, which
+is not susceptible of alteration. Grief, disquietude, regret, and
+despair, are evils of short duration which never take root in the
+mind, and experience always falsifies that bitter reflection, which
+makes us imagine our misery will have no end. I will go farther; I
+cannot imagine that the vices which contaminate us, are more inherent
+in our nature, than the troubles we endure; I not only believe that
+they perish with the body which gives them birth, but I think, beyond
+all doubt, that a longer life would be sufficient to reform mankind,
+and that many ages of youth would teach us that nothing is preferable
+to virtue.
+
+However this may be, as the greatest part of our physical evils are
+incessantly increasing, the acute pains of the body, when they are
+incurable, may justify a man’s destroying himself; for all his
+faculties being distracted with pain, and the evil being without
+remedy, he has no longer any use either of his will or of his reason;
+he ceases to be a man before he is dead, and does nothing more in
+taking away his life, than quit a body which incumbers him, and in
+which his soul is no longer resident.
+
+But it is otherwise with the afflictions of the mind; which, let them
+be ever so acute, always carry their remedy with them. In fact, what
+is it that makes any evil intolerable? nothing but its duration. The
+operations of surgery are generally much more painful, than the
+disorders they cure; but the pain occasioned by the latter is lasting,
+that of the operation is momentary, and therefore preferable. What
+occasion is there therefore for any operation to remove troubles which
+die of course by their duration, the only circumstance which could
+render them insupportable? Is it reasonable to apply such desperate
+remedies to evils which expire of themselves? To a man who values
+himself on his fortitude, and who estimates years at their real value,
+of two ways by which he may extricate himself from the same troubles,
+which will appear preferable, death or time? Have patience, and you
+will be cured. What would you desire more?
+
+Oh! you will say, it doubles my afflictions, to reflect that they will
+cease at last! this is the vain sophistry of grief! an apothegm void
+of reason, of propriety, and perhaps of sincerity. What an absurd
+motive of despair is the hope of terminating misery! [48] Even
+allowing this fantastical reflection, who would not chuse to increase
+the present pain for a moment, under the assurance of putting an end
+to it, as we scarify a wound in order to heal it? and admitting any
+charm in grief, to make us in love with suffering, when we release
+ourselves from it by putting an end to our being, do we not at that
+instant incur all that we apprehend hereafter?
+
+Reflect thoroughly, young man; what are ten, twenty, thirty years, in
+competition with immorality? pain and pleasure pass like a shadow;
+life slides away in an instant; it is nothing of itself; its value
+depends on the use we make of it. The good that we have done is all
+that remains, and it is that alone which marks its importance.
+
+Therefore do not say any more that your existence is an evil, since it
+depends upon yourself to make it a blessing; and if it is an evil to
+have lived, this is an additional reason for prolonging life. Do not
+pretend neither to say any more that you are at liberty to die; for it
+is as much as to say that you have power to alter your nature, that
+you have a right to revolt against the Author of your being, and to
+frustrate the end of your existence. But when you add, that your death
+does injury to no one, do you recollect that you make this declaration
+to your friend?
+
+Your death does injury to no one? I understand you! You think the loss
+I shall sustain by your death of no importance, you deem my affliction
+of no consequence. I will urge to you no more the rights of friendship
+which you despise, but are there not obligations still more dear, [49]
+which ought to induce you to preserve your life? If there is a person
+in the world who loved you to that degree as to be unwilling to
+survive you, and whose happiness depends on yours, do you think that
+you have no obligations to her? will not the execution of your wicked
+design disturb the peace of a mind, which has been, with such
+difficulty, restored to its former innocence? are not you afraid to
+add fresh torments to a heart of such sensibility? are not you
+apprehensive lest your death should be attended with a loss more
+fatal, which would deprive the world and virtue itself of its
+brightest ornament? and if she should survive you, are not you afraid
+to rouse up remorse in her bosom, which is more grievous to support
+than life itself? Thou ungrateful friend, thou indelicate lover! wilt
+thou always be taken up wholly with thyself? wilt thou always think on
+thy own troubles alone? hast thou no regard for the happiness of one
+who was so dear to thee? and cannot you resolve to live for her, who
+was willing to die with you?
+
+You talk of the duties of a magistrate, and of a father of a family;
+and because you are not under those circumstances, you think yourself
+absolutely free. And are you then under no obligations to society, to
+whom you are indebted for your preservation, your talents, your
+understanding: do you owe nothing to your native country, and to those
+wretches who may need your assistance? O what an accurate calculation
+you make! among the obligations you have enumerated, you have only
+omitted those of a man and of a citizen. Where is the virtuous
+patriot, who refused to enlist under a foreign prince, because his
+blood ought not to be spilt but in the service of his country; and who
+now, in a fit of despair, is ready to shed it against the express
+prohibition of the laws? The laws, the laws, young man! did any wise
+man ever despise them? Socrates, though innocent, out of regard to
+them, refused to quit his prison. You do not scruple to violate them
+by quitting life unjustly; and you ask, what injury do I?
+
+You endeavour to justify yourself by example. You presume to mention
+the Romans: you talk of the Romans! it becomes you indeed to cite
+those illustrious names. Tell me, did Brutus die a lover in despair,
+and did Cato tear out his entrails for his mistress? Thou weak and
+abject man, what resemblance is there between Cato and thee? shew me
+the common standard between that sublime soul and thine. Ah vain
+wretch, hold thy peace! I am afraid to profane his name by a
+vindication of his conduct. At that august and sacred name, every
+friend to virtue should bow to the ground, and honour the memory of
+the greatest hero in silence.
+
+How ill you have selected your examples, and how meanly you judge of
+the Romans, if you imagine that they thought themselves at liberty to
+quit life so soon as it become a burthen to them. Recur to the
+excellent days of that republic, and see whether you will find a
+single citizen of virtue, who thus freed himself from the discharge of
+his duty, even after the most cruel misfortunes. When Regulus was on
+his return to Carthage, did he prevent the torments which he knew were
+preparing for him, by destroying himself? What would not Posthumius
+have given, when obliged to pass under the yoke at Caudium, had this
+resource been justifiable? how much did even the senate admire that
+effort of courage, which enabled the consul Varro to survive his
+defeat? For what reason did so many generals voluntarily surrender
+themselves to their enemies, they to whom ignominy was so dreadful,
+and who were so little afraid of dying? It was because they considered
+their blood, their life, and their latest breath, as devoted to their
+country; and neither shame nor misfortune could dissuade them from
+this sacred duty. But when the laws were subverted, and the state
+became a prey to tyranny, the citizens resumed their natural liberty,
+and the right they had over their own lives. When Rome was no more, it
+was lawful for the Romans to give up their lives; they had discharged
+their duties on earth, they had no longer any country to defend, they
+were therefore at liberty to dispose of their lives, and to obtain
+that freedom for themselves, which they could not recover for their
+country. After having spent their days in the service of expiring
+Rome, and in fighting for the defence of its laws, they died great and
+virtuous as they had lived, and their death was an additional tribute
+to the glory of the Roman name, since none of them beheld a sight
+above all others most dishonourable, that of a true citizen stooping
+to an usurper.
+
+But thou, what art thou? what has thou done? dost thou think to excuse
+thyself on account of thy obscurity? does thy weakness exempt thee
+from thy duty, and because thou hast neither rank nor distinction in
+thy country, art thou less subject to the laws? It becomes you vastly
+to presume to talk of dying, while you owe the service of your life to
+your equals? Know that a death such as you meditate, is shameful and
+surreptitious. It is a theft committed on mankind in general. Before
+you quit life, return the benefits you have received from every
+individual. But, say you, I have no attachments. I am useless in the
+world. O thou young philosopher! art thou ignorant that thou canst not
+move a single step without finding some duty to fulfil; and that every
+man is useful to society, even by means of his existence alone.
+
+Hear me, thou rash young man! thou art dear to me. I commiserate thy
+errors. If the least sense of virtue still remains in thy breast,
+attend, and let me teach thee to be reconciled to life. Whenever thou
+art tempted to quit it, say to thyself----“Let me at least do one good
+action before I die.” Then go in search for one in a state of
+indigence whom thou may’st relieve; for one under misfortunes, whom
+thou may’st comfort; for one under oppression, whom thou may’st
+defend. Introduce to me those unhappy wretches whom my rank keeps at a
+distance. Do not be afraid of misusing my purse, or my credit: make
+free with them; distribute my fortune, make me rich. If this
+consideration restrains you to day, it will restrain you to-morrow; if
+to-morrow, it will restrain you all your life. If it has no power to
+restrain you, die! you are below my care.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXVI. From Lord B----.
+
+
+I cannot, my dear friend, embrace you to-day as I was in hopes I
+should, being detained two days longer at Kensington. It is the way of
+the court to be very busy in doing nothing, and all affairs run in a
+constant succession without being dispatched. The business which has
+confined me here eight days, might have been concluded in two hours;
+but as the chief concern of the ministry is to preserve an air of
+business, they waste more time in putting me off, than it would cost
+them to dispatch me. My impatience, which is rather too evident, does
+not contribute to shorten the delay. You know that the court is not
+suited to my turn; I find it more intolerable since we have lived
+together, and I had rather a hundred times share your melancholy, than
+be pestered with the knaves which abound in this country.
+
+Nevertheless, in conversing with these busy sluggards, a thought
+struck me with regard to you, and I only wait your consent to dispose
+of you to advantage. I perceive that in struggling with your
+affliction, you suffer both from your uneasiness of mind, and from
+your resistance. If you are determined to live and overcome it, you
+have formed this resolution less in conformity to the dictates of
+reason and honour, than in compliance with your friends. But this is
+not enough. You must recover the relish of life to discharge its
+duties as you ought; for with so much indifference about every thing,
+you will succeed in nothing. We may both of us talk as we will; but
+reason alone will never restore you to your reason. It is necessity
+that a multiplicity of new and striking objects should in some measure
+withdraw you from that attention which your mind fixes solely on one
+object of its affections. To recover yourself, you must be detached
+from inward reflection, and nothing but the agitation of an active
+life, can restore you to serenity.
+
+An opportunity offers for this purpose, which is not to be
+disregarded; a great and noble enterprise is on foot, and such an one
+as has not been equalled for ages. It depends on you to be a spectator
+and assistant in it. You will see the grandest sight which the eye of
+man ever beheld, and your turn for observation will be abundantly
+gratified. Your appointment will be honourable, and, with the talents
+you are master of, will only require courage and good health. You will
+find it attended with more danger than confinement, which will make it
+more agreeable to you; and, in few words, your engagement will not be
+for any long time. I cannot give you farther information at present;
+because this scheme, which is almost ripe for discovery, is
+nevertheless a secret with which I am not yet acquainted in all its
+particulars. I will only add, that if you decline this lucky and
+extraordinary opportunity, you will probably never recover it again,
+and will regret it as long as you live.
+
+I have ordered my servant, who is the bearer of this letter, to find
+you out wherever you are, and not to return without a line; for the
+affair requires dispatch, and I must give an answer before I leave
+this place.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXVII. Answer.
+
+
+Do, my lord; dispose of me; I will agree to whatever you propose. Till
+I am worthy to serve you; at least I claim the merit of obeying you.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXVIII. From Lord B----.
+
+
+Since you approve of the thought I suggested, I will not delay a
+minute to acquaint you that every thing is concluded, and to explain
+to you the nature of the engagement I have entered into, in pursuance
+of the authority you gave me to make the agreement on your behalf.
+
+You know that a squadron of five men of war is equipped at Plymouth,
+and that they are ready to set sail. The commodore is Mr. George
+Anson, a brave and experienced officer, and an old friend of mine. It
+is destined for the South-sea, whither it is to sail through the
+straits of Le Maire, and to come back by the East-Indies. You see
+therefore that the object is no less than to make the tour of the
+world, an expedition which, it is imagined, will take up three years.
+I could have entered you as a volunteer; but to give you more
+importance among the crew, I have obtained the addition of a title for
+you, and you stand on the list in the capacity of engineer of the land
+forces: this will be more suitable to you, because, having followed
+the bent of your genius from your first outset in the world, I know
+you made it your early study.
+
+I propose to return to London tomorrow, [50] to present you to Mr.
+Anson within two days. In the mean time, take care to get your
+equipage ready, and provide yourself with books and instruments; for
+the embarkation is ready, and only waits for sailing orders. My dear
+friend, I hope that God will bring you back from this long voyage, in
+full health of mind and body; and that at your return, we shall meet
+never to part again.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXIX. To Mrs. Orbe
+
+
+My dear and lovely cousin, I am preparing to make the tour of the
+world; I am going into another hemisphere, in pursuit of that peace
+which I could not enjoy in this. Fool that I am! I am going to wander
+over the universe, without being able to find one place where my heart
+can rest. I am going to find a retreat from the world, where I may be
+at a distance from you. But it becomes me to regard the will of a
+friend, a benefactor, a father. Without the smallest hopes of a cure,
+at least I will take pains for it; Eloisa and virtue require the
+sacrifice. In three hours time I shall be at the mercy of the winds;
+in three days, I shall lose sight of Europe; in three months, I shall
+be in unknown seas, raging with perpetual tempests; in three years
+perhaps... How dreadful is the thought of never seeing you more! alas!
+the greatest danger is in my own breast; for whatever may be my fate,
+I am resolved, I swear, that you shall see me worthy to appear in your
+sight, or you shall never behold me more.
+
+Lord B----, who is on his return to Rome, will deliver this letter in
+his way, and acquaint you with all particulars concerning me. You are
+acquainted with his disposition, and you will easily guess at those
+circumstances which he does not chuse to communicate. You was once no
+stranger to mine; therefore you may likewise form some judgment of
+those things which I do not care to relate myself.
+
+Your friend, I hear, has the happiness to be a mother as well as
+yourself. Ought she then to be? ... O inexorable heaven! ... O _my_
+mother, why did heaven in its wrath grant you a son? ...
+
+I must conclude; I feel that I must. Farewell, ye pure and celestial
+souls! Farewell ye tender and inseparable friends, the best women on
+earth! Each of you is the only object worthy of the other’s
+affections. May you mutually contribute to each other’s happiness.
+Deign now and then to call to mind the memory of an unfortunate
+wretch, who only existed to share with you every sentiment of his
+soul, and who ceased to live, the moment he was divided from you. If
+ever----... I hear the signal, and the shouts of the sailors. The wind
+blows strong, and the sails are spread. I must on board: I must be
+gone. Thou vast and immense sea, which perhaps wilt bury me beneath
+thy waves! O that upon thy swelling surge I could recover that calm
+which has forsaken my troubled soul!
+
+
+
+
+Volume III
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXX. From Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+How tedious is your stay! This going backward and forward is very
+disagreeable. How many hours are lost before you return to the place
+where you ought to remain for ever, and therefore, how much worse is
+it in you ever to go away! The idea of seeing you for so short a time,
+takes from the pleasure of your company. Do not you perceive that by
+residing at your own house and mine alternately, you are in fact at
+home in neither, and cannot you contrive some means by which you may
+make your abode in both at once?
+
+What are we doing, my dear cousin? How many precious moments we lose,
+when we have none to waste! Years steal upon us; youth begins to
+vanish; life slides away imperceptibly; its momentary bliss is in our
+possession, and we refuse to enjoy it! Do you recollect the time when
+we were yet girls, those early days so agreeable and delightful, which
+no other time of life affords, and which the mind with so much
+difficulty forgets? How often, when we were obliged to part for a few
+days, or even for a few hours, have we sadly embraced each other, and
+vowed that when we were our own mistresses, we would never be asunder?
+We are now our own mistresses, and yet we pass one half of the year at
+a distance from each other. Is then our affection weaker? My dear and
+tender friend, we are both sensible how much time, habit, and your
+kindness have rendered our attachment more strong and indissoluble. As
+to myself, your absence daily becomes more insupportable, and I can no
+longer live a minute without you. The progress of our friendship is
+more natural than it appears to be; it is founded not only on a
+similarity of character, but of condition. As we advance in years, our
+affections begin to centre in one point. We every day lose something
+that was dear to us, which we can never replace. Thus we perish by
+degrees, till at length, being wholly devoted to self-love, we lose
+life and sensibility, even before our existence ceases. But a
+susceptible mind arms itself with all its force against this
+anticipated death; when a chillness begins to seize the extremities,
+it collects all the genial warmth of nature round its own centre;
+the more connections it loses, the closer it cleaves to those which
+remain, and all its former ties are combined to attach it to the
+last object.
+
+This is what I seem to experience, young as I am. Ah! my dear, my poor
+heart has been too susceptible of tender impressions! It was so early
+exhausted, that it grew old before its time, and so many different
+affections have absorbed it to that degree, that it has no room for
+any new attachments. You have known me in the successive capacities of
+a daughter, a friend, a mistress, a wife, and a mother. You know how
+every character has been dear to me! Some of these connections are
+utterly destroyed, others are weakened. My mother, my affectionate
+mother is no more; tears are the only tribute I can pay to her memory,
+and I do but half enjoy the most agreeable sensations of nature. As to
+love, it is wholly extinguished, it is dead for ever, and has left a
+vacancy in my heart, which will never be filled up again. We have lost
+your good and worthy husband, whom I loved as the dear part of
+yourself, and who was so well deserving of your friendship and
+tenderness. If my boys were grown up, maternal affection might supply
+these vacancies; but that affection, like all others, has need of
+participation, and what return can a mother expect from a child, only
+four or five years old? Our children are dear to us, long before they
+are sensible of our love, or capable of returning it; and yet, how
+much we want to express the extravagance of our fondness, to some one
+who can enter into our affection. My husband loves them; but not with
+that degree of sensibility I could wish; he is not intoxicated with
+fondness as I am; his tenderness for them is too rational; I would
+have it to be more lively, and more like my own. In short, I want a
+friend, a mother, who can be as extravagantly fond of my children, and
+her own, as myself. In a word, the fondness of a mother makes the
+company of a friend more necessary to me, that I may enjoy the
+pleasure of talking continually about my children, without being
+troublesome. I feel double the pleasure in the caress of my little
+Marcellinus, when I see that you share it with me. When I embrace your
+daughter, I fancy that I press you to my bosom. We have observed a
+hundred times, on seeing our little cherubs at play together, that the
+union of our affections has so united them, that we have not been able
+to distinguish to which of us they severally belonged.
+
+This is not all: I have powerful reasons for desiring to have you
+always near me, and your absence is painful to me in more respects
+than one. Think on my aversion to all hypocrisy, and reflect on the
+continual reserve in which I have lived upwards of six years with the
+man whom I love above all others in the world. My odious secret
+oppresses me more and more, and my duty to reveal it seems every day
+more indispensable. The more I am prompted by honour to disclose it,
+the more I am obliged by prudence to conceal it. Consider what a
+horrid state it is for a wife to carry mistrust, falsehood and fear,
+even to her husband’s arms; to be afraid of opening her heart to him
+who is master of it, and to conceal one half of my life to ensure the
+peace of the other? Good God! from whom do I conceal my secret
+thoughts, and hide the recesses of a soul with which he has so much
+reason to be satisfied? From my Wolmar, my husband, and the most
+worthy husband with which heaven ever rewarded the virtue of unsullied
+chastity. Having deceived him once, I am obliged to continue the
+deceit, and bear the mortification of finding myself unworthy of all
+the kindness he expresses. My heart is afraid to receive any testimony
+of his esteem, his most tender caresses make me blush, and my
+conscience interprets all his marks of respect and attention, into
+symptoms of reproach and disdain. It is a cruel pain constantly to
+harbour this remorse, which tells me, that he mistakes the object of
+his esteem. Ah! if he but knew me, he would not use me thus tenderly!
+No, I cannot endure this horrid state; I am never alone with that
+worthy man, but I am ready to fall on my knees before him, to confess
+my fault, and to expire at his feet with grief and shame.
+
+Nevertheless, the reasons which at first restrained me, acquire fresh
+strength every day, and every motive which might induce me to make the
+declaration, conspires to enjoin me silence. When I consider the
+peaceable and tranquil state of the family, I cannot reflect without
+horror, what an irreparable disturbance might be occasioned by a
+single word. After six years passed in perfect union, shall I venture
+to disturb the peace of so good and discreet a husband, who has no
+other will than that of his happy wife, no other pleasure than to see
+order and tranquility throughout his family? Shall I afflict with
+domestic broils, an aged father who appears to be so contented, and so
+delighted with the happiness of his daughter and his friend? Shall I
+expose my dear children, those lovely and promising infants, to have
+their education neglected and shamefully slighted, to become the
+melancholy victims of family discord, between a father inflamed with
+just indignation, tortured with jealousy, and an unfortunate and
+guilty mother, always bathed in tears? I know what Mr. Wolmar is, how
+he esteems his wife; but how do I know what he will be when he no
+longer regards her? Perhaps he seems calm and moderate, because his
+predominant passion has had no room to display itself. Perhaps he
+would be as violent in the impetuosity of his anger, as he is gentle
+and composed now he has nothing to provoke him.
+
+If I owe such regard to every one about me, is not something likewise
+due to myself? Does not a virtuous and regular course of life for six
+years obliterate, in some measure, the errors of youth, and am I still
+obliged to undergo the punishment of a failing which I have so long
+lamented? I confess, my dear cousin, that I look backwards with
+reluctance; the reflection humbles me to that degree that it dispirits
+me, and I am too susceptible of shame, to endure the idea, without
+falling into a kind of despair. I must reflect on the time which has
+passed since my marriage, in order to recover myself. My present
+situation inspires me with a confidence of which those disagreeable
+reflections would deprive me. I love to nourish in my breast these
+returning sentiments of honour. The rank of a wife and mother exalts
+my soul, and supports me against the remorse of my former condition.
+When I view my children and their father about me, I fancy that every
+thing breathes an air of virtue, and they banish from my mind the
+disagreeable remembrance of my former frailties. Their innocence is
+the security of mine; they become dearer to me, by being the
+instruments of my reformation; and I think on the violation of honour
+with such horror, that I can scarce believe myself the same perfect
+who formerly was capable of forgetting its precepts. I perceive myself
+so different from what I was, so confirmed in my present state, that I
+am almost induced to consider what I have to declare, as a confession
+which does not concern me, and which I am not obliged to make.
+
+Such is the state of anxiety and uncertainty in which I am continually
+fluctuating in your absence. Do you know what may be the consequence
+of this one day or other? My father is soon to set out for Bern, and
+is determined not to return till he has put an end to a tedious
+lawsuit, not being willing to leave us the trouble of concluding it,
+and perhaps doubting our zeal in the prosecution of it. In the
+interim, between his departure and his return, I shall be alone with
+my husband, and I perceive that it will then be impossible for me to
+keep the fatal secret any longer. When we have company, you know Mr.
+Wolmar often chuses to retire and take a solitary walk; he chats
+with the peasants; he enquires into their situation; he examines the
+condition of their grounds; and assists them, if they require it, both
+with his purse and his advice. But when we are alone, he never walks
+without me; he seldom leaves his wife and children, and he enters into
+their little amusements with such an amiable simplicity, that on these
+occasions I always feel a more than common tenderness for him. In
+these tender moments, my reserve is in so much more danger, as he
+himself frequently gives me opportunities of throwing it aside, and
+has a hundred times held conversation with me which seemed to excite
+me to confidence. I perceive, that sooner or later, I must disclose my
+mind to him; but since you would have the confession concerted between
+us, and made with all the precaution which discretion requires, return
+to me immediately, or I can answer for nothing.
+
+My dear friend, I must conclude, and yet what I have to add, is of
+such importance, that you must allow me a few words more. You are not
+only of service to me when I am with my children and my husband, but
+above all when I am alone with poor Eloisa: solitude is more
+dangerous, because it grows agreeable to me, and I court it without
+intending it. It is not, as you are sensible, that my heart still
+smarts with the pain of its former wounds; no, they are cured, I
+perceive that they are, I am very certain, I dare believe myself
+virtuous. I am under no apprehensions about the present, it is the
+time past which torments me. There are some reflections as dreadful,
+as the original sensation; the recollection moves us; we are ashamed
+to find that we shed tears, and we do but weep the more. They are
+tears of compassion, regret, and repentance; love has no share in
+them; I no longer harbour the least spark of love; but I lament the
+mischiefs it has occasioned; I bewail the fate of a worthy man who has
+been bereft of peace and perhaps of life, by gratifying an indiscreet
+passion. Alas! he has undoubtedly perished in this long and dangerous
+voyage which he undertook out of despair. If he was living, he would
+send us tidings from the farthest part of the world; near four years
+have elapsed since his departure. They say the squadron on which he is
+aboard, has suffered a thousand disasters, that they have lost three
+fourths of their crew, that several ships have gone to the bottom, and
+that no one can tell what is become of the rest. He is no more, he is
+no more! A secret foreboding tells me so. The unfortunate wretch has
+not been spared, any more than so many others. The distresses of his
+voyage, and melancholy, still more fatal than all, have shortened his
+days. Thus vanishes every thing which glitters for a while on earth.
+The reproach of having occasioned the death of a worthy man, was all
+that was wanting to compleat the torments of my conscience. With what
+a soul was he endued! how susceptible of the tenderest love! He
+deserved to live!
+
+I try in vain to dissipate these melancholy ideas; but they return
+every minute in spite of me. Your friend requires your assistance, to
+enable her to banish them, or to moderate them; and since I cannot
+forget this unfortunate man, I had rather talk of him with you, than
+think of him by myself.
+
+You see how many reasons concur to make your company continually
+necessary to me. If you, who have been more discreet and fortunate,
+are not moved by the same reasons, yet does not your inclination
+persuade you of the same necessity? If it is true that you will never
+marry again, having so little satisfaction in your family, what house
+can be more convenient for you than mine? For my part, I am in pain,
+as I know what you endure in your own; for notwithstanding your
+dissimulation, I am no stranger to your manner of living, and I am not
+to be duped by those gay airs which you affected to display at
+Clarens. You have often reproached me with my failings; and I have a
+very great one to reproach you with in your turn; which is, that your
+grief is too solitary and confined. You get into a corner to indulge
+your affliction, as if you were ashamed to weep before your friend.
+Clara, I do not like this. I am not ungenerous like you; I do not
+condemn your tears, I would not have you cease at the end of two or
+ten years, or while you live, to honour the memory of so tender a
+husband; but I blame you that after having passed the best of your
+days in weeping with your Eloisa, you rob her of the pleasure of
+weeping in her turn with you, and of washing away, by more honourable
+tears, the scandal of those which she shed in your bosom. If you are
+ashamed of your grief, you are a stranger to real affliction! If you
+find a kind of pleasure in it, why will you not let me partake of it?
+Are you ignorant that a participation of affections communicates a
+soft and affecting quality to melancholy, which content never feels?
+And was not friendship particularly designed to alleviate the evils of
+the wretched, and lessen their pains?
+
+Such, my dear, are the reflections you ought to indulge; to which I
+must add, that when I propose your coming to live with me, I make the
+proposal no less in my husband’s name than in my own. He has often
+expressed his surprize, and even been offended, that two such
+intimates as we, should live asunder: he assures me that he has told
+you so, and he is not a man who talks inadvertently. I do not know
+what solution you will take with respect to these proposals; I have
+reason to hope, that it will be such as I could wish. However it be,
+mine is fixed and unalterable. I have not forgotten the time when you
+would have followed me to England. My incomparable friend! it is now
+my turn. You know my dislike of the town, my taste for the country,
+for rural occupations, and how strongly a residence of three years has
+attached me to my house at Clarens. You are no stranger likewise to
+the trouble of removing a whole family, and you are sensible that it
+would be abusing my father’s good nature to oblige him to move so
+often. Therefore if you will not leave your family and come to govern
+mine, I am determined to take a house at Lausanne, where we will all
+live with you. Prepare yourself therefore; every thing requires it; my
+inclination, my duty, my happiness. The security of my honour, the
+recovery of my reason, my condition, my husband, my children, myself,
+I owe all to you; I am indebted to you for all the blessings I enjoy,
+I see nothing but what reminds me of your goodness, and without you I
+am nothing. Come then, my much loved friend, my guardian angel; come
+and enjoy the work of your own hands; come and gather the fruits of
+your benevolence. Let us have but one family, as we have but one soul
+to cherish it; you shall superintend the education of my sons, and I
+will take care of your daughters; we will share the maternal duties
+between us, and make our pleasure double. We will raise our minds
+together to the contemplation of that Being, who purified mine by
+means of your endeavours and having nothing more to hope for in this
+life, we will quietly wait for the next, in the bosom of innocence and
+friendship.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXI. Answer.
+
+
+Good heaven! my dear cousin, how I am delighted with your letter! Thou
+lovely preacher! ... Lovely indeed: but in the preaching strain
+nevertheless. What a charming peroration! A perfect model of ancient
+oratory. The Athenian architect! ... That florid speaker! ... You
+remember him... In your old Plutarch... Pompous descriptions, superb
+temple! ... When he had finished his harangue, comes another; a plain
+man; with a grave, sober, and unaffected air...who answered, as your
+cousin Clara might do...with a low, hollow, and deep tone..._All
+that, he has said, I will do_. Here he ended, and the assembly rang
+with applause! Peace to the man of words. My dear, we may be
+considered in the light of these two architects; and the temple in
+question, is that of friendship.
+
+But let us recapitulate all the fine things you have said to me.
+First, that we loved each other; secondly, that my company was
+necessary to you; thirdly, that yours was necessary to me likewise;
+and lastly, that as it was in our power to live together the rest of
+our days, we ought to do it. And you have really discovered all this
+without a guide! In truth, thou art a woman of vast eloquence! Well,
+but let me tell how I was employed on my part, while you was composing
+this sublime epistle. After that, I will leave you to judge, whether
+what you say, or what I do, is most to the purpose.
+
+I had no sooner lost my husband, than you supplied the vacancy he had
+left in my heart. While he was living, he shared my affections with
+you; when he was gone, I was yours entirely, and as you observe with
+respect to the conformity of friendship and maternal affection, my
+daughter was an additional tie to unite us. I not only determined,
+from that time, to pass my days with you, but I formed a more enlarged
+plan. The more effectually to blend our two families into one, I
+proposed, on a supposition that all circumstances prove agreeable, to
+marry my daughter some day or other to your eldest son, and the name
+of husband assumed in jest, seemed to be a lucky omen of his taking it
+one day in earnest.
+
+With this view, I endeavoured immediately to put an end to the trouble
+of a contested inheritance, and finding that my circumstances enabled
+me to sacrifice some part of my claim in order to settle the rest, I
+thought of nothing but placing my daughter’s fortune in some sure
+funds, where it might be secure from any apprehensions of a law suit.
+You know that I am whimsical in most things; my whim in this was to
+surprize you. I intended to come into your room one morning early,
+with my child in one hand, and the parchment in the other; and to have
+presented them both to you, with a fine compliment on committing to
+your care the mother, the daughter, and their effects, that is to say,
+my child’s fortune. Govern her, I proposed to have said, as best suits
+the interest of your son; for from henceforwards it is your concern
+and his; for my own part, I shall trouble myself about her no longer.
+
+Full of this pleasing idea, it was necessary for me to open my mind to
+somebody who might assist me to execute my project. Guess now whom I
+chose for a confident? One Mr. Wolmar: Should not you know him? “My
+husband, cousin?” Yes, your husband, cousin. The very man from whom
+you make such a difficulty of concealing a secret, which it is of
+consequence to him never to know, is he who has kept a secret from
+you, the discovery of which would have given you so much pleasure.
+This was the true subject of all that mysterious conversation between
+us, about which you used to banter us with so much humour. You see
+what hypocrites these husbands are. Is it not very droll in them to
+accuse us of dissimulation? But I required much more of your husband.
+I perceived that you had the same plan which I had in view, but you
+kept it more to yourself, as one who did not care to communicate her
+thoughts, till she was led to the discovery. With an intent therefore
+to make your surprize more agreeable, I would have had him, when you
+proposed our living together, to have seemed as if he disapproved of
+your eagerness, and to have given his consent with reluctance. To this
+he made me an answer, which I well remember, and which you ought never
+to forget; for since the first existence of husbands, I doubt whether
+any one of them ever made such an answer before. It was as follows.
+“My dear little cousin, I know Eloisa...I know her well...better
+than she imagines perhaps...her generosity of heart is so great, that
+what she desires ought not to be refused, and her sensibility is too
+strong to bear a denial, without being afflicted. During these five
+years that we have married, I do not know that I have given her the
+least uneasiness; and I hope to die without ever being the cause of
+her feeling a moment’s inquietude.” Cousin, reflect on this: This is
+the husband whose peace of mind you are incessantly meditating to
+disturb.
+
+For my part I had less delicacy, or more gentleness of disposition,
+and I so naturally diverted the conversation to which your affection
+so frequently led you, that as you could not tax me with coldness or
+indifference towards you, you took it into your head that I had a
+second marriage in view, and that I loved you better than any thing,
+except a husband. You see, my dear child, your most inmost thoughts do
+not escape me. I guess your meaning, I penetrate your designs; I enter
+into the bottom of your soul, and for that reason I have always adored
+you. This suspicion, which so opportunely led you into a mistake,
+appeared to me well worth encouraging. I took upon me to play the part
+of the coquettish widow, which I acted so well as to deceive even you.
+It is a part for which I have more talents than inclination. I
+skilfully employed that piquant air which I know how to put on, and
+with which I have entertained myself in making a jest of more than one
+young coxcomb. You have been absolutely the dupe of my affectation,
+and you thought me in haste to supply the place of a man, to whom of
+all others it would be most difficult to a fit successor. But I am too
+ingenuous to play the counterfeit long, and your apprehensions were
+soon removed. But to confirm you the more, I will explain to you my
+real sentiments on that head.
+
+I have told you an hundred times when I was a maid, that I was never
+designed for a wife. Had my determination depended on myself alone, I
+should never have married. But our sex cannot purchase liberty but by
+slavery; and before we can become our own mistresses, we must begin by
+being servants. Though my father did not confine me, I was not without
+uneasiness in my family. To free myself from that vexation, therefore,
+I married Mr. Orbe. He was such a worthy man, and loved me with such
+tenderness, that I most sincerely loved him in my turn. Experience
+gave me a more advantageous opinion of marriage than I had conceived
+of it, and effaced those impressions I had received from Chaillot. Mr.
+Orbe made me happy, and did not repent his endeavours. I should have
+discharged my duty with any other, but I should have vexed him, and I
+am sensible that nothing but so good a husband could have made me a
+tolerable wife. Would you think that even this afforded me matter of
+complaint? My dear, we loved each other too affectionately; we were
+never gay. A slighter friendship would have been more sprightly; I
+should even have preferred it, and I think I should have chosen to
+have lived with less content, if I could have laughed oftener.
+
+Add to this, that the particular circumstances of your situation, gave
+me uneasiness. I need not remind you of the dangers to which an unruly
+passion exposed you. I reflect on them with horror. If you had only
+hazarded your life, perhaps I might have retained some remains of
+gaiety: but terror and grief pierced my soul, and till I saw you
+married, I did not enjoy one moment of real pleasure. You are no
+stranger to my affliction at that time, you felt it. It had great
+influence over your good disposition, and I shall always bless those
+fortunate tears, which were probably the occasion of your return to
+virtue.
+
+In this manner I passed all the time that I lived with my husband.
+Since it has pleased the Almighty to take him from me, judge whether I
+can hope to find another so much to my mind, and whether I have any
+temptation to make the experiment? No, cousin, matrimony is too
+serious a state for me; its gravity does not suit with my humour; it
+makes me dull, and sits awkwardly upon me; not to mention that all
+constraint whatever is intolerable to me. Consider, you who know me,
+what charms can an attachment have in my eyes, during which, for seven
+years together, I have not laughed seven times heartily! I do not
+propose, like you, to turn matron at eight and twenty. I find myself a
+smart little widow, likely to get a husband still, and I think that if
+I was a man, I should have no objection to such a one as myself. But
+to marry again, cousin! hear me; I sincerely lament my poor husband, I
+would have given up one half of my days, to have passed the other half
+with him; and nevertheless, could he return to life, I should take him
+again for no other reason, than because I had taken him before.
+
+I have declared to you my real intentions. If I have not been able to
+put them in execution, notwithstanding Mr. Wolmar’s kind endeavours,
+it is because difficulties seem to increase, as my zeal to surmount
+them strengthens. But my zeal will always gain the ascendency, and
+before the summer is over, I hope to return to you for the remainder
+of my days.
+
+I must now vindicate myself from the reproach of concealing my
+uneasiness, and choosing to weep alone; I do not deny it, and this is
+the way I spend the most agreeable time I pass here. I never enter my
+house, but I perceive some traces which remind me of him, who made it
+agreeable to me. I cannot take a step, I cannot view a single object,
+without perceiving some signs of his tenderness and goodness of heart;
+and would you have my mind to be unaffected? When I am here, I am
+sensible of nothing but the loss I have sustained. When I am near you,
+I view all the comfort I have left. Can you make your influence over
+my disposition, a crime in me? If I weep in your absence, and laugh in
+your company, whence proceeds the difference? Ungrateful woman! it is
+because you alleviate all my afflictions, and I cannot grieve while I
+enjoy your society.
+
+You have said a great deal in favour of our long friendship; but I
+cannot pardon you for omitting a circumstance that does me most
+honour; which is, that I love you, though you eclipse me! Eloisa, you
+were born to rule. Your empire is more despotic than any in the world.
+It extends even over the will, and I am sensible of it more than any
+one. How happens it, my Eloisa? We are both in love with virtue;
+honour is equally dear to us; our talents are the same; I have very
+near as much spirit as you; and am not a bit less handsome. I am
+sensible of all this, and yet notwithstanding all, you prescribe to
+me, you overcome me, you cast me down, your genius crushes mine, and I
+am nothing before you. Even while you were engaged in an attachment
+with which you reproached yourself, and that I, who had not copied
+your failing, might have taken the lead in my turn, yet the ascendency
+still remained in you. The frailty I condemned in you, appeared to me
+almost in the light of a virtue; I could scarce forbear admiring in
+you, what I should have censured in another. In short, even at that
+time, I never accosted you without a sensible emotion of involuntary
+respect; and it is certain that nothing but your gentleness and
+affability of manners could entitle me to the rank of your friend: by
+nature, I ought to be your servant. Explain this mystery if you can;
+for my part, I am at a loss how to solve it.
+
+But after all, I do in some measure conceive the reason, and I believe
+that I have explained it before now. The reason is, that your
+disposition enlivens every one round you, and gives them a kind of new
+existence, for which they are bound to adore you, since they derive it
+entirely from you. It is true, I have done you some signal services;
+you have so often acknowledged them, that it is impossible for me to
+forget them. I cannot deny but that, without my assistance, you had
+been utterly undone. But what did I do, more than return the
+obligation I owed you? Is it possible to have a long acquaintance with
+you without finding one’s mind impressed with the charms of virtue,
+and the delights of friendship? Do not you know that you have power to
+arm in your defence everyone who approaches you, and that I have no
+advantage whatever over others, but that of being, like the guards of
+Serositis, of the same age and sex, and of having been brought up with
+you. However it be, it is some comfort to Clara, that, though she is
+of less estimation than Eloisa, yet without Eloisa she would be of
+less value still; and in short, to tell you the truth, I think that we
+stood in great need of each other, and that we should both have been
+losers if fate had parted us.
+
+I am chiefly concerned lest, while my affairs detain me here, you
+should discover your secret, which you are every minute ready to
+disclose. Consider, I intreat you, that there are solid and powerful
+reasons for concealing it, and that nothing but a mistaken principle
+can tempt you to reveal it. Besides, our suspicion that it is no
+longer a secret to him who is most interested in the discovery, is an
+additional argument against making any declaration without the
+greatest circumspection. Perhaps your husband’s reserve may serve as
+an example and a lesson to us: for in such cases there is very often a
+great difference between pretending to be ignorant of a thing, and
+being obliged to know it. Stay therefore, I beseech you, till we
+consult once more on this affair. If your apprehensions were well
+grounded, and your lamented friend was no more, the best resolution
+you could take, would be to let your history and his misfortunes be
+buried together. If he is alive, as I hope he is, the case may be
+different; but let us wait till we are sure of the event. In every
+state of the case, do not you think that you ought to pay some regard
+to the last advice of an unfortunate wretch, whose evils all spring
+from you?
+
+With respect to the danger of solitude, I conceive and cannot condemn
+your fears, though I am persuaded that they are ill founded. Your past
+terrors have made you fearful; but I presage better of the time
+present, and you would be less apprehensive, if you had more reason to
+be so. But I cannot approve of your anxiety with regard to the fate of
+our poor friend. Now your affections have taken a different turn,
+believe me he is as dear to me as to yourself. Nevertheless I have
+forebodings quite contrary to yours, and more agreeable to reason.
+Lord B---- has heard from him twice, and wrote to me on the receipt of
+the last letter, to acquaint me that he was in the South seas, and had
+already escaped all the dangers you apprehend. You know all this as
+well as I, and yet you are as uneasy as if you were a stranger to
+these particulars. But there is a circumstance you are ignorant of,
+and of which I must inform you; it is, that the ship on which he is on
+board, was seen two months ago off the Canaries, making sail for
+Europe. This is the account my father received from Holland, which he
+did not fail to transmit to me; for it is his custom to be more
+punctual in informing me concerning public affairs, than in
+acquainting me with his own private concerns. My heart tells me that
+it will not be long before we hear news of our philosopher, and that
+your tears will be dried up, unless after having lamented him as dead,
+you weep to find him alive, But, thank God, you are no longer in
+danger from your weakness.
+
+_Deh! fosse or qui quel miser puer un poco,
+Ch’ e giá di piangere e di viver lasso!_
+
+This is the sum of my answer. Your affectionate friend proposes, and
+shares with you the agreeable expectation of a lasting re-union. You
+find that you are neither the first, nor the only author of this
+project; and that the execution of it is more forward than you
+imagined. Have patience therefore, my dear friend, for this summer: It
+is better to delay our meeting for same time, than to be under the
+necessity of parting again.
+
+Well, good Madam, have not I been as good as my word, and is not my
+triumph compleat? Come, fall on your knees, kiss this letter with
+respect, and humbly acknowledge that, once in her life at least,
+Eloisa Wolmar has been outdone in friendship.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXII. To Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+My dear cousin, my benefactress, my friend! I come from the
+extremities of the earth, and bring a heart full of affection for you.
+I have crossed the line four times; I have traversed the two
+hemispheres; I have seen the four quarters of the globe; its diameter
+has been between us; I have been quite round it, and yet could not
+escape from you one moment. It is in vain to fly from the object of
+our adoration: the image, more fleet than the winds, pursues us from
+the end of the world, and wherever we transport ourselves, we bear
+with us the idea by which we are animated. I have endured a great
+deal; I have seen others suffer more. How many unhappy wretches have
+I seen perish! Alas! They rated life at a high price! And yet I
+survived them... Perhaps my condition was less to be pitied; the
+miseries of my companions affected me more than my own. I am wretched
+here, said I to myself, but there is a corner of the globe where I am
+happy and tranquil; and the prospect of felicity on the side of the
+lake at Geneva, made me amends for what I suffered on the ocean. I
+have the pleasure on my return to find my hopes confirmed: Lord B----
+informs me that you both enjoy health and peace; and that if you, in
+particular, have lost the agreeable distinction of a wife, you
+nevertheless retain the title of a friend and mother, which may
+contribute to your happiness.
+
+I am at present too much in haste to send you a detail of my voyage
+in this letter. I dare hope that I shall soon have a more convenient
+opportunity; meantime I must be content to give you a slight sketch,
+rather to excite than gratify your curiosity. I have been near four
+years in making this immense tour, and I returned in the same ship in
+which I set sail, the only one of the whole squadron which we have
+brought back to England.
+
+I have seen South-America, that vast continent which for want of arms
+has been obliged to submit to the Europeans, who have made it a
+desert, in order to secure their dominion. I have seen the coasts of
+Brazil, from whence Lisbon and London draw their treasures, and where
+the miserable natives tread upon gold and diamonds, without daring to
+lay hands on them for their own life. I crossed, in mild weather,
+those stormy seas under the Antarctic circle, and I met with the most
+horrible tempests in the Pacific ocean.
+
+_E in mar dubbioso sotto ignoto polo
+Provai l’onde fallaci, e’l vento in fido._
+
+I have seen, at a distance, the abode of those supposed giants, who
+are no otherwise greater than the rest of their species, than as they
+are more courageous, and who maintain their dependence more by a life
+of simplicity and frugality, than by their extraordinary stature. I
+made a residence of three months in a desert and delightful island,
+which afforded an agreeable and lively representation of the primitive
+beauty of nature, and which seems to be fixed at the extremity of the
+world to serve as an asylum to innocence and persecuted love; but the
+greedy European indulges his brutal disposition in preventing the
+peaceful Indian from residing there, and does justice on himself, by
+not making it his own abode.
+
+I have seen, in the rivers of Mexico and Peru, the same scenes as at
+Brazil; I have seen the few wretched inhabitants, the sad remains of
+two powerful nations, loaded with irons, ignominy and misery, weeping
+in the midst of their precious metals, and reproaching heaven for
+having lavished such treasures among them. I have seen the dreadful
+conflagration of a whole city, which perished in the flames without
+having made any resistance or defence. Such is the right of war among
+the intelligent, humane, and refined Europeans! They are not satisfied
+with doing the enemy all the mischief from whence they can reap any
+advantage, but they reckon as clear gain, all the destruction they can
+make among his possessions. I have coasted along almost the whole
+western part of America, not without being struck with admiration on
+beholding fifteen hundred leagues of coast, and the greatest sea in
+the world, under the dominion of a single potentate, who may be said
+to keep the keys of one hemisphere.
+
+After having crossed this vast sea, I beheld a new scene on the other
+continent, I have seen the most numerous and most illustrious nation
+in the world, in subjection to a handful of Banditti; I have had close
+intercourse with this famous people, and I do not wonder that they are
+slaves. As often conquered as attacked, they have always been a prey
+to the first invader, and will be so to the end of the world. They are
+well suited to their servile state, since they have not the courage
+even to complain. They are learned, lazy, hypocritical, and deceitful:
+they talk a great deal without saying anything; they are full of
+spirit, without any genius; they abound in signs, but are barren in
+ideas; they are polite, full of compliments, dextrous, crafty, and
+knavish; they comprise all the duties of life in trifles, all morality
+in grimace, and have no other idea of humanity, than what consists in
+bows and salutations. I landed upon a second desert island, more
+unknown, more delightful still than the first, and where the most
+cruel accident had like to have confined us for ever. I was the only
+one perhaps, whom so agreeable an exile did not terrify; am I not
+doomed to be an exile every where? In this place of terror and
+delight, I saw the attempts of human industry to disengage a civilized
+being from a solitude where he wants nothing; and plunge him into an
+abyss of new necessities.
+
+On the vast ocean, where one would imagine men would be glad to meet
+with their own species, I have seen two great ships sail up to each
+other, join, attack, and fight together with fury, as if that immense
+space was too little for either of them. I have seen them discharge
+flames and bullets against each other. In a sight which was not of
+long duration, I have seen the picture of hell. I have heard the
+triumphant shouts of the conquerors, drown the cries of the wounded,
+and the groans of the dying. I blushed to receive my share of an
+immense plunder; but I received it in the nature of a trust, and as it
+was taken from the wretched, to the wretched it shall be restored.
+
+I have seen Europe transported to the extremities of Africa, by the
+labours of that avaricious, patient, and industrious people, who by
+time and perseverance have surmounted difficulties which all the
+heroism of other nations could never overcome. I have seen those
+immense and miserable countries, which seem destined to no other
+purpose than to cover the earth with herds of slaves. At their vile
+appearance, I turned away my eyes, out of disdain, horror and pity;
+and on beholding one fourth part of my fellow creatures transformed
+into beast for the service of the rest, I could not forbear lamenting
+that I was a man.
+
+Lastly, I beheld, in my fellow travellers, a bold and intrepid people,
+whose freedom and example retrieved, in my opinion, the honour of the
+species; a people, who despised pain and death, and who dreaded
+nothing but hunger and disquiet. In their commander, I beheld a
+captain, a soldier, a pilot, a prudent and great man, and to say still
+more perhaps, a friend worthy of Lord B----. But throughout the whole
+world, I have never met with any resemblance of Clara Orbe, or Eloisa
+Etange, or found one who could recompense a heart truly sensible of
+their worth, for the loss of their society.
+
+How shall I speak of my cure? It is from you that I must learn how far
+it is perfect. Do I return more free, and more discreet than I
+departed? I dare believe that I do, and yet I cannot affirm it. The
+same image has constant possession of my heart; you know how
+impossible it is for me ever to efface it; but her dominion over me is
+more worthy of her, and if I do not deceive myself, she holds the same
+empire in my heart, as in your own. Yes, my dear cousin, her virtue
+has subdued me; I am now, with regard to her, nothing more than a most
+sincere and tender friend, my adoration of her is of the same nature
+with yours; or rather, my affections do not seem to be weakened, but
+rectified, and however nicely I examine, I find them to be as pure as
+the object which inspires them. What can I say more, till I am put to
+the proof, by which I may be able to form a right judgment of myself?
+I am honest and sincere; I will be what I ought to be; but how shall I
+answer for my affections, when I have so much reason to mistrust them?
+Have I power over the past? How can I avoid recollecting a thousand
+passions which have formerly distracted me? How shall my imagination
+distinguish what is, from what has been? And how shall I consider her
+as a friend, whom I never yet saw but as a mistress? Whatever you may
+think of the secret motive of my eagerness, it is honest and rational,
+and merits your approbation. I will answer beforehand, at least for my
+intentions. Permit me to see you, and examine me yourself, or allow me
+to see Eloisa, and I shall then know my own heart.
+
+I am to attend Lord B---- into Italy. Shall I pass close by your
+house, and not see you? Do you think this possible? Ah! if you are so
+cruel to require it, you ought not to be obeyed! But why should you
+desire it? Are you not the same Clara, as kind and compassionate as
+you are virtuous and discreet, who condescended from her infancy to
+love me, and who ought to love me still more, now that I am indebted
+to her for every thing. [51] No, my dear and lovely friend, such a
+cruel denial will not become you, nor will it be just to me; it shall
+not put the finishing stroke to my misery. Once more, once more in my
+life, I will lay my heart at your feet. I will see you, you shall
+consent to an interview. I will see Eloisa likewise, and she too shall
+give her consent. You are both of you too sensible of my regard for
+her. Can you believe me capable of making this request, if I found
+myself unworthy to appear in her presence? She has long since bewailed
+the effects of her charms, ah! let her for once behold the fruits of
+her virtue!
+
+P. S. Lord B----’s affairs detain him here for some time; if I may be
+allowed to see you, why should not I get the start of him, to be with
+you the sooner?
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXIII. From Mr. Wolmar.
+
+
+Though we are not yet acquainted, I am commanded to write to you. The
+most discreet and most beloved wife, has lately disclosed her heart to
+her happy husband. He thinks you worthy to have been the object of her
+affections, and he makes you an offer of his house. Peace and
+innocence reign in this mansion; you will meet with friendship,
+hospitality, esteem and confidence. Examine your heart, and if you
+find nothing there to deter you, come without any apprehensions. You
+will not depart from him, without leaving behind you at least one
+friend, by name.
+
+WOLMAR.
+
+P. S. Come, my friend, we expect you with eagerness. I hope I need not
+fear a denial.
+
+ELOISA.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXIV. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+_In which the preceding Letter was inclosed._
+
+Welcome, welcome a thousand times, dear St. Preux! for I intend that
+you shall retain that name, at least among us. I suppose it will be
+sufficient to tell you, that you will not be excluded, unless you mean
+to exclude yourself. When you find, by the inclosed letter, that I
+have done more than you required of me, you will learn to put more
+confidence in our friends, and not to reproach them on account of
+those inquietudes which they participate when, compelled by reason,
+they are under a necessity of making you uneasy. Mr. Wolmar has a
+desire to see you, he makes you an offer of his house, his friendship,
+and his advice; this is more than requisite to quiet my apprehensions
+with regard to your journey, and I should injure myself, if I
+mistrusted you one moment. Mr. Wolmar goes farther, he pretends to
+accomplish your cure, and he says that neither Eloisa, you, nor I, can
+be perfectly happy till it is compleat. Though I have great confidence
+in his wisdom, and more in your virtue, yet I cannot answer for the
+success of this undertaking. This I know, that considering the
+disposition of his wife, the pains he proposes to take, is out of pure
+generosity to you.
+
+Come then, my worthy friend, in all the security of an honest heart,
+and satisfy the eagerness with which we all long to embrace you, and
+to see you easy and contented: come to your native land, and in the
+midst of your friends, rest yourself after all your travels, and
+forget all the hardships you have undergone. The last time you saw me,
+I was a grave matron, and my friend was on the brink of the grave; but
+now that she is well, and I am once more single, you will find me as
+gay, and almost as handsome as ever. One thing however is very
+certain, that I am not altered with respect to you, and you may travel
+many times round the world, and not find one who has so sincere a
+regard for you as your, &c.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXV. To Lord B----.
+
+
+Just risen from my bed: ’tis yet the dead of night. I cannot rest a
+moment. My heart is so transported, that I can scarce confine it
+within me. You, my Lord, who have so often rescued me from despair,
+shall be the worthy confident of the first pleasure I have tasted for
+many a year.
+
+I have seen her, my Lord! My eyes have beheld her! I heard her voice.
+I have prest her hand with my lips. She recollected me; she received
+me with joy; she called me her friend, her dear friend; she admitted
+me into her house: I am happier than ever I was in my life. I lodge
+under the same roof with her, and while I am writing to you, we are
+scarce thirty paces asunder.
+
+My ideas are too rapid to be exprest; they crowd upon me all at once,
+and naturally impede each other. I must pause a while to digest my
+narrative into some kind of method.
+
+After so long an absence, I had scarce given way to the first
+transports of my heart, while I embraced you as my friend, my
+deliverer, and my father, before you thought of taking a journey to
+Italy. You made me wish for it, in hopes of relief from the burthen of
+being useless to you. As you could not immediately dispatch the
+affairs which detained you in London, you proposed my going first,
+that I might have more time to wait for you here. I begged leave to
+come hither; I obtained it, I set out, and though Eloisa made the
+first advances towards an interview, yet the pleasing reflection that
+I was going to meet her, was checked by the regret of leaving you. My
+Lord, we are now even, this single sentiment has cancelled my
+obligations to you.
+
+I need not tell you that my thoughts were all the way taken up with
+the object of my journey; but I must observe one thing, that I began
+to consider that same object, which had never quitted my imagination,
+quite in another point of view. till then I used to recall Eloisa to
+my mind, sparkling, as formerly, with all the charms of youth. I had
+always beheld her lovely eyes, enlivened by that passion with which
+she inspired me. Every feature which I admired, seemed, in my opinion,
+to be a surety of my happiness. My affection was so interwoven with
+the idea of her person, that I could not separate them. Now I was
+going to see Eloisa married, Eloisa a Mother, Eloisa indifferent! I
+was disturbed, when I reflected how much an interval of eight years
+might have impaired her beauty. She had had the small-pox; she was
+altered; how great might that alteration be? My imagination
+obstinately refused to allow any blemish in that lovely face. I
+reflected likewise on the expected interview between us, and what kind
+of reception I might expect. This first meeting presented itself to my
+mind under a thousand different appearances, and this momentary idea
+came athwart my imagination a thousand times a day.
+
+When I perceived the top of the hills, my heart beat violently, and
+told me, There she is! I was affected in the same manner at sea, on
+viewing the coast of Europe. I felt the same emotions at Meillerie,
+when I discovered the house of the Baron D’Etange. The world, in my
+imagination, is divided only into two regions, _that_ where she is,
+and _that_ where she is not. The former dilates as I remove from her,
+and contracts when I approach her, as a spot where I am destined never
+to arrive. It is at present confined to the walls of her chamber.
+Alas! that place alone is inhabited; all the rest of the universe is
+an empty space.
+
+The nearer I drew to Switzerland, the more I was agitated. That
+instant in which I discovered the lake of Geneva from the heights of
+Jura, was a moment of rapture and extasy. The light of my country,
+that beloved country, where a deluge of pleasures had overflowed my
+heart; the pure and wholesome air of the Alps; the gentle breeze of
+the country, more sweet than the perfumes of the East; that rich and
+fertile spot, that unrivalled landskip, the most beautiful that ever
+struck the eye of man; that delightful abode, to which I found nothing
+comparable in the vast tour of the globe; the aspect of a free and
+happy people; the mildness of the season, the serenity of the climate;
+a thousand pleasing recollections, which recalled to my mind the
+pleasures I had enjoyed: all these circumstances together threw me
+into a kind of transport which I cannot describe, and seemed to
+collect the enjoyment of my whole life into one happy moment. Having
+crossed the lake, I felt a new impression, of which I had no idea. It
+was a certain emotion of fear, which checked my heart, and disturbed
+me in spite of all my endeavours. This dread, of which I could not
+discover the cause, increased as I drew nearer to the town; it abated
+my eagerness to get thither, and rose to such a degree, that my
+expedition gave me as much uneasiness as my delay had occasioned me
+before. When I came to Vevey, I felt a sensation which was very far
+from being agreeable. I was seized with a violent palpitation, which
+stopped my breath, and I spoke with a trembling and broken accent. I
+could scarce make myself understood when I enquired for Mr. Wolmar;
+for I durst not mention his wife. They told me he lived at Clarens.
+This information eased my breast from a pressure equal to five hundred
+weight, and considering the two leagues I had to travel farther as a
+kind of respite, I was rejoiced at a circumstance which at any other
+time would have made me uneasy; but I learnt with concern that Mrs.
+Orbe was at Lausanne. I went into an inn to recruit my strength, but I
+could not swallow a morsel: when I attempted to drink I was almost
+suffocated, and could not empty a glass but at several sips. When I
+saw the horses put to, my apprehensions were doubled. I believe I
+should have given any thing in the world to have had one of the wheels
+broken by the way. I no longer saw Eloisa; my disturbed imagination
+presented nothing but confused objects before me; my soul was in a
+general tumult. I had experienced grief and despair, and should have
+preferred them to that horrible state. In a few words, I can assure
+you, that I never in my life underwent such cruel agitation as I
+suffered in this little way, and I am persuaded that I could not have
+supported it a whole day.
+
+When I arrived, I ordered the chaise to stop at the gate, and finding
+that I was not in a condition to walk, I sent the postillion to
+acquaint Mr. Wolmar that a stranger wanted to speak with him. He was
+taking a walk with his wife. They were acquainted with the message,
+and came round another way, while I kept my eyes fixed on the avenue,
+and waited, in a kind of trance, in expectation of seeing somebody
+come from thence.
+
+Eloisa had no sooner perceived me than she recollected me. In an
+instant, she saw me, she shrieked, she ran, she leaped into my arms.
+At the sound of her voice I started, I revived, I saw her, I felt her.
+O my Lord! O my friend!... I cannot speak... Her look, her shriek, her
+manner inspired me with confidence, courage, and strength, in an
+instant. In her arms I felt warmth, and breathed new life. A sacred
+transport kept us for some time closely embraced in deep silence; and
+it was not till after we recovered from this agreeable delirium, that
+our voices broke forth in confused murmurs, and our eyes intermingled
+tears. Mr. Wolmar was present; I knew he was, I saw him: but what was
+I capable of seeing? No, though the whole universe had been united
+against me; though a thousand torments had surrounded me, I would not
+have detached my heart from the least of those caresses, those tender
+offerings of a pure and sacred friendship, which we will bear with us
+to heaven!
+
+When the violent impetuosity of our first meeting began to abate, Mrs.
+Wolmar took me by the hand, and turning towards her husband, she said
+to him, with a certain air of candor and innocence which instantly
+affected me, Tho’ he is my old acquaintance, I do not present him to
+you, but I receive him from you, and he will hereafter enjoy my
+friendship no longer than he is honoured with yours----If new
+friends, said Mr. Wolmar, embracing me, express less natural ardor
+than those of long standing, yet they will grow old in their turn, and
+will not yield to any in affection. I received his embraces; but my
+heart had quite exhausted itself, and I was entirely passive.
+
+After this short scene was over, I observed, by a side-glance, that
+they had put up my chaise, and taken off my trunk. Eloisa held by my
+arm, and I went with them towards the house, almost overwhelmed with
+pleasure, to find they were determined I should remain their guest.
+
+It was then that, upon a more calm contemplation of that lovely face,
+which I imagined might have grown homely, I saw with an agreeable, yet
+sad surprize, that she was really more beautiful and sparkling than
+ever. Her charming features are now more regular; she is grown rather
+fatter, which is an addition to the resplendent fairness of her
+complexion. The small-pox has left some slight marks on her cheeks
+scarce perceptible. Instead of that mortifying bashfulness which
+formerly used to make her cast her eyes downwards, you may perceive in
+her chaste looks, the security of virtue allied with gentleness and
+sensibility; her countenance, tho’ not less modest, is less timid; an
+air of greater freedom, and more liberal grace, has succeeded that
+constrained carriage which was compounded of shame and tenderness; and
+if a sense of her failing rendered her then more bewitching, a
+consciousness of her purity now renders her more celestial.
+
+We had scarce entered the parlour, when she disappeared, and returned
+in a minute. She did not come alone. Who do you think she brought with
+her? Her children! Those two lovely little ones, more beauteous than
+the day; in whose infant faces you might trace all the charms and
+features of their mother. How was I agitated at this sight? It is
+neither to be described nor conceived. A thousand different emotions
+seized me at once. A thousand cruel and delightful reflections divided
+my heart. What a lovely sight! What bitter regrets! I found myself
+distracted with grief, and transported with joy. I saw, if I may be
+allowed the expression, the dear object of my affections multiplied
+before me. Alas! I perceived at the same time too convincing a proof
+that I had no longer any interest in her, and my losses seemed to be
+multiplied with her increase.
+
+She led them towards me. Behold, said she, with an affecting tone that
+pierced my soul, behold the children of your friend: they will
+hereafter be your friends. Henceforward I hope you will be theirs. And
+immediately the two little creatures ran eagerly to me, took me by the
+hand, and so overwhelmed me with their innocent caresses, that every
+emotion of my soul centered in tenderness. I took them both in my
+arms, and pressing them against my throbbing breast, Dear and lovely
+little souls, said I, with a sigh, you have an arduous task to
+perform. May you resemble the authors of your being; may you imitate
+their virtues; and by your own hereafter, administer comfort to their
+unfortunate friends. Mrs. Wolmar, in rapture threw herself round my
+neck a second time, and seemed disposed to repay me, by _her_
+embraces, those caresses which _I_ had bestowed on her two sons. But
+how different was this from our first embrace! I perceived the
+difference with astonishment. It was the mother of a family whom I now
+embraced; I saw her surrounded by her husband and children: and the
+scene struck me with awe. I discovered an air of dignity in her
+countenance, which had not affected me till now: I found myself
+obliged to pay her a different kind of respect; her familiarity was
+almost uneasy to me; lovely as she appeared to me, I could have kissed
+the hem of her garment, with a better grace than I saluted her cheek.
+In a word, from that moment, I perceived that either she or I were no
+longer the same, and I began in earnest to have a good opinion of
+myself.
+
+Mr. Wolmar at length took me by the hand, and conducted me to the
+apartment which had been prepared for me. This, said he, as he
+entered, is your apartment: it is not destined to the use of a
+stranger; it shall never belong to another, and hereafter, if you do
+not occupy it, it shall remain empty. You may judge whether such a
+compliment was not agreeable to me; but as I had not yet deserved it,
+I could not hear it without confusion. Mr. Wolmar, however, spared me
+the trouble of an answer. He invited me to take a turn in the garden.
+His behaviour there was such as made me less reserved, and assuming
+the air of a man who was well acquainted with my former indiscretions,
+but who entirely confided in my integrity, he conversed with me as a
+father would speak to his child; and by conciliating my esteem, made
+it impossible for me ever to deceive him. No, my Lord, he is not
+mistaken in me; I shall never forget that it is incumbent on me to
+justify his and your good opinion. But why should my heart reject his
+favours? Why should the man whom I am bound to love be the husband of
+Eloisa?
+
+That day seemed defined to put me to every kind of proof which I could
+possibly undergo. After we had joined Mrs. Wolmar, her husband was
+called away to give some necessary orders, and I was left alone with
+her.
+
+I then found myself involved in fresh perplexity, more painful and
+more unexpected than any which I had yet experienced. What should I
+say to her? How could I address her? Should I presume to remind her of
+our former connections, and of those times which were so recent in my
+memory? Should I suffer her to conclude that I had forgot them, or
+that I no longer regarded them? Think what a punishment it must be to
+treat the object nearest your heart as a stranger! What infamy, on the
+other hand, to abuse hospitality so far as to entertain her with
+discourse to which she could not now listen with decency? Under these
+various perplexities I could not keep my countenance; my colour went
+and came; I durst not speak, nor lift up my eyes, nor make the least
+motion; and I believe that I should have remained in this uneasy
+situation till her husband’s return, if she had not relieved me. For
+her part, this _tete a tete_ did not seem to embarrass her in the
+least. She preserved the same manner and deportment as before, and
+continued to talk to me with the same freedom; the only, as I
+imagined, endeavoured to affect more ease and gaiety, tempered with a
+look, not timid or tender, but soft and affectionate, as if she meant
+to encourage me to recover my spirits, and lay aside a reserve which
+she could not but perceive.
+
+She talked to me of my long voyages; she enquired into particulars;
+into those especially which related to the dangers I had escaped, and
+the hardships I had endured: for she was sensible, she said, that she
+was bound in friendship to make me some reparation. Ah, Eloisa! said
+I, in a plaintive accent, I have enjoyed your company but for a
+moment; would you send me back to the Indies already? No, she
+answered, with a smile, but I would go thither in my turn.
+
+I told her that I had given you a detail of my voyage, of which I had
+brought her a copy for her perusal. She then enquired after you with
+great eagerness. I gave her an account of you, which I could not do
+without recounting the troubles I had undergone, and the uneasiness I
+had occasioned you. She was affected; she began to enter into her own
+justification in a more serious tone, and to convince me that it was
+her duty to act as she had done. Mr. Wolmar joined us in the middle of
+her discourse, and what confounded me was, that she proceeded in the
+same manner as if he had not been there. He could not forbear smiling,
+on discovering my astonishment. After she concluded, You see, said he,
+an instance of the sincerity which reigns in this house. If you mean
+to be virtuous, learn to copy it: it is the only request I have to
+make, and the only lesson I would teach you. The first step towards
+vice, is to make a mystery of actions innocent in themselves, and
+whoever is fond of disguise, will sooner or later have reason to
+conceal himself. One moral precept may supply the place of all the
+rest, which is this: neither to say or do any thing, which you would
+not have all the world see and hear. For my part, I have always
+esteemed that Roman, above all other men, who wished that his house
+was built in such manner, that the world might see all his
+transactions.
+
+I have two proposals, he continued, to make to you. chuse freely that
+which you like best; but accept either one or the other. Then taking
+his wife’s hand and mine, and closing them together, he said, Our
+friendship commences from this moment; this forms the dear connection,
+and may it be indissoluble. Embrace her as your sister and your
+friend; treat her as such constantly; the more familiar you are with
+her, the better I shall esteem you: but behave, when _tete a tete_, as
+if I was present; or in my presence, as if I was absent. This is all I
+desire. If you prefer the latter, you may chuse it without any
+inconvenience; for as I reserve to myself the right of intimating to
+you any thing which displeases me, so long as I am silent in that
+respect, you may be certain that I am not offended.
+
+I should have been greatly embarrassed by this discourse two hours
+before, but Mr. Wolmar began to gain such an ascendancy over me, that
+his authority already grew somewhat familiar to me. We all three
+entered once more into indifferent conversation, and every time I
+spoke to Eloisa, I did not fail to address her by the stile of
+_Madam_. Tell me sincerely, said her husband at last, interrupting me,
+in your _tete a tete_ party just now, did you call her _Madam?_ No,
+answered I, somewhat disconcerted, but politeness... Such politeness,
+he replied, is nothing but the mask of vice; where virtue maintains
+its empire, it is unnecessary; and I discard it. Call my wife _Eloisa_
+in my presence, or _Madam_ when you are alone; it is indifferent to
+me. I began to know what kind of man I had to deal with, and I
+resolved always to keep my mind in such a state as to bear his
+examination.
+
+My body drooping with fatigue, stood in need of refreshment, and my
+spirits required rest; I found both one and the other at table. After
+so many years absence and vexation, after such tedious voyages, I said
+to myself, in a kind of rapture, I am in company with Eloisa, I see
+her, I talk with her; I sit at table with her, she views me without
+inquietude, and entertains me without apprehensions. Nothing
+interrupts our mutual satisfaction. Gentle and precious innocence, I
+never before relished thy charms, and to-day, for the first time, my
+existence ceases to be painful.
+
+At night, when I retired to rest, I passed by their chamber; I saw
+them go in together; I proceeded to my own in a melancholy mood, and
+this moment was the least agreeable to me of any I that day
+experienced.
+
+Such, my Lord, were the occurrences of this first interview, so
+passionately wished for, and so dreadfully apprehended. I have
+endeavoured to collect myself since I have been alone; I have
+compelled myself to self-examination; but as I am not yet recovered
+from the agitation of the preceding day, it is impossible for me to
+judge of the true state of my mind. All that I know for certain, is,
+that if the nature of my affection for her is not changed, at least
+the mode of it is altered, for I am always anxious to have a third
+person between us, and I now dread being alone with her, as much as I
+longed for it formerly.
+
+I intend to go to Lausanne in two or three days. I have seen Eloisa
+but half, not having seen her cousin; that dear and amiable friend, to
+whom I am so much indebted, and who will always share my friendship,
+my services, my gratitude, and all the affections of my soul. On my
+return I will take the first opportunity to give you a farther
+account. I have need of your advice, and I shall keep a strict eye
+over my conduct. I know my duty, and will discharge it. However
+agreeable it may be to fix my residence in this house, I am
+determined, I have sworn, that when I grow too fond of my abode, I
+will quit it immediately.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXVI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we
+desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend
+before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and
+wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines
+him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was
+fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon;
+and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long
+time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to
+let him see the _inseparables_ asunder.
+
+In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my
+mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have
+opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him,
+I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has
+banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my
+attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause
+of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I
+feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less
+dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a
+different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those
+which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and
+the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion
+to their vivacity.
+
+With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he
+nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should
+formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be
+changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms
+of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine
+from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment
+and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen
+him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the
+secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an
+air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once
+very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at
+present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to
+honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments
+with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of
+virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of
+injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in
+itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an
+honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that
+approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only
+in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that
+dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their
+closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has
+observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general
+propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in
+general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that
+he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much
+more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.
+
+His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse;
+his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has
+contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the
+better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he
+was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour.
+He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose
+discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he
+has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the
+dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black
+as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must
+own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch
+myself looking at them very often in spite of me.
+
+I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is
+not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is
+natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if
+this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former
+eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the
+motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view
+each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other
+alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were,
+when it is the other’s turn, and looks a different way to give the
+other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt,
+yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired
+the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the
+purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to
+justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by
+passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our
+former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I
+feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of
+my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these
+sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to
+perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the
+symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe,
+that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I
+perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn
+will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah!
+if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew
+what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that
+I am still dear to him.
+
+What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him,
+is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes,
+from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage.
+He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating
+himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for
+my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a
+man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in
+his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of
+our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the
+present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and
+that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little
+suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The
+less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend;
+I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should load me with
+caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet
+another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease
+all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I,
+it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never
+resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though
+it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I
+saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource,
+and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite
+on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there
+is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the
+opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no
+symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural
+aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot
+inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of
+the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will
+however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly
+convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from
+looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he
+would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.
+
+Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think
+that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind
+intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into
+all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure
+in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and
+if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.
+
+P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with
+respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence
+Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend’s unexpected
+return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured
+to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably
+conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected
+by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he
+has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to
+have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he
+meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession
+cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an
+impression such a conduct must make!
+
+As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come
+hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could
+contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my
+confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not
+communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to
+him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it
+was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him.
+You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle;
+if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might
+read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single
+word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me,
+and had not the civility to read it.
+
+I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had
+doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most
+open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he,
+that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I
+owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew
+him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather
+that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me.
+Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he,
+is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication
+which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily
+contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be
+reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for
+that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident,
+which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though
+nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate,
+yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a
+restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by
+being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of
+friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be.
+There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to
+participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may
+impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do
+not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these
+distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be
+addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from
+restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own
+interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive
+that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy
+of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the
+pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your
+husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most
+private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa!
+Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness,
+why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you,
+and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?
+
+My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man
+behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty,
+he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he
+teaches me to deserve it.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXVII. Answer.
+
+
+Impossible! our traveller returned, and have I not yet seen him at my
+feet, loaded with the spoils of America? But it is not him, I assure
+you, whom I accuse of this delay; for I am sensible it is as grievous
+to him as to me: but I find that he has not so thoroughly forgotten
+his former state of servility as you pretend, and I complain less of
+his neglect, than of your tyranny. It is very droll in you indeed, to
+desire such a prude as I am, to make the first advances, and run to
+salute a swarthy pockfretten face, which has passed four times under
+the line. But you make me smile to see you in such haste to scold, for
+fear I should begin first. I should be glad to know what pretence you
+have to make such an attempt? Quarrelling is my talent. I take
+pleasure in it, I acquit myself to a miracle, and it becomes me well;
+but you, my dear cousin, are a mere novice at this work. If you did
+but know how graceful you appear in the act of confession, how lovely
+you look with a supplicating eye, and an air of confusion, instead of
+scolding you would spend your days in asking pardon, were it only out
+of coquetry.
+
+For the present, you must ask my pardon in every respect. A fine
+project truly, to chuse a husband for a confident, and a most
+obliging precaution indeed for a friendship so sacred as ours! Thou
+faithless friend, and pusillanimous woman! On whom can you depend, if
+you mistrust yourself and me? Can you, without offence to both,
+considering the sacred tie under which you live, suspect your own
+inclinations and my indulgence? I am amazed that the very idea of
+admitting a third person into the tittle tattle secrets of two women,
+did not disgust you! As for my part, I love to prattle with you at my
+ease, but if I thought that the eye of man ever pried into my letters,
+I should no longer have any pleasure in corresponding with you; such a
+reserve would insensibly introduce a coldness between us, and we
+should have no more regard for each other than two indifferent women.
+To what inconveniences your silly distrust would have exposed us, if
+your husband had not been wiser than you!
+
+He acted very discreetly in not reading your letter. Perhaps he would
+have been less satisfied with it than you imagine, and less than I am
+myself, who am better capable of judging of your present condition, by
+the fate in which I have seen you formerly. All those contemplative
+sages who have passed their lives in the study of the human heart, are
+less acquainted with the real symptoms of love, than the most shallow
+woman, if she has any sensibility. Mr. Wolmar would immediately have
+observed that our friend was the subject of your whole letter, and he
+would not have seen the postscript, in which you do not once mention
+him. If you had written this postscript ten years ago, my dear, I
+cannot tell how you would have managed, but your friend would
+certainly have been crowded into some corner, especially as there was
+no husband to overlook it.
+
+Mr. Wolmar would have observed farther with what attention you
+examined his guest, and the pleasure you take in describing his
+person; but he might devour Plato and Aristotle, before he would know
+that we _look at_ a lover, but do not _examine_ him. All examination
+requires a degree of indifference, which we never feel when we behold
+the object of our passion.
+
+In short, he would imagine that all the alterations you remark might
+have escaped another, and I on the contrary was afraid of finding that
+they had escaped you. However your guest may be altered from what he
+was, he would appear the same, if your affections were not altered.
+You turn away your eyes whenever he looks at you; this is a very good
+symptom. You _turn them away_, cousin? You do not now _cast them
+down_? Surely you have not mistaken one word for another. Do you think
+that our philosopher would have perceived this distinction?
+
+There is another circumstance very likely to disturb a husband; it is
+a kind of tenderness and affection which still remains in your stile,
+when you speak of the object who was once so dear to you. One who
+reads your letters, or hears you speak, ought to be well acquainted
+with you, not to be mistaken with regard to your sentiments; he ought
+to know that it is only a friend to whom you are speaking, or that,
+you speak in the same manner of all your friends; but as to that, it
+is the natural effect of your disposition, with which your husband is
+too well acquainted to be alarmed. How is it possible but that, in a
+mind of such tenderness, pure friendship will bear some resemblance to
+love? Pray observe, my dear cousin, that all I say to you on this head
+ought to inspire you with fresh courage: your conduct is discreet, and
+that is a great deal; I used to trust only to your virtue, but I
+begin now to rely on your reason; I consider your cure at present,
+though not perfect, yet as easily accomplished, and you have now made
+a sufficient progress, to render you inexcusable if you do not
+compleat it.
+
+Before I came to your postscript, I remarked the passage which you had
+the sincerity not to suppress or alter, though conscious that it would
+be open to your husband’s inspection. I am certain, that if he had
+read it, it would, if possible, have doubled his esteem for you;
+nevertheless it would have given him no great pleasure. Upon the
+whole, your letter was very well calculated to make him place an
+entire confidence in your conduct, but at the same time it tended to
+give him uneasiness with respect to your inclinations. I own those
+marks of the small-pox, which you view so much, give me some
+apprehensions; love never yet contrived a more dangerous disguise. I
+know that this would be of no consequence to any other; but always
+remember, Eloisa, that she who was not to be reduced by the youth and
+fine figure of her lover, was lost when she reflected on the
+sufferings he had endured for her. Providence no doubt intended that
+he should retain the marks of that distemper, to exercise your virtue,
+and that you should be free from them, in order to put his to the
+proof.
+
+I come now to the principal subject of your letter; you know that on
+the receipt of our friend’s, I flew to you immediately; it was a
+matter of importance. But at present, if you knew in what difficulties
+that short absence has involved me, and how many things I have to do
+at once, you would be sensible how impossible it is for me to leave my
+house again, without exposing myself to fresh inconveniencies, and
+putting myself under a necessity of passing the winter here again,
+which is neither for your interest or mine. Is it not better to
+deprive ourselves of the pleasure of a hasty interview of two or three
+days, that we may be together for six months. I imagine likewise that
+it would not be improper for me to have a little particular and
+private conversation with our philosopher: partly to found his
+inclinations and confirm his mind; partly to give him some useful
+advice with regard to the conduct he should observe towards your
+husband, and even towards you; for I do not suppose that you can talk
+to him with freedom on that subject, and I can perceive, even from
+your letter, that he has need of council. We have been so long used to
+govern him, that we are in conscience responsible for his behaviour;
+and till he has regained the free use of his reason, we must supply
+the deficiency. For my own part, it is a charge I shall always
+undertake with pleasure; for he has paid such deference to my advice
+as I shall never forget, and since my husband is no more, there is not
+a man in the world whom I esteem and love so much as himself. I have
+likewise reserved for him the pleasure of doing me some little
+services here. I have a great many papers in confusion, which he will
+help me to regulate, and I have some troublesome affairs in hand in
+which I shall have occasion for his diligence and understanding. As to
+the rest, I do not propose to detain him above five or six days at
+most, and perhaps I may send him to you the next day. For I have too
+much vanity to wait till he is seized with impatience to return, and I
+have too much discernment to be deceived in that case.
+
+Do not fail therefore as soon as he is recovered, to send him to me;
+that is, to let him come, or I shall give over all raillery. You know
+very well that if I laugh whilst I cry, and yet am not the less in
+affliction, so I laugh likewise at the same time that I scold, and yet
+am not the less in a passion. If you are discreet, and do things with
+a good grace, I promise you that I will send him back to you with a
+pretty little present, which will give you pleasure, and a great deal
+of pleasure; but if you suffer me to languish with impatience, I
+assure you that you shall have nothing.
+
+P.S. A propos; tell me, does our seaman smoak? does he swear? does he
+drink brandy? Does he wear a great cutlass? has he the look of a
+Buccaneer? O how I long to see what sort of an air a man has who comes
+from the Antipodes!
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXVIII. Clara to Eloisa.
+
+
+Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these
+eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he
+seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him
+still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him
+till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so
+soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so
+scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have
+sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains
+servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this
+instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without
+knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more
+disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.
+
+But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently?
+First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that
+circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved
+me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business;
+a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have
+probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he
+talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this
+conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will
+find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account.
+But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of
+talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint
+in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least
+indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments,
+minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their
+duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may
+indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea
+when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having
+entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of
+innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of
+reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may
+be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of
+his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time
+in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled
+the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to
+my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion----Without
+doubt, he embellished them!
+
+He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what
+he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that
+I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident
+as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but
+that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that
+susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though
+not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have
+long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you
+with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of
+you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible
+recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is
+difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he
+should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him,
+carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him
+with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I
+believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least,
+that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the
+idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than
+his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice
+to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail
+concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the
+future.
+
+With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no
+more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I
+intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I
+even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen
+on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so
+much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to
+swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part
+with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it.
+It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost
+stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have
+left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that
+it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe
+me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the
+picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his
+punishment.
+
+After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so
+composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found
+that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system,
+and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the
+service of Lord B----. I could not but approve such honourable
+intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that
+gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that
+you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden
+thought strikes me. From your husband’s singular conduct, and other
+symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend,
+which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to
+his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves
+that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be
+for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon
+pains.
+
+You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners,
+which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should
+have imagined. But don’t you find that his continued anxieties have
+rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be?
+Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him
+tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which
+people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of
+trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under
+different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of
+this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not
+discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he
+expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his
+heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of
+comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never
+once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed
+my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me
+with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he
+entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion
+in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out,
+before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been
+fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would
+have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with
+the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground
+yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom
+of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the
+morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how
+I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his
+hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.
+[52] At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he
+always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like
+a _fine gentleman_; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink
+my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he
+stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with
+us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me
+one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same
+manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our
+philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he
+takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot
+do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to
+reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the
+better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care
+of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the
+pleasure of plaguing all day long.
+
+Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send
+you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received
+it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what
+reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this
+present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I
+promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this,
+she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in
+two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more
+sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me
+wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is
+wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I
+give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal
+authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon
+yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking:
+henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your
+daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another
+Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to
+her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you
+have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of
+encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs
+of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears
+to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can’t
+be any longer without her little M----, and that it is partly for that
+reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which
+made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me
+without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long,
+and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid,
+and who answer her, _No_, twenty times a day; you, by way of
+excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and
+whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told
+her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you
+may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to
+send me little M---- in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her.
+She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I
+told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot,
+said I, won’t you give up your little M---- to me? No, said she,
+somewhat coldly. No? But if I won’t give him up neither, who shall
+settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I
+shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire.
+Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what’s right! And do you think I
+should desire what’s wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But
+after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me
+little M----? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for
+me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me
+honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma,
+but he is too young for you... This from a child but seven years old
+...
+
+I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette,
+said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for
+you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed.
+Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make
+him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then,
+mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you
+are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I
+will be foolishly fond of him, that’s all.
+
+I know you don’t approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will
+soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it
+delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter
+is already in love with her little M----, and that if he is two years
+younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may
+claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your
+example and my own to that of your poor mother’s, that where the woman
+governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend;
+farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the
+vintage shall not be gathered without me.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXIX. To Lord B----.
+
+
+What pleasures, too late enjoy’d, (alas, enjoy’d too late) have I
+tasted these three weeks past! How delightful to pass one day in the
+bosom of calm friendship, secure from the tempests of impetuous
+passion! What a pleasing and affecting scene, my Lord, is a plain and
+well-regulated family, where order, peace, and innocence reign
+throughout; where, without pomp or retinue, everything is assembled,
+which can contribute to the real felicity of mankind! The country, the
+retirement, the season, the vast body of water which opens to my view,
+the wild prospect of the mountains, everything conspires to recall to
+my mind the delightful island of Tinian. I flatter myself that the
+earnest prayers, which I there so often repeated, are now
+accomplished. I live here agreeably to my taste, and enjoy society
+suitable to my liking. I only want the company of two persons to
+compleat my happiness, and I hope to see them here soon.
+
+In the mean time, till you and Mrs. Orbe come to perfect those
+charming and innocent pleasures, which I begin to relish here, I will
+endeavour, by way of detail, to give you an idea of that domestic
+economy, which proclaims the happiness of the master and mistress, and
+communicates their felicity to every one under their roof. I hope that
+my reflections may one day be of use to you, with respect to the
+project you have in view, and this hope encourages me to pursue them.
+
+I need not give you a description of Clarens house. You know it. You
+can tell how delightful it is, what interesting recollections it
+presents to my mind; you can judge how dear it must be to me, both on
+account of the present scenes it exhibits, and of those which it
+recalls to my mind. Mrs. Wolmar, with good reason, prefers this abode
+to that of Etange, a superb and magnificent castle, but old,
+inconvenient, and gloomy, its situation being far inferior to the
+country round Clarens.
+
+Since Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have fixed their residence here, they have
+converted to use every thing which served only for ornament: it is no
+longer a house for shew, but for convenience. They have shut up a long
+sweep of rooms, to alter the inconvenient situation of the doors; they
+have cut off some over-sized rooms, that the apartments might be
+better distributed. Instead of rich and antique furniture, they have
+substituted what is neat and convenient. Every thing here is pleasant
+and agreeable; every thing breathes an air of plenty and propriety,
+without any appearance of pomp and luxury. There is not a single room,
+in which you do not immediately recollect that you are in the country,
+but in which, nevertheless, you will find all the conveniences you
+meet with in town. The same alterations are observable without doors.
+The yard has been enlarged at the expense of the coach-houses. Instead
+of an old tattered billiard-table, they have made a fine press, and
+the spot which used to be filled with screaming peacocks, which they
+have parted with, is converted into a dairy. The kitchen-garden was
+too small for the kitchen; they have made another out of a flower
+garden, but so convenient and so well laid out, that the spot, thus
+transformed, looks more agreeable to the eye than before. Instead of
+the mournful yews which covered the wall, they have planted good
+fruit-trees. In the room of the useless Indian _black-berry_, fine
+young mulberry-trees now begin to shade the yard, and they have
+planted two rows of walnut-trees quite to the road, in the place of
+some old linden trees which bordered the avenue. They have throughout
+substituted the useful in the room of the agreeable, and yet the
+agreeable has gained by the alteration. For my own part, at least, I
+think that the noise of the yard, the crowing of the cocks, the lowing
+of the cattle, the harness of the carts, the rural repasts, the return
+of the husband-men, and all the train of rustic economy, give the
+house a more rural, more lively, animated and gay appearance, than it
+had in its former state of mournful dignity.
+
+Their estate is not out upon lease, but they are their own farmers,
+and the cultivation of it employs a great deal of their time, and
+makes a great part both of their pleasure and profit. The manor of
+Etange is nothing but meadow, pasture and wood: but the produce of
+Clarens consists of vineyards, which are considerable objects, and in
+which, the difference of culture produces more sensible effects than
+in corn; which is a farther reason why, in point of economy, they
+should prefer the latter as a place of residence. Nevertheless, they
+generally go to Etange every year at harvest time, and Mr. Wolmar
+visits it frequently. It is a maxim with them, to cultivate their
+lands to the utmost they will produce, not for the sake of
+extraordinary profit, but as a means of employing more hands. Mr.
+Wolmar maintains that the produce of the earth is in proportion to the
+number of hands employed; the better it is tilled, the more it yields;
+and the surplus of its produce furnishes the means of cultivating it
+still farther; the more it is stocked with men and cattle, the greater
+abundance it yields for their support. No one can tell, says he, where
+this continual and reciprocal increase of produce and of labour may
+end. On the contrary, land neglected loses its fertility; the less men
+a country produces, the less provisions it furnishes. The scarcity of
+inhabitants is the reason why it is insufficient to maintain the few
+it has, and in every country which tends to depopulation, the people
+will sooner or later die of famine.
+
+Therefore having a great deal of land, which they cultivate with the
+utmost industry, they require, besides the servants in the yard, a
+great number of day labourers, which procures them the pleasure of
+maintaining a great number of people without any inconvenience to
+themselves. In the choice of their labourers, they always prefer
+neighbours and those of the same place, to strangers and foreigners.
+Though by this means they may sometimes be losers in not choosing the
+most robust, yet this loss is soon made up by the affection which this
+preference inspires in those whom they chuse, by the advantage
+likewise of having them always about them, and of being able to depend
+on them at all times, though they keep them in pay but part of the
+year.
+
+They always make two prices with these labourers. One is a strict
+payment of right, the current price of the country, which they engage
+to pay them when they hire them. The other, which is more liberal, is
+a payment of generosity; it is bestowed only as they are found to
+deserve it, and it seldom happens that they do not earn the surplus:
+for Mr. Wolmar is just and strict, and never suffers institutions of
+grace and favour to degenerate into custom and abuse. Over these
+labourers there are overseers, who watch and encourage them. These
+overseers work along with the rest; and are interested in their
+labour, by a little augmentation which is made to their wages, for
+every advantage that is reaped from their industry. Besides, Mr.
+Wolmar visits them almost every day himself, sometimes often in a day,
+and his wife loves to take these walks with him. In times of
+extraordinary business, Eloisa every week bestows some little
+gratifications to such of the labourers, or other servants, as, in the
+judgment of their master, shall have been most industrious for eight
+days past. All these means of promoting emulation, though seemingly
+expensive, when used with justice and discretion, insensibly make
+people laborious and diligent, and in the end bring in more than is
+disbursed; but as they turn to no profit, but by time and
+perseverance, few people know any thing of them, or are willing to
+make use of them.
+
+But the most effectual method of all, which is peculiar to Mrs.
+Wolmar, and which they who are bent on economy seldom think of, is
+that of gaining the hearts of those good people, by making them the
+objects of her affection. She does not think it sufficient to reward
+their industry, by giving them money, but she thinks herself bound to
+do farther services to those who have contributed to hers. Labourers,
+domestics, all who serve her, if it be but for a day, become her
+children; she takes part in their pleasures, their cares, and their
+fortune; she inquires into their affairs, and makes their interests
+her own; she engages in a thousand concerns for them, she gives them
+her advice, she composes their differences, and does not shew the
+affability of her disposition in smooth and fruitless speeches, but in
+real services, and continual acts of benevolence. They, on their
+parts, leave everything to serve her, on the least motion. They fly
+when she speaks to them; her look alone animates their zeal; in her
+presence they are contented; in her absence they talk of her, and are
+eager to be employed. Her charms, and her manner of conversing do a
+great deal, but her gentleness and her virtues do more. Ah! my Lord,
+what a powerful and adorable empire is that of benevolent beauty!
+
+With respect to their personal attendants, they have within doors
+eight servants, three women and five men, without reckoning the
+baron’s valet de chambre, or the servants in the out-houses. It seldom
+happens that people, who have but few domestics, are ill served; but,
+from the uncommon zeal of these servants, one would conclude that
+each thought himself charged with the business of the other seven, and
+from the harmony among them, one would imagine that the whole business
+was done by one man. You never see them in the out-houses idle and
+unemployed, or playing in the court-yard, but always about some useful
+employment; they help in the yard, in the cellar, and in the kitchen;
+The gardener has nobody under him but them, and what is most
+agreeable, you see them do all this chearfully and with pleasure.
+
+They take them young, in order to form them to their minds. They do
+not follow the maxim here, which prevails at Paris and London, of
+choosing domestics ready formed, that is to say, compleat rascals,
+runners of quality, who in every family they go through, catch the
+failings both of master and man, and make a trade of serving every
+body, without being attached to any one. There can be neither honesty,
+fidelity, or zeal among such fellows, and this collection of rabble
+serves to ruin the masters and corrupt the children in all wealthy
+families. Here, the choice of domestics is considered as an article of
+importance. They do not regard them merely as mercenaries, from whom
+they only require a stipulated service, but as members of a family,
+which, should they be ill chosen, might be ruined by that means. The
+first thing they require of them is to be honest, the next is to love
+their master, and the third to serve him to his liking; but where a
+master is reasonable, and servant intelligent, the third is the
+consequence of the two first. Therefore they do not take them from
+town, but from the country. This is the first place they live in, and
+it will assuredly be the last if they are good for any thing. They
+take them out of some numerous family overstocked with children, whose
+parents come to offer them of their own accord. They chuse them
+young, well made, healthy, and of a pleasant countenance. Mr. Wolmar
+interrogates and examines them, and then presents them to his wife. If
+they prove agreeable to both, they are received at first upon trial,
+afterwards they are admitted among the number of servants, or more
+properly the children of the family, and they employ some days in
+teaching their duty with a great deal of care and patience. The
+service is so simple, so equal and uniform, the master and mistress
+are so little subject to whims and caprice, and the servants so soon
+conceive an affection for them, that their business is soon learned.
+Their condition is agreeable; they find conveniences which they had
+not at home; but they are not suffered to be enervated by idleness,
+the parent of all vice. They do not allow them to become gentlemen,
+and to grow proud in their service. They continue to work as they did
+with their own family; in fact, they do but change their father and
+mother, and get more wealthy parents. They do not therefore hold their
+old rustic employments in contempt. Whenever they leave this place,
+there is not one of them who had not rather turn peasant, than take
+any other employment. In short, I never saw a family, where every one
+acquits himself so well in his service, and thinks so little of the
+trouble of servitude.
+
+Thus by training up their servants themselves, in this discreet
+manner, they guard against the objection which is so very trifling,
+and so frequently made, viz. “I shall only bring them up for the
+service of others.” Train them properly, one might answer, and they
+will never serve any one else. If in bringing them up, you solely
+regard your own benefit, they have a right to consult their own
+interest in quitting you; but if you seem to consider their advantage,
+they will remain constantly attached to you. It is the intention alone
+which constitutes the obligation, and he who is indirectly benefited
+by an act of kindness, wherein I meant to serve my self only, owes me
+no obligation whatever.
+
+As a double preventive against this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar
+take another method, which appears to me extremely prudent. At the
+first establishment of their houshold, they calculated what number of
+servants their fortune would allow them to keep, and they found it to
+amount to fifteen or sixteen; in order to be better served they made a
+reduction of half that number; so that with less retinue, their
+service is more exactly attended. To be more effectually served still,
+they have made it the interest of their servants to continue with them
+a long time. When a domestic first enters into their service, he
+receives the common wages; but those wages are augmented every year by
+a twentieth part: so that at the end of twenty years, they will be
+more than doubled, and the charge of keeping these servants will be
+nearly the same, in proportion to the master’s circumstances. But
+there is no need of being a deep algebraist to discover that the
+expense of this augmentation is more in appearance than reality, that
+there will be but few to whom double wages will be paid, and that if
+they were paid to all the servants, yet the benefit of having been
+well served for twenty years past, would more than compensate the
+extraordinary expense. You perceive, my Lord, that this is a certain
+expedient of making servants grow continually more and more careful,
+and of attaching them to you, by attaching yourself to them. There is
+not only prudence, but justice in such a provision. Is it reasonable
+that a new-comer, who has no affection for you, and who is perhaps an
+unworthy object, should receive the same salary, at his first entrance
+into the family, as an old servant, whose zeal and fidelity have been
+tried in a long course of services, and who besides, being grown in
+years, draws near the time when he will be incapable of providing for
+himself? The latter reason, however, must not be brought into the
+account, and you may easily imagine that such a benevolent master and
+mistress do not fail to discharge that duty, which many, who are
+devoid of charity, fulfill out of ostentation; and you may suppose
+that they do not abandon those whose infirmities or old age render
+them incapable of service.
+
+I can give you a very striking instance of their attention to this
+duty. The Baron D’Etange being desirous to recompense the long
+services of his valet de chambre, by procuring him an honourable
+retreat, had the interest to obtain for him the L.S.E.E. an easy
+and lucrative post. Eloisa has just now received a most affecting
+letter from this old servant, in which he intreats her to get him
+excused from accepting this employment. “I am in years, says he, I
+have lost all my family; I have no relations but my master and his
+family; all my hope is to end my days quietly in the house where I
+have passed the greatest part, of them. Often, dear madam, as I have
+held you in my arms when but an infant, I prayed to heaven that I
+might one day hold your little ones in the same manner. My prayers
+have been heard; do not deny me the happiness of seeing them grow and
+prosper like you. I who have been accustomed to a quiet family, where
+shall I find such another place of rest in my old age? Be so kind to
+write to the Baron in my behalf. If he is dissatisfied with me, let
+him turn me off, and give me no employment; but if I have served him
+faithfully for these forty years past, let him allow me to end my days
+in his service and yours; he cannot reward me better.” It is needless
+to enquire whether Eloisa wrote to the Baron or not. I perceive that
+she would be as unwilling to part with this good man, as he would be
+to leave her. Am I wrong, my Lord, when I compare a master and
+mistress, thus beloved, to good parents, and their servants to
+obedient children? You find that they consider themselves in this
+light.
+
+There is not a single instance in this family of a servant’s giving
+warning. It is even very seldom that they are threatened with a
+dismission. A menace of this kind alarms them in proportion as their
+service is pleasant and agreeable. The best subjects are always the
+soonest alarmed, and there is never any occasion to come to
+extremities but with such as are not worth regretting. They have
+likewise a rule in this respect. When Mr. Wolmar says, I discharge
+you, they may then implore Mrs. Wolmar to intercede for them, and
+through her intercession may be restored; but if she gives them
+warning, it is irrevocable, and they have no favour to expect. This
+agreement between them is very well calculated both to moderate the
+extreme confidence which her gentleness might beget in them, and the
+violent apprehensions they might conceive from his inflexibility. Such
+a warning nevertheless is excessively dreaded from a just and
+dispassionate master; for besides that they are not certain of
+obtaining favour, and that the same person is never pardoned twice,
+they forfeit the right which they acquire from their long service, by
+having had warning given, and when they are restored, they begin a new
+service as it were. This prevents the old servants from growing
+insolent, and makes them more circumspect, in proportion as they have
+more to lose.
+
+The three maid-servants are, the chamber-maid, the governess, and the
+cook. The latter is a country girl, very proper and well qualified for
+the place, whom Mrs. Wolmar has instructed in cookery: for in this
+country, which is as yet in some measure in a state of simplicity,
+young ladies learn to do that business themselves, that when they keep
+house, they may be able to direct their servants; and consequently are
+less liable to be imposed upon by them. B---- is no longer the
+chambermaid; they have sent her back to Etange, where she was born;
+they have again entrusted her with the care of the castle, and the
+superintendence of the receipts, which makes her in some degree
+comptroller of the houshold. Mr. Wolmar intreated his wife to make
+this regulation; but it was a long time before she could resolve to
+part with an old servant of her mother’s, though she had more than one
+reason to be displeased with her. But after their last conference, she
+gave her consent, and B---- is gone. This girl is handy and honest,
+but babbling and indiscreet. I suspect that she has, more than once,
+betrayed the secrets of her mistress, that Mr. Wolmar is sensible of
+it, and to prevent her being guilty of the same indiscretion with
+respect to a stranger, he has prudently taken this method to avail
+himself of her good qualities, without running any hazard from her
+imperfections. She who is taken in her room, is that same Fanny, of
+whom you have often heard me speak with so much pleasure.
+Notwithstanding Eloisa’s prediction, her favours, her father’s
+kindness and yours, this deserving and discreet woman has not been
+happy in her connection. Claud Anet, who endured adversity so
+bravely, could not support a more prosperous state. When he found
+himself at ease, he neglected his business, and his affairs being
+quite embarrassed, he fled the country, leaving his wife with an
+infant whom she has since lost. Eloisa having taken her home,
+instructed her in the business of a chamber-maid, and I was never more
+agreeably surprized than to find her settled in her employment, the
+first day of my arrival. Mr. Wolmar pays great regard to her, and they
+have both entrusted her with the charge of superintending their
+children, and of having an eye likewise over their governess, who is a
+simple credulous country lass, but attentive, patient, and tractable;
+so that in short, they have omitted no precaution to prevent the vices
+of the town from creeping into a family, where the master and mistress
+are strangers to them, and will not suffer them under their roof.
+
+Though there is but one table among all the servants, yet there is but
+little communication between the men and women, and this they consider
+as a point of great importance. Mr. Wolmar is not of the same opinion
+with those masters, who are indifferent to every thing which does not
+immediately concern their interests, and who only desire to be well
+served, without troubling themselves about what their servants do
+beside. He thinks, on the contrary, that they who regard nothing but
+their own service, cannot be well served. Too close a connection
+between the two sexes, frequently occasions mischief. The disorders of
+most families arise from the rendezvous which are held in the chamber-
+maid’s apartment. If there is one whom the steward happens to be fond
+of, he does not fail to seduce her at the expense of his master. A
+good understanding among the men, or among the women, is not alone
+sufficiently firm to produce any material consequences. But it is
+always between the men and the women that those secret monopolies are
+established, which in the end ruin the most wealthy families. They pay
+a particular attention therefore to the discretion and modesty of the
+women, not only from principles of honesty and morality, but from
+well-judged motives of interest. For whatever some may pretend, no one
+who does not love his duty, can discharge it as he ought; and none
+ever loved their duty, who were devoid of honour.
+
+They do not, to prevent any dangerous intimacy between the two sexes,
+restrain them by positive rules which they might be tempted to violate
+in secret, but without any seeming intention, they establish good
+customs, which are more powerful than authority itself. They do not
+forbid any intercourse between them, but ’tis contrived in such a
+manner that they have no occasion or inclination to see each other.
+This is effectuated by making their business, their habits, their
+tastes, and their pleasures entirely different. To maintain the
+admirable order which they have established, they are sensible that in
+a well-regulated family there should be as little correspondence as
+possible between the two sexes. They, who would accuse their master of
+caprice, was he to enforce such a rule by way of injunction, submit,
+without regret, to a manner of life which is not positively prescribed
+to them, but which they themselves conceive to be the best and most
+natural. Eloisa insists that it must be so in fact; she maintains that
+neither love nor conjugal union is the result of a continual commerce
+between the sexes. In her opinion, husband and wife were designed to
+live together, but not to live in the same manner. They ought to act
+in concert, but not to do the same things. The kind of life, says she,
+which would delight the one, would be insupportable to the other; the
+inclinations which nature has given them, are as different as the
+occupations she has assigned them: they differ in their amusements as
+much as in their duties. In a word, each contributes to the common
+good by different ways, and the proper distribution of their several
+cares and employments, is the strongest tie that cements their union.
+
+For my own part, I confess that my observations are much in favour of
+this maxim. In fact, is it not the general practice, except among the
+French, and those who imitate them, for the men and women to live
+separately? If they see each other, it is rather by short interviews,
+and as it were by stealth, as the Spartans visited their wives, than
+by an indiscreet and constant intercourse, sufficient to confound and
+destroy the wisest bounds of distinction which nature has set between
+them. We do not, even among the savages, see men and women intermingle
+indiscriminately. In the evening, the family meet together; every one
+passes the night with his wife; when the day begins, they separate
+again, and the two sexes enjoy nothing in common, but their meals at
+most. This is the order, which, from its universality, appears to be
+most natural, and even in those countries where it is perverted, we
+may perceive some vestiges of it remaining. In France, where the men
+have submitted to live after the fashion of the women, and to be
+continually shut up in a room with them, you may perceive from their
+involuntary motions that they are under confinement. While the ladies,
+sit quietly, or loll upon their couch, you may perceive the men get
+up, go, come, and sit down again, perpetually restless, as if a kind
+of mechanical instinct continually counteracted the restraint they
+suffered, and prompted them, in their own respite, to that active and
+laborious life for which nature intended them. They are the only
+people in the world where the men _stand_ at the theatre, as if they
+went into the pit to relieve themselves of the fatigue of having been
+sitting all day in a dining room. In short, they are to sensible of
+the irksomeness of this effeminate and sedentary indolence, that in
+order to checquer it with some degree of activity at least, they yield
+their places at home to strangers, and go to other mens’ wives in
+order to alleviate their disgust!
+
+The example of Mrs. Wolmar’s family contributes greatly to support the
+maxim she establishes. Every one, as it were, being confined to their
+proper sex, the women there live in a great measure apart from the
+men. In order to prevent any suspicious connections between them, her
+great secret is to keep both one and the other constantly employed;
+for their occupations are so different, that nothing but idleness can
+bring them together. In the morning, each apply to their proper
+business, and no one is at leisure to interrupt the other. After
+dinner, the men are employed in the garden, the yard, or in some other
+rural occupation: the women are busy in the nursery till the hour
+comes at which they take a walk with the children, and sometimes
+indeed with the mistress, which is very agreeable to them, as it is
+the only time in which they take the air. The men, being sufficiently
+tired with their day’s work, have seldom any inclination to walk, and
+therefore rest themselves within doors.
+
+Every Sunday, after evening service, the women meet again in the
+nursery, with some friend or relation whom they invite in their turns
+by Mrs. Wolmar’s consent. There, they have a little collation prepared
+for them by Eloisa’s direction; and she permits them to chat, sing,
+run or play at some little game of skill, fit to please children, and
+such as they may bear a part in themselves. The entertainment is
+composed of syllabubs, cream, and different kinds of cakes, with such
+other little viands as suit the taste of women and children. Wine is
+almost excluded, and the men, who are rarely admitted of this little
+female party, never are present at this collation, which Eloisa seldom
+misses. I am the only man who has obtained this privilege. Last
+Sunday, with great importunity, I got leave to attend her there. She
+took great pains to make me consider it as a very singular favour. She
+told me aloud that she granted it for that once only, and that she had
+even refused Mr. Wolmar himself. You may imagine whether this
+difficulty of admission does not flatter female vanity a little, and
+whether a footman would be a welcome visitor, where his master was
+excluded.
+
+I made a most delicious repast with them. Where will you find such
+cream-cakes as we have here? Imagine what they must be, made in a
+dairy where Eloisa presides, and eaten in her company. Fanny presented
+me with some cream, some seed cake, and other little comfits. All was
+gone in an instant. Eloisa smiled at my appetite. I find, said she,
+giving me another plate of cream, that your appetite does you credit
+every where, and that you make as good a figure among a club of
+females, as you do among the Valaisians. But I do not, answered I,
+make the repast with more impunity; the one may be attended with
+intoxication as well as the other; and reason may be as much
+distracted in a nursery, as in a wine cellar. She cast her eyes down
+without making any reply, blushed, and began to play with her
+children. This was enough to sting me with remorse. This, my Lord, was
+my first indiscretion, and I hope it will be the last.
+
+There was a certain air of primitive simplicity in this assembly,
+which affected me very sensibly. I perceived the same chearfulness in
+every countenance, and perhaps more openness than if there had been
+men in company. The familiarity which was observable between the
+mistress and her servants, being founded on sincere attachment and
+confidence, only served to establish respect and authority; and the
+services rendered and received, appeared like so many testimonies of
+reciprocal friendship. There was nothing, even to the very choice of
+the collation, but what contributed to make this assembly engaging.
+Milk and sugar are naturally adapted to the taste of the fair sex, and
+may be deemed the symbols of innocence and sweetness, which are their
+most becoming ornaments. Men, on the contrary, are fond of high
+flavours, and strong liquors; a kind of nourishment more suitable to
+the active and laborious life for which nature has designed them; and
+when these different tastes come to be blended, it is an infallible
+sign that the distinction between the two sexes is inordinately
+confounded. In fact, I have observed that in France, where the women
+constantly intermix with the men, they have entirely lost their relish
+for milk meats, and the men have in some measure lost their taste for
+wine; and in England, where the two sexes are better distinguished,
+the proper taste of each is better preserved. In general, I am of
+opinion, that you may very often form some judgment of people’s
+disposition, from their choice of food. The Italians, who live a great
+deal on vegetables, are soft and effeminate. You Englishmen, who are
+great eaters of meat, have something harsh in your rigid virtue, and
+which favours of barbarism. The Swiss, who is naturally of a calm,
+gentle and cold constitution, but hot and violent when in a passion,
+is fond both of one and the other, and drinks milk and wine
+indiscriminately. The Frenchman, who is pliant and changeable, lives
+upon all kinds of food, and conforms himself to every taste. Eloisa
+herself may serve as an instance: for though she makes her meals with
+a keen appetite, yet she does not love meat, ragouts, or salt, and
+never yet tasted wine by itself. Some excellent roots, eggs, cream and
+fruit, compose her ordinary diet, and was it not for fish, of which
+she is likewise very fond, she would be a thorough Pythagorean.
+
+To keep the women in order would signify nothing, if the men were not
+likewise under proper regulations; and this branch of domestic
+economy, which is not of less importance, is still more difficult; for
+the attack is generally more lively than the defence: the guardian of
+human nature intended it so. In the common wealth, citizens are kept
+in order by principles of morality and virtue; but how are we to keep
+servants and mercenaries under proper regulations, otherwise than by
+force and restraint? The art of a master consists in disguising this
+restraint under the veil of pleasure and interest, that what they are
+obliged to do, may seem the result of their own inclination. Sunday
+being a day of idleness, and servants having a right of going where
+they please, when business does not require their duty at home, that
+one day often destroys all the good examples and lessons of the other
+six. The habit of frequenting public houses, the converse and maxims
+of their comrades, the company of loose women, soon render them
+unserviceable to their masters, and unprofitable to themselves; and by
+teaching them a thousand vices, make them unfit for servitude, and
+unworthy of liberty.
+
+To remedy this inconvenience, they endeavour to keep them at home by
+the same motives which induce them to go abroad. Why do they go
+abroad? To drink and play at a public house. They drink and play at
+home. All the difference is, that the wine costs them nothing, that
+they do not get drunk, and that there are some winners at play,
+without any losers. The following is the method taken for this
+purpose.
+
+Behind the house is a shady walk, where they have fixed the lifts.
+There, in the summertime, the livery servants and the men in the yard
+meet every Sunday after sermon time, to play in little detached
+parties, not for money, for it is not allowed, nor for wine, which is
+given them; but for a prize furnished by their master’s generosity:
+which is generally some piece of goods or apparel fit for their use.
+The number of games is in proportion to the value of the prize, so
+that when the prize is somewhat considerable, as a pair of silver
+buckles, a neckcloth, a pair of silk stockings, a fine hat, or any
+thing of that kind, they have generally several bouts to decide it.
+They are not confined to one particular game, but they change them,
+that one man, who happens to excel in a particular game, may not carry
+off all the prizes, and that they may grow stronger and more dextrous
+by a variety of exercises. At one time, the contest is who shall first
+reach a mark at the other end of the walk; at another time it is who
+shall throw the same stone farthest; then again it is who shall carry
+the same weight longest. Sometimes they contend for a prize by
+shooting at a mark. Most of these games are attended with some little
+preparations, which serve to prolong them; and render them
+entertaining. Their master and mistress often honour them with their
+presence; they sometimes take their children with them; nay even
+strangers resort thither, excited by curiosity, and they desire
+nothing better than to bear a share in the sport; but none are ever
+admitted without Mr. Wolmar’s approbation and the consent of the
+players, who would not find their account in granting it readily. This
+custom has imperceptibly become a kind of shew, in which the actors,
+being animated by the presence of the spectators, prefer the glory of
+applause to the lucre of the prize. As these exercises make them more
+active and vigorous, they set a greater value on themselves, and being
+accustomed to estimate their importance from their own intrinsic
+worth, rather than from their possessions, they prize honour,
+notwithstanding they are footmen, beyond money.
+
+It would be tedious to enumerate all the advantages which they derive
+from a practice so trifling in appearance, and which is always
+despised by little minds; but it is the prerogative of true genius to
+produce great effects by inconsiderable means. Mr. Wolmar has assured
+me that these little institutions which his wife first suggested,
+scares stood him in fifty crowns a year. But, said he, how often do
+you think I am repaid this sum in my housekeeping and my affairs in
+general, by the vigilance and attention with which I am served by
+these faithful servants, who derive all their pleasures from their
+master; by the interest they take in a family which they consider as
+their own; by the advantage I reap, in their labours, from the vigour
+they acquire at their exercises; by the benefit of keeping them always
+in health, in preserving them from those exercises which are common to
+men in their station, and from those disorders which frequently attend
+such excesses; by securing them from any propensity to knavery, which
+is an infallible consequence of irregularity, and by confirming them
+in the practice of honesty; in short, by the pleasure of having such
+agreeable recreations within ourselves at such a trifling expense? If
+there are any among them, either man or woman, who do not care to
+conform to our regulations, but prefer the liberty of going where they
+please on various pretences, we never refuse to give them leave; but
+we consider this licentious turn as a very suspicious symptom, and we
+are always ready to mistrust such dispositions. Thus these little
+amusements which furnish us with good servants, serve also as a
+direction to us in the choice of them.----I must confess my Lord,
+that, except in this family, I never saw the same men made good
+domestics for personal service, good husbandmen for tilling the
+ground, good soldiers for the defence of their country, and honest
+fellows in any station into which fortune may chance to throw them.
+
+In the winter, their pleasures vary as well as their labours. On a
+Sunday, all the servants in the family and even the neighbours, men
+and women indiscriminately, meet after service-time in a hall where
+there is a good fire, some wine, fruits, cakes, and a fiddle to which
+they dance. Mrs. Wolmar never fails to be present for some time at
+least, in order to preserve decorum and modesty by her presence, and
+it is not uncommon for her to dance herself, though among her own
+people. When I was first made acquainted with this custom, it appeared
+to me not quite conformable to the strictness of Protestant morals. I
+told Eloisa so; and she answered me to the following effect.
+
+Pure morality is charged with so many severe duties, that if it is
+over burthened with forms which are in themselves indifferent they
+will always be of prejudice to what is really essential. This is said
+to be the case with the monks in general, who being slaves to rules
+totally immaterial, are utter strangers to the meaning of honour and
+virtue. This defeat is less observable among us, though we are not
+wholly exempt from it. Our churchmen, who are as much superior to
+other priests in knowledge, as our religion is superior to all others
+in purity, do nevertheless maintain some maxims, which seem to be
+rather founded on prejudice than reason. Of this kind, is that which
+condemns dancing and assemblies, as if there were more harm in dancing
+than singing, as if each of these amusements were not equally a
+propensity of nature, and as if it were a crime to divert ourselves
+publicly with an innocent and harmless recreation. For my own part, I
+think, on the contrary, that every time there is a concourse of the
+two sexes, every public diversion becomes innocent, by being public;
+whereas the most laudable employment becomes suspicious in a _tete a
+tete_ party. [53] Man and woman were formed for each other, their union
+by marriage is the end of nature. All false religion is at war with
+nature, ours which conforms to and rectifies natural propensity,
+proclaims a divine institution which is most suitable to mankind.
+Religion ought not to increase the embarrassment which civil
+regulations throw in the way of matrimony, by difficulties which the
+gospel does not create, and which are contrary to the true spirit of
+Christianity. Let any one tell me which young people can have an
+opportunity of conceiving a mutual liking, and of seeing each other
+with more decorum and circumspection, than in an assembly where the
+eyes of the spectators being constantly upon them, oblige them to
+behave with peculiar caution? How can we offend God by an agreeable
+and wholesome exercise, suitable to the vivacity of youth, an exercise
+which consists in the art of presenting ourselves to each other with
+grace and elegance, and wherein the presence of the spectator imposes
+a decorum, which no one dares to violate? Can we conceive a more
+effectual method to avoid imposition with respect to person at least,
+by displaying ourselves with all our natural graces and defects before
+those whose interest it is to know us thoroughly, ere they oblige
+themselves to love us? Is not the obligation of reciprocal affection
+greater than that of self-love, and is it not an attention worthy of a
+pious and virtuous pair who propose to marry, thus to prepare their
+hearts for that mutual love, which heaven prompts.
+
+What is the consequence, in those places where people are under a
+continual restraint, where the most innocent gaiety is punished as
+criminal, where the young people of different sexes dare not meet in
+public, and where the indiscreet severity of the pastor preaches
+nothing, in the name of God, but servile constraint, sadness and
+melancholy? They find means to elude an insufferable tyranny, which
+nature and reason disavow. When gay and sprightly youth are debarred
+from lawful pleasures, they substitute others more dangerous in their
+stead. _Tete a tete_ parties artfully concerted, supply the place of
+public assemblies. By being obliged to concealment as if they were
+criminal, they at length become so in fact. Harmless joy loves to
+display itself in the face of the world, but vice is a friend to
+darkness; and innocence and secrecy never subsist long together. My
+dear friend, said she, grasping my hand, as if she meant to convey her
+repentance, and communicate the purity of her own heart to mine; who
+can be more sensible of the importance of this truth than ourselves?
+What sorrow and troubles, what tears and remorse we might have
+prevented for so many years past, if we could, but have foreseen how
+dangerous a _tete a tete_ intercourse was to that virtue which we
+always loved!
+
+Besides, said Mrs. Wolmar, in a softer tone, it is not in a numerous
+assembly, where we are seen and heard by all the world, but in private
+parties, where secrecy and freedom is indulged, that our morals are in
+danger. It is from this principle, that whenever my domestics meet, I
+am glad to see them all together. I even approve of their inviting
+such young people in the neighbourhood whose company will not corrupt
+them; and I hear with pleasure, that, when they mean to commend the
+morals of any of our young neighbours, they say----He is admitted at
+Mr. Wolmar’s. We have a farther view in this. Our men servants are all
+very young, and, among the women, the governess is yet single; it is
+not reasonable that the retired life they lead with us, should debar
+them of an opportunity of forming an honest connection. We endeavour
+therefore, in these little meetings, to give them this opportunity,
+under our inspection, that we may assist them in their choice; and
+thus by endeavouring to make happy families, we increase the felicity
+of our own.
+
+I ought now to justify myself for dancing with these good people; but
+I rather chuse to pass sentence on myself in this respect, and I
+frankly confess that my chief motive is the pleasure I take in the
+exercise. You know that I always resembled my cousin in her passion
+for dancing; but after the death of my mother, I bade adieu to the
+ball and all public assemblies; I kept my resolution, even to the day
+of my marriage, and will keep it still, without thinking it any
+violation to dance now and then in my own house with my guests and my
+domestics. It is an exercise very good for my health during the
+sedentary life which we are obliged to live here in winter. I find it
+an innocent amusement; for after a good dance, my conscience does not
+reproach me. It amuses Mr. Wolmar likewise, and all my coquetry in
+this particular is only to please him. I am the occasion of his coming
+into the ball room; the good people are best satisfied when they are
+honoured with their master’s presence; and they express a satisfaction
+when they see me amongst them. In short, I find that such occasional
+familiarity forms an agreeable connection and attachment between us,
+which approaches nearer the natural condition of mankind, by
+moderating the meanness of servitude, and the rigour of authority.
+
+Such, my Lord, are the sentiments of Eloisa, with respect to dancing,
+and I have often wondered how so much affability could consist with
+such a degree of subordination, and how she and her husband could so
+often stoop to level themselves with their servants, and yet the
+latter never be tempted to assume equality in their turn. I question
+if any Asiatic monarchs are attended in their palaces with more
+respect, than Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar are served in their own house. I
+never knew any commands less imperious than theirs, or more readily
+executed: if they ask for any thing, their servants fly; if they
+excuse their failings, they themselves are nevertheless sensible of
+their faults. I was never better convinced how much the force of what
+is said, depends on the mode of expression.
+
+This has led me into a reflection on the affected gravity of masters;
+which is, that it is rather to be imputed to their own failings, than
+to the effects of their familiarity, that they are despised in their
+families, and that the insolence of servants is rather an indication
+of a vicious than of a weak master: for nothing gives them such
+assurance, as the knowledge of his vices, and they consider all
+discoveries of that kind as so many dispensations, which free them
+from their obedience to a man whom they can no longer respect.
+
+Servants imitate their masters, and by copying them awkwardly, they
+render those defects more conspicuous in themselves, which the polish
+of education, in some measure, disguised in the others. At Paris, I
+used to judge of the ladies of my acquaintance, by the air and manners
+of their waiting-women, and this rule never deceived me. Besides that
+the lady’s woman, when she becomes the confident of her mistress’s
+secrets, makes her buy her discretion at a dear rate, she likewise
+frames her conduct according to her lady’s sentiments, and discloses
+all her maxims, by an awkward imitation. In every instance, the
+master’s example is more efficacious than his authority; it is not
+natural to suppose that their servants will be honester than
+themselves. It is to no purpose to make a noise, to swear, to abuse
+them, to turn them off, to get a new set; all this avails nothing
+towards making good servants. When they, who do not trouble themselves
+about being hated and despised by their domestics, nevertheless
+imagine that they are well served, the reason of their mistake is,
+that they are contented with what they see, and satisfied with an
+appearance of diligence, without observing the thousand secret
+prejudices they suffer continually, and of which they cannot discover
+the source. But where is the man so devoid of honour, as to be able to
+endure the contempt of everyone round him? Where is the woman so
+abandoned as not to be susceptible of insults? How many ladies, both
+at Paris and in London, who think themselves greatly respected, would
+burst into tears if they heard what was said of them in their anti-
+chambers? Happily for their peace, they comfort themselves by taking
+these Arguses for weak creatures, and by flattering themselves that
+they are blind to those practices which they do not even deign to hide
+from them. They likewise in their turn discover, by their sullen
+obedience, the contempt they have for their mistresses. Masters and
+servants become mutually sensible, that it is not worth their while to
+conciliate each other’s esteem.
+
+The behaviour of servants seems to me to be the most certain and nice
+proof of the master’s virtue; and I remember, my Lord, to have formed
+a good opinion of yours at Valais without knowing you, purely because,
+though you spoke somewhat harshly to your attendants, they were not
+the less attached to you, and that they expressed as much respect for
+you in your absence, as if you had been within hearing. It has been
+said that no man is a hero in the eyes of his Valet de Chambre;
+perhaps not; but every worthy man will enjoy his servant’s esteem;
+which sufficiently proves that heroism is only a vain phantom, and
+that nothing is solid but virtue. The power of its empire is
+particularly observable here in the lowest commendations of the
+servants. Commendations the less to be suspected, as they do not
+consist of vain eulogiums, but of an artless expression of their
+feelings. As they cannot suppose, from any thing which they see, that
+other masters are not like theirs, they therefore do not commend them
+on account of those virtues which they conceive to be common to
+masters in general, but, in the simplicity of their hearts, they thank
+God for having sent the rich to make those under them happy, and to be
+a comfort to the poor.
+
+Servitude is a state so unnatural to mankind, that it cannot subsist
+without some degree of discontent. Nevertheless they respect their
+master, and say nothing. If any murmurings escape them against their
+mistress, they are more to her honour than encomiums would be. No one
+complains that she is wanting in kindness to them, but that she pays
+so much regard to others; no one can endure that his zeal should be
+put in competition with that of his comrades, and as every one
+imagines himself foremost in attachment, he would be first in favour.
+This is their only complaint, and their greatest injustice.
+
+There is not only a proper subordination among those of inferior
+station, but a perfect harmony among those of equal rank; and this is
+not the least difficult part of domestic economy. Amidst the clashings
+of jealousy and self-interest, which makes continual divisions in
+families not more numerous than this, we seldom find servants united
+but at the expense of their masters. If they agree, it is to rob in
+concert; if they are honest, every one shews his importance at the
+expense of the rest; they must either be enemies or accomplices, and
+it is very difficult to find a way of guarding at the same time both
+against their knavery and their dissentions. The masters of families
+in general know no other method but that of choosing the alternative
+between these two inconveniencies. Some, preferring interest to
+honour, foment a quarrelsome disposition among their servants by means
+of private reports, and think it a masterpiece of prudence to make
+them superintendents and spies over each other. Others, of a more
+indolent nature, rather chuse that their servants should rob them,
+and live peaceably among themselves; they pique themselves upon
+discountenancing any information which a faithful servant may give
+them out of pure zeal. Both are equally to blame. The first, by
+exciting continual disturbances in their families, which are
+incompatible with good order and regularity, get together a heap of
+knaves and informers, who are busy in betraying their fellow servants,
+that they may hereafter perhaps betray their masters. The second, by
+refusing all information with regard to what passes in their families,
+countenance combinations against themselves, encourage the wicked,
+dishearten the good, and only maintain a pack of arrogant and idle
+rascals at a great expense, who, agreeing together at their master’s
+cost, look upon their service as a matter of favour, and their thefts
+as perquisites. [54]
+
+It is a capital error in domestic as well as in civil economy, to
+oppose one vice to another, or to attempt an equilibrium between them,
+as if that which undermines the foundations of all order, could ever
+tend to establish regularity. This mistaken policy only serves to
+unite every inconvenience. When particular vices are tolerated in a
+family, they do not reign alone. Let one take root, a thousand will
+soon spring up. They presently ruin the servants who harbour them,
+undo the master who tolerates them, and corrupt or injure the children
+who remark them with attention. What father can be so unworthy as to
+put any advantage whatever in competition with this last
+inconvenience? What honest man would chuse to be master of a family,
+if it was impossible for him to maintain peace and fidelity in his
+house at the same time, and if he must be obliged to purchase the
+attachment of his servants; at the expense of their mutual good
+understanding?
+
+Who does not see, that in this family, they have not even an idea of
+any such difficulty? So much does the union among the several members
+proceed from their attachment to the head. It is here we may perceive
+a striking instance, how impossible it is to have a sincere affection
+for a master without loving every thing that belongs to him; a truth
+which is the real foundation of Christian charity. Is it not very
+natural, that the children of the same father should live together
+like brethren? This is what they tell us every day at church, without
+making us feel the sentiment; and this is what the domestics in this
+family feel, without being told it.
+
+This disposition to good fellowship is owing to a choice of proper
+subjects. Mr. Wolmar, when he hires his servants, does not examine
+whether they suit his wife and himself, but whether they suit each
+other, and if they were to discover a settled antipathy between two of
+the best servants, it would be sufficient for them to discharge one:
+for, says Eloisa, in so small a family, a family where they never go
+abroad, but are constantly before each other, they ought to agree
+perfectly among themselves. They ought to consider it as their
+father’s house, where all are of the same family. One, who happens to
+be disagreeable to the rest, is enough to make them hate the place;
+and that disagreeable object being constantly before their eyes, they
+would neither be easy themselves, nor suffer us to be quiet.
+
+After having made the best assortment in their power, they unite them
+as it were by the services which they oblige each to render the other,
+and they contrive that it shall be the real interest of every one to
+be beloved by his fellow servants. No one is so well received who
+solicits a favour for himself, as when he asks it for another; so that
+whoever has any thing to request, endeavours to engage another to
+intercede for him; and this they do with greater readiness, since,
+whether their master grants or refuses the favour requested, he never
+fails to acknowledge the merit of the person interceding. On the
+contrary, both he and Mrs. Wolmar always reject the solicitations of
+those who only regard themselves. Why, say they, should I grant, what
+is desired in your favour, who have never made me any request in
+favour of another? Is it reasonable, that you should be more favoured
+than your companions, because they are more obliging than you? They do
+more; they engage them to serve each other in private, without any
+ostentation, and without assuming any merit. This is the more easily
+accomplished, as they know that their master, who is witness of their
+discretion, will esteem them the more, thus self-interest is a gainer,
+and self-love no loser. They are so convinced of this general
+disposition to oblige, and they have such confidence in each other,
+that when they have any favour to ask, they frequently mention it at
+table by way of conversation; very often, without farther trouble,
+they find that the thing has been requested and granted, and as they
+do not know whom to thank, their obligation is to all.
+
+It is by this, and such like methods, that they beget an attachment
+among them, resulting from, and subordinate to, the zeal they have for
+their master. Thus, far from leaguing together to his prejudice, they
+are only united for his service. However it may be their interest to
+love each other, they have still stronger motives for pleasing him;
+their zeal for his service gets the better of their mutual good will,
+and each considering himself as injured by losses which may make their
+master less able to recompense a faithful servant, they are all
+equally incapable of suffering any individual to do him wrong
+unnoticed. This principle of policy which is established in this
+family, seems to have somewhat sublime in it; and I cannot
+sufficiently admire how Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have been able to
+transform the vile function of an informer into an office of zeal,
+integrity, and courage, as noble, or at least as praise-worthy, as it
+was among the Romans.
+
+They began by subverting, or rather by preventing, in a plain and
+perspicuous manner, and by affecting instances, that servile and
+criminal practice, that mutual toleration at the master’s cost, which
+a worthless servant never fails to inculcate to a good one, under the
+mask of a charitable maxim. They made them understand, that the
+precept which enjoins us to hide our neighbour’s faults, relates to
+those only which do injury to no one; that if they are witness to any
+injustice which injures a third person, and do not discover it, they
+are guilty of it themselves; and that as nothing can oblige us to
+conceal such faults in others, but a consciousness of our own defects,
+therefore no one would chuse to countenance knaves, if he was not a
+knave himself. Upon these principles, which are just in general, as
+between man and man, but more strictly so with respect to the close
+connection between master and servant, they hold it here as an
+incontestable truth, that whoever sees their master wronged, without
+making a discovery, is more guilty than he who did the wrong; for he
+suffers himself to be misled by the prospect of advantage, but the
+other in cool blood and without any view of interest, can be induced
+to secrecy by no other motive than a thorough disregard of justice, an
+indifference towards the welfare of the family he serves, and a hidden
+desire of copying the example he conceals. Therefore even where the
+fault is considerable, the guilty party may nevertheless sometimes
+hope for pardon, but the witness who conceals the fact, is infallibly
+dismissed as a man of a bad disposition.
+
+In return, they receive no accusation which may be suspected to
+proceed from injustice and calumny; that is to say, they admit of none
+in the absence of the accused. If any one comes to make a report
+against his fellow servant, or to prefer a personal complaint against
+him, they ask him whether he is sufficiently informed, that is to say,
+whether he has entered into any previous inquiry with the person whom
+he is going to accuse. If he answers in the negative, they ask him how
+he can judge of an action, when he is not acquainted with the motives
+to it? The fact, say they, may depend on some circumstance to which
+you are a stranger; there may be some particulars which may serve to
+justify or excuse it, and which you know nothing of. How can you
+presume to condemn any one’s conduct, before you know by what motives
+it is directed? One word of explanation would probably have rendered
+it justifiable in your eyes. Why then do you run the risk of
+condemning an action wrongfully, and of exposing me to participate of
+your injustice? If he assures them, that he has entered into a
+previous explanation with the accused; why then, say they, do you come
+without him, as if you was afraid that he would falsify what you are
+going to relate? By what right do you neglect taking the same
+precaution with respect to me, which you think proper to use with
+regard to yourself? Is it reasonable to desire me to judge of a fact
+from your report, of which you refuse to judge yourself by the
+testimony of your own eyes; and would not you be answerable for the
+partial judgment I might form, if I was to remain satisfied with your
+bare deposition? In the end, they direct them to summon the party
+accused; if they consent, the matter is soon decided; if they refuse,
+they dismiss them with a severe reprimand, but they keep the secret,
+and watch them both so narrowly, that they are not long at a loss to
+know which is in fault.
+
+This rule is so well known and so well established, that you never
+hear a servant in this family speak ill of his absent comrade, for
+they are all sensible that it is the way to pass for a liar and a
+coward. When any one of them accuses another, it is openly, frankly,
+and not only to his face, but in the presence of all his fellow
+servants, that they who are witnesses to their accusation, may be
+vouchers of their integrity. In case of any personal disputes among
+them, the difference is generally made up by mediators without
+troubling Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar; but when the interest of the master is
+at stake, the matter cannot remain a secret; the guilty party must
+either accuse himself or be accused. These little pleadings happen
+very seldom, and never but at table, in the rounds which Eloisa makes
+every day while her people are at dinner or supper, which Mr. Wolmar
+pleasantly calls her general sessions. After having patiently attended
+to the accusation and the defence, if the affair regards her interest,
+she thanks the accuser for his zeal. I am sensible, says she, that you
+have a regard for your fellow servant, you have always spoken well of
+him, and I commend you because the love of your duty and of justice
+has prevailed over your private affections; it is thus that a faithful
+servant and an honest man ought to behave. If the party accused is not
+in fault, she always subjoins some compliment to her justification of
+his innocence. But if he is really guilty, she in some measure spares
+his shame before the rest. She supposes that he has something to
+communicate in his defence, which he does not chuse to declare in
+public; she appoints an hour to hear him in private, and it is then
+that she or her husband talk to him as they think proper. What is very
+remarkable is, that the most severe of the two is not most dreaded,
+and that they are less afraid of Mr. Wolmar’s solemn reprimand, than
+of Eloisa’s affecting reproaches. The former, speaking the language of
+truth and justice, humbles and confounds the guilty; the latter
+strikes them with the most cruel remorse, by convincing them with what
+regret she is forced to withdraw her kindness from them. She sometimes
+extorts tears of grief and shame from them, and it is not uncommon for
+her to be moved herself when she sees them repent, in hopes that she
+may not be obliged to abide by her word.
+
+They who judge of these concerns by what passes in their own families,
+or among their neighbours, would probably deem them frivolous or
+tiresome. But you, my Lord, who have such high notions of the duties
+and enjoyments of a master of a family, and who are sensible what an
+ascendency natural disposition and virtue have over the human heart,
+you perceive the importance of these minutiae, and know on what
+circumstances their success depends. Riches do not make a man rich, as
+is well observed in some romance. The wealth of a man is not in his
+coffers, but in the use he makes of what he draws out of them; for our
+possessions do not become our own, but by the uses to which we allot
+them, and abuses are always more inexhaustible than riches; whence it
+happens that our enjoyments are not in proportion to our expenses, but
+depend on the just regulation of them. An idiot may toss ingots of
+gold into the sea, and say he has enjoyed them: but what comparison is
+there between such an extravagant enjoyment, and that which a wise man
+would have derived from the least part of their value? Order and
+regularity, which multiply and perpetuate the use of riches, are alone
+capable of converting the enjoyment of them into felicity. But if real
+property arises from the relation which our possessions bear to us, if
+it is rather the use than the acquisition of riches which confers it,
+what can be more proper subjects of attention for a master of a family
+than domestic economy, and the prudent regulation of his houshold, in
+which the most perfect correspondences more immediately concern him,
+and where the happiness of every individual is an addition to the
+felicity of the head?
+
+Are the most wealthy the most happy? No: how then does wealth
+contribute to felicity? But every well regulated family is emblematic
+of the master’s mind. Gilded ceilings, luxury and magnificence, only
+serve to shew the vanity of those who display such parade; whereas,
+whenever you see order without melancholy, peace without slavery,
+plenty without profusion, you may say with confidence, the master of
+this house is a happy being.
+
+For my own part, I think the most certain sign of true content is a
+domestic and retired life, and that they who are continually resorting
+to others in quest of happiness, do not enjoy it at home. A father of
+a family who amuses himself at home, is rewarded for his continual
+attention to domestic concerns, by the constant enjoyment of the most
+agreeable sensations of nature. He is the only one who can be properly
+said to be master of his own happiness, because, like heaven itself,
+he is happy in desiring nothing more than he enjoys. Like the Supreme
+Being, he does not wish to enlarge his possessions, but to make them
+really his own, under proper directions, and by using them conformably
+to the just relations of things: if he does not enrich himself by new
+acquisitions, he enriches himself by the true enjoyment of what he
+possesses. He once only enjoyed the income of his lands, he now enjoys
+the lands themselves, by over-looking their culture, and surveying
+them from time to time. His servant was a stranger to him: he is now
+part of his enjoyment; his child; he makes him his own. Formerly, he
+had only power over his servant’s actions, now he has authority over
+his inclinations. He was his master only by paying him wages, now he
+rules by the sacred dominion of benevolence and esteem. Though fortune
+spoils him of his wealth, she can never rob him of those affections
+which are attached to him; she cannot deprive a father of his
+children; all the difference is, that he maintained them yesterday,
+and that they will support him tomorrow. It is thus that we may learn
+the true enjoyment of our riches, of our family, and of ourselves; it
+is thus that the minutiae of a family become agreeable to a worthy man
+who knows the value of them; it is thus that, far from considering
+these little duties as troublesome, he makes them a part of his
+happiness, and derives the glory and pleasure of human nature from
+these noble and affecting offices.
+
+If these precious advantages are despised or little known, and if the
+few who endeavour to acquire them seldom obtain them, the reason, in
+both cases, is the same. There are many simple and sublime duties,
+which few people can relish and fulfil. Such are those of the master
+of a family, for which the air and bustle of the world gives him a
+disgust, and which he never discharges properly when he is only
+inflamed by motives of avarice and interest. Some think themselves
+excellent masters, and are only careful economists; their income may
+thrive, and their family nevertheless be in a bad condition. They
+ought to have more enlarged views to direct an administration of such
+importance, so as to give it a happy issue. The first thing to be
+attended to in the due regulation of a family, is to admit none but
+honest people, who will not have any secret intention to disturb that
+regularity. But are honesty and servitude so compatible, that we may
+hope to find servants who are honest men? No, my Lord, if we would
+have them, we must not inquire for them, but we must make them; and
+none who are not men of integrity themselves are capable of making
+others honest. It is to no purpose for a hypocrite to affect an air of
+virtue, he will never inspire any one with an affection for it; and if
+he knew how to make virtue amiable, he would be in love with it
+himself. What do formal lessons avail, when daily example contradicts
+them, unless to make us suspect that the moralist means to sport with
+our credulity? What an absurdity are they guilty of who exhort us to
+do as they say, and not as they act themselves! He who does not act up
+to what he says, never speaks to any effect; for the language of the
+heart is wanting, which alone is persuasive and affecting. I have
+sometimes heard conversations of this kind held, in a gross manner,
+before servants, in order to read them lectures, as they do to
+children sometimes, in an indirect way. Far from having any reason to
+imagine that they were the dupes of such artifice, I have always
+observed them smile in secret at their master’s folly, who must have
+taken them for blockheads, by making an awkward display of sentiments
+before them, which they knew were none of his own.
+
+All these idle subtleties are unknown in this family, and the grand
+art by which the master and mistress make their servants what they
+would desire them to be, is to appear themselves before them what
+they really are. Their behaviour is always frank and open, because
+they are not in any fear lest their actions should bely their
+processions. As they themselves do not entertain principles of
+morality different from those which they inculcate to others, they
+have no occasion for any extraordinary circumspection in their
+discourse; a word blundered out unseasonably does not overthrow the
+principles they have laboured to establish. They do not indiscreetly
+tell all their affairs, but they openly proclaim all their maxims.
+Whether at table, or abroad, _tete a tete_, or in public, their
+sentiments are still the same; they ingenuously deliver their opinions
+on every subject, and without their having any individual in view,
+every one is instructed by their conversation. As their servants never
+see them do any thing but what is just, reasonable and equitable, they
+do not consider justice as a tax on the poor, as a yoke on the
+unhappy, and as one of the evils of their condition. The care they
+take never to let the labourers come in vain, and lose their day’s
+work in seeking after their wages, teaches their servants to set a
+just value on time. When they see their master so careful of other
+men’s time, each concludes that his own time must be of consequence,
+and therefore deems idleness the greatest crime he can be guilty of.
+The confidence which their servants have in their integrity, gives
+that force to their regulations which makes them observed, and
+prevents abuses. They are not afraid, when they come to receive their
+weekly gratuities, that their mistress should partially determine the
+youngest and most active to have been the most diligent. An old
+servant is not apprehensive lest they should start some quibble, to
+save the promised augmentation to their wages. They can never hope to
+take advantage of any division between their master and mistress, in
+order to make themselves of consequence, and to obtain from one what
+the other has refused. They who are unmarried, are not afraid lest
+they should oppose their settlement, in order to detain them longer;
+and by that means make their service a prejudice to them. If a strange
+servant was to tell the domestics of this family, that master and
+servants are in a state of war with each other, that when the latter
+do the former all the injury they can, they only make lawful
+reprisals, that masters being usurpers, liars and knaves, there can
+consequently be no harm in using them as they use their prince, the
+people, or individuals, and in returning those injuries with
+dexterity, which they offer openly----one who should talk in this
+manner would not be attended to; they would not give themselves the
+trouble to controvert or obviate such sentiments; they who give rise
+to them, are the only persons whose business it is to refute them.
+
+You never perceive any sullenness or mutiny in the discharge of their
+duty, because there is never any haughtiness or capriciousness in the
+orders they receive; nothing is required of them but what is
+reasonable and expedient, and their master and mistress have too much
+respect for the dignity of human nature, even in a state of servitude,
+to put them upon any employment which may debase them. Moreover,
+nothing here is reckoned mean but vice, and whatever is reasonable and
+necessary, is deemed honourable and becoming.
+
+They do not allow of any intrigues abroad, neither has any one any
+inclinations of that kind. They are sensible that their fortune is
+most firmly attached to their masters, and that they shall never want
+any thing while his family prospers. Therefore in serving him, they
+take care of their own patrimony, and increase it by making their
+service agreeable; this above all things is their interest. But this
+word is somewhat misapplied here, for I never knew any system of
+policy by which self-interest was so skilfully directed, and where at
+the same time it had less influence than in this family. They all act
+from a principle of attachment, and one would think that venal souls
+were purified as soon as they entered into this dwelling of wisdom and
+union. He would imagine that part of the master’s intelligence, and of
+the mistress’s sensibility, was conveyed to each of their servants;
+they seem so judicious, benevolent, honest, and so much above their
+station. Their greatest ambition is to do well, to be valued and
+esteemed; and they consider an obliging expression from their master
+or mistress, in the light of a present.
+
+These, my Lord, are the most material observations I have made on that
+part of the economy of this family, which regards the servants and
+labourers. As to Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s manner of living, and the
+education of their children, each of these articles very well deserves
+a separate letter. You know with what view I began these remarks; but
+in truth the whole forms such an agreeable representation, that we
+need only meditate upon it to advance it, and we require no other
+inducement, than the pleasure it affords us.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXX. To Lord B----.
+
+
+No, my Lord, I do not retract what I have said; in this family, the
+useful and agreeable are united throughout; but occupations of use are
+not confined to those pursuits which yield profit: they comprehend
+farther every innocent and harmless amusement which may serve to
+improve a relish for retirement, labour, and temperance, which may
+contribute to preserve the mind in a vigorous state, and to keep the
+heart free from the agitation of tumultuous passions. If inactive
+indolence begets nothing but melancholy and irksomeness, the delights
+of an agreeable leisure are the fruits of a laborious life. We only
+work to enjoy ourselves; this alternative of labour and recreation is
+our natural state. The repose which serves to refresh us after past
+labours, and encourage us to renew them, is not less necessary for us
+than labour itself.
+
+After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and
+attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was
+witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired
+place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her
+elysium.
+
+I had often heard them talk of this elysium, of which they made a
+mystery before me. Yesterday however the excessive heat being almost
+equally intolerable both within doors and without, Mr. Wolmar proposed
+to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into
+the nursery towards evening as usual, to come and breathe the fresh
+air with us in the orchard; she consented, and thither we went.
+
+This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner
+by a shady walk which parts it from the house, that it is not visible
+from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders
+it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was
+scarce got within-side, but, the door being covered with alder and
+hazel trees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned
+back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the
+clouds.
+
+On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an
+agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful
+and lively verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring
+of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my
+imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought
+myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and I appeared
+as if I had been the first mortal who had ever penetrated into this
+desert spot. Being seized with astonishment, and transported at so
+unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried
+out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez!
+[55] Eloisa, the world’s end is at your threshold! Many people, said
+she, with a smile, think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most
+presently brings them back to Clarens: let us see whether the charm
+will work longer upon you. This is the same orchard where you have
+walked formerly, and where you have played at romps with my cousin.
+You may remember that the grass was almost burned up, the trees thinly
+planted, affording very little umbrage, and that there was no water.
+You find that now it is fresh, verdant, cultivated, embellished with
+flowers, and well watered; what do you imagine it may have cost me to
+put it in the condition you see? For you must know that I am the
+superintendent, and that my husband leaves the entire management of it
+to me. In truth, said I, it has cost you nothing but inattention. It
+is indeed a delightful spot, but wild and rustic; and I can discover
+no marks of human industry. You have concealed the door; the water
+springs I know not whence; nature alone has done all the rest, and
+even you could not have mended her work. It is true, said she, that
+nature has done every thing, but under my direction, and you see
+nothing but what has been done under my orders. Guess once more.
+First, I replied, I cannot conceive how labour and expense can be made
+to supply the effects of time. The trees... As to them, said Mr.
+Wolmar, you may observe that there are none very large, and they were
+here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work a long while before her
+marriage, and presently after her mother’s death, when she used to
+come here with her father in quest of solitude. Well, said I, since
+you will have these large and massy bowers, these sloping tufts, these
+umbrageous thickets to be the growth of seven or eight years, and to
+be partly the work of art, I think you have been a good economist if
+you have done all within this vast circumference for two thousand
+crowns. You have only guessed two thousand crowns too much, says she,
+for it cost me nothing. How, nothing? No, nothing; unless you place a
+dozen days work in the year to my gardener’s account, as many to two
+or three of my people, and some to Mr. Wolmar, who has sometimes
+condescended to officiate, in my service, as a gardener. I could not
+comprehend this riddle; but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to
+me, letting me loose, Go, and you will understand it. Farewell Tinian,
+farewell Juan Fernandez, farewell all enchantment! In a few minutes
+you will find your way back from the end of the world.
+
+I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of
+extasy; and if I found no exotic plants, nor any of the products of
+the Indies, I found all those which were natural to the soil disposed
+and blended in such a manner, as to produce the most chearful and
+lively effect. The verdant turf, thick but short and close, was
+intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant
+herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes,
+among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers,
+which seemed to grow natural with the rest. I now and then met with
+shady tufts as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been
+in a thick forest. These tufts were composed of trees of a very
+flexible nature, the branches of which they bend, till they hang on
+the ground, and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in
+America. In the more open spots, I saw here and there bushes of roses,
+raspberries, and gooseberries, little plantations of lilac, hazel
+trees, alders, feringa, broom, and trifolium, dispersed without any
+order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time
+that it gave it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I
+followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by
+these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed
+of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake-weed, and other plants of that kind,
+with which honey-suckles and jessamine deigned to inter-twine. These
+garlands seemed as if they were scattered carefully from one tree to
+another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered
+us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry
+walking upon a fine moss, without sand or grass or any rugged shoots.
+Then it was I first discovered, not without astonishment, that this
+verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a
+distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which
+running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and
+afforded shade and freshness underfoot. I observed likewise, that by
+means of common industry, they had made several of these plants take
+root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more, being
+nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the
+better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they have
+sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and in the rest of their
+grounds they have taken such care of the trees that, without the
+orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you
+do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the
+midst of a wood, and to refresh one’s self with it, you will easily
+conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe
+fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there,
+and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of
+searching and selecting the best.
+
+All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid
+rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in
+streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods
+upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more
+transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the
+earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm
+and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around.
+Now, said I to Eloisa, I comprehend all the rest: but these waters
+which I see on every side?... They come from thence she replied,
+pointing to that side where the terrass lies. It is the same stream
+which, at a vast expense, supplied the fountain, in the flower garden,
+for which nobody cares. Mr. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect
+to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here
+everyday to see this water run through the orchard, which we never
+look at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of
+strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true
+that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public
+fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to
+the detriment of passengers, besides its running to waste without
+profit to any one. It formed an elbow at the foot of the orchard
+between two rows of willows; I have taken them within my inclosure,
+and I bring the same water hither through different channels.
+
+I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these
+streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and
+uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the
+slope as possible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the
+most of a few little murmuring cascades. A lay of earth, covered with
+some gravel from the lake, and strewed over with shells, forms a bed
+for these waters. The same streams running at proper distances under
+some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a level with the
+ground, forms a kind of artificial springs where they issue forth.
+Some small streams spout through pipes on some rugged places, and
+bubble as they fall. The ground thus refreshed and watered,
+continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps the grass always verdant
+and beautiful.
+
+The more I wandered over this delightful asylum, the more I found the
+agreeable sensation improve which I experienced at my first entrance:
+nevertheless my curiosity kept me in exercise; I was more eager to
+view the objects around me, than to inquire into the cause of the
+impressions they made on me, and I chose to resign myself to that
+delightful contemplation, without taking the trouble of reflection;
+but Mrs. Wolmar drew me out of my reverie, by taking me under the arm;
+All that you see, said she, is nothing but vegetable and inanimate
+nature, which in spite of us, always leaves behind it a melancholy
+idea of solitude. Come and view nature animated and more affecting.
+There you will discover some new charm every minute in the day. You
+anticipate me, said I, I hear a confused chirping noise, and I see but
+few birds; I suppose you have an aviary. True, said she, let us go to
+it. I durst not as yet declare what I thought of this aviary; but
+there was something in the idea of it which disgusted me, and did not
+seem to correspond with the rest.
+
+We went down, through a thousand turnings, to the bottom of the
+orchard, where I found all the water collected in a fine rivulet,
+flowing gently between two rows of old willows, which had been
+frequently lopped. Their tops being hollow and half bare, formed a
+kind of vessel, from whence, by the contrivance I just now mentioned,
+grew several tufts of honey-suckles, of which one part intertwined
+among the branches, and the other dropped carelessly along the side of
+the rivulet. Near the extremity of the inclosure, was a little bason,
+bordered with grass, bulrushes, and weeds, which served as a watering
+place to the aviary, and was the last use made of this water, so
+precious and so well husbanded.
+
+Somewhat beyond this bason was a platform, which was terminated, in an
+angle of the inclosure, by a hillock planted with a number of little
+trees of all kinds; the smallest stood towards the summit, and their
+size increased, in proportion as the ground grew lower, which made
+their tops appear to be horizontal, or at least shewed that they were
+one day intended to be so. In the front stood a dozen of trees, which
+were young as yet, but of a nature to grow very large, such as the
+beech, the elm, the ash, and the acacia. The groves on this side,
+served as an asylum to that vast number of birds which I had heard
+chirping at a distance, and it was under the shade of this foliage, as
+under a large umbrella, that you might see them hop about, run, frisk,
+provoke each other, and fight, as if they had not perceived us. They
+were so far from flying at our approach, that, according to the notion
+with which I was prepossessed, I imagined them to have been inclosed
+within a wire; but when we came to the border of the bason, I saw
+several of them alight, and come towards us through a short walk which
+parted the platform in two, and made a communication between the bason
+and the aviary. Mr. Wolmar then going round the bason, scattered two
+or three handfuls of mixed grain, which he had in his pocket, along
+the walk, and when he retired, the birds flocked together and began to
+seed like so many chickens, with such an air of familiarity, that I
+plainly perceived they had been trained up to it. This is charming,
+said I: your using the word aviary, surprized me at first, but I now
+see what it is; I perceive that you invite them as your guests,
+instead of confining them as your prisoners. What do you mean by our
+guests? replied Eloisa; it is we who are theirs. They are masters
+here, and we pay them for being admitted some times. Very well, said
+I, but how did these masters get possession of this spot? How did you
+collect together so many voluntary inhabitants? I never heard of any
+attempt of this kind, and I could not have believed that such a design
+could have succeeded, if I had not evidence of it before my eyes.
+
+Time and patience, said Mr. Wolmar, have worked this miracle. These
+are expedients which the rich scarce ever think of in their pleasures.
+Always in haste for enjoyment, force and money are the only
+instruments they know how to employ; they have birds in cage, and
+friends at so much a mouth. If the servants ever came near this place,
+you would soon see the birds disappear, and if you perceive vast
+numbers of them at present, the reason is that this spot has always,
+in some degree, been a refuge for them. There is no bringing them
+together where there are none to invite them, but where there are some
+already, it is easy to increase their numbers by anticipating all
+their wants, by not frightening them, by suffering them to hatch with
+security, and by never disturbing the young ones in their nest; for by
+these means, such as are there, abide there, and those which come
+after them continue. This grove was already in being, though it was
+divided from the orchard; Eloisa has only inclosed it by a quick-set
+hedge, removed that which parted it, and enlarged and adorned it with
+new designs. You see to the right and left of the walk which leads to
+it, two spaces filled with a confused mixture of grass, straw, and all
+sorts of plants. She orders them every year to be sown with corn,
+millet, turnsol, hemp-seed, vetch; and in general all sorts of grain
+which birds are fond of, and nothing is ever reaped. Besides this,
+almost every day she or I bring them something to eat, and when we
+neglect, Fanny supplies our place. They are supplied with water, as
+you see, very easily. Mrs. Wolmar carries her attention so far as to
+provide for them, every spring, little heaps of hair straw, wool,
+moss, and other materials proper to build their nests. Thus by their
+having materials at hand, provisions in abundance, and by the great
+care we take to secure them from their enemies, [56] the uninterrupted
+tranquility they enjoy induces them to lay their eggs in this
+convenient place, where they want for nothing, and where nobody
+disturbs them. Thus the habitation of the fathers becomes the abode of
+the children, and the colony thrives and multiplies.
+
+Ah! said Eloisa, do you see nothing more? No one thinks beyond
+himself; but the affection of a constant pair, the zeal of their
+domestic concerns, paternal and maternal fondness, all this is lost
+upon you. Had you been here two months ago, you might have feasted
+your eyes with the most lovely sight, and have gratified your feelings
+with the most tender sensations in nature. Madam, said I, somewhat
+gravely, you are a wife and a mother; there are pleasures of which it
+becomes you to be susceptible. Mr. Wolmar then taking me cordially by
+the hand, said, You have friends, and those friends have children; how
+can you be a stranger to paternal affection? I looked at him, I looked
+at Eloisa, they looked at each other, and cast such an affecting eye
+upon me, that embracing them alternately, I said with tender emotion,
+They are as dear to me as to yourself. I do not know by what strange
+effect a single word can make such an alteration in our minds, but
+since that moment, Mr. Wolmar appears to me quite another man, and I
+consider him less in the light of a husband to her whom I have so long
+adored, as in that of the father of two children for whom I would lay
+down my life.
+
+I was going to walk round the bason, in order to draw nearer to this
+delightful asylum, and its little inhabitants, but Mrs. Wolmar checked
+me. Nobody, says she, goes to disturb them in their dwelling, and you
+are the first of our guests whom I ever brought so far. There are four
+keys to this orchard, of which my father and we have each of us one:
+Fanny has the fourth, as superintendent, and to bring the children
+here now and then; the value of which favour is greatly enhanced by
+the extreme circumspection which is required of them while they are
+here. Even Gustin never comes hither without one of the four: when the
+two spring months are over in which his labours are useful, he scarce
+ever comes hither afterwards, and all the rest we do ourselves. Thus,
+said I, for fear of making our birds slaves to you, you make
+yourselves slaves to your birds. This, she replied, is exactly the
+sentiment of a tyrant, who never thinks that he enjoys liberty, but
+while he is disturbing the freedom of others.
+
+As we were coming back, Mr. Wolmar threw a handful of barley into the
+bason, and on looking into it, I perceived some little fish. Ah, ah,
+said I immediately, here are some prisoners nevertheless. Yes, said
+he, they are prisoners of war, who have had their lives spared.
+Without doubt, added his wife. Some time since Fanny stole two perch
+out of the kitchen, and brought them hither without my knowledge. I
+leave them here, for fear of offending her if I sent them to the lake;
+for it is better to confine the fish in too narrow a compass, than to
+disoblige a worthy creature. You are in the right, said I, and the
+fish are not much to be pitied for having escaped from the frying-pan
+into the water.
+
+Well, how does it appear to you? said she, as we were coming back; are
+you got to the end of the world yet? No, I replied, I am quite out of
+the world, and you have in truth transported me into elysium. The
+pompous name she has given this orchard, said Mr. Wolmar, very well
+deserves that raillery. Be modest in your commendation of childish
+amusements, and be assured that they have never intrenched on the
+concerns of the mistress of a family. I know it, I am sure of it, I
+replied, and childish amusements please me more in this way than the
+labours of men.
+
+Still there is one thing here, I continued, which I cannot conceive:
+which is, that though a place: so different from what it was, can
+never have been altered to its present state; but by great care and
+culture; yet I can no where discover the least trace of cultivation.
+Every thing is verdant, fresh, and vigorous, and the hand of the
+gardener is no where to be discerned: nothing contradicts the idea of
+a desert island, which struck me at the first entrance, and I cannot
+perceive any footsteps of men. Oh, said Mr. Wolmar, it is because they
+have taken great pains to efface them. I have frequently been witness
+to, and sometimes an accomplice in this roguery. They sow all the
+cultivated spots with grass, which presently hides all appearance of
+culture. In the winter, they cover all the dry and barren spots with
+some lays of manure, the manure eats up the moss, revives the grass
+and the plants; the trees themselves do not fare the worse, and in the
+summer there is nothing of it to be seen. With regard to the moss
+which covers some of the walks, Lord B---- sent us the secret of
+making it grow from England. These two sides, he continued, were
+inclosed with walls; the walls have been covered not with hedges, but
+with thick trees, which make the boundaries of the place appear like
+the beginning of a wood. The two other sides are secured by strong
+thickset hedges well stocked with maple, hawthorn, holy-oak, privet,
+and other small trees, which destroy the appearance of the hedges, and
+make them look more like coppice-woods. You see nothing here in an
+exact row, nothing level; the line never entered this place; nature
+plants nothing by the line; the affective irregularity of the winding
+walks are managed with art, in order to prolong the walk, to hide the
+boundaries of the island, and to enlarge its extent in appearance,
+without making inconvenient and too frequent turnings. [57]
+
+Upon considering the whole, I thought it somewhat extraordinary that
+they should take so much pains to conceal the labour they had been at;
+would it not have been better to have taken no such pains?
+Notwithstanding all we have told you, replied Eloisa, you judge of the
+labour from its effect, and you deceive yourself. All that you see are
+wild and vigorous plants which need only to be put into the earth, and
+which afterwards spring up of themselves. Besides, nature seems
+desirous of hiding her real charms from the sight of men, because they
+are too little sensible of them, and disfigure them when they are
+within their reach; she flies from public places; it is on the tops of
+mountains, in the midst of forests, in desert islands, that she
+displays her most affecting charms. They who are in love with her and
+cannot go so far in pursuit of her, are forced to do her violence, by
+obliging her, in some measure, to come and dwell with them, and all
+this cannot be effected without some degree of illusion.
+
+At these words, I was struck with an idea which made them laugh. I am
+supposing to myself, said I, some rich man to be master of this house,
+and to bring an architect who is paid an extravagant price for
+spoiling nature. With what disdain would he enter this plain and
+simple spot! With what contempt would he order these ragged plants to
+be torn up! What fine lines he would draw! What fine walks he would
+cut! What fine geese-feet, what fine trees in the shape of umbrellas
+and fans he would make! What fine arbor work----nicely cut out! What
+beautiful grass-plats of fine English turf, round, square, sloping,
+oval! What fine yew-trees cut in the shape of dragons, pagods,
+marmosets, and all sorts of monsters! With what fine vases of brass,
+with what fine fruit in stone he would decorate his garden! [58] ...
+When he had done all this, said Mr. Wolmar, he would have made a very
+fine place, which would scarce ever be frequented, and from whence one
+should always go with eagerness to enjoy the country; a dismal place
+where nobody would walk, but only use it as a thoroughfare when they
+were setting out to walk; whereas in my rural rambles, I often make
+haste to return that I may walk here.
+
+I see nothing in those extensive grounds so lavishly ornamented, but
+the vanity of the proprietor and of the artist, who being eager to
+display, one his riches and the other his talents, only contribute, at
+a vast expense, to tire those who would enjoy their works. A false
+taste of grandeur, which was never designed for man, poisons all his
+pleasures. An air of greatness has always something melancholy in it;
+it leads us to consider the wretchedness of those who affect it. In
+the midst of these grass-plats and fine walks, the little individual
+does not grow greater; a tree twenty feet high will shelter him as
+well as one of sixty, [59] he never occupies a space of more than
+three feet, and in the midst of his immense possessions he is lost
+like a poor worm.
+
+There is another taste directly opposite to this, and still more
+ridiculous, because it does not allow us the pleasure of walking, for
+which gardens were intended. I understand you, said I; you allude to
+those petty virtuosi, who die away at the sight of a ranunculus, and
+fall prostrate before a tulip. Hereupon, my Lord, I gave them an
+account of what happened to me formerly at London in the flower-garden
+into which we were introduced with so much ceremony, and where we saw
+all the treasures of Holland displayed with so much lustre upon four
+beds of dung. I did not forget the ceremony of the umbrella and the
+little rod with which they honoured me, unworthy as I was, as well as
+the rest of the spectators. I modestly acknowledged how, by
+endeavouring to appear a virtuoso in my turn, and venturing to fall in
+ecstasies at the sight of a tulip which seemed to be of a fine shape
+and of a lively colour, I was mocked, hooted at, and hissed by all the
+connoisseurs, and how the florist who despised the flower despised its
+panegyrist likewise to that degree, that he did not even deign to look
+at me all the time we were together. I added, that I supposed he
+highly regretted having prostituted his rod and umbrello on one so
+unworthy.
+
+This taste, said Mr. Wolmar, when it degenerates into a passion, has
+something idle and little in it, which renders it puerile and
+ridiculously expensive. The other, at least, is noble, grand, and has
+something real in it. But what is the value of a curious root which an
+insect gnaws or spoils perhaps as soon as it is purchased, or of a
+flower which is beautiful at noon day, and fades before sun-set; what
+signifies a conventional beauty, which is only obvious to the eyes of
+virtuosi, and which is a beauty only because they will have it to be
+so? The time will come when they will require different kinds of
+beauty in flowers, from that which they seek after at present, and
+with as good reason; then you will be the connoisseur in your turn,
+and your virtuoso will appear ignorant. All these trifling attentions,
+which degenerate into a kind of study, are unbecoming a rational
+being, who, would keep his body in moderate exercise, or relieve his
+mind by amusing himself in a walk with his friends. Flowers were made
+to delight our eyes as we pass along, and not to be so curiously
+anatomized. [60] See the queen of them shine in every part of the
+orchard. It perfumes the air; it ravishes the eyes, and costs neither
+care nor culture. It is for this reason that florists despise it;
+nature has made it so lovely, that they cannot add to it any borrowed
+beauty, and as they cannot plague themselves with cultivating it, they
+find nothing in it which flatters their fancy. The mistake of your
+pretenders to taste is, that they are desirous of introducing art in
+every thing, and are never satisfied unless the art appears; whereas
+true taste consists in concealing it, especially when it concerns any
+of the works of nature. To what purpose are those strait gravelled
+walks which we meet with continually; and those stars which are so far
+from making a park appear more extensive to the view, as is commonly
+supposed, that they only contribute awkwardly to discover its
+boundaries? Do you ever see fine gravel in woods, or is that kind of
+gravel softer to the feet than moss or down? Does nature constantly
+make use of the square or rule? Are they afraid lest she be visible in
+some spot notwithstanding all their care to disfigure her? Upon the
+whole, it is droll enough to see them affect to walk in a strait line
+that they may sooner reach the end, as if they were tired of walking,
+before they have well begun? Would not one imagine, by their taking
+the shortest cut, that they were going a journey instead of a walk,
+and that they were in a hurry to get out as soon they come in?
+
+How will a man of taste act, who lives to relish life, who knows how
+to enjoy himself, who pursues real and simple pleasures, and who is
+inclined to make a walk before his house? He will make it so
+convenient and agreeable that he may enjoy it every hour of the day,
+and yet so natural and simple, that it will seem as if he had done
+nothing. He will introduce water, and will make the walk verdant,
+cool, and shady; for nature herself unites these properties. He will
+bestow no attention on symmetry, which is the bane of nature and
+variety, and the walks of gardens in general are so like each other,
+that we always fancy ourselves in the same. He will make the ground
+smooth, in order to walk more conveniently; but the two sides of his
+walks will not be exactly parallel; their direction will not always be
+recti-lineal, they will be somewhat irregular like the steps of an
+indolent man, who saunters in his walk: he will not be anxious about
+opening distant perspectives. The taste for perspective and distant
+views proceeds from the disposition of men in general, who are never
+satisfied with the place where they are. They are always desirous of
+what is distant from them, and the artist who cannot make them
+contented with the objects around them, flies to this resource to
+amuse them; but such a man as I speak of, is under no such
+inquietudes, and when he is agreeably fixed, he does not desire to be
+elsewhere. Here, for example, we have no prospect, and we are very
+well satisfied without any. We are willing to think that all the
+charms of nature are inclosed here, and I should be very much afraid
+lest a distant view should take off a good deal of the beauty from
+this walk. [61] Certainly he who would not chuse to pass his days in
+this simple and pleasant place, is not master of true taste or of a
+vigorous mind. I confess that one ought not to make a parade of
+bringing strangers hither; but then we can enjoy it ourselves, without
+shewing it to any one.
+
+Sir, said I, these rich people who have such fine gardens, have very
+good reasons for not choosing to walk alone, or to be in company with
+themselves only; therefore they are in the right to lay them out for
+the pleasure of others. Besides, I have seen gardens in China, made
+after your taste, and laid out with so much art that the art was not
+seen, but in such a costly manner, and kept up at such a vast expense,
+that that single idea destroyed all the pleasure I had in viewing
+them. There were rocks, grottos, and artificial cascades in level and
+sandy places, where there was nothing but spring-water; there were
+flowers and curious plants of all the climates in China and Tartary,
+collected and cultivated in the same soil. It is true, there were no
+fine walks or regular compartments; but you might see curiosities
+heaped together with profusion, which in nature are only to be found
+separate and scattered. Nature was there represented under a thousand
+various forms, and yet the whole taken together was not natural. Here
+neither earth nor stones are transplanted, you have neither pumps nor
+reservoirs, you have no occasion for green-houses or stoves, of bell
+glasses or straw-beds. A plain spot of ground has been improved by a
+few simple ornaments. A few common herbs and trees, and a few purling
+streams which flow without pomp or constraint, have contributed to
+embellish it. It is an amusement, which has cost little trouble, and
+the simplicity of it is an additional pleasure to the beholder. I can
+conceive that this place might be made still more agreeable, and yet
+be infinitely less pleasing to me. Such, for example, is Lord Cobham’s
+celebrated park at Stow. It consists of places extremely beautiful and
+picturesque, modelled after the fashion of different countries, and in
+which every thing appears natural except their conjunction, as in the
+gardens of China, which I just now mentioned. The proprietor who made
+this stately solitude, has even erected ruins, temples, old buildings,
+and different ages as well as different places are collected with more
+than mortal magnificence. This is the very thing I dislike. I would
+have the amusements of mankind carry an air of ease with them which
+does not put one in mind of their weakness, and that while we admire
+these curiosities our imagination may not be disturbed by reflecting
+on the vast sums of money and labour they have cost. Are we not
+destined to trouble enough, without making our amusements a fatigue?
+
+I have but one objection, I added, looking at Eloisa, to make to your
+elysium, but which you will probably think of some weight, which is,
+that it is a superfluous amusement. To what purpose was it to make a
+new walk, when you have such beautiful groves on the other side of the
+house which you neglect? That’s true, said she, somewhat disconcerted,
+but I like this better. If you had thoroughly reflected on the
+propriety of your question before you had made it, said Mr. Wolmar,
+interrupting us, it might be imputed to you as more than an
+indiscretion. My wife has never set her foot in those groves since she
+has been married. I know the reason though she has always kept it a
+secret from me. You who are no stranger to it, learn to respect the
+spot where you are; it has been planted by the hands of virtue.
+
+I had scarce received this just reprimand, but the little family led
+by Fanny, came in as we were going out. These three lovely children
+threw themselves round Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s necks. I likewise shared
+their little caresses. Eloisa and I returned into elysium to take a
+little turn with them; afterwards we went to join Mr. Wolmar who was
+talking to some workmen. In our way, she told me, that she no sooner
+became a mother, than an idea struck into her mind, with respect to
+that walk, which increased her zeal for embellishing it. I had an eye,
+said she, to the health and amusement of my children as they grew
+older. It requires more care than labour to keep up this place; it is
+more essential to give a certain turn to the branches of the plants,
+than to dig and cultivate the ground; I intend one day to make
+gardeners of my little ones: they shall have sufficient exercise to
+strengthen their constitution, and not enough to enfeeble it. Besides,
+what is too much for their age, shall be done by others, and they
+shall confine themselves to such little works as may amuse them. I
+cannot describe, she added, what pleasure I enjoy in imagining my
+infants busy in returning those little attentions which I now bestow
+on them with such satisfaction, and the joy of which their tender
+hearts will be susceptible, when they see their mother walking with
+delight under the shades, which have been formed by their own hands.
+In truth, my friend, said she, with an affecting tone, time thus spent
+is an emblem of the felicity of the next world, and it was not without
+reason that, reflecting on these scenes, I christened this place
+before hand by the name of elysium. My Lord, this incomparable woman
+is as amiable in the character of a mother as in that of a wife, a
+friend, a daughter, and to the eternal punishment of my soul, she was
+thus lovely when my mistress.
+
+Transported with this delightful place, I intreated them in the
+evening to consent that, during my stay, Fanny should entrust me with
+her key, and consign to me the office of feeding the birds. Eloisa
+immediately sent a sack of grain to my chamber, and gave me her own
+key. I cannot tell for what reason, but I accepted it with a kind of
+concern, and it seemed as if Mr. Wolmar’s would have been more
+acceptable to me.
+
+In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child,
+went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I
+hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect
+of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that
+new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects
+around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about
+me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has
+not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I
+shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed;
+the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her
+charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear
+the Eloisa of my soul.
+
+As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected
+the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same
+spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole
+frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I
+expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my
+imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time
+since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared
+to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she
+appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that
+amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train
+which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children,
+those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender
+friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting
+embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so
+beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity. I imagined that I could
+perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom
+of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter
+reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I
+had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively
+instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent
+passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through
+such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the
+shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and
+how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing
+scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled
+to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my
+imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to
+contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her
+children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart,
+which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature.
+There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what
+contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul
+with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive
+passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her
+mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made
+choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled
+conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul,
+as in this asylum which she has named.
+
+I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there
+were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in
+elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In
+observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived
+that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections,
+which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with
+one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t
+know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that
+one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to
+do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles
+may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind
+with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all
+internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the
+advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who
+has purchased them, knows what they cost.
+
+_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno
+Si legesse in fronte scritto
+Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno
+Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]
+
+As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and
+acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you
+yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming
+sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I
+went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief
+done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s
+true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose
+the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted
+into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is
+the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never
+appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our
+secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the
+delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the
+only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are;
+why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say;
+this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I
+learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to
+their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether
+Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much,
+not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of
+her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my
+protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from
+the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me
+from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel
+instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as
+against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had
+I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less
+on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to
+blush at my sentiments.
+
+Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your
+friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon
+dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare
+believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara,
+attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your
+advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.
+
+During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most
+perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know
+that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and
+that having received him from a father as solicitous for his
+daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never
+expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought
+proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my
+honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me
+estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I
+was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a
+stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no
+occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him
+as much as possible.
+
+This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before
+the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the
+country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods,
+and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life
+commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent
+palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if
+shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which
+dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the
+interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do
+not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time
+after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance
+pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave
+me.
+
+On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards
+me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause,
+taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to
+perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may
+be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common
+good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of
+approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you
+are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and
+though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no
+secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.
+
+He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto
+been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it,
+you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master
+of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six
+years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks
+too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal
+it.
+
+I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my
+life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my
+adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their
+nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily
+imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my
+affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they
+reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid
+them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the
+true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of
+pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those
+interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of
+others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in
+distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for
+when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active
+principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the
+accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined
+together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or
+like a piece well represented on the stage. If I have any ruling
+passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of
+mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with
+a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some
+sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments;
+this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love
+receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part,
+but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me
+for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could
+alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would
+willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind
+does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be
+seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are
+necessary, to me.
+
+The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of
+observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more
+in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to,
+and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By
+quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured
+myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and
+which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a
+desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into
+the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness
+of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having
+killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty.
+The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to
+give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me
+with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to
+return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day
+grown stronger. I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that
+interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which
+influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which
+are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable
+to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a
+kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad
+according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on
+customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human
+policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain
+notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the
+different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them
+together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed
+in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if
+we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in
+order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify
+myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I
+stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever
+condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her
+gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she
+might have expected.
+
+Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent
+philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which
+I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of
+improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from
+nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of
+contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative,
+attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of
+this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was
+always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape
+it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of
+some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me,
+afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I
+experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to
+the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I
+myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of
+matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a
+husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of
+my family. It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to
+supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter
+to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of
+mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to
+it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come
+and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman
+will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I
+found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports,
+the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or
+rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the
+impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations
+are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years
+absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the
+state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a
+return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear
+Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets
+had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded
+me, knowing me to be the property of another.
+
+This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended
+against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and
+my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself
+into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing
+but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to
+restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise.
+This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every
+thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from
+temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as
+soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways
+alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but
+once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion
+had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I
+took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All
+great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason
+never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our
+passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the
+ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms
+the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of
+passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their
+own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.
+
+You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one,
+I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was
+guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect
+of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of
+making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were
+essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre-
+engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but
+the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression
+which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to
+make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to
+render you truly estimable.
+
+Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion
+of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection,
+which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was
+impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life
+half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single
+impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself
+with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my
+tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought
+that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish;
+I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you
+observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent
+conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I
+copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one
+day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your
+tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular;
+you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of
+a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy
+companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my
+dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.
+
+At these words, in spite of all my endeavours not to interrupt him but
+by my tears, I could not forbear throwing myself round his neck, and
+crying out; O my dear husband! O thou best and most amiable of men!
+Tell me what is wanting to compleat my happiness, but to promote your
+felicity, and to be more deserving... You are as happy as you can be,
+said he, interrupting me; you deserve to be so; but it is time to
+enjoy that felicity in peace, which has hitherto cost you such vast
+pains. If your fidelity had been all I required, that would have been
+ensured the moment you made me the promise; I wanted moreover to make
+it easy and agreeable to you, and we have both laboured to this end in
+concert, without communicating our views to each other. Eloisa, we
+have succeeded; better than you imagine perhaps. The only fault I find
+in you is, that you do not resume that confidence which you have a
+right to repose in yourself, and that you undervalue your own worth.
+Extreme diffidence is as dangerous as excessive confidence. As that
+rashness which prompts us to attempts beyond our strength renders our
+power ineffectual, so that timidity which prevents us from relying on
+ourselves, renders it useless. True prudence consists in being
+thoroughly acquainted with the measure of our own power, and acting up
+to it. You have acquired an increase of strength by changing your
+condition. You are no longer that unfortunate girl who bewailed the
+weakness she indulged; you are the most virtuous of women, you are
+bound by no laws but those of honour and duty, and the only fault that
+can now be imputed to you, is that you retain too lively a sense of
+your former indiscretion. Instead of taking reproachful precautions
+against yourself, learn to depend upon your self, and your confidence
+will increase your strength. Banish that injurious diffidence, and
+think yourself happy in having made choice of an honest man at an age
+which is liable to imposition, and in having entertained a lover
+formerly, whom you may now enjoy as a friend, even under your
+husband’s eye. I was no sooner made acquainted with your connections,
+than I judged of you by each other. I perceived what enthusiastic
+delusion led you astray; it never operates but on susceptible minds;
+it sometimes ruins them, but it is by a charm which has power to
+seduce them alone. I judged that the same turn of mind which formed
+your attachment would break it as soon as it became criminal, and that
+vice might find an entrance, but never take root in such hearts as
+yours.
+
+I conceived moreover that the connection between you ought not to be
+broken; that there were so many laudable circumstances attending your
+mutual attachment, that it ought rather to be rectified than
+destroyed; and that neither of the two could forget the other, without
+diminishing their own worth. I knew that great struggles only served
+to inflame strong passions, and that if violent efforts exercised the
+mind, they occasioned such torments as by their continuance might
+subdue it. I took advantage of Eloisa’s gentleness, to moderate the
+severity of her reflections. I nourished her friendship for you, said
+he to St. Preux; I banished all immoderate passion, and I believe that
+I have preserved you a greater share of her affections, than she would
+have left you, had I abandoned her entirely to herself.
+
+My success encouraged me, and I determined to attempt your cure as I
+had accomplished hers; for I had an esteem for you, and
+notwithstanding the prejudices of vice, I have always observed that
+every good end is to be obtained from susceptible minds by means of
+confidence and sincerity. I saw you, you did not deceive me; you will
+not deceive me; and though you are not yet what you ought to be, I
+find you more improved than you imagine, and I am better satisfied
+with you than you are with yourself. I know that my conduct has an
+extravagant appearance, and is repugnant to the common received
+principles. But maxims become less general, in proportion as we are
+better acquainted with the human heart: and Eloisa’s husband ought not
+to act like men in common. My dear children, said he, with a tone the
+more affecting as it came from a dispassionate man; remain what you
+are, and we shall all be happy. Danger consists chiefly in opinion; be
+not afraid of yourselves, and you will have nothing to apprehend; only
+think on the present, and I will answer for the future. I cannot
+communicate any thing farther to day, but if my schemes succeed, and
+my hopes do not betray me, our destiny will be better fulfilled, and
+you two will be much happier than if you had enjoyed each other.
+
+As we rose, he embraced us, and would have us likewise embrace each
+other, on that spot. On that very spot where formerly... Clara, O my
+dear Clara, how dearly have you ever loved me! I made no resistance.
+Alas! How indiscreet would it have been to have made any! This kiss
+was nothing like that which rendered the grove terrible to me. I
+silently congratulated myself, and I found that my heart was more
+changed than I had hitherto ventured to imagine.
+
+As we were walking towards home, my husband, taking me by the hand,
+stopt me, and shewing me the wood we had just left, he said to me
+smiling; Eloisa, be no longer afraid of this asylum; it has not been
+lately profaned. You will not believe me, cousin, but I swear that he
+has some supernatural gift of reading one’s inmost thoughts: may
+heaven continue it to him! Having such reason to despise myself, it is
+certainly to this art that I am indebted for his indulgence.
+
+You do not see yet any occasion I have for your advice; patience, my
+angel! I am coming to that point; but the conversation which I have
+related, was necessary to clear up what follows.
+
+On our return, my husband, who has long been expected at Etange, told
+me that he proposed going thither to-morrow, that he should see you in
+his way, and that he should stay there five or six days. Without
+saying all I thought concerning such an ill-timed journey, I told him
+that I imagined the necessity was not so indispensable as to oblige
+Mr. Wolmar to leave his guest, whom he had himself invited to his
+house. Would you have me, he replied, use ceremony with him to remind
+him that he is not at home? I am like the Valaisians for hospitality.
+I hope he will find their sincerity here, and allow us to use their
+freedom. Perceiving that he would not understand me, I took another
+method, and endeavoured to persuade our guest to take the journey with
+him. You will find a spot, said I, which has its beauties, and such as
+you are fond of; you will visit my patrimony and that of my ancestors;
+the interest you take in every thing which concerns me, will not allow
+me to suppose that such a sight can be indifferent to you. My mouth
+was open to add that the castle was like that of Lord B----, who...
+but luckily I had time to bite my tongue. He answered me coolly that I
+was in the right, and that he would do as I pleased. But Mr. Wolmar,
+who seemed determined to drive me to an extremity, replied that he
+should do what was most agreeable to himself. Which do you like best,
+to go or to stay? To stay, said he, without hesitating. Well, stay
+then, rejoined my husband, taking him by the hand: you are a sincere
+and honest man, and I am well pleased with that declaration. There was
+no room for much altercation between my husband and me, in the hearing
+of this third person. I was silent, but could not conceal my
+uneasiness so well, but my husband perceived it. What! said he, with
+an air of discontent, St. Preux being at a little distance from us,
+shall I have pleaded your cause against yourself in vain, and will
+Mrs. Wolmar remain satisfied with a virtue which depends on
+opportunity? For my part, I am more nice; I will be indebted for the
+fidelity of my wife, to her affection, not to chance; and it is not
+enough that she is constant, it wounds my delicacy to think that she
+should doubt her constancy.
+
+At length, he took us into his closet, where I was extremely surprized
+to see him take from a drawer, along with the copies of some of our
+friend’s correspondences which I delivered to him, the very original
+letters which I thought I had seen burned by B---- in my mother’s
+room. Here, said he to me, shewing them to us, are the pledges of my
+security; if they deceive me, it would be a folly to depend on any
+thing which concerns human nature. I consign my wife and my honour in
+charge to her, who, when single and seduced, preferred an act of
+benevolence, to a secure and private rendezvous. I trust Eloisa, now
+that she is a wife and a mother, to him who, when he had it in his
+power to gratify his desires, yet knew how to respect Eloisa when
+single and a fond girl. If either of you think so meanly of
+yourselves, as to suppose that I am in the wrong, say so, and I
+retract this instant. Cousin, do you think that one could easily
+venture to make answer to such a speech?
+
+I nevertheless sought an opportunity in the afternoon of speaking with
+my husband in private, and without entering into reasons which I was
+not at liberty to urge, I only intreated him to put off his journey
+for two days. My request was granted immediately; and I employ the
+time, in sending you this express and waiting for your answer, to know
+how I am to act.
+
+I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who
+never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But
+I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he
+reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem,
+if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he
+allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux,
+and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what
+will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step
+without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might
+seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am
+afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it
+absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most
+easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole
+however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in
+competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact?
+This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.
+
+The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to
+encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no
+symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which
+passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble.
+Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion
+tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these
+recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who
+was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent
+since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet,
+I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to
+think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of
+virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the
+horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments
+which virtue has extinguished.
+
+But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when
+reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on
+my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not
+an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have
+so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride
+which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers
+which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to
+yield again to temptation?
+
+Weigh all these circumstances, my dear Clara, you will find that
+though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient
+importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they
+concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown
+me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my
+past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in
+deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your
+mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present
+themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated
+like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer
+dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and
+notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern,
+that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end
+of our lives.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXII. Answer.
+
+
+Poor Eloisa! With so much reason to live at ease, what torments you
+continually create! All thy misfortunes come from thyself, O Israel!
+If you adhered to your own maxims; if, in point of sentiment, you only
+hearkened to the voice within you, and your heart did but silence your
+reason, you would then without scruple trust to that security it
+inspires, and you would not constrain yourself against the testimony
+of your own heart, to dread a danger which can arise only from thence.
+
+I understand you, I perfectly understand you, Eloisa; being more
+secure in yourself than you pretend to be, you have a mind to humble
+yourself on account of your past failings, under a pretence of
+preventing new ones; and your scruples are not so much precautions
+against the future, as a penance you impose upon yourself to atone for
+the indiscretion which ruined you formerly. You compare the times; do
+you consider? Compare situations likewise, and remember that I then
+reproved you for your confidence, as I now reprove you for your
+diffidence.
+
+You are mistaken, my dear; but nature does not alter so soon. If we
+can forget our situation for want of reflection, we see it in its true
+light when we take pains to consider of it, and we can no more conceal
+our virtues than our vices from ourselves. Your gentleness and
+devotion have given you a turn for humility. Mistrust that dangerous
+virtue which only excites self-love by making it centre in one point,
+and be assured that the noble sincerity of an upright mind, is greatly
+preferable to the pride of humility. If moderation is necessary in
+wisdom, it is requisite likewise in those precautions it suggests,
+lest a solicitude which is reproachful to virtue should debase the
+mind, and, by keeping us in constant alarm, render a chimerical danger
+a real one. Don’t you perceive that after we have had a fall, we
+should hold ourselves upright, and that by leaning too much towards
+the side opposite to that on which we fell, we are in danger of
+falling again? Cousin, you loved like Eloisa. Now, like her, you are
+an extravagant devotee; he even said that you may be more successful
+in the latter than you were in the former! In truth, if I was less
+acquainted with your natural timidity, your apprehensions would be
+sufficient to terrify me in my turn, and if I was so scrupulous, I
+might, from being alarmed for you, begin to tremble for myself.
+
+Consider farther, my dear friend; you whose system of morality is as
+easy and natural as it is pure and honest, do not make constructions
+which are harsh and foreign to your character, with respect to your
+maxims concerning the separation of the sexes. I agree with you that
+they ought not to live together, nor after the same manner; but
+consider whether this important rule does not admit of many
+distinctions in point of practice; examine whether it ought to be
+applied indiscriminately, and without exception to married as well as
+to single women, to society in general as well as to particular
+connections, to business as well as to amusements, and whether that
+honour and decency which inspire these maxims, ought not sometimes to
+regulate them? In well governed countries, where the natural relations
+of things are attended to in matrimony, you would admit of assemblies
+where young persons of both sexes, might see, be acquainted, and
+associate with each other; but you prohibit them, with good reason,
+from holding any private intercourse. But is not the case quite
+different with regard to married women and the mothers of families,
+who can have no interest, that is justifiable, in exhibiting
+themselves in public; who are confined within doors by their domestic
+concerns, and who should not be refused to do any thing at home which
+is becoming the mistress of a family? I should not like to see you in
+the cellars presenting the wine for the merchants to taste, nor to see
+you leave your children to settle accounts with a banker; but if an
+honest man should come to visit your husband, or to transact some
+business with him, will you refuse to entertain his guest in his
+absence; and to do him the honours of the house for fear of being left
+_tete a tete_ with him? Trace this principle to its source, and it
+will explain all your maxims. Why do we suppose that women ought to
+live retired and apart from the men? Shall we do such injustice to our
+sex as to account for it upon principles drawn from our weakness, and
+that it is only to avoid the danger of temptations? No, my dear, these
+unworthy apprehensions do not become an honest woman, and the mother
+of a family who is continually surrounded with objects which nourish
+in her the sentiments of honour, and who is devoted to the most
+respectable duties of human nature. It is nature herself that divides
+us from the men, by prescribing to us different occupations; it is
+that amiable and timorous modesty, which, without being immediately
+attentive to chastity, is nevertheless its surest guardian; it is that
+cautious and affecting reserve, which at one and the same time
+cherishing both desire and respect in the hearts of men, serves as a
+kind of coquetry to virtue. This is the reason why even husbands
+themselves are not excepted out of this rule. This is the reason why
+the most discreet women generally maintain the greatest ascendancy
+over their husbands; because, by the help of this prudent and discreet
+reserve, without shewing any caprice or non-compliance, they know,
+even in the embraces of the most tender union, how to keep them at a
+distance, and prevent their being cloyed with them. You will agree
+with me that your maxims are too general not to admit of exceptions,
+and that not being founded on any rigorous duty, the same principle
+of decorum which established them, may sometimes justify our
+dispensing with them.
+
+The circumspection which you ground on your past failings, is
+injurious to your present condition; I will never pardon this
+unnecessary caution which your heart dictates, and I can scarce
+forgive it in your reason. How was it possible that the rampart which
+protects your person, could not secure you from such an ignominious
+apprehension? How could my cousin, my sister, my friend, my Eloisa,
+confound the indiscretions of a girl of too much sensibility, with the
+infidelity of a guilty wife? Look around you, you will see nothing but
+what contributes to raise and support your mind. Your husband who has
+such confidence in you, and whose esteem it becomes you to justify;
+your children whom you would train to virtue, and who will one day
+deem it an honour that you was their mother; your venerable father who
+is so dear to you, who enjoys your felicity, and who derives more
+lustre from you than from his ancestors; your friend whose fate
+depends on yours, and to whom you must be accountable for a
+reformation to which she has contributed; her daughter, to whom you
+ought to set an example of those virtues which you would excite in
+her; your philosopher, who is a hundred times fonder of your virtues,
+than of your person, and who respects you still more than you
+apprehend; lastly, yourself, who are sensible what painful efforts
+your discretion has cost you, and who will surely never forfeit the
+fruit of so much trouble in a single moment; how many motives capable
+of inspiring you with courage, conspire to make you ashamed of having
+ventured to mistrust yourself! But in order to answer for my Eloisa,
+what occasion have I to consider what she is? It is enough that I know
+what she was, during the indiscretions which she bewails. Ah! if your
+heart had ever been capable of infidelity, I would allow you to be
+continually apprehensive: but at the very time when you imagined that
+you viewed it at a distance, you may conceive the horror its real
+existence would have occasioned you, by what you felt at that time,
+when but to imagine it, had been to have committed it.
+
+I recollect with what astonishment we learnt that there was a nation
+where the wellness of a fond maid is considered as an inexpiable
+crime, though the adultery of a married woman is there softened by the
+gentle term of gallantry, and where married women publicly make
+themselves amends for the short-lived restraint they undergo while
+single. I know what maxims, in this respect, prevail in high life,
+where virtue passes for nothing, where every thing is empty
+appearance, where crimes are effaced by the difficulty of proving
+them, or where the proof itself becomes ridiculous against custom. But
+you, Eloisa, you who glowed with a pure and constant passion, who was
+guilty only in the eyes of men, and between heaven and earth was open
+to no reproach! You, who made yourself respected in the midst of your
+indiscretions; you, who being abandoned to fruitless regret, obliged
+us even to adore those virtues which you had forfeited; you, who
+disdained to endure self-contempt, when every thing seemed to plead in
+your excuse, can you be apprehensive of guilt, after having paid so
+dearly for your weakness? Will you dare to be afraid that you have
+less power now, than you had in those days which cost you so many
+tears? No, my dear, so far from being alarmed at your former
+indiscretions, they ought to inspire you with courage; so severe a
+repentance does not lead to remorse, and whoever is so susceptible of
+shame, will never bid defiance to infamy.
+
+If ever a weak mind had supports against its weakness, they are such
+as uphold you; if ever a vigorous mind was capable of supporting
+itself, what prop can yours require? Tell me, what reasonable grounds
+there can be for your apprehensions? All your life has been a
+continual struggle, in which, even after your defeat, honour and duty
+never ceased opposition, and at length came off victorious. Ah!
+Eloisa! shall I believe that, after so much pain and torment, after
+twelve years passed in tears, and six spent gloriously, that you still
+dread a trial of eight days? In few words, deal sincerely with
+yourself; if there really is any danger, save your person, and blush
+at the condition of your heart; if there is no danger, it is an
+offence to your reason, it is a dishonour to your virtue to be
+apprehensive of perils which can never affect it. Do you not know that
+there are some scandalous temptations which never approach noble
+minds; that it is even shameful to be under a necessity of subduing
+them, and that to take precautions against them, is not so much to
+humble, as to debase ourselves?
+
+I do not presume to give you my arguments as unanswerable, but only to
+convince you that yours may be controverted, and that is sufficient to
+warrant my advice. Do not depend on yourself, for you do not know how
+to do yourself justice, nor on me; who even in your indiscretions
+never considered any thing but your heart and always adored you; but
+refer to your husband who sees you such as you are, and judges of you,
+exactly according to your real worth. Being, like all people of
+sensibility, ready to judge ill of those who appear insensible, I
+mistrusted his power of penetration into the secrets of susceptible
+minds, but since the arrival of our traveller, I find by his letters
+that he reads yours perfectly well, and that there is not a single
+emotion which escapes his observation. I find his remarks so just and
+acute, that I have almost changed my opinion to the other extreme; and
+I shall readily believe that your dispassionate people, who consult
+their eyes more than their hearts, judge better of other men’s
+passions, than your impetuous lively and vain persons like myself, who
+always begin by supposing themselves in another’s place, and can never
+see any thing but what they feel. However it be, Mr. Wolmar is
+thoroughly acquainted with you, he esteems you, he loves you, and his
+destiny is blended with yours. What does he require, but that you
+would leave to him the entire direction of your conduct, with which
+you are afraid to trust yourself? Perhaps finding old age coming on,
+he is desirous, by some trials on which he may depend, to prevent
+those uneasy jealousies, which an old husband generally feels who is
+married to a young wife; perhaps the design he has in view requires
+that you should live in a state of familiarity with your friend,
+without alarming either your husband or yourself; perhaps he only
+means to give you a testimony of confidence and esteem, worthy of that
+which he entertains for you. You should never oppose such sentiments,
+as if the weight of them was too much for you to endure; and for my
+part, I think, that you cannot act more agreeably to the dictates of
+prudence and modesty, than by relying entirely on his tenderness and
+understanding.
+
+Could you, without offending Mr. Wolmar, punish yourself for a vanity
+you never had, and prevent a danger which no longer exists? Remain
+alone with the philosopher, use all the superfluous precautions
+against him, which would formerly have been of such service to you;
+maintain the same reserve as if you still mistrusted your own heart
+and his, as well as your own virtue. Avoid all pathetic conversation,
+all tender recollection of time past; break off or prevent long _tete
+a tete_ interviews; be constantly surrounded by your children; do not
+stay long with him in a room, in elysium, or in the grove notwithstanding
+the profanation. Above all things, use these precautions in so
+natural a manner, that they may seem to be the effect of chance, and
+that he may never once suspect that you are afraid of him. You love to
+go upon the water; but you deprive yourself of the pleasure on account
+of your husband who is afraid of that element, and of your children
+whom you do not chuse to venture there. Take the advantage of this
+absence, to entertain yourself with this recreation, and leave your
+children to the care of Fanny. By this means you may securely devote
+yourself to the sweet familiarity of friendship, and quietly enjoy a
+long _tete a tete_ under the protection of the watermen, who see
+without understanding, and from whom we cannot go far without thinking
+what we are about.
+
+A thought strikes me which many people would laugh at, but which will
+be agreeable to you, I am sure; that is to keep an exact journal in
+your husband’s absence, to shew him on his return, and to think on
+this journal, with regard to every circumstance which is to be set
+down in it. In truth, I do not believe that such an expedient would be
+of service to many women; but a sincere mind, incapable of deceit, has
+many resources against vice, which others stand in need of. We ought
+to despise nothing which tends to preserve a purity of manners, and it
+is by means of trifling precautions, that great virtues are secured.
+
+Upon the whole, as your husband is to see me in his way, he will tell
+me, I hope, the true reasons of his journey, and if I do not find them
+substantial, I will persuade him from proceeding any farther, or at
+all events, I will do what he has refused to do: upon this you may
+depend. In the mean time, I think I have said enough to fortify you
+against a trial of eight days. Go, Eloisa, I know you too well not to
+answer for you as much, nay more than I could for myself. You will
+always be what you ought to be, and what you desire to be. If you do
+but rely on the integrity of your own mind, you will run no risk
+whatever; for I have no faith in these unforeseen defects; it is in
+vain to disguise voluntary failings by the idle appellation of
+weaknesses; no woman was ever yet overcome who had not an inclination
+to surrender; and if I thought that such a fate could attend you,
+believe me, trust to the tenderness of my friendship, rely on all the
+sentiments which would arise in the heart of your poor Clara, I should
+be too sensibly interested in your protection, to abandon you entirely
+to yourself.
+
+As to what Mr. Wolmar declared to you concerning the intelligence he
+received before your marriage, I am not much surprized at it; you know
+I always suspected it; and I will tell you, moreover, that my
+suspicions are not confined to the indiscretions of B----. I could
+never suppose that a man of truth and integrity like your father, and
+who had some suspicions at least himself, would resolve to impose upon
+his son-in-law and his friend. If he engaged you so strictly to
+secrecy, it was because the mode of discovery would come from him in a
+very different manner to what it would have proceeded from you, and
+because he was willing no doubt to give it a turn less likely to
+disgust Mr. Wolmar, than that which he very well knew you would not
+fail to give it yourself. But I must dismiss your messenger, we will
+chat about there matters more at our leisure about a month hence.
+
+Farewell, my dearest cousin, I have preached long enough to the
+preacher; resume your old occupation.----I find myself quite uneasy
+that I cannot be with you yet. I disorder all my affairs, by hurrying
+to dispatch them, and I scarce know what to do. Ah Chaillot,
+Chaillot... If I was less giddy...but I always hope that I shall----
+
+P. S. A propos; I forgot to make my compliments to your highness. Tell
+me, I beseech you, is the gentleman your husband Atteman, Knes, or
+Boyard? [63] O poor child! You, who have so often lamented being born
+a gentlewoman, are in high luck to become the wife of a prince!
+Between ourselves nevertheless you discover apprehensions which are
+somewhat vulgar for a woman of such high quality. Do not you know,
+that little scruples belong to mean people; and that a child of a good
+family, who should pretend to be his father’s son, would be laughed
+at.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXIII. Mr. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+I am going to Etange, my sweet cousin, and I proposed to call upon you
+in my way; but a delay of which you are the cause obliges me to make
+more haste, and I had rather lie at Lausanne as I come back, that I
+may pass a few hours the more with you. Besides I want to consult you
+with regard to many particulars, which it is proper to communicate
+before hand that you may have time to consider of them before you give
+me your opinion.
+
+I would not explain my scheme to you in relation to the young man,
+till his presence had confirmed the good opinion I had conceived of
+him. I think I may now depend upon him sufficiently to acquaint you,
+between ourselves, that my design is to entrust him with the education
+of my children. I am not ignorant that those important concerns are
+the principal duty of a parent; but when it will be time to exert
+them, I shall be too old to discharge them, and being naturally calm
+and speculative by constitution, I should never have been sufficiently
+active to govern the spirit of youth. Besides for a reason you know,
+[64] Eloisa would be concerned to see me assume an office, in which I
+should never acquit myself to her liking. I have a thousand reasons
+besides; your sex is not equal to these duties; their mother shall
+confine herself to the education of her Henrietta; to your share I
+allot the management of the houshold upon the plan already
+established, and of which you approve; and it shall be my business to
+behold three worthy people concurring to promote the happiness of the
+family, and to enjoy that repose in my old age, for which I shall be
+indebted to their labours.
+
+I have always found, that my wife was extremely averse from trusting
+her children to the care of mercenaries, and I could not discommend
+her scruples. The respectable capacity of a preceptor requires so many
+talents which are not to be paid for, so many virtues which have no
+piece set upon them, that it is in vain to think of procuring one by
+means of money. It is from a man of genius only that we can expect the
+talents of a preceptor; it is from the heart of an affectionate friend
+alone that we can hope to meet with the zeal of a parent; and genius
+is not to be sold any more than attachment.
+
+All the requisite qualities seem to be united in your friend; and if I
+am well acquainted with his disposition, I do not think he would
+desire greater happiness, than to make those beloved children
+contribute to their mother’s felicity. The only obstacle I can foresee
+is his affection for Lord B----, which will not allow him to disengage
+himself from so dear a friend, to whom he has such great obligations,
+at least if his Lordship does not require it himself. We expect to see
+this extraordinary man very soon; and as you have a great ascendancy
+over him, if he answers the idea you have given me of him, I may
+commit the business, so far as it relates to him, to your management.
+
+You have now, my dear cousin, the clue of my whole conduct, which,
+without this explanation, must have appeared very extraordinary, and
+which, I hope, will hereafter meet with Eloisa’s approbation and
+yours. The advantage of having such a wife as I have, made me try many
+expedients which would have been impracticable with another. Though I
+leave her, in full confidence, with her old lover, under no other
+guard than her own virtue, it would be madness to establish that lover
+in my family, before I was certain that he ceased to be such; and how
+could I be assured of it, if I had a wife on whom I had less
+dependence?
+
+I have often observed you smile at my remarks on love; but now I
+think I can mortify you. I have made a discovery which neither you nor
+any other woman, with all the subtlety they attribute to your sex,
+would ever have made; the proof of which you will nevertheless
+perceive at first sight, and you will allow it to be equal to
+demonstration, when I explain to you the principles on which I ground
+it. Was I to tell you that my young couple are more fond than ever,
+this undoubtedly would not appear wonderful to you. Was I to assure
+you on the contrary, that they are perfectly cured; you know the power
+of reason and virtue, and therefore you would not look upon that
+neither as a vast miracle: but if I tell you, that both these
+opposites are true at the same time; that they love each other with
+more ardor than ever, and that nothing subsists between them but a
+virtuous, attachment; that they are always lovers, and yet never more
+than friends: this, I imagine is what you would least expect, what
+you will have more difficulty to conceive, and what nevertheless
+precisely corresponds with truth.
+
+This is the riddle, which makes those frequent contradictions, which
+you must have observed in them, both in their conversation and in
+their letters. What you wrote to Eloisa concerning the picture, has
+served more than any thing to explain the mystery, and I find that
+they are always sincere, even in contradicting themselves continually.
+When I say they, I speak particularly of the young man; for as to your
+friend, one can only speak of her by conjecture. A veil of wisdom and
+honour makes so many folds about her heart, that it is impenetrable to
+human eyes, even to her own. The only circumstance which leads me to
+imagine that she has still some distrust to overcome is, that she is
+continually considering with herself what she should do if she was
+perfectly cured; and she examines herself with so much accuracy, that
+if she was really cured, she would not do it so well.
+
+As to your friend, who, though virtuously inclined, is less
+apprehensive of his present feelings, I find that he still retains all
+the affections of his youth; but I perceive them without having any
+reason to be offended at them. It is not Eloisa Wolmar he is fond of,
+but Eloisa Etange; he does not hate me as the possessor of the object
+I love, but as the ravisher of her whom he doated on. His friend’s
+wife is not his mistress, the mother of two children is not her who
+was formerly his scholar. It is true she is very like that person, and
+often puts him in mind of her. He loves her in the time past. This is
+the true explanation of the riddle. Deprive him of his memory, and you
+destroy his love.
+
+This is not an idle subtlety, my pretty cousin, but a solid
+observation, which, if extended to other affections, may admit of a
+more general application, than one would imagine. I even think that,
+it would not be difficult to explain it by your own ideas. The time,
+when you parted the two lovers, was when their passion was at the
+highest degree of impetuosity. Perhaps, if they had continued much
+longer together, they would gradually have grown cool; but their
+imagination, being strongly affected, constantly presented each to the
+other in the light in which they appeared at the time of their
+separation. The young man, not perceiving those alterations which the
+progress of time made in his mistress, loved her such as he had seen
+her formerly, not such as she was then. [65] To compleat his
+happiness, it would not have been enough to have given him possession
+of her, unless she could have been given to him at the same age; and
+under the same circumstances she was in, when their loves commenced.
+The least alteration in these particulars would have lessened so much
+of the felicity he proposed to himself; she is grown handsomer, but
+she is altered, her improvement, in that sense, turns to her
+prejudice; for it is of his former mistress, not of any other, that he
+is enamoured.
+
+What deceives him, is, that he confounds the times, and often
+reproaches himself on account of a passion which he thinks present,
+and which in fact is nothing more than the effect of too tender a
+recollection; but I do not know, whether it will not be better to
+accomplish his cure, than to undeceive him. Perhaps, in this respect,
+we may reap more advantage from his mistake, than from his better
+judgment. To discover to him the true state of his affections, would
+be to apprize him of the death of the object he loved; this might be
+an affliction dangerous to him, inasmuch as a state of melancholy is
+always favourable to love.
+
+Freed from the scruples which restrain him, he would probably be more
+inclined to indulge recollections which he ought to stifle; he would
+converse with less reserve, and the traces of Eloisa are not so
+effaced in Mrs. Wolmar, but upon examination he might find them again.
+I have thought, that instead of undeceiving him with respect to his
+opinion of the progress he has made, and which encourages him to
+pursue it to the end, we should rather endeavour to banish the
+remembrance of those times which he ought to forget, by skilfully
+substituting other ideas in the room of those he is so fond of. You,
+who contributed to give them birth, may contribute more than any one
+to efface them: but I shall wait till we are all together, that I may
+tell you in your ear what you shall do for this purpose; a charge,
+which if I am not mistaken, will not be very burthensome to me. In the
+mean time, I endeavour to make the objects of his dread familiar to
+him, by presenting them to him in such a manner, that he may no longer
+think them dangerous. He is impetuous, but tractable and easily
+managed. I avail myself of this advantage to give a turn to his
+imagination. In the room of his mistress, I compel him always to look
+at the wife of his friend, and the mother of my children; I efface one
+picture by another, and hide the past with the present. We always ride
+a startish horse up to the object which frights him, that he may not
+be frightened at it again. We should act in the same manner with
+those young people, whose imaginations are on fire even after their
+affections are grown cold, and whose fancy presents monsters at a
+distance, which disappear as they draw nearer.
+
+I think I am well acquainted with the strength of both, and I do not
+expose them to a trial which they cannot support: for wisdom does not
+consist in using all kinds of precautions indiscriminately, but in
+choosing those which are really useful, and in neglecting such as are
+superfluous. The eight days, during which I leave them together, will
+perhaps be sufficient for them to discover the true state of their
+minds, and to know in what relation they really stand to each other.
+The oftener they perceive themselves in private with each other, the
+sooner they will find out their mistake, by comparing their present
+sensations with those they felt formerly, when they were in the same
+situation. Besides, it is of importance that they should use
+themselves to endure, without danger, that state of familiarity, in
+which they must necessarily live together, if my schemes take place. I
+find by Eloisa’s conduct, that you have given her advice, which she
+could not refuse taking, without wronging herself. What pleasure I
+should take in giving her this proof that I am sensible of her real
+worth, if she was a woman with whom a husband might make a merit of
+such confidence! But if she gains nothing over her affections, her
+virtue will still be the same; it will cost her dearer, and she will
+not triumph the less. Whereas if she is still in danger of feeling any
+inward uneasiness, it can arise only from some moving conversation,
+which she must be too sensible before hand will awaken recollection,
+and which she will therefore always avoid. Thus, you see, you must not
+in this instance judge of my conduct by common maxims, but from the
+motives which actuate me, and from the singular disposition of her
+towards whom I shall regulate my behaviour.
+
+Farewell, my dear cousin, till my return. Though I have not entered
+into these explanations with Eloisa, I do not desire you to keep them
+secret from her. It is a maxim with me, never to make secrets among my
+friends; therefore I commit these to your discretion; make that use of
+them which your prudence and friendship will direct. I know you will
+do nothing, but what is best and most proper.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXIV. To Lord B----.
+
+
+Mr. Wolmar set out yesterday for Etange, and you can scarce conceive
+in what a melancholy state his departure has left me. I think the
+absence of his wife would not have affected me so much as his. I find
+myself under greater restraint, than even when he is present; a
+mournful silence takes possession of my heart; its murmurs are stifled
+by a secret dread; and, being less tormented with desires than
+apprehensions, I experience all the horrors of guilt, without being
+exposed to the temptations of it.
+
+Can you imagine, my Lord, where my mind gains confidence, and loses
+these unworthy dreads? In the presence of Mrs. Wolmar. As soon as I
+approach her, the sight of her pacifies my inquietude; her looks
+purify my heart. Such is the ascendency of hers, that it always seems
+to inspire others with a sense of her innocence, and to confer that
+composure which is the effect of it. Unluckily for me, her system of
+life does not allow her to devote the whole day to the society of her
+friends; and in those moments which I am obliged to pass out of her
+company, I should suffer less, if I was farther distant from her.
+
+What contributes to feed the melancholy which oppresses me, is a
+reflection which she made yesterday after her husband’s departure.
+Though till that moment she kept up her spirits tolerably, yet for a
+long time her eyes followed him with an air of tenderness, which I
+then imagined was only occasioned by the departure of that happy
+husband; but I found by her conversation, that the emotion was to be
+imputed to another cause, which was a secret to me. You see, said she,
+in what manner we live together, and you may judge whether he is dear
+to me. Do not imagine; however, that the sentiment which attaches me
+to him, though as tender and as powerful as that of love, is likewise
+susceptible of its weakness. If an interruption of the agreeable habit
+of living together is painful to us, we are consoled by the firm hope
+of resuming the same habit again. A fate of such permanence admits few
+vicissitudes which we have reason to dread; and in an absence of a few
+days, the pain of so short an interval does not affect me so strongly,
+as the pleasure of seeing an end to it. The affliction, which you read
+in my eyes, proceeds from a more weighty cause, and though it is
+relative to Mr. Wolmar, it is not occasioned by his departure.
+
+My dear friend, she continued, with an affecting tone, there is no
+true happiness on earth. My husband is one of the most worthy and
+affectionate of men; the duty which incites us is cemented by mutual
+inclination; he has no desires but mine; I have children which give,
+and promise pleasure hereafter to their mother; there cannot be a more
+affectionate, virtuous, and amiable friend, than her whom my heart
+doats on, and with whom I shall pass my days; you yourself contribute
+to my felicity, by having so well justified my esteem and affection
+for you; a long and expensive law-suit, which is nearly finished, will
+soon bring the best of fathers to my arms; every thing prospers with
+us; peace and order reign throughout the family; our servants are
+zealous and faithful; our neighbours express every kind of attachment
+to us; we enjoy the good will of the public. Blest with every thing
+which heaven, fortune, and men can bestow, all things conspire to my
+happiness. A secret uneasiness, one trouble only, poisons all, and I
+am not happy. She uttered these last words with a sigh, which pierced
+my soul, and which I had no share in raising. She is not happy, said
+I, sighing in my turn, and I am no longer an obstacle to her felicity!
+
+That melancholy thought disordered my ideas in a moment, and disturbed
+the repose which I began to taste. Unable to endure the intolerable
+state of doubt into which her conversation had thrown me, I importuned
+her so eagerly to disclose her whole mind to me, that at length she
+deposited the fatal secret with me, and allows me to communicate it to
+you. But this is the hour of recreation, Mrs. Wolmar is come out of
+the nursery to walk with her children, she has just told me as much. I
+attend her, my Lord; I leave you for the present; and I shall resume,
+in my next, the subject I am now obliged to quit.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXV. Mrs. Wolmar to her Husband.
+
+
+I expect you next Tuesday according to your appointment, and you will
+find every thing disposed agreeable to your desire. Call on Mrs. Orbe
+in your way back; she will tell you what has passed during your
+absence; I had rather you should learn it from her than from me.
+
+I thought, Mr. Wolmar, I had deserved your esteem; but your conduct is
+not the more prudent, and you sport most cruelly with your wife’s
+virtue.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
+
+
+I must give you an account, my Lord, of a danger we have incurred
+within these few days, and from whence we are happily delivered at the
+expense of a little terror and fatigue. This relation very well
+deserves a letter by itself; when you read it, you will perceive the
+motives which engage me to write.
+
+You know that Mrs. Wolmar’s house is not far from the lake, and that
+she is fond of the water. It is three days since her husband’s absence
+has left us without employment; and the pleasantness of the evening
+made us form a scheme for one of these parties the next day. Soon as
+the sun was up, we went to the river’s side; we took a boat with nets
+for fishing, three rowers, and a servant, and we embarked with some
+provisions for dinner. I took a fowling-piece to knock down some
+besolets, [66] but was ashamed to kill birds out of wantonness, and
+only for the pleasure of doing mischief. I amused myself therefore in
+observing the siflets, the crenets, [67] and I fired but once at a
+grebe, at a great distance, which I missed.
+
+We passed an hour or two in fishing within 500 paces of the shore. We
+had good success, but Eloisa had them all thrown into the water again,
+except a trout which had received a blow from the oar. The animals,
+said she, are in pain; let us deliver them; let us enjoy the pleasure
+they will feel on escaping from danger. This operation, however, was
+performed slowly, and against the grain, not without some
+representations against it; and I found that our gentry would have had
+a much better relish for the fish they had catched, than for the moral
+which saved their lives.
+
+We then launched farther into the lake; soon after, with all the
+vivacity of a young man, which it is time for me to check, undertaking
+to manage the master oar, I rowed the boat into the middle of the
+lake, so that we were soon above a league from shore. Then I explained
+to Eloisa every part of that superb horizon which environed us. I
+shewed her at a distance the mouth of the Rhone, whose impetuous
+current stops on a sudden within a quarter of a league, as if it was
+afraid to sully the chrystal azure of the lake with its muddy waters.
+I made her observe the redans of the mountains, whose correspondent
+angles, running parallel, formed a bed in the space between, fit to
+receive the river which occupied it. As we got farther from shore, I
+had great pleasure in making her take notice of the rich and
+delightful banks of the _Pays de Vaud_, where the vast number of
+towns, the prodigious throng of people, with the beautiful and verdant
+hills all around, formed a most ravishing landscape: where every spot
+of ground, being cultivated and equally fertile, supplies the
+husbandman, the shepherd, and the vinedresser with the certain fruits
+of their labours, which are not devoured by the greedy publican.
+Afterwards I pointed out _Chablais_, a country not less favoured by
+nature, and which nevertheless affords nothing but a spectacle of
+wretchedness; I made her perceive the manifest distinction between the
+different effects of the two governments, with respect to the riches,
+number and happiness, of the inhabitants. It is thus, said I, that the
+earth expands her fruitful bosom, and lavishes treasures among those
+happy people who cultivate it for themselves. She seems to smile and
+be enlivened, at the sweet aspect of liberty; she loves to nourish
+mankind. On the contrary, the mournful ruins, the heath and brambles
+which cover a half desert country, proclaim from afar that it is under
+the dominion of an absent proprietor, and that it yields with
+reluctance a scanty produce to slaves who reap no advantage from it.
+
+While we were agreeably amusing ourselves with viewing the
+neighbouring coasts, a gale arising, which drove us aslant towards the
+opposite shore, began to blow very high, and when we thought to tack
+about, the resistance was so strong that it was impossible for our
+slight boat to overcome it. The waves soon began to grow dreadful; we
+endeavoured to make for the coast of Savoy, and tried to land at the
+village of Meillerie which was over against us, and the only place
+almost where the shore affords a convenient landing. But the wind,
+changing and blowing stronger, rendered all the endeavours of the
+watermen ineffectual, and discovered to us a range of steep rocks
+somewhat lower, where there was no shelter.
+
+We all tugged at our oars, and at that instant I had the mortification
+to perceive Eloisa grow sick, and see her weak and fainting at the
+bottom of the boat. Happily she had been used to the water, and her
+sickness did not last long. In the mean time, our efforts increased
+with our danger; the heat of the sun, the fatigue, and profuse
+sweating, took away our breaths, and made us excessively faint. Then
+summoning all her courage, Eloisa revived our spirits by her
+compassionate kindness; she wiped the sweat from off each of our
+faces; and mixing some wine and water, for fear of intoxication, she
+presented it alternately to those who were most exhausted. No, your
+lovely friend never appeared with such lustre as at that moment, when
+the heat and the agitation of her spirits gave an additional glow to
+her complexion; and what greatly improved her charms, was that you
+might plainly perceive, by the tenderness of her behaviour, that her
+solicitude proceeded less from apprehensions for herself than
+compassion for us. At one time, two planks having started by a shock
+which dipt us all, she concluded that the boat was split, and in the
+exclamation of that affectionate mother, I heard these words
+distinctly: O my children, must I never see you more! As for my self,
+whose imagination always exceeds the danger, though I knew the utmost
+of our perilous condition, yet I expected every minute to see the boat
+swallowed up, that delicate beauty struggling in the midst of the
+waves, and the roses upon her cheeks chilled by the cold hand of
+death.
+
+At length, by dint of labour, we reached Meillerie; and after having
+struggled above an hour within ten paces of the shore, we at last
+compassed our landing. When we had landed, all our fatigues were
+forgotten. Eloisa took upon herself to recompense the trouble which
+every one had taken; and as in the height of danger her concern was
+for us, she seemed now on shore to imagine that we had saved nobody
+but her.
+
+We dined with that appetite, which is the gift of hard labour. The
+trout was served up: Eloisa, who was extremely fond of it, eat but
+little; and I perceived, that to make the watermen amends for the
+regret which the late sacrifice cost them, she did not chuse that I
+should eat much myself. My Lord, you have observed a thousand times
+that her amiable disposition is to be seen in trifles as well as in
+matters of consequence.
+
+After dinner, the water being still rough, and the boat wanting to be
+refitted, I proposed taking a walk. Eloisa objected to the wind and
+sun, and took notice of my being fatigued. I had my views, and I
+obviated all her objections. I have been accustomed, said I, to
+violent exercise from my infancy: far from hurting my health, they
+strengthen my constitution; and my late voyage has still made me more
+robust. As to the sun and wind, you have your straw hat, and we will
+get under the wind and in the woods; we need only climb among the
+rocks, and you who are not fond of a flat, will willingly bear the
+fatigue. She consented, and we set out while our people were at
+dinner.
+
+You know, that when I was banished from Valais, I came, about ten
+years ago, to Meillerie, to wait for leave to return. It was there I
+passed those melancholy but pleasing days, solely intent upon her; and
+it was from thence I wrote her that letter, with which she was so
+strongly affected. I always wished to re-visit that lovely retreat,
+which served me as an asylum in the midst of ice, and where my heart
+loved to converse, in idea, with the object of all others most dear to
+its affections. An opportunity of visiting this beloved spot in a more
+agreeable season, and in company with her whose image formerly dwelt
+there with me, was the secret motive of my walk. I took a pleasure in
+pointing out to her those old memorials of such a constant and
+unfortunate passion.
+
+We got thither after an hour’s walk through cool and winding paths,
+which ascending insensibly, between the trees and the rocks, were no
+otherwise inconvenient than by being tedious. As we drew near, and I
+recollected former tokens, I found myself a little disordered; but I
+overcame it, I concealed my uneasiness, and we reached the place. This
+solitary spot formed a wild and desert nook, but full of those sorts
+of beauties, which are only agreeable to susceptible minds, and appear
+horrible to others. A torrent, occasioned by the melting of the snow,
+rolled in a muddy stream within twenty paces of us, and carried dirt,
+sand, and stones along with it, not without considerable noise. Behind
+us, a chain of inaccessible rocks divided the place where we stood
+from that part of the Alps which they call the Ice-houses, because
+from the beginning of the world, they have been covered with vast
+mountains of ice, which are continually increasing. [68] Forests of
+gloomy fir-trees afforded us a melancholy shade on the right. On the
+left was a large wood of oak beyond which the torrent issued, and
+beneath that vast body of water, which the lake forms in the bay of
+the Alps, parted us from the rich coast of the _Pays de Vaud_,
+crowning the whole landscape with the top of the majestic Jura.
+
+In the midst of these noble and superb objects, the little spot where
+we were, displayed all the charms of an agreeable and rural retreat;
+small floods of water filtered through the rocks, and flowed along the
+verdure in chrystal streams. Some wild fruit trees leaned their heads
+over ours; the cool and moist earth was covered with grass and
+flowers. Comparing this agreeable retreat with the objects which
+surrounded us, one would have thought that this desert spot was
+designed as an asylum for two lovers, who alone had escaped the
+general wreck of nature.
+
+When we had reached this corner, and I had attentively examined it for
+some time, Now, said I to Eloisa, looking at her with eyes swimming in
+tears, is your heart perfectly still in this place, and do you feel no
+secret emotion at the sight of a spot which is full of you?
+Immediately, without waiting for her answer, I led her towards the
+rock, and shewed her where her cypher was engraved in a thousand
+places, with several verses in Petrarch and Tasso relative to the
+state I was in when I engraved them. On seeing them again at such a
+distance of time, I found how powerfully the review of these objects
+renewed my former violent sensations. I addressed her with some degree
+of impetuosity: O Eloisa, the everlasting delight of my soul! This is
+the spot, where the most constant lover in the world formerly sighed
+for thee. This is the retreat, where thy beloved image made all the
+scene of his felicity, and prepared him for that happiness which you
+yourself afterwards dispensed. No fruit or shade were then to be found
+here: these compartments were not then furnished with verdure or
+flowers; the course of these streams did not then make these
+separations, these birds did not chirp then, the voracious sparhawk,
+the dismal crow, and the dreadful eagle alone made these caverns echo
+with their cries; huge lumps of ice hung from these rocks; festoons of
+snow were all the ornaments which bedecked these trees; every thing
+here bore marks of the rigour of winter and hoary frost; the ardor of
+my affection alone made this place supportable, and I spent whole days
+here wrapt in thought of thee. Here is the stone where I used to sit,
+to reflect on your happy abode at a distance; on this I penned that
+letter which moved your heart; these sharp flints served me as graving
+tools to cut out your name; here I crossed that frozen torrent to
+regain one of your letters which the wind carried off; there I came to
+review and give a thousand kisses to the last you ever wrote to me;
+this is the brink where, with a gloomy and greedy eye, I measured the
+depth of this abyss: in short, it was here that, before my sad
+departure, I came to bewail you as dead, and swore never to survive
+you. O thou lovely fair one, too constantly adored, thou for whom
+alone I was born! Must I revisit this spot with you by my side, and
+must I regret the time I spent here in bewailing your absence?... I was
+proceeding further; but Eloisa perceiving me draw near the brink, was
+affrighted, and seizing my hand pressed it without speaking, a word,
+looked tenderly upon me, and could scarce suppress a rising sigh; soon
+after turning from me and taking me by the arm, Let us be gone, my
+friend, said she, with a tone of emotion, the air of this place is not
+good for me. I went with her sighing, but without making her any
+answer; and I quitted that melancholy spot for ever, with as much
+regret, as I would have taken leave of Eloisa herself.
+
+We came back gently to the harbour after some few deviations, and
+parted. She chose to be alone, and I continued walking without knowing
+whither I went. At my return, the boat not being yet ready, nor the
+water smooth, we made a melancholy supper, with down-cast eyes; and
+pensive looks, eating little and talking still less. After supper, we
+sat on the strand, waiting an opportunity to go off. The moon shone on
+a sudden, the water became smoother, and Eloisa proposed our
+departure. I handed her into the boat, and when I sat down by her, I
+never thought of quitting her hand. We kept a profound silence. The
+equal and measured sound of the oars threw me into a reverie. The
+lively chirping of the snipes, [69] recalling to my mind the pleasures
+of a past period, made me dull. By degrees I found the melancholy
+which oppressed me increase. A serene sky, the mild reflection of the
+moon, the silver froth of the water which sparkled around us, the
+concurrence of agreeable sensations; even the presence of the beloved
+object herself, could not banish bitter reflections from my mind.
+
+I began with recollecting a walk of the same kind which we took
+together, during the rapture of our early loves. All the pleasing
+sensations which then affected me, were present to my mind, to torment
+me the more; all the adventures of our youth, our studies, our
+entertainments, our letters, our assignations, our pleasures,
+
+_E tanta fede, e si dolci memorie,
+E si lungo costume!_
+
+This croud of little objects, which recalled the image of my past
+happiness, all pressed upon me and rushed into my memory, to increase
+my present wretchedness. It is past, said I to myself, those times,
+those happy times will be no more; they are gone for ever! Alas! they
+will never return; and yet we live, and we are together, and our
+hearts are still united! I seemed as if I could have endured her death
+or her absence with more patience; and thought that I had suffered
+less all the time I was parted from her. When I bewailed her at a
+distance, the hope of seeing her again was comfort to my soul; I
+flattered myself that the sight of her would banish all my sorrows in
+an instant, at least I could conceive it possible to be in a more
+cruel situation than my own. But to be by her side; to see her, to
+touch her, to talk to her, to love her, to adore her, and, whilst I
+almost enjoyed her again, to find her lost to me for ever; this is
+what threw me into such fits of fury and rage, as by degrees agitated
+me even to despair. My mind soon began to conceive deadly projects,
+and in a transport, which I yet tremble to think of, I was violently
+tempted to throw her with myself into the waves, and to end my days
+and tedious torments in her arms. This horrid temptation grew so
+strong at last, that I was obliged suddenly to quit her hand and walk
+to the other end of the boat.
+
+There my lively emotions began to take another turn; a more gentle
+sensation by degrees stole upon my mind, and tenderness overcame
+despair; I began to shed floods of tears, and that condition, compared
+to the state I had just been in, was not unattended with pleasure. I
+wept heartily for a long time, and found myself easier. When I was
+tolerably composed, I returned to Eloisa, and took her by the hand
+again. She held her handkerchief in her hand, which I found wet. Ah!
+said I to her softly, I find that our hearts have not ceased to
+sympathize! True, said she, in a broken accent, but may it be the last
+time they ever correspond in this manner! We then began to talk about
+indifferent matters, and after an hour’s rowing, we arrived without
+any other accident. When we came in, I perceived that her eyes were
+red and much swelled; and she must have discovered that mine were not
+in a better condition. After the fatigue of this day, she stood in
+great need of rest: she withdrew, and I went to bed.
+
+Such, my friend, is the journal of the day, in which, without
+exception, I experienced the most lively emotions I ever felt. I hope
+they will prove a crisis, which will entirely restore me to myself.
+Moreover I must tell you that this adventure has convinced me more
+than all the power of argument, of the free-will of man, and the merit
+of virtue. How many people yield to weak temptations? As for Eloisa,
+my eyes beheld, and my heart felt her emotions: she underwent the most
+violent struggle that day that ever human nature sustained;
+nevertheless she conquered. O my Lord, when, seduced by your mistress,
+you had power at once to triumph over her desires and your own, was
+you not more than man? But for your example I had, perhaps, been lost.
+The recollection of your virtue, renewed my own a hundred times in
+that perilous day.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXV. [70] From Lord B----.
+
+
+Awake, my friend, and emerge from childhood. Let not your reason
+slumber to the end of your life. The hours glide imperceptibly away,
+and ’tis now high time for you to grow wise. At thirty years of age
+surely a man should begin to reflect. Reflect, therefore, and be a
+man, at least once before you die.
+
+Your heart, my dear friend, has long imposed on your understanding.
+You strove to philosophize before you were capable of it, mistaking
+your feelings for reason, and judging of things by the impressions
+they made on you, which has always kept you ignorant of their real
+state. A good heart, I will own, is indispensably necessary to the
+knowledge of truth: he who feels nothing can learn nothing; he may
+float from error to error in a sea of scepticism, but his discoveries
+will be vain, and his information fruitless, being ignorant of the
+relation of things to man, on which all true science depends. It were
+to stop half-way, however, in our pursuits after knowledge, not to
+enquire also into the relation of things to each other, in order to be
+better able to judge of their connection with ourselves. To know the
+nature and operation of our passions is to know little, if we know
+not, at the same time, how to judge of and estimate their objects.
+This latter knowledge is to be acquired only in the tranquility of
+studious retirement. The youth of the philosopher is the time for
+experiment, his passions being the instrument of his inquiries; but
+after having applied himself long enough to the perception of external
+objects, he retires within himself to consider, to compare, to know
+them. To this task you ought to apply yourself sooner than any other
+person in the world. All the pleasures and pains, of which a
+susceptible mind is capable, you have felt; all that a man can see,
+you have seen. In the space of twelve years you have exhausted all
+those sensations, which might have served you during a long life, and
+have acquired even in youth the extensive experience of age. The first
+observations you were led to make, were on simple, unpolished
+villagers, on persons almost such as they came out of the hand of
+nature; just as if they had been presented to you for the ground-work
+of your piece, or as proper objects by which to compare every other.
+Banished next to the metropolis of one of the most celebrated people
+in the universe, you leaped, as one may say, from one extremity to the
+other, your genius supplying all the intermediate degrees. Then
+visiting the only nation of men, which remains among the various herds
+that are scattered over the face of the earth, you had an opportunity
+of seeing a well governed society, or at least a society under a good
+government; you had there an opportunity of observing how far the
+public voice is the foundation of liberty. You have travelled thro’
+all climates, and have visited all countries beneath the sun. Add to
+this a sight still more worthy admiration, that which you enjoy in the
+presence of a sublime and refined soul, triumphant over its passion,
+and ruling over itself. The first object of your affections is that
+which is now daily before you, your admiration of which is but the
+better founded for your having seen and contemplated so many others.
+There is now nothing more worth your attention or concern. The only
+object of your future contemplation should be yourself, that of your
+future enjoyment the fruits of your knowledge. You have lived enough
+for this life; think now of living for that which is to come, and
+which will last for ever.
+
+Your passions, by which you were so long enslaved, did not deprive you
+of your virtue. This is all your boast, and doubtless you have reason
+to glory in it; yet be not too proud. Your very fortitude is the
+effect of your weakness. Do you know how it came that you grew
+enamoured of virtue? It was because virtue always appeared to your
+imagination in the amiable form of that lovely woman, by whom she is
+so truly represented, and whose image you will always adore. But will
+you never love her for her own sake? Will you never, like Eloisa,
+court virtue of your own accord? Vain and indolent enthusiast! Will
+you content yourself with barely admiring her virtues, without
+attempting to imitate them? You speak, in rapture, of the manner in
+which she discharges the important duties of wife and mother; but when
+will you discharge those of a man and a friend, by her example? Shall
+a woman be able to triumph over herself, and a philosopher find it so
+difficult to conquer his passions? Will you continue to be always a
+mere prater, like the rest of them, and be content to write good
+books, instead of doing good actions? [71] Take care, my friend; I
+still perceive an air of softness and effeminacy in your writing,
+which displeases me, as I think it rather the effect of an
+unextinguished passion than peculiar to your character. I hate
+imbecility in any one, and cannot bear the thoughts of it in my
+friend. There is no such thing as virtue without fortitude, for
+pusillanimity is the certain attendant on vice. How dare you rely on
+your own strength, who have no courage? Believe me, were Eloisa as
+weak as you, the very first opportunity would debase you into an
+infamous adulterer. While you remain alone with her, therefore, learn
+to know her worth, and blush at your own demerit.
+
+I hope soon to be able to see you at Clarens: you know the motives of
+my desiring to see Italy again. Twelve years of mistakes and troubles
+have rendered me suspicious of myself; to resist my inclinations,
+however, my own abilities might suffice; but to give the preference of
+one to the other, to know which I should indulge, requires the
+assistance of a friend: nor shall I take less pleasure in being
+obliged to him on this occasion, than I have done in obliging him in
+others. Between friends, their obligations, as well as their
+affections, should be reciprocal. Do not deceive yourself, however;
+before I put any confidence in you, I shall enquire whether you are
+worthy of it, and if you deserve to return me the services you have
+formerly received. Your heart I know, and am satisfied with its
+integrity; but this is not all: it is your judgment I shall have
+occasion for, to direct me in making a choice which should be governed
+entirely by reason, and in which mine may be partial. I am not
+apprehensive of danger from those passions, which, making open war
+upon us, give us warning to put ourselves upon our defence; and,
+whatever be their effect, leave us still conscious of our errors. We
+cannot so properly be said to be overcome by these, as to give way to
+them. I am more fearful of delusion than constraint, and of being
+involuntarily induced to do what my reason condemns. We have no need
+of foreign assistance to suppress our inclinations; but the assistance
+of a friend may be necessary to point out which it is most prudent to
+indulge: in this case it is that the friendship of a wise man may be
+useful, by his viewing, in a different light, those objects with which
+it is our interest to be intimately acquainted. Examine yourself,
+therefore, and tell me whether, vainly repining at your fate, you will
+continue for ever useless to yourself and others, or if, resuming the
+command over yourself, you will at last become capable of advising and
+assisting your friend.
+
+My affairs will not detain me in London more than a fortnight longer,
+when I shall set out for our army in Flanders, where I intend to stay
+about the same time; so that you must not expect to see me before the
+end of next month or the beginning of October. In the mean time, write
+no more to me at London, but direct your letters to the army,
+agreeable to the inclosed address. When you write, proceed also in
+your descriptions; for, notwithstanding the censure I pass on your
+letters, they both affect and instruct me; giving me, at the same
+time, the most flattering ideas of a life of peace and retirement,
+agreeable to my temper and age. In particular, I charge you to ease my
+mind of the disquietude you have excited concerning Mrs. Wolmar. If
+she be dissatisfied, who on earth can hope for happiness? After the
+relation you have given me, I cannot conceive what can be wanting to
+compleat her felicity.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.
+
+
+Yes, my Lord, I can with transport assure you, the affair of Meillerie
+was the crisis of my folly and misfortunes. My conversation with Mr.
+Wolmar, made me perfectly acquainted with the true state of my heart.
+That heart, too weak I confess, is nevertheless cured of its passion
+as much as it possibly can be; and I prefer my present state of silent
+regret to that of being perpetually fearful of falling into guilt.
+Since the return of this worthy friend, I no longer hesitate to give
+him that title which you have rendered so valuable. It is the least I
+can bestow on every one who assists me in returning to the paths of
+virtue. My heart is now become as peaceful as the mansion I inhabit. I
+begin to be at ease in my residence; to live as if I was at home; and,
+if I do not take upon me altogether the tone and authority of master,
+I feel yet a greater pleasure in supposing myself a brother of the
+family. There is something so delightful in the simplicity and
+equality, which reign in this retirement, that I cannot help being
+affected with tenderness and respect. Thus I spend my days in
+tranquillity, amidst practical philosophy and susceptible virtue. In
+company with this happy couple, their situation insensibly affects me,
+and raises my heart by degrees into unison with theirs.
+
+What a delightful retreat! What a charming habitation! A continuance
+in this place renders it even yet more delightful; and though it
+appear not very striking at first sight, it is impossible not to be
+pleased with it, when it is once known. The pleasure Mrs. Wolmar takes
+in discharging the noblest duties, in making all who approach her
+virtuous and happy, communicates itself to all those who are the
+objects of her care, to her husband, her children, her guests, her
+domestics. No tumultuous scenes of noisy mirth, no loud peals of
+laughter, are heard in this peaceful mansion; but, in their stead, you
+always meet with contented hearts and chearful countenances. If at any
+time you see a tear, it is the tear of susceptibility and joy.
+Troubles, cares and sorrow intrude not here, any more than vice and
+remorse, of which they are the fruits.
+
+As to Eloisa, it is certain that, excepting the secret cause of
+uneasiness, with which I acquainted you in my last, [72] every thing
+conspires to make her happy. And yet, with so many reasons to be so, a
+thousand other women would think themselves miserable in the same
+situation. Her uniform and retired manner of living would be to them
+insupportable; they would think the noise of children insufferable;
+they would be fatigued to death with the care of their family; they
+would not be able to bear the country; the esteem and prudence of a
+husband, not over tender, would hardly recompense them for his
+indifference and age; his presence, and even his regard for them,
+would be burthensome. They would either find means to send him abroad,
+that they might live more at their liberty; or would leave him to
+himself; despising the peaceful pleasures of their situation, and
+seeking more dangerous ones elsewhere, they would never be at ease in
+their own house, unless when they came as visitors. It requires a
+sound mind to be able to enjoy the pleasures of retirement; the
+virtuous only being capable of amusing themselves with their family
+concerns, and of voluntarily secluding themselves from the world: if
+there be on earth any such thing as happiness, they undoubtedly enjoy
+it in such a state. But the means of happiness are nothing to those
+who know not how to make use of them; and we never know in what true
+happiness consists, till we have acquired a taste for its enjoyment.
+
+If I were desired to speak with precision, as to the reason why the
+inhabitants of this place are happy, I should think I could not answer
+with greater propriety than to say, it is because _they here know how
+to live;_ not in the sense in which these words would be taken in
+France, where it would be understood that they had adopted certain
+customs and manners in vogue: No; but they have adopted such manners
+as are most agreeable to human life, and the purposes for which man
+came into the world; to that life you mention, of which you have set
+me an example, which extends beyond itself, and is not given up for
+lost even in the hour of death.
+
+Eloisa has a father who is anxious for the honour and interests of his
+family: she has children for whose subsistence it is necessary to
+provide. This ought to be the chief care of man in a state of society;
+and was therefore the first in which Eloisa and her husband united.
+When they began house-keeping, they examined into the state of their
+fortunes; not considering so much whether they were proportioned to
+their rank, as to their wants; and seeing they were sufficient for the
+provision of an honourable family, they had not so bad an opinion of
+their children, as to be fearful, lest the patrimony they had to leave
+would not content them. They applied themselves therefore rather to
+improve their present, than acquire a larger fortune: they placed
+their money rather safely than profitably; and, instead of purchasing
+new estates, set about increasing the value of that which they already
+had; leaving their own example in this point, as the only treasure by
+which they would desire to see the inheritance of their offspring
+increased.
+
+It is true, that an estate which is not augmented, is liable to many
+accidents by which it will naturally diminish: but if this were a
+sufficient motive to begin increasing, when would it cease to be a
+pretext for a constant augmentation? Must it be divided among several
+children? Be it so; must they be all idle? Will not the industry of
+each be a supplement to his share? and ought it not to be considered
+in the partition? It is thus that insatiable avarice makes its way
+under the mask of prudence, and leads to vice under the cloak of its
+own security. It is in vain, says Mr. Wolmar, to attempt to give to
+human affairs that stability, which is not in their nature. Prudence
+itself requires that we should leave many things to chance; and, if
+our lives and fortunes depend so much on accident, what a folly is it
+to make ourselves really unhappy, in order to prevent doubtful evils,
+or avoid inevitable dangers? The only precaution he took was, to live
+one whole year on his principal, in order to have so much before hand
+to receive of the interest, so that he had always the yearly product
+of his estate at command. He chose rather to diminish his capital than
+to be perpetually under the necessity of dunning for his rents; the
+consequence of which has been in the end advantageous to him, as it
+prevented him from borrowing and other ruinous expedients, to which
+many people are obliged to have recourse on every unforeseen accident.
+Thus good management supplies the place of parsimony, and he is in
+fact a gainer by what he has spent.
+
+The master of this house possesses but a moderate fortune, according
+to the estimation of the world; but in reality I hardly know any body
+more opulent. There is indeed no such thing as absolute wealth: that
+term signifying only the relation between the wants and possessions of
+those who are rich. One man is rich, though possessing only an acre of
+land; another is a beggar in the midst of heaps of gold. Luxury and
+caprice have no bounds, and make more persons poor than real wants.
+But the proportion, between their wants and their abilities of
+supplying them, is here established on a sure foundation, namely, the
+perfect harmony subsisting between the husband and wife: the former
+taking upon him the charge of collecting the rents and profits of his
+estate, and the latter, that of regulating their expenses; and on this
+harmony depends their wealth.
+
+I was at first struck with a peculiarity in the economy of this house,
+where there appeared so much ease, freedom and gaiety, in the midst of
+order and diligence; the great fault of well regulated houses being
+that they always wear an air of gloominess and restraint. The extreme
+solicitude also of the heads of the family looks too much like
+avarice. Every thing about them seems constrained, and there appears
+something servile in their punctuality, which renders it intolerable.
+The domestics do their duty indeed, but then they do it with an air of
+discontent and mistrust The guests, it is true, are well-received; but
+they dare not make use of a freedom cautiously bestowed, and are
+always afraid of doing something that will be reckoned a breach of
+regularity. Such slavish fathers of families cannot be said to live
+for themselves, but for their children; without considering that they
+are not only fathers but men, and that they ought to set their
+children an example how to live prudent and happy. More judicious
+maxims are adopted here. Mr. Wolmar thinks one of the principal duties
+of a father of a family is to make his house, in the first place,
+agreeable, that his children may delight in their home, and that
+seeing their father happy, they may be tempted to tread in his
+footsteps. Another of his maxims, and which he often repeats, is that
+the gloomy and sordid lives of fathers and mothers are almost always
+the first cause of the ill-conduct of children.
+
+As to Eloisa, who never had any other guide, and who needed no better,
+than her own heart, she obeys, without scruple, its dictates; being
+then certain of doing right. Can a mind so susceptible as hers be
+insensible to pleasure? On the contrary she delights in every
+amusement, nor refuses to join in any diversion that promises to be
+agreeable; but her pleasures are the pleasures of Eloisa. She neglects
+neither her own convenience nor the satisfaction of those who are dear
+to her. She esteems nothing superfluous that may contribute to the
+happiness of a sensible mind; but censures every thing as such that
+serves only to make a figure in the eyes of others; so that you will
+find in this house all the gratifications which luxury and pleasure
+can bestow, without refinement or effeminacy. With respect to
+magnificence and pomp, you will see no more of it than she was obliged
+to submit to, in order to please her father; her own taste, however,
+prevails even here, which consists in giving to every thing less
+brilliancy and shew, than grace and elegance. When I talk to her of
+the methods which are daily invented at Paris and London, to hang the
+coaches easier; she does not disapprove of that; but, when I tell her
+of the great expense they are at in the varnishing of them, she can
+hardly believe or comprehend me; she asks me, if such fine varnish
+makes the coaches more commodious. Indeed she scruples not to say,
+that I exaggerate a good deal on the scandalous paintings with which
+they now adorn their equipages, instead of the coats of arms formerly
+used; as if it were more eligible to be known to the world for a man
+of licentious manners, than as a man of family. But she was
+particularly shocked when I told her that the ladies had introduced,
+and kept up, this custom, and that their chariots were distinguishable
+from those of the gentlemen only, by paintings more lascivious and
+immodest. I was obliged to recount to her an expression of your noble
+friend’s, on this subject, which she could hardly digest. I was with
+him one day to look at a vis-a-vis, which happened to be in this
+taste. But he no sooner cast his eye on the panels than he turned away
+from it, telling the owner that he should offer carriages of that kind
+to wanton women of quality; for that no modest man could make use of
+them.
+
+As the first step to virtue is to forbear doing ill, so the first step
+to happiness is to be free from pain. These two maxims, which, well
+understood, would render precepts of morality in a great degree
+useless, are favourite ones with Mrs. Wolmar. She is extremely
+affected by the misfortunes of others; and it would be as difficult
+for her to be happy with wretched objects about her, as it would be
+for an innocent man to preserve his virtue and live in the midst of
+vice. She has none of that barbarous pity, which is satisfied with
+turning away its eye from the miserable objects it might relieve. On
+the contrary, she makes it her business to seek out such objects: it
+is the existence, and not the presence, of the unhappy which gives her
+affliction. It is not sufficient for her to be ignorant that there are
+any such; it is necessary to her quiet that she should be assured
+there are none miserable; at least within her sphere of charity: for
+it would be unreasonable to extend her concern beyond her own
+neighbourhood, and to make her happiness depend upon the welfare of
+all mankind. She takes care to inform herself of the necessities of
+all that live near her, and interests herself in their relief as if
+their wants were her own. She knows every one personally, includes
+them all, as it were, in her family, and spares no pains to banish,
+or alleviate, those misfortunes and afflictions to which human life is
+subject.
+
+I am desirous, my Lord, of profiting by your instructions; but you
+must forgive me a piece of enthusiasm, of which I am no longer
+ashamed, and with which you yourself are affected. There will never be
+another Eloisa in the world. Providence takes a particular interest in
+every thing that regards her, nor leaves any thing to the consequence
+of accident. Heaven seems to have sent her upon earth, to serve at
+once as an example of that excellence of which human nature is
+capable, and of that happiness it may enjoy in the obscurity of
+private life, without having recourse either to those public virtues
+which sometimes raise humanity above itself, or to those honours with
+which the breath of popular applause rewards them. Her fault, if love
+be a fault, has served only to display her fortitude and virtue. Her
+relations, her friends, her servants, all happily situated, were
+formed to respect her and be respected by her. Her country is the only
+one upon earth where she ought to have been born; to be happy herself,
+it was necessary for her to live among a happy people. If, to her
+misfortune, she had been born among those unhappy wretches, who groan
+beneath the load of oppression, and struggle in vain against the iron
+hand of cruelty, every complaint of the oppressed had poisoned the
+sweets of her life; the common ruin had been hers, and her benevolent
+heart had made her feel incessantly those evils she could not have
+redressed.
+
+Instead of that, every thing here animates and supports the native
+goodness of her disposition. She has no public calamities to afflict
+her. She sees not around her the frightful pictures of indigence and
+despair. The villagers in easy circumstances, have more need of her
+advice than her bounty. [73] But, if there be found among them an
+orphan, too young to earn his subsistence; an obscure widow who pines
+in secret indigence; a childless father, whose arms, enfeebled by age,
+cannot supply him with the means of life; she is not afraid that her
+bounty will increase the public charge, by encouraging idleness or
+knavery. The happiness she herself feels, multiplies and extends
+itself all around her. Every house she enters soon becomes a copy of
+her own: nor are convenience and order only copied from her example,
+but harmony and goodness become equally the objects of domestic
+management. When she goes abroad, she sees none but agreeable objects
+about her; and when she returns home she is saluted by others still
+more engaging. Her heart is delighted by every prospect that meets her
+eyes; and little susceptible as it is of self-love, it is led to love
+itself in the effects of its own benevolence. No, my Lord, I repeat it
+again; nothing that regards Eloisa can be indifferent to the cause of
+virtue. Her charms, her talents, her taste, her errors, her
+afflictions, her abode, her friends, her family, her pains, her
+pleasures, every thing, in short, that compleats her destiny, compose
+a life without example; such as few women would chuse to imitate, and
+yet such as all, in spite of themselves, must admire.
+
+What pleases me most, in the solicitude which prevails here regarding
+the happiness of others is, that their benevolence is always exerted
+with prudence, and is never abused. We do not always succeed in our
+benevolent intentions; but, on the contrary, some people imagine they
+are doing great services, who are, in reality, doing great injuries;
+and, with a view to a little manifest good, are guilty of much
+unforeseen evil. Mrs. Wolmar indeed possesses, in an eminent degree, a
+qualification very rare, even among women of the best character; I
+mean an exquisite discernment in the distribution of her favours, and
+that as well in the choice of means to render them really useful, as
+of the persons on whom they are bestowed. For her conduct in this
+point, she has laid down certain rules to which she invariably
+adheres. She knows how to grant, or refuse, every thing that is asked
+of her, without betraying the least weakness in her compliance, or
+caprice in her denial. Whoever hath committed one infamous or wicked
+action, hath nothing to hope for from her but justice, and her pardon,
+if he has offended her; but never that favour and protection, which
+she can bestow on a worthier object. I heard her once refuse a favour,
+which depended on herself only, to a man of this stamp. “I wish you
+happy,” said she to him coldly, “but I shall not contribute any thing
+to make you so, lest I should put it in your power to injure others.
+There are too many honest people in the world, who require relief, for
+me to think of assisting you.” It is true this piece of just severity
+cost her dear, and it is but seldom she has occasion to exercise it.
+Her maxim is, to look upon all those as deserving people, of whose
+demerits she is not fully convinced; and there are few persons weak
+and wicked enough not to evade the full proofs of their guilt. She has
+none of that indolent charity of the wealthy, who give money to the
+miserable, to be excused from attending to their distress; and know
+how to answer their petitions only by giving alms. Her purse is not
+inexhaustible, and since she is become the mother of a family, she
+regulates it with more economy. Of all the kinds of relief we may
+afford to the unhappy, the giving alms is certainly that which costs
+us least trouble; but it is also the most transitory and least
+serviceable to the object relieved: Eloisa does not seek to get rid of
+such objects, but to be useful to them.
+
+Neither does she grant her recommendation, or exert her good offices,
+without first knowing whether the use intended to be made of her
+interest be just and reasonable. Her protection is never refused to
+any one, who really stands in need of, and deserves to obtain it: but
+for those who desire to raise themselves through fickleness or
+ambition only, she can very seldom be prevailed upon to give herself
+any trouble. The natural business of man is to cultivate the earth,
+and subsist on its produce. The peaceful inhabitant of the country
+needs only to know in what happiness consists, to be happy. All the
+real pleasures of humanity are within his reach; he feels only those
+pains which are inseparable from it, those pains which whoever seeks
+to remove will only change for others more severe. [74] His situation
+is the only necessary, the only useful one in life. He is never
+unhappy, but when others tyrannize over him, or seduce him by their
+vices. In agriculture and husbandry consists the real prosperity of a
+country, the greatness and strength which a people derive from
+themselves, that which depends, not on other nations, which is not
+obliged to attack others for its own preservation, but is productive
+of the surest means of its own defence. In making an estimate of the
+strength of a nation, a superficial observer would visit the court,
+the prince, his posts, his troops, his magazines and his fortified
+towns; but the true politician would take a survey of the country, and
+visit the cottages of the husbandmen. The former would only see what
+is already executed, but the latter what was capable of being put into
+execution.
+
+On this principle they proceed here, and yet more so at Etange: they
+contribute as much as possible to make the peasants happy in their
+condition, without ever assisting them to change it. The better, as
+well as the poorer, sort of people are equally desirous of sending
+their children to the cities, the one that they may study and become
+gentlemen, the others that they may find employment, and so ease their
+parents of the charge of maintaining them. The young people, on their
+part, have curiosity, and are generally fond of roving: the girls
+aspire to the dress and finery of the citizens; and the boys, most of
+them go into foreign service, thinking it better to return with the
+haughty and mean air of mercenaries, and a ridiculous contempt of
+their former condition, than with that love for their country and
+liberty which honourably distinguished their progenitors. It is the
+care of this benevolent family to remonstrate against these mistaken
+prejudices, to represent to the peasants the danger of their
+children’s principles; the ill consequences of sending them from home,
+and the continual risks they run of losing their life, fortune and
+morals, where a thousand are ruined for one who does well. If after
+all they continue obstinate, they are left at their own indiscretion,
+to run into vice and misery; and the care, which was thrown away on
+them is turned upon those who have listened to reason. This is exerted
+in teaching them to honour their native condition, by seeming to
+honour it ourselves: we do not converse with peasants, indeed, in the
+stile of courts; but we treat them with a grave and distant
+familiarity, which, without raising any one out of his station,
+teaches them to respect ours. There is not one honest labourer in the
+village, who does not rise greatly in his own estimation, when an
+opportunity offers of our shewing the difference of our behaviour to
+him, and to such petty visitants, who come home to make a figure, for
+a day or two, and to obscure their relations. Mr. Wolmar and the
+Baron, when he is here, seldom fail of being present at the exercises
+and reviews of the militia of the village and parts adjacent: their
+presence has a great effect on the youth of the country, who are
+naturally of a martial and spirited temper, and are extremely
+delighted to see themselves honoured with the presence of veteran
+officers. They are still prouder of their own merit, when they see
+soldiers retired from foreign service less expert than themselves: yet
+this they often do; for, do what you will, five pence a day, and the
+fear of being caned, will never produce that emulation which may be
+excited in a free man under arms, by the presence of his relations,
+his neighbours, his friends, his mistress, and the honour of his
+country.
+
+Mrs. Wolmar’s great maxim is, therefore, never to encourage any one to
+change his condition, but to contribute all in her power to make every
+one happy in his present station; being particularly solicitous to
+present the happiest of all situations, that of a peasant in a free
+state, from being despised in favour of other employments.
+
+I remember, I one day made an objection on this subject founded on the
+different talents which nature seems to have bestowed on mankind, in
+order to fit them for different occupations, without any regard to
+their birth. This she obviated, however, by observing that there were
+two more material things to be consulted, before talents: these were
+virtue and happiness. Man, said she, is too noble a being to be made a
+mere tool of for the use of others: he ought not to be employed in
+what he is fit for, without consulting how far such employment is fit
+for him; for we are not made for our stations, but our stations for
+us. In the right distribution of things therefore, we should not adapt
+men to circumstances, but circumstances to men; we should not seek
+that employment for which a man is best adapted, but that which is
+best adapted to make him virtuous and happy. For it can never be right
+to destroy one human soul for the temporal advantage of others, nor to
+make any man a villain for the use of honest people. Now, out of a
+thousand persons, who leave their native villages, there are not ten
+of them but what are spoiled by going to town, and become even more
+profligate than those who initiate them into vice. Those, who succeed
+and make their fortunes, frequently compass it by base and dishonest
+means; while the unsuccessful, instead of returning to their former
+occupation, rather chuse to turn beggars and thieves. But, supposing
+that one out of the thousand resist the contagion of example, and
+perseveres in the sentiments of honesty, do you think that upon the
+whole, his life is as happy as it might have been in the tranquil
+obscurity of his first condition.
+
+It is no easy matter to discover the talents with which nature hath
+severally endowed us. On the contrary, it is very difficult to
+distinguish those of young persons the best educated and most
+attentively observed: how then shall a peasant, meanly bred, presume
+to judge of his own? There is nothing so equivocal as the genius
+frequently attributed to youth; the spirit of imitation has often a
+greater share in it than natural ability, and very often it depends
+more on accident than a determined inclination; nor does even
+inclination itself always determine the capacity. Real talents, or
+true genius, are attended with a certain simplicity of disposition,
+which makes it less restless and enterprising, less ready to thrust
+itself forward than a superficial and false one; which is nevertheless
+generally mistaken for the true, and consists only in a vain desire of
+making a figure without talents to support it. One of these geniuses
+hears the drum beat, and is immediately in idea a general; another
+sees a palace building, and directly commences architect. Thus Gustin,
+my gardener, from seeing some of my works, must needs learn to draw. I
+sent him to Lausanne to a master, and he imagines himself already a
+fine painter. The opportunity, and the desire of preferment, generally
+determine mens’ profession. But it is not enough to be sensible of the
+bent of our genius, unless we are willing to pursue it. Will a prince
+turn coachman, because he is expert at driving a set of horses? Will a
+duke turn cook, because he is ingenious at inventing ragouts? Our
+talents all tend to preferment; no one pretends to those which would
+fit him for an inferior station: do you think this is agreeable to the
+order of nature? Suppose every one sensible of his own talents, and as
+willing to employ them, how is it possible? How could they surmount so
+many obstacles? How could they overcome so many unworthy competitors?
+He, who finds in himself the want of abilities, would call in subtilty
+and intrigue to his aid; and thereby frequently becomes an overmatch
+for others of greater capacity and sincerity. Have you not told me
+yourself a hundred times, that the many establishments in favour of
+the arts have only been of prejudice to them? In multiplying
+indiscreetly the number of professors and academicians, true merit is
+lost in the crowd; and the honours, due to the most ingenious, are
+always bestowed on the most intriguing. Did there exist, indeed, a
+society, wherein the rank and employment of its respective members
+were exactly calculated to their talents and personal merit, every one
+might there aspire to the place he should be most fit for; but it is
+necessary to conduct ourselves by other rules, and give up that of
+abilities, in societies where the vilest of all talents is the only
+one that leads to fortune.
+
+I will add further, continued she, that I cannot be persuaded of the
+utility of having so many different talents displayed. It seems
+necessary, the number of persons so qualified should be exactly
+proportioned to the wants of society; now if those only were appointed
+to cultivate the earth, who should have eminent talents for
+agriculture; or if all those were taken from that employment, who
+might be found more proper for some other, there would not remain a
+sufficient number of labourers to furnish the common necessaries of
+life. I am apt to think, therefore, that great talents in men are like
+great virtues in drugs, which nature has provided to cure our
+maladies, though its intention certainly was that we should never
+stand in need of them. In the vegetable creation there are plants
+which are poisonous: in the brutal animals that would tear us to
+pieces; and among mankind there are those who possess talents no less
+destructive to their species. Besides, if every thing were to be put
+to that use for which its qualities seem best adapted, it might be
+productive of more harm than good in the world. There are thousands
+of simple honest people, who have no occasion for a diversity of great
+talents; supporting themselves better by their simplicity, than others
+with all their ingenuity. But, in proportion as their morals are
+corrupted, their talents are displayed, as if to serve as a supplement
+to the virtues they have lost, and to oblige the vicious to be useful,
+in spite of themselves.
+
+Another subject, on which we differed, was the relieving of beggars.
+As we live near a public road, great numbers are constantly passing
+by; and it is the custom of the house to give to every one that asks.
+I represented to her, that this practice was not only throwing that
+money away, which might be charitably bestowed on persons in real
+want; but that it tended to multiply beggars and vagabonds, who take
+pleasure in that idle life, and, by rendering themselves a burthen to
+society, deprive it of their labour.
+
+I see very well, says she, you have imbibed prejudices, by living in
+great cities, and some of those maxims by which your complaisant
+reasoners love to flatter the hard-heartedness of the wealthy: you
+make use of their very expressions. Do you think to degrade a poor
+wretch below a human being, by giving him the contemptuous name of
+beggar? Compassionate as you really are, how could you prevail on
+yourself to make use of it? Repeat it no more, my friend, it does not
+come well from your lips: believe me, it is more dishonourable for the
+cruel man by whom it is used, than for the unhappy wretch who bears
+it. I will not pretend to decide whether those, who thus inveigh
+against the giving alms, are right or wrong; but this I know, that Mr.
+Wolmar, whose good sense is not inferior to that of your philosophers,
+and who has frequently told me of the arguments they use to suppress
+their natural compassion and sensibility, has always appeared to
+despise them, and has never disapproved of my conduct. His own
+argument is simple. We permit, says he, and even support at a great
+expense, a multitude of useless professions; many of which serve only
+to spoil and corrupt our manners. Now, to look upon the profession of
+a beggar as a trade, so far are we from having any reason to fear the
+like corruption of manners from the exercise of it, that, on the
+contrary, it serves to excite in us those sentiments of humanity,
+which ought to unite all mankind. Again, if we look upon begging as a
+talent, why should I not reward the eloquence of a beggar, who has art
+enough to excite my compassion, and induce me to relieve him, as well
+as I do a comedian, who on the stage makes me shed a few fruitless
+tears? If the one makes me admire the good actions of others, the
+other induces me to do a good action myself: all, that we feel at the
+representation of a tragedy, goes off as soon as we come out of the
+playhouse; but the remembrance of the unhappy object we have relieved
+gives continual pleasure. A great number of beggars may be burthensome
+to a state: but of how many professions, which are tolerated and
+encouraged, may we not say the same? It belongs to the legislature and
+administration to take care there should be no beggars; but, in order
+to make them lay down their trade, [75] is it necessary to make all
+other ranks of people inhuman and unnatural? For my part, continued
+Eloisa, without knowing what the poor may be to the state, I know they
+are all my brethren, and that I cannot, without thinking myself
+inexcusable, refuse them the small relief they ask of me. The greater
+part of them, I own, are vagabonds; but I know too much of life, to be
+ignorant how many misfortunes may reduce an honest man to such a
+situation; and how can I be sure, that an unhappy stranger, who comes,
+in the name of God, to implore my assistance, and to beg a poor morsel
+of bread, is not such an honest man, ready to perish for want, and
+whom my refusal may drive to despair? The alms I distribute at the
+door are of no great value. A half-penny and a piece of bread are
+refused to nobody; and twice the proportion is always given to such as
+are maimed or otherwise evidently incapable of labour. Should they
+meet with the same relief at every house, which can afford it, it
+would be sufficient to support them on their journey; and that is all
+a needy traveller has a right to expect. But, supposing this was not
+enough to yield them any real help, it is at least a proof that we
+take some part in their distress; a sort of salutation that softens
+the rigour of refusing them more. A half-penny and a morsel of bread
+cost little more, and are a more civil answer, than a mere _God help
+you_; which is too often the only thing bestowed, as if the gifts of
+providence were not placed in the hands of men, or that heaven had any
+other store on earth than what is laid up in the coffers of the rich.
+In short, whatever we ought to think of such unfortunate wretches, and
+though nothing should in justice be given to common beggars, we ought
+at least, out of respect to ourselves, to take some notice of
+suffering humanity, and not harden our hearts at the sight of the
+miserable.
+
+This is my behaviour to those, who, without any other subterfuge or
+pretext, come openly a begging. With respect to such as pretend to be
+workmen, and complain for want of employment, we have here tools of
+almost every kind for them, and we set them to work. By this means we
+assist them and put their industry to the proof; a circumstance which
+is now so well known that the lazy cheat never comes again to the
+gate.
+
+It is thus, my Lord, this angelic creature always deduces something
+from her own virtues, to combat those vain subtilties, by which people
+of cruel dispositions palliate their vices. The solicitude and pains
+she takes to relieve the poor, are also ranked among her amusements,
+and take up great part of the time she can spare from her most
+important duties. After having performed her duty to others, she then
+thinks of herself; and the means she takes to render life agreeable
+may be reckoned among her virtues: so commendable are her constant
+motives of action, that moderation and good sense are always mixed
+with her pleasures! She is ambitious to please her husband, who
+always delights in seeing her chearful and gay: she is desirous of
+instilling into her children a taste for innocent pleasures, wherein
+moderation order and simplicity prevail, and secure the heart from the
+violence of impetuous passions. She amuses herself, therefore, to
+divert them, as the dove softens the grain to nourish the young ones.
+
+Eloisa’s mind and body are equally sensible. The same delicacy
+prevails as well in her senses as her sentiments. She was formed to
+know and taste every pleasure. Virtue having been long esteemed by her
+as the most refined of all delights, in the peaceful enjoyment of that
+supreme pleasure, she debars herself of none that are consistent with
+it; but then her method of enjoyment resembles the austerity of self-
+denial: not indeed of that afflicting and painful self-denial, which
+is hurtful to nature, and which its author rejects as ridiculous
+homage; but of that slight and moderate restraint, by which the empire
+of reason is preserved; and which serves as a whet to pleasure by
+preventing disgust. She will have it, that every thing which pleases
+the sense, and is not necessary to life, changes its nature, whenever
+it becomes habitual; that it ceases to be pleasant in becoming
+needful; that we thus by habit lay ourselves at once under a needless
+restraint and deprive ourselves of a real pleasure; and that the art
+of satisfying our desires lies not in indulging, but in suppressing,
+them. The method she takes to enhance the pleasures of the least
+amusement, is to deny herself the use of it twenty times for once that
+she enjoys it. Thus her mind preserves its first vigour; her taste is
+not spoiled by use; she has no need to excite it by excess; and I have
+often seen her take exquisite delight in a childish diversion, which
+would have been insipid to any other person on earth.
+
+A still nobler object, which she proposes to herself from the exercise
+of this virtue, is that of remaining always mistress of herself, and
+thereby to accustom her passions to obedience, and to subject her
+inclinations to rule. This is a new way to be happy; for it is certain
+that we enjoy nothing with so little inquietude, as what we can part
+from without pain; and if the philosopher be happy, it is because he
+is the man from whom fortune can take the least.
+
+But what appears to me the most singular in her moderation, is that
+she pursues it for the very same reasons which hurry the voluptuous
+into excess. Life is indeed short, says she, which is a reason for
+enjoying it to the end, and managing its duration in such a manner as
+to make the most of it. If one day’s indulgence and satiety deprives
+us of a whole year’s taste for enjoyment, it is bad philosophy to
+pursue our desires so far as they may be ready to lead us, without
+considering whether we may not out-live our faculties, and our hearts
+be exhausted before our time. I see that your common epicures, in
+order to let slip no opportunity of enjoyment, lose all; and,
+perpetually anxious in the midst of pleasures, can find no enjoyment
+in any. They lavish away the time of which they think they are
+economists, and ruin themselves, like misers, by not knowing how to
+give any thing away. For my part, I hold the opposite maxim; and
+should prefer, in this case, rather too much severity than relaxation.
+It sometimes happens that I break up a party of pleasure, for no other
+reason than that it is too agreeable; and, by repeating it another
+time, have the satisfaction of enjoying it twice.
+
+Upon such principles are the sweets of life, and the pleasures of mere
+amusement, regulated here. Amidst her various application to the
+several branches of her domestic employment, Eloisa takes particular
+care that the kitchen is not neglected. Her table is spread with
+abundance; but it is not the destructive abundance of fantastic
+luxury: all the viands are common, but excellent, in their kind; the
+cookery is simple, but exquisite. All that consists in appearance
+only, whose nicety depends on the fashion, all your delicate and far-
+fetched dishes, whose scarcity is their only value, are banished from
+the table of Eloisa. Among the most delicious also of those which are
+admitted, they daily abstain from some; which they reserve in order to
+give an air of festivity to those meals for which they were intended,
+and which are thereby rendered more agreeable, without being more
+costly. But of what kind, think you, are these dishes which are so
+carefully husbanded? Choice game? Sea-fish? Foreign produce? No.
+Something better than all that. They are perhaps a particular choice
+salad of the country; fine greens of our own gardens; fish of the
+lake, dressed in a peculiar manner; cheese from the mountains; a
+German party, or game caught by some of the domestics. The table is
+served in a modest and rural but agreeable manner, chearfulness and
+gratitude crowning the whole. Your gilt covers, round which the guests
+sit starving with hunger; your pompous glasses, stuck out with flowers
+for the desert, are never introduced here, to take up the place
+intended for victuals; we are entirely ignorant of the art of
+satisfying hunger by the eye. But then no where do they so well know
+how to add welcome to good chear, to eat a good deal without eating
+too much, to drink chearfully without intoxication, to sit so long at
+table without being tired, and to rise from it without disgust. On the
+first floor there is a little dining room, different from that in
+which we usually dine, which is on the ground floor. This room is
+built in the corner of the house, and has windows in two aspects:
+those on one side over-look the garden, beyond which we have a
+prospect of the lake between the trees: on the other side, we have a
+fine view of a spacious vineyard, that begins to display the golden
+harvest which we shall reap in about two months. This room is small,
+but ornamented with every thing that can render it pleasant and
+agreeable. It is here Eloisa gives her little entertainments to her
+father, to her husband, to her cousin, to me, to herself, and
+sometimes to her children. When she orders the table to be spread
+there, we know immediately the design; and Mr. Wolmar has given it the
+name of the Saloon of Apollo: but this Saloon differs no less from
+that of Lucullus, in the choice of the persons entertained, than in
+that of the entertainment. Common guests are not admitted into it; we
+never dine there, when there are any strangers: it is the inviolable
+asylum of mutual confidence, friendship and liberty. The society of
+hearts is there joined to the social bond of the table; the entrance
+into it is a kind of initiation into the mysteries of a cordial
+intimacy; nor do any persons ever meet there but such as wish never to
+be separated. We wait impatiently for you, my Lord, who are to dine
+the very first day in the Apollo.
+
+For my part, I was not at first admitted to that honour, which was
+reserved for me till after my return from Mrs. Orbe’s. Not that I
+imagined they could add any thing to the obliging reception I met with
+on my arrival; but the supper, made for me there, gave me other ideas.
+It is impossible to describe the delightful mixture of familiarity,
+chearfulness, and social ease, which I then experienced, and had never
+before tasted in my whole life. I found myself more at liberty without
+being told to assume it, and we seemed even to understand one another
+much better than before. The absence of the domestics, who were
+dismissed from their attendance, removed that reserve which I still
+felt at heart; and it was then that I first, at the instance of
+Eloisa, resumed the custom I had laid aside for many years, of
+drinking wine after meals.
+
+I was enraptured at this repast, and wished that all our meals might
+have been made in the same manner. I knew nothing of this delightful
+room, said I to Mrs. Wolmar; why don’t you always eat here? See,
+replied she, how pretty it is! Would it not be a pity to spoil it?
+This answer seemed too much out of character for me not to suspect she
+had some farther meaning. But why, added I, have you not the same
+conveniences below, that the servants might be sent away, and leave us
+to talk more at liberty? That, replied she, would be too agreeable,
+and the trouble of being always at ease is the greatest in the world.
+I immediately comprehended her system by this, and concluded that her
+art of managing her pleasures consisted in being sparing of them.
+
+I think she dresses herself with more care than formerly; the only
+piece of vanity I ever reproached her for, being that of neglecting
+her dress. The haughty fair one had her reasons, and left me no
+pretext to disown her power. But, do all she could, my enchantment was
+too strong for me to think it natural; I was too obstinate in
+attributing her negligence to art. Not that the power of her charms is
+diminished; but she now disdains to exert it; and I should be apt to
+say, she affected a greater neatness in her dress that she might
+appear only a pretty woman, had I not discovered the reason for her
+present solicitude in this point. During the first two or three days I
+was mistaken; for, not reflecting that she was dressed in the same
+manner at my arrival, which was unexpected, I thought she had done it
+out of respect to me. I was undeceived, however, in the absence of Mr.
+Wolmar. For the next day she was not attired with that elegance, which
+so eminently distinguished her the preceding evening, nor with that
+affecting and voluptuous simplicity which formerly enchanted me; but
+with a certain modesty that speaks through the eyes to the heart, that
+inspires respect only, and to which beauty itself but gives additional
+authority. The dignity of wife and mother appeared in all her charms;
+the timid and affectionate looks she cast on me, were now mixed with
+an air of gravity and grandeur, which seemed to cast a veil over her
+features. In the mean time, she betrayed not the least alteration in
+her behaviour; her equality of temper, her candor knew nothing of
+affectation. She practiced only a talent natural to her sex, to change
+sometimes our sentiments and ideas of them, by a different dress, by
+a cap of this form, or a gown of that colour. The day on which she
+expected her husband’s return, she again found the art of adorning her
+natural charms without hiding them; she came from her toilet indeed a
+dazzling beauty, and I saw she was not less capable to outshine the
+most splendid dress, than to adorn the most simple. I could not help
+being vexed, when I reflected on the cause of her preparation.
+
+This taste for ornament extends itself, from the mistress of the
+house, through all the family. The master, the children, the servants,
+the equipage, the building, the garden, the furniture, are all set off
+and kept in such order as shews what they are capable of, though
+magnificence is despised:----I do not mean true magnificence, and
+which consists less in the expense, than in the good order and noble
+disposition of things. [76]
+
+For my own part, I must confess it appears to me a more grand and
+noble sight, to see a small number of people happy in themselves and
+in each other, in a plain modest family, than to see the most splendid
+palace filled with tumult and discord, and every one of its
+inhabitants taking advantage of the general disorder, and building up
+their own fortunes and happiness on the ruin of another. A well-
+governed private family forms a single object, agreeable and
+delightful to contemplate; whereas, in a riotous palace, we see only a
+confused assemblage of various objects, whose connection and
+dependence are merely apparent. At first sight, indeed, they seem
+operating to one end; but in examining them nearer, we are soon
+undeceived.
+
+To consult only our most natural impressions, it should seem that, to
+despise luxury and parade, we need less of moderation than of taste.
+Symmetry and regularity are pleasing to every one. The picture of ease
+and happiness must affect every heart; but a vain pomp, which relates
+neither to regularity nor happiness, and has only the desire of making
+a figure in the eyes of others for its object, however favourable an
+idea it may excite in us of the person who displays it, can give
+little pleasure to the spectator. But what is taste? Does not a
+hundred times more taste appear in the order and construction of plain
+and simple things, than in those which are over-loaded with finery?
+What is convenience? Is any thing in the world more inconvenient than
+pomp and pageantry? [77] What is grandeur? It is precisely the
+contrary. When I see the intention of an architect to build a large
+palace, I immediately ask myself why it is not larger? Why does not
+the man, who keeps fifty servants, if he aims at grandeur, keep an
+hundred? That fine silver plate, why is it not gold? The man who gilds
+his chariot, why does he not also gild the ceiling of his apartment?
+If his ceilings are gilt, why does not gild the roof too? He, who was
+desirous of building an high tower, was right in his intention to
+raise it up to heaven; otherwise it was to no purpose to build, as the
+point where he might at last stop, would only serve to shew, at the
+greater distance, his want of ability. O man! vain and feeble
+creature! Shew me thy power, and I will shew thee thy misery!
+
+A regularity in the disposal of things, every one of which is of real
+use, and all confined to the necessaries of life, not only presents an
+agreeable prospect but as it pleases the eye, at the same time gives
+content to the heart. For a man views them always in a pleasing light,
+as relating to and sufficient for himself. The picture of his own
+wants or weakness does not appear, nor does the chearful prospect
+affect him with sorrowful reflections. I defy any sensible man to
+contemplate, for an hour, the palace of a prince, and the pomp which
+reigns there, without falling into melancholy reflections, and
+bemoaning the lot of humanity. On the contrary, the prospect of this
+house, with the uniform and simple life of its inhabitants, diffuse
+over the mind of the spectator a secret pleasure, which is perpetually
+increasing. A small number of good-natured people, united by their
+mutual wants and reciprocal benevolence, concur by their different
+employments in promoting the same end; every one, finding in his
+situation all that is requisite to contentment, and not desiring to
+change it, applies himself as if he thought to stay here all his life;
+the only ambition among them being that of properly discharging their
+respective duties. There is so much moderation in those who command,
+and so much zeal in those who obey, that equals might agree to
+distribute the same employments among them, without any one having
+reason to complain of his lot. No one envies that of another; no one
+thinks of augmenting his fortune, but by adding to the common good:
+the master and mistress estimating their own happiness by that of
+their domestics and the people about them. One finds here nothing to
+add or diminish, because here is nothing, but what is useful, and that
+indeed is all that is to be found; insomuch that nothing is wanted
+which may not be had, and of that there is always a sufficiency.
+Suppose, now, to all this were added, lace, pictures, lustres,
+gilding; in a moment you would impoverish the scene. In seeing so much
+abundance in things necessary, and no mark of superfluity, one is now
+apt to think, that if those things were the objects of choice, which
+are not here, they would be had in the same abundance. In seeing also
+so plentiful a provision made for the poor, one is led to say, This
+house cannot contain its wealth. This seems to me to be true
+magnificence.
+
+Such marks of opulence, however, surprized me, when I first heard what
+fortune must support it. You are ruining yourselves, said I to Mr. and
+Mrs. Wolmar; it is impossible so moderate a revenue can supply so much
+expense. They laughed at me, and soon convinced me, that, without
+retrenching any of their family expenses, they could, if they pleased,
+lay up money and increase their estate, instead of diminishing it. Our
+grand secret, to grow rich, said they, is to have as little to do with
+money as possible, and to avoid, as much as may be, those intermediate
+exchanges, which are made between the harvest and the consumption.
+None of those exchanges are made without some loss; and such losses,
+if multiplied, would reduce a very good estate to little or nothing,
+as by means of brokerage a valuable gold box may fetch in a sale the
+price only of a trifling toy. The expense of transporting our produce
+is avoided, by making use of some part on the spot, and that of
+exchange, by using others in their natural state. And as for the
+indispensable necessity of converting those in which we abound for
+such as we want, instead of making pecuniary bargains, we endeavour to
+make real exchanges, in which the convenience of both parties supplies
+the place of profit.
+
+I conceive, answered I, the advantages of this method; but it does not
+appear to me without inconvenience. For, besides the trouble to which
+it must subject you, the profit must be rather apparent than real, and
+what you lose in the management of your own estate, probably over-
+balances the profits the farmers would make of you. The peasants are
+better economists, both in the expenses of cultivation, and in
+gathering their produce, than you can be. That, replied, Mr. Wolmar,
+is a mistake; the peasant thinks less of augmenting the produce than
+of sparing his expenses, because the cost is more difficult for him to
+raise than the profits are useful. The tenant’s view is not so much to
+increase the value of the land, as to lay out but little on it; and if
+he depends on any certain gain, it is less by improving the soil, than
+exhausting it. The best that can happen, is, that instead of
+exhausting, he quite neglects it. Thus, for the sake of a little ready
+money, gathered in with ease, an indolent proprietor prepares for
+himself, or his children, great losses, much trouble, and sometimes
+the ruin of his patrimony.
+
+I do not deny, continued Mr. Wolmar, that I am at a much greater
+expense in the cultivation of my land, than a farmer would be; but
+then I myself reap the profit of his labour, and the culture being
+much better than his, my crop is proportionably larger: so that,
+though I am at a greater expense, I am still, upon the whole, a
+gainer. Besides, this excess of expense is only apparent, and is, in
+reality, productive of great economy; for, were we to let out our
+lands for others to cultivate, we should be ourselves idle: we must
+live in town, where the necessaries of life are dear; we must have
+amusements, that would cost us much more than those we take here. The
+business, which you call a trouble, is at once our duty and our
+delight; and, thanks to the regulation it is under, is never
+troublesome: on the contrary, it serves to employ us, instead of those
+destructive schemes of pleasure, which people in town run into, and
+which a country life prevents, whilst that which contributes to our
+happiness becomes our amusement.
+
+Look round you, continued he, and you will see nothing but what is
+useful; yet all these things cost little, and save a world of
+unnecessary expense. Our table is furnished with nothing but viands of
+our own growth; our dress and furniture are almost all composed of the
+manufactures of the country: nothing is despised with us because it is
+common, nor held in esteem because it is scarce. As every thing, that
+comes from abroad, is liable to be disguised and adulterated, we
+confine ourselves, as well through nicety as moderation, to the choice
+of the best home commodities, the quality of which is less dubious.
+Our viands are plain, but choice; and nothing is wanting to make ours
+a sumptuous table, but the transporting it a hundred leagues off; in
+which case every thing would be delicate, every thing would be rare,
+and even our trouts of the lake would be thought infinitely better,
+were they to be eaten at Paris.
+
+We observe the same rule in the choice of our apparel, which you see
+is not neglected; but its elegance is the only thing we study, and not
+its cost, and much less its fashion. There is a wide difference
+between the price of opinion and real value. The latter, however, is
+all that Eloisa regards; in choosing a gown, she enquires not so much
+whether the pattern be old or new, as whether the stuff be good and
+becoming. The novelty of it is even sometimes the cause of her
+rejecting it, especially when it enhances the price, by giving it an
+imaginary value.
+
+You should further consider, that the effect of every thing here
+arises less from itself than from its use, and its dependencies;
+insomuch that out of parts of little value, Eloisa has compounded a
+whole of great value. Taste delights in creating and stamping upon
+things a value of its own: as the laws of fashion are inconstant and
+destructive, hers is economical and lasting.
+
+What true taste once approves must be always good, and though it be
+seldom in the mode, it is, on the other hand, never improper. Thus, in
+her modest simplicity, she deduces, from the use and fitness of
+things, such sure and unalterable rules, as will stand their ground
+when the vanity of fashions is no more. The abundance of mere
+necessaries can never degenerate into abuse; for what is necessary has
+its natural bounds, and our real wants know no excess. One may lay out
+the price of twenty suits of cloaths in buying one, and eat up at a
+meal the income of a whole year; but we cannot wear two suits at one
+time, nor dine twice the same day. Thus the caprice of opinion is
+boundless, whereas nature confines us on all sides; and he, who, with
+a moderate fortune, contents himself with living well, will run no
+risk of ruin.
+
+Hence, you see, continued the prudent Wolmar, in what manner a little
+economy and industry may lift us out of the reach of fortune. It
+depends only on ourselves to increase ours, without changing our
+manner of living; for we advance nothing but with a view of profit,
+and whatever we expend puts us soon in a condition to expend much
+more.
+
+And yet, my Lord, nothing of all this appears at first sight: the
+general air of affluence, and profusion, hides that order and
+regularity to which it is owing. One must be here some time to
+perceive those sumptuary laws, which are productive of so much ease
+and pleasure; and it is with difficulty that one at first comprehends
+how they enjoy what they spare. On reflection, however, one’s
+satisfaction increases, because it is plain that the source is
+inexhaustible, and that the art of enjoying life serves at the same
+time to prolong it. How can any one be weary of a state so conformable
+to that of nature? How can he waste his inheritance by improving it
+every day? How ruin his fortune, by spending only his income? When one
+year provides for the next, what can disturb the peace of the present?
+The fruits of their past labour support their present abundance, and
+those of their present labour provide a future plenty: they enjoy at
+once what is expended and what is received, and both past and future
+times unite in the security of the present.
+
+I have looked into all the particulars of domestic management, and
+find the same spirit extend itself throughout the whole. All their
+lace and embroidery are worked in the house; all their cloth is spun
+at home, or by poor women supported by their charity. Their wool is
+sent to the manufactories of the country, from whence they receive
+cloth, in exchange, for cloathing the servants. Their wine, oil, and
+bread, are all made at home; and they have woods, of which they cut
+down regularly what is necessary for firing. The butcher is paid in
+cattle, the grocer in corn, for the nourishment of his family; the
+wages of the workmen and the servants are paid out of the produce of
+the lands they cultivate; the rent of their houses in town serves to
+furnish those they inhabit in the country; the interest of their money
+in the public funds furnishes a subsistence for the masters, and also
+the little plate they have occasion for. The sale of the corn and
+wine, which remain, furnishes a fund for extraordinary expenses; a
+fund which Eloisa’s prudence will never permit to be exhausted, and
+which her charity will not suffer to increase. She allows for matters
+of mere amusement the profits, only, of the labour done in the house,
+of the grubbing up uncultivated land, of planting trees, &c. Thus the
+produce and the labour always compensating each other, the balance
+cannot be disturbed; and it is impossible, from the nature of things,
+it should be destroyed.
+
+Add to this, that the abstinence, which Eloisa imposes on herself,
+through that voluptuous temperance I have mentioned, is at once
+productive of new means of pleasure, and new resources of economy. For
+example, she is very fond of coffee, and, when her mother was living,
+drank it every day. But she has left off that practice, in order to
+heighten her taste for it, now drinking it only when she has company,
+or in her favourite dining room, in order to give her entertainments
+the air of a treat. This is a little indulgence which is the more
+agreeable, as it costs her little, and at the same time restrains and
+regulates her appetite. On the contrary, she studies to discover and
+gratify the taste of her father and husband with an unwearied
+attention; a charming prodigality which makes them like every thing so
+much the more, for the pleasure they see she takes in providing it.
+They both love to sit a little after meals, in the manner of the
+Swiss; on which occasions, particularly after supper, she never fails
+to treat them with a bottle of wine more old and delicate than common.
+I was at first deceived by the fine names she gave to her wines,
+which, in sac, I found to be extremely good; and, drinking them as
+wines of the growth of the countries whose names they bore, I took
+Eloisa to task for so manifest a breach of her own maxims; but she
+laughed at me and put me in mind of a passage in Plutarch, where
+Flaminius compares the Asiatic troops of Antiochus, distinguished by a
+thousand barbarous names, to the several ragouts under which a friend
+of his had disguised one and the same kind of meat. It is just so,
+said she, with these foreign wines. The Lisbon, the Sherry, the
+Malaga, the Champagne, the Syracuse, which you have drank here with so
+much pleasure, are all, in fact, no other than wines of this country,
+and you see from hence the vineyard that produced them. If they are
+inferior in quality to the celebrated wines, whose names they bear,
+they are also without their inconveniences; and as one is certain of
+the materials of which they are composed, they may be drank with less
+danger. I have reason to believe, continued she, that my father and
+husband like them as well as more scarce and costly wines. Eloisa’s
+wines, indeed, says Mr. Wolmar to me, have a taste which pleases us
+better than any others, and that arises from the pleasure she takes in
+preparing them. Ah! returned she, then they will be always exquisite.
+
+You will judge whether, amidst such a variety of business, that
+indolence and want of employment, which make company, visitings, and
+such formal society necessary, can find any place here. We visit our
+neighbours, indeed, just enough to keep up an agreeable acquaintance,
+but too little to be slaves to each other’s company. Our guests are
+always welcome, but are never invited or intreated. The rule here is
+to see just so much company as to prevent the losing a taste for
+retirement; rural occupation supplying the place of amusements: and to
+him, who finds an agreeable and peaceful society in his own family,
+all other company is insipid. The manner, however, in which we pass
+our time, is too simple and uniform to tempt many people, but it is
+the disposition of those, who have adopted it, that makes it
+delightful. How can persons of a sound mind be wearied with
+discharging the most endearing and pleasing duties of humanity, and
+with rendering each other’s lives mutually happy? Satisfied every
+night with the transactions of the day, Eloisa wishes for nothing
+different on the morrow. Her constant morning prayer is, that the
+present day may prove like the past. She is engaged perpetually in the
+same round of business, because no alteration would give her more
+pleasure. Thus, without doubt, she enjoys all the happiness of which
+human life is capable: for is not our being pleased with the
+continuation of our lot a certain sign that we are happy? One seldom
+sees in this place those knots of idle people, which are usually
+called good company; but then one beholds those who interest our
+affections infinitely more, such as peaceable peasants, without art,
+and without politeness; but honest, simple, and contented in their
+station: old officers retired from the service; merchants wearied with
+application to business, and tired of growing rich; prudent mothers of
+families, who bring their children to the school of modesty and good
+manners: such is the company Eloisa assembles about her. To these her
+husband sometimes adds some of those adventurers, reformed by age and
+experience, who, having purchased wisdom at their own cost, return,
+without reluctance, to cultivate their paternal soil, which they wish
+they had never left. When any one relates at table the occurrences of
+their lives, they consist not of the marvellous adventures of the
+wealthy Sindbad, recounting, in the midst of eastern pomp and
+effeminacy, how he acquired his vast wealth. Their tales are the
+simple narratives of men of sense, who, from the caprice of fortune,
+and the injustice of mankind, are disgusted with the vain pursuit of
+imaginary happiness, and have acquired a taste for the objects of true
+felicity.
+
+Would you believe that even the conversation of peasants hath its
+charms for these elevated minds, of whom the philosopher himself might
+be glad to profit in wisdom? The judicious Wolmar discovers in their
+rural simplicity more characteristical distinction, more men that
+think for themselves, than under the uniform mask worn in great
+cities, where every one appears what other people are, rather than
+what he is himself. The affectionate Eloisa finds their hearts
+susceptible of the smallest offers of kindness, and that they esteem
+themselves happy in the interest she takes in their happiness. Neither
+their hearts nor understandings are formed by art; they have not
+learned to model themselves after the fashion, and are less the
+creatures of men than those of nature.
+
+Mr. Wolmar often picks up, in his rounds, some honest old peasant,
+whose experience and understanding give him great pleasure. He brings
+him home to Eloisa, by whom he is received in a manner which denotes,
+not her politeness, or the dignity of her station, but the benevolence
+and humanity of her character. The good man is kept to dinner; Eloisa
+placing him next herself, obligingly helping him, and asking kindly
+after his family and affairs. She smiles not at his embarrassment, nor
+takes notice of the rusticity of his manners; but by the ease of her
+own behaviour frees him from all restraint, maintaining throughout
+that tender and affectionate respect, which is due to an infirm old
+age, honoured by an irreproachable life. The venerable old man is
+enraptured, and, in the fullness of heart, seems to experience again
+the vivacity of youth. In drinking healths to a young and beautiful
+lady, his half-frozen blood grows warm; and he begins to talk of
+former times, the days of his youth, his amours, the campaigns he has
+made, the battles he has been in, of the magnanimity and feats of his
+fellow soldiers, of his return to his native country, of his wife, his
+children, his rural employments, the inconveniencies he has remarked,
+and the remedies he thinks may be applied to remove them: during which
+long detail, he often lets fall some excellent, moral, or useful
+lesson in agriculture, the dictates of age and experience; but be
+there even nothing in what he says, so long as he takes a pleasure in
+saying it, Eloisa would take pleasure in hearing.
+
+After dinner she retires into her own apartment, to fetch some little
+present for the wife or daughter of the good old man. This is
+presented to him by the children, who in return receive some trifle of
+him, with which she had secretly provided him for that purpose. Thus
+she initiates them betimes, to that intimate and pleasing benevolence,
+which knits the bond of society between persons of different
+conditions. The children are accordingly accustomed to respect old
+age, to esteem simplicity of manners, and to distinguish merit in all
+ranks of people. The young peasants, on the other hand, seeing their
+fathers thus entertained at a gentleman’s house, and admitted to the
+master’s table, take no offence at being themselves excluded; they
+think such exclusion not owing to their rank, but their age; they
+don’t say, We are too poor, but, we are too young to be thus treated.
+Thus the honour done to their aged parents, and their hope of one day
+enjoying the same distinction, make them amends for being debarred
+from it at present, and excite them to become worthy of it. At his
+return home to his cottage, their delighted guest impatiently produces
+the presents he has brought his wife and children, who are over-joyed
+at the honour done them; the good old man, at the same time, eagerly
+relating to them the reception he met with, the dainties he has eaten,
+the wines he has tasted, the obliging discourse and conversation, the
+affability of the gentlefolks, and the assiduity of the servants; in
+the recital of all which, he enjoys it a second time, and the whole
+family partake of the honour done to their head. They join in concert
+to bless that illustrious house, which affords at once an example to
+the rich and an asylum for the poor, and whose generous inhabitants
+disdain not the indigent, but do honour to grey hairs. Such is the
+incense that is pleasing to benevolent minds; and, if there be any
+prayers to which heaven lends a gracious ear, they are certainly, not
+those which are offered up by meanness and flattery, in the hearing of
+the person prayed for, but such as the grateful and simple heart
+dictates in secret, beneath its own roof.
+
+It is thus, that agreeable and affectionate sentiments give charms to
+a life, insipid to indifferent minds: it is thus, that business,
+labour, and retirement, become amusing by the art of managing them. A
+sound mind knows how to take delight in vulgar employments, as a
+healthful body relishes the most simple aliments. All those indolent
+people, who are diverted with so much difficulty, owe their disgust to
+their vices, and lose their taste for pleasure only with that of their
+duty. As to Eloisa, it is directly contrary; the employment, which a
+certain languor of mind made her formerly neglect, becomes now
+interesting from the motive that excites to it: One must be totally
+insensible to be always without vivacity. She formerly sought solitude
+and retirement, in order to indulge her reflections on the object of
+her passion; at present she has acquired new activity, by having
+formed new and different connections. She is not one of those indolent
+mothers of a family, who are contented to study their duty when they
+should discharge it, and lose their time in inquiring after the
+business of others, which they should employ in dispatching their own.
+Eloisa practises at present what she learnt long ago. Her time for
+reading and study has given place to that of action. As she rises an
+hour later than her husband, so she goes an hour later to bed. This
+hour is the only time she employs in study; for the day is not too
+long for the various business in which she is engaged.
+
+This, my Lord, is what I had to say to you concerning the economy of
+this house and of the retired life of those who govern it. Contented
+in their station, they peaceably enjoy its conveniences; satisfied
+with their fortune, they seek not to augment it for their children;
+but to leave them, with the inheritance they themselves received, an
+estate in good condition, affectionate servants, a taste for
+employment, order, moderation, and for every thing that can render
+delightful and agreeable to men of sense the enjoyment of a moderate
+fortune, as prudently preserved as honestly acquired.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXXXVII. To Lord B----.
+
+
+We have had visitors for some days past. They left us yesterday, and
+we renewed that agreeable society subsisting between us three, which
+is by so much the more delightful, as there is nothing, even in the
+bottom of our hearts, that we desire to hide from each other. What a
+pleasure do I take, in resuming a new being, which renders me worthy
+of your confidence. At every mark of esteem which I receive from
+Eloisa and her husband, I say to myself, with an air of self-
+sufficiency, At length I may venture to appear before Lord B----. It
+is with your assistance, it is under your eyes, that I hope to do
+honour to my present situation by my past follies. If an extinguished
+passion casts the mind into a state of dejection, a passion subdued
+adds to the consciousness of victory, a new elevation of sentiment, a
+more lively attachment to all that is sublime and beautiful. Shall I
+lose the fruit of a sacrifice, which hath cost me so dear? No, my
+Lord; I feel that, animated by your example, my heart is going to
+profit by all those arduous sentiments it has conquered. I feel, that
+it was necessary for me to be what I was, in order for me to become
+what I am.
+
+After having thrown away six days, in frivolous conversation with
+persons indifferent to us, we passed yesterday morning, after the
+manner of the English, in company and silence; tasting at once the
+pleasure of being together and the sweetness of self-recollection. How
+small a part of mankind know any thing of the pleasures of this
+situation! I never saw a person in France who had the least idea of
+it. The conversation of friends, say they, can never be exhausted. It
+is true, the tongue may easily find words for common attachments: but
+friendship, my Lord, friendship! thou animating celestial sentiment!
+what language is worthy of thee? What tongue presumes to be thy
+interpreter? Can any thing spoken to a friend equal what is felt in
+his company? Good God I how many things are conveyed by a squeeze of
+the hand, by an animating look, by an eager embrace, by a sigh that
+rises from the bottom of the heart! And how cold in comparison is the
+first word which is spoken after that! I shall never forget the
+evenings I passed at Besancon, those delightful moments sacred to
+silence and friendship. Never, Oh B----! Thou noblest of men!
+sublimest of friends! No, never have I undervalued what you then did
+for me; never have my lips presumed to mention it. It is certain, that
+this state of contemplation affords the greatest delight to
+susceptible minds. But I have always observed, that impertinent
+visitors prevent one from enjoying it, and that friends ought to be by
+themselves, to be at liberty to say nothing. At such a time one should
+be, if one may use the expression, collected in each other; the least
+avocation is destructive, the least constraint is insupportable. It is
+then so sweet to pronounce the dictates of the heart without
+restraint. It seems as if one dared to think freely only of what one
+can as freely speak; it seems as if the presence of a stranger
+restrained the sentiment, and compressed those hearts, which could so
+fully dictate themselves alone.
+
+Two hours passed away in this silent extasy, more delightful, a
+thousand times, than the frigid repose of the deities of Epicurus.
+After breakfast, the children came, as usual, into the apartment of
+Eloisa; who, instead of retiring and shutting herself up with them in
+the work-room, according to custom, kept them with her, as if to make
+them some amends for the time they had lost without seeing us:----and
+we none of us parted till dinner. Harriot, who begins to know how to
+handle her needle, sat at work before Fanny, who was weaving lace, and
+rested her cushion on the back of her little chair. The two boys were
+busy at a table turning over the leaves of a book of prints, the
+subject of which the eldest explained to the younger; Harriot, who
+knew the whole by heart, being attentive to, and correcting him when
+wrong: and sometimes, pretending to be ignorant what figures they were
+at, she made it a pretence to rise, and go backwards and forwards from
+the chair to the table. During these little lessons, which were given
+and taken with little pains and less restraint, the younger boy was
+playing with some counters which he had secreted under the book. Mrs.
+Wolmar was at work on some embroidery near the window opposite the
+children, and her husband and I were still sitting at the tea-table,
+reading the Gazette, to which she gave but little attention. But when
+we came to the article, which mentions the illness of the king of
+France, and the singular attachment of his people, unequalled by any
+thing but that of the Romans for Germanicus, she made some reflections
+on the disposition of that affectionate and benevolent nation, whom
+all the world hate, whilst they have no hatred to any one; adding,
+that she envied only a sovereign the power of making himself beloved.
+To this her husband replied, You have no need to envy a sovereign, who
+have so long had us all for your subjects. On which she turned her
+head, and cast a look on him so affecting and tender, that it struck
+me prodigiously. She said nothing indeed; for what could she say equal
+to such a look? Our eyes met: and I could perceive, by the manner in
+which her husband pressed my hand, that the same emotion had affected
+us all three, and that the delightful influence of her expansive heart
+diffused itself around, and triumphed over insensibility itself.
+
+We were thus disposed when that silent scene began, of which I just
+now spoke: you may judge, that it was not the consequence of coldness
+or chagrin. It was first interrupted by the little management of the
+children; who, nevertheless, as soon as we left off speaking,
+moderated their prattle, as if afraid of disturbing the general
+silence. The little teacher was the first that lowered her voice, made
+signs to the others, and ran about on tip toe, while their play became
+the more diverting by this light constraint. This scene, which seemed
+to present itself in order to prolong our tenderness, produced its
+natural effect.
+
+_Ammutiscon le lingue, e parlan l’alme._
+
+How many things may be said without opening one’s lips! How warm the
+sentiments that may be communicated, without the cold interposition of
+speech! Eloisa insensibly permitted her attention to be engaged by the
+same object. Her eyes were fixed on the three children; and her heart,
+ravished with the most enchanting extasy, animated her charming
+features with all the affecting sweetness of maternal tenderness.
+
+Thus given up to this double contemplation, Wolmar and I were
+indulging our reveries, when the children put an end to them. The
+eldest, who was diverting himself with the prints, seeing the counters
+prevented his brother from being attentive, took an opportunity, when
+he had piled them up, to give them a knock and throw them down on the
+floor. Marcellin fell a crying; and Eloisa, without troubling herself
+to quiet him, bid Fanny pick up the counters. The child was
+immediately hushed; the counters were nevertheless not brought him,
+nor did he begin to cry again as I expected. This circumstance, which
+however was nothing in itself, recalled to my mind a great many
+others, to which I had given no attention; and when I think of them, I
+don’t remember ever to have seen children, with so little speaking to,
+give so little trouble. They hardly ever are out of their mother’s
+sight, and yet one can hardly perceive they are in company. They are
+lively and playful, as children of their age should be, but never
+clamorous or teizing; they are already discreet, before they know what
+discretion is. But what surprizes me most, is, that all this appears
+to be brought about of itself; and that, with such an affectionate
+tenderness for her children, Eloisa seems to give herself so little
+concern about them. In fact, one never sees her very earnest to make
+them speak or hold their tongues, to make them do this or let that
+alone. She never disputes with them; she never contradicts them in
+their amusements: so that one would be apt to think she contented
+herself with seeing and loving them; and that when they have passed
+the day with her, she had discharged the whole duty of a mother
+towards them.
+
+But, though this peaceable tranquility appears more agreeable in
+contemplation than the restless solicitude of other mothers, yet I was
+not a little surprized at an apparent indolence, so little agreeable
+to her character. I would have had her even a little discontented,
+amidst so many reasons to the contrary; so well doth a superfluous
+activity become maternal affection! I would willingly have attributed
+the goodness of the children to the care of the mother; and should
+have been glad to have observed more faults in them, that I might have
+seen her more solicitous to correct them.
+
+Having busied myself with these reflections a long time in silence, I
+at last determined to communicate them to her. I see, said I, one day,
+that heaven rewards virtuous mothers, in the good disposition of their
+children; but the best disposition must be cultivated. Their education
+ought to begin from the time of their birth. Can there be a time more
+proper to form their minds, than when they have received no impression
+that need to be effaced? If you give them up to themselves in their
+infancy, at what age do you expect them to be docile? While you have
+nothing else to teach them, you ought to teach them obedience. Why,
+returned she, do my children disobey me? That were difficult, said I,
+as you lay no commands upon them. On this she looked at her husband
+and laughed; then, taking me by the hand, she led me into the closet,
+that we might converse without being heard by the children.
+
+Here, explaining her maxims at leisure, she discovered to me, under
+that air of negligence, the most vigilant attention of maternal
+tenderness. I was a long time, said she, of your opinion with regard
+to the premature instruction of children; and while I expected my
+first child, was anxious concerning the obligations I should soon have
+to discharge. I used often to speak to Mr. Wolmar on that subject.
+What better guide could I take than so sensible an observer, in whom
+the interest of a father was united to the indifference of a
+philosopher? He fulfilled, and indeed surpassed my expectations. He
+soon made me sensible, that the first and most important part of
+education, precisely that which all the world neglects, [78] is that
+of preparing a child to receive instruction.
+
+The common error of parents, who pique themselves on their own
+knowledge, is to suppose their children capable of reasoning as soon
+as they are born, and to talk to them as if they were grown persons
+before they can speak. Reason is the instrument they use, whereas
+every other means ought first to be used in order to form that reason;
+for it is certain, that, of all the knowledge which men acquire, or
+are capable of acquiring, the art of reasoning is the last and most
+difficult to learn. By talking to them, at so early an age, in a
+language they do not understand, they learn to be satisfied with mere
+words; to talk to others in the same manner; to contradict every thing
+that is said to them; to think themselves as wise as their teachers:
+and all that one thinks to obtain by reasonable motives, is in fact
+acquired only by those of fear or vanity.
+
+The most consummate patience would be wearied out, by endeavouring to
+educate a child in this manner: and thus it is that, fatigued and
+disgusted with the perpetual importunity of their children, their
+parents, unable to support the noise and disorder they themselves have
+given rise to, are obliged to part with them, and to deliver them over
+to the care of a master; as if one could expect in a preceptor more
+patience and good-nature than in a father.
+
+Nature, continued Eloisa, would have children be children before they
+are men. If we attempt to pervert that order, we produce only forward
+fruit, which has neither maturity nor flavour, and will soon decay; we
+raise young professors and old children. Infancy has a manner of
+perceiving, thinking and feeling, peculiar to itself. Nothing is more
+absurd than to think of substituting ours in its stead; and I would as
+soon expect a child of mine to be five foot high, as to have a mature
+judgment, at ten years old.
+
+The understanding does not begin to form itself till after some years,
+and when the corporeal organs have acquired a certain confidence. The
+design of nature is therefore evidently to strengthen the body, before
+the mind is exercised. Children are always in motion; rest and
+reflection is inconsistent with their age; a studious and sedentary
+life would prevent their growth and injure their health; neither their
+body nor mind can support restraint. Shut up perpetually in a room
+with their books, they lose their vigour, become delicate, feeble,
+sickly, rather stupid than reasonable; and their minds suffer, during
+their whole lives, for the weakness of their bodies.
+
+But, supposing such premature instruction were as profitable as it is
+really hurtful to their understandings, a very great inconvenience
+would attend the application of it to all indiscriminately, without
+regard to the particular genius of each. For, besides the constitution
+common to its species, every child at its birth possesses a peculiar
+temperament, which determines its genius and character; and which it
+is improper either to pervert or restrain; the business of education
+being only to model and bring it to perfection. All these characters
+are, according to Mr. Wolmar, good in themselves: for nature, says he,
+makes no mistakes. [79] All the vices imputed to malignity of
+disposition are only the effect of the bad form it hath received.
+According to him, there is not a villain upon earth, whose natural
+propensity, well directed, might not have been productive of great
+virtues; nor is there a wrong-head in being, that might not have been
+of use to himself and society, had his natural talents taken a certain
+bias; just as deformed and monstrous images are rendered beautiful and
+proportionable, by placing them in a proper point of view. Every
+thing, says he, tends to the common good in the universal system of
+nature. Every man has his place assigned in the best order and
+arrangement of things; the business is to find out that place, and not
+to disturb such order. What must be the consequence then of an
+education begun in the cradle, and carried on always in the same
+manner, without regard to the vast diversity of temperaments and genius
+in mankind? Useless or hurtful instructions would be given to the
+greater part, while at the same time they are deprived of such as
+would be most useful and convenient; nature would be confined on every
+side, and the greatest qualities of the mind defaced, in order to
+substitute in their place mean and little ones, of no utility. By
+using indiscriminately the same means with different talents, the one
+serves to deface the other, and all are confounded together. Thus,
+after a great deal of pains thrown away in spoiling the natural
+endowments of children, we presently see those transitory and
+frivolous ones of education decay and vanish, while those of nature,
+being totally obscured, appear no more: and thus we lose at once what
+we have pulled down, and what we have raised up. In a word, in return
+for so much pains indiscreetly taken, all these little prodigies
+become wits without sense, and men, without merit, remarkable only for
+their weakness and insignificancy.
+
+I understand your maxims, said I to Eloisa; but I know not how to
+reconcile them with your own opinion on the little advantage arising
+from the display of the genius and natural talents of individuals,
+either respecting their own happiness or the real interests of
+society. Would it not be infinitely better to form a perfect model of
+a man of sense and virtue, and then to form every child by education
+after such a model, by animating one, retraining another, by
+regulating its passions, improving its understanding, and thus
+correcting nature?----Correcting nature! says Mr. Wolmar, interrupting
+me, that is a very fine expression; but before you make use of it,
+pray reply to what Eloisa has already advanced.
+
+The most significant reply, as I thought, was to deny the principle on
+which her arguments were founded; which I accordingly did. You
+suppose, said I, that the diversity of temperament and genius, which
+distinguish individuals, is the immediate work of nature; whereas
+nothing is less evident. For, if our minds are naturally different,
+they must be unequal; and if nature has made them unequal, it must be
+by endowing some, in preference to others, with a more refined
+perception, a greater memory, or a greater capacity of attention. Now,
+as to perception and memory, it is proved by experience, that their
+different degrees of extent or perfection are not the standard of
+genius and abilities; and as to a capacity of attention, it depends
+solely on the force of the passions by which we are animated; and it
+is also proved that all mankind are by nature susceptible of passions,
+strong enough to excite in them that degree of attention necessary to
+a superiority of genius.
+
+If a diversity of genius, therefore, instead of being derived from
+nature, be the effect of education; that is to say, of the different
+ideas and sentiments, which objects excite in us during our infancy,
+of the various circumstances in which we are engaged, and of all the
+impressions we receive; so far should we be from waiting to know the
+character of a child before we give it education, that we should, on
+the contrary, be in haste to form its character by giving it a proper
+education.
+
+To this he replied, that it was not his way to deny the existence of
+any thing, because he could not explain it. Look, says he, upon those
+two dogs in the court-yard. They are of the same litter; they have
+been fed and trained together; have never been parted; and yet one of
+them is a brisk, lively, good-natured, docible cur; while the other is
+lumpish, heavy, cross-grained, and incapable of learning any thing.
+Now their difference of temperament, only, can have produced in them
+that of character, as the difference of our interior organization
+produces in us that of our minds: in every other circumstance they
+have been alike.----Alike! interrupted I; what a vast difference may
+there not have been, though unobserved by you? How many minute objects
+may not have acted on the one, and not on the other! How many little
+circumstances may not have differently affected them, which you have
+not perceived! Very pretty indeed, says he; so, I find you reason like
+the astrologers; who, when two men are mentioned of different fortune
+yet born under the same aspect, deny the identity of circumstances. On
+the contrary, they maintain, that, on account of the rapidity of the
+heavenly motions, there must  have been an immense distance between the
+themes, in the horoscope, of the one and the other; and that, if the
+precise moment of their births had been carefully noted, the objection
+had been converted into a proof.
+
+But, pray, let us leave these subtilties, and confine ourselves to
+observation. This may teach us, indeed, that there are characters
+which are known almost at the birth, and children that may be studied
+at the breast of their nurses: but these are of a particular class,
+and receive their education in beginning to live. As for others, who
+are later known, to attempt to form their genius before their
+characters are distinguished, is to run a risk of spoiling what is
+good in their natural dispositions, and substituting what is worse in
+its place. Did not your master Plato maintain, that all the art of
+man, that all philosophy could not extract from the human mind what
+nature had not implanted there; as all the operations in chemistry are
+incapable of extracting from any mixture more gold than is already
+contained in it? This is not true of our sentiments or our ideas; but
+it is true of our disposition or capacity of acquiring them. To change
+the genius, one must be able to change the interior organization of
+the body; to change a character, one must be capable of changing the
+temperament on which it depends. Have you ever heard of a passionate
+man’s becoming patient and temperate, or of a frigid methodical genius
+having acquired a spirited imagination? For my own part, I think it
+would be just as easy to make a fair man brown, or a blockhead a man
+of sense. ’Tis in vain then to attempt to model different minds by one
+common standard. One may restrain, but we can never change them: one
+may hinder men from appearing what they are, but can never make them
+really otherwise; and, though they disguise their sentiments in the
+ordinary commerce of life, you will see them reassume their real
+characters on every important occasion. Besides, our business is not
+to change the character, and alter the natural disposition of the
+mind, but, on the contrary, to improve and prevent its degenerating;
+for by these means it is, that a man becomes what he is capable of
+being, and that the work of nature is compleatd by education. Now,
+before any character can be cultivated, it is necessary that it should
+be studied; that we should patiently wait its opening; that we should
+furnish occasions for it to display itself; and that we should forbear
+doing any thing, rather than doing wrong. To one genius it is
+necessary to give wings, and to another shackles; one should be
+spurred forward, another reined in; one should be encouraged, another
+intimidated; sometimes it should be checked, and at others assisted.
+One man is formed to extend human knowledge to the highest degree; to
+another it is even dangerous to learn to read. Let us wait for the
+opening of reason; it is that which displays the character, and gives
+it its true form: it is by that also it is cultivated, and there is no
+such thing as education before the understanding is ripe for
+instruction.
+
+As to the maxims of Eloisa, which you think opposite to this doctrine,
+I see nothing in them contradictory to it: on the contrary, I find
+them, for my own part, perfectly compatible. Every man at his birth
+brings into the world with him, a genius, talents and character
+peculiar to himself. Those, who are destined to live a life of
+simplicity in the country, have no need to display their talents in
+order to be happy: their unexerted faculties are like the gold mines
+of the Valais, which the public good will not permit to be opened. But
+in a more polished society, where the head is of more use than the
+hands, it is necessary that all the talents nature hath bestowed on
+men should be exerted; that they should be directed to that quarter,
+in which they can proceed the furthest; and above all, that their
+natural propensity should be encouraged by every thing which can make
+it useful. In the first case, the good of the species only is
+consulted; every one acts in the same manner; example is their only
+rule of action; habit their only talent; and no one exerts any other
+genius than that which is common to all: Whereas in the second case we
+consult the interest and capacity of individuals; if one man possess
+any talent superior to another, it is cultivated and pursued as far as
+it will reach; and if a man be possessed of adequate abilities, he may
+become the greatest of his species. These maxims are so little
+contradictory, that they have been put in practice in all ages.
+Instruct not therefore the children of the peasant, nor of the
+citizen, for you know not as yet what instruction is proper for them.
+In every case let the body be formed, till the judgment begins to
+appear: then is the time for cultivation.
+
+All this would seem very well, said I, if I did not see one
+inconvenience, very prejudicial to the advantages you promise yourself
+from this method; and this is, that children, thus left to themselves,
+will get many bad habits, which can be prevented only by teaching them
+good ones. You may see such children readily contract all the bad
+practices they perceive in others, because such examples are easily
+followed, and never imitate the good ones, which would cost them more
+trouble. Accustomed to have every thing, and to do as they please on
+every occasion, they become mutinous, obstinate and intractable.----
+But, interrupted Mr. Wolmar, it appears to me that you have remarked
+the contrary in ours, and that this remark has given rise to this
+conversation. I must confess, answered I, this is the very thing which
+surprizes me. What can she have done to make them so tractable? What
+method hath she taken to bring it about? What has she substituted
+instead of the yoke of discipline? A yoke much more inflexible,
+returned he immediately, that of necessity: but, in giving you an
+account of her conduct, you will be better able to comprehend her
+views. He then engaged Eloisa to explain her method of education;
+which, after a short pause, she did in the following manner.
+
+“Happy, my dear friend, are those who are well-born! I lay not so
+great a stress as Mr. Wolmar does on my own endeavours. I doubt much,
+notwithstanding his maxims, that a good man can ever be made out of a
+child of a bad disposition and character. Convinced, nevertheless, of
+the excellence of his method, I endeavoured to regulate my conduct, in
+the government of my family, in every respect agreeable to him. My
+first hope is, that I shall never have a child of a vicious
+disposition; my second, that I shall be able to educate those God has
+given me, under the direction of their father, in such a manner, that
+they may one day have the happiness of possessing his virtues. To this
+end I have endeavoured to adopt his rules by giving them a principle
+less philosophical, and more agreeable to maternal affection; namely
+to make my children happy. This was the first prayer of my heart after
+I was a mother, and all the business of my life is to effect it. From
+the first time I held my eldest son in my arms, I have reflected that
+the state of infancy is almost a fourth part of the longest life; that
+men seldom pass through the other three fourths; and that it is a
+piece of cruel prudence to make that first part uneasy, in order to
+secure the happiness of the rest, which may never come. I reflected,
+that during the weakness of infancy, nature had oppressed children in
+so many different ways, that it would be barbarous to add to that
+oppression the empire of our caprices, by depriving them of a liberty
+so very much confined, and which they were so little capable of
+abusing. I resolved, therefore, to lay mine under as little constraint
+as possible; to leave them to the free exertion of all their little
+powers; and to suppress in them none of the emotions of nature. By
+these means I have already gained two great advantages; the one, that
+of preventing their opening minds from knowing any thing of
+falsehood, vanity, anger, envy, and in a word of all those vices which
+are the consequences of subjection, and which one is obliged to have
+recourse to, when we would have children do what nature does not
+teach: the other is, that they are more at liberty to grow and gather
+strength, by the continual exercise which instinct directs them to.
+Accustomed, like the children of peasants, to expose themselves to the
+heat and cold, they grow as hardy; are equally capable of bearing the
+inclemencies of the weather; and become more robust as living more at
+their ease. This is the way to provide against the age of maturity,
+and the accidents of humanity. I have already told you, that I dislike
+that destructive pusillanimity, which, by dint of solicitude and care,
+enervates a child, torments it by constant restraint, confines it by a
+thousand vain precautions, and, in short, exposes it during its whole
+life to those inevitable dangers it is thus protected from but for a
+moment; and thus, in order to avoid catching a few colds while
+children, men lay up for themselves consumptions, pleurisies, and a
+world of other diseases.
+
+What makes children, left thus to themselves, acquire the ill habits
+you speak of, is that, not contented with their own liberty, they
+endeavour to command others; which is owing to the absurd indulgence
+of too many fond mothers, who are to be pleased only by indulging all
+the fantastical desires of their children. I flatter myself, my
+friend, that you have seen in mine nothing like the desire of command
+and authority, even over the lowest domestic; and that you have seen
+me countenance as little the false complaisance and ceremony used to
+them. It is in this point, that I think I have taken a new and more
+certain method to make my children at once free, easy, obliging and
+tractable and that on a principle the most simple in the world, which
+is, by convincing them they are but children.
+
+To consider the state of infancy in itself, is there a being in the
+universe more helpless or miserable; that lies more at the mercy of
+every thing about it; that has more need of pity and protection, than
+an infant? Does it not seem, that, on this account, the first noise
+which nature directs it to make is that of crying and complaint? Does
+it not seem, that nature gives it an affecting and tender appearance,
+in order to engage every one who approaches it, to assist its
+weakness, and relieve its wants? What, therefore, can be more
+offensive, or contrary to order, than to see a child pert and
+imperious, commanding every one about him, and assuming impudently the
+tone of a master over those who, should they abandon him, would leave
+him to perish? Or can any thing be more absurd than to see parents
+approve such behaviour, and encourage their children to tyrannise over
+their nurses, till they are big enough to tyrannise over the parents
+themselves?
+
+As to my part, I have spared no pains to prevent my son’s acquiring
+the dangerous idea of command and servitude, and have never given him
+room to think himself attended more out of duty than pity. This point
+is, perhaps, the most difficult and important in education; nor can I
+well explain it, without entering into all those precautions which I
+have been obliged to take, to suppress in him that instinctive
+knowledge, which is so ready to distinguish the mercenary service of
+domestics from the tenderness of maternal solicitude.
+
+One of my principal methods has been, as I have just observed, to
+convince him of the impossibility of his subsisting at his age,
+without our assistance. After which I had no great difficulty to shew
+him, that, in receiving assistance from others, we lay ourselves under
+obligations to them, and are in a state of dependence; and that the
+servants have a real superiority over him, because he cannot do
+without them, while he, on the contrary, can do them no service: so
+that instead of being vain of their attendance, he looks upon it with
+a sort of humiliation, as a mark of his weakness, and ardently wishes
+for the time, when he shall be big and strong enough to have the
+honour of serving himself.”
+
+These notions, I said, would be difficult to establish in families,
+where the father and mother themselves are waited on like children;
+but in this, where every person has some employment allotted him, even
+from the master and mistress to the lowest domestic; where the
+intercourse between them apparently consists only of reciprocal
+services, I do not think it impossible: but I am at a loss to conceive
+how children, accustomed to have their real wants so readily
+satisfied, can be prevented from expecting the same gratification of
+their imaginary wants or humours; or how it is that they do not
+sometimes suffer from the humour of a servant, who may treat their
+real wants as imaginary ones.
+
+“Oh, my friend, replied Mrs. Wolmar, an ignorant woman may frighten
+herself at any thing, or nothing. But the real wants of children, as
+well as grown persons, are very few; we ought rather to regard the
+duration of our ease than the gratifications of a single moment. Do
+you think, that a child, who lies under no restraint, can suffer so
+much from the humour of a governess, under the eye of its mother, as
+to hurt it? You imagine inconveniencies, which arise from vices
+already contracted, without reflecting that my care has been to
+prevent such vices from being contracted at all. Women naturally love
+children; and no misunderstanding would arise between them, except
+from the desire of one to subject the other to their caprices. Now
+that cannot happen here, neither on the part of the child, of whom
+nothing is required, nor on that of the governess, whom the child has
+no notion of commanding. I have in this acted directly contrary to
+other mothers, who in appearance would have their children obey the
+domestics, and in reality require the servants to obey the children:
+here neither of them command nor obey; but the child never meets with
+more complaisance, from any person, than he shews for them. Hence,
+perceiving that he has no authority over the people about him, he
+becomes tractable and obliging; in seeking to gain the esteem of
+others, he contracts an affection for them in turn: this is the
+infallible effect of self-love; and from this reciprocal affection,
+arising from the notion of equality, naturally result those virtues,
+which are constantly preached to children, without any effect.
+
+I have thought, that the most essential part in the education of
+children, and which is seldom regarded in the best families, is to
+make them sensible of their inability, weakness and dependence, and,
+as my husband called it, the heavy yoke of that necessity which nature
+has imposed on our species; and that, not only in order to shew them
+how much is done to alleviate the burthen of that yoke, but especially
+to instruct them betimes in what rank providence has placed them, that
+they may not presume too far above themselves, or be ignorant of the
+reciprocal duties of humanity.
+
+Young people, who from their cradle have been brought up in ease and
+effeminacy, who have been caressed by every one, indulged in all their
+caprices, and have been used to obtain easily every thing they
+desired; enter upon the world with many impertinent prejudices, of
+which they are generally cured by frequent mortifications, affronts
+and chagrin. Now I would willingly spare my children this second kind
+of education, by giving them, at first, a just notion of things. I had
+indeed once-resolved to indulge my eldest son in every thing he
+wanted, from a persuasion that the first impulses of nature must be
+good and salutary: but I was not long in discovering, that children,
+conceiving from such treatment that they have a right to be obeyed,
+depart from a state of nature almost as soon as born; contracting our
+vices from our example, and theirs by our indiscretion. I saw, that if
+I indulged him in all his humours, they would only increase by such
+indulgence; that it was necessary to stop at some point, and that
+contradiction would be but the more mortifying, as he should be less
+accustomed to it: but that it might be less painful to him, I began to
+use him to it by degrees; and in order to prevent his tears and
+lamentations, I made every denial irrecoverable. It is true, I
+contradict him as little as possible, and never without due
+consideration. Whatever is given or permitted him, is done
+unconditionally and at the first instance; and in this we are
+indulgent enough: but he never gets any thing by importunity, neither
+his tears nor intreaties being of any effect. Of this he is now so
+well convinced, that he makes no use of them; he goes his way on the
+first word, and frets himself no more at seeing a box of sweetmeats
+taken away from him, than at seeing a bird fly away, which he would be
+glad to catch; there appearing to him the same impossibility of having
+the one as the other; and so far from beating the chairs and tables,
+that he dares not lift his hand against those who oppose him. In every
+thing that displeases him, he feels the weight of necessity, the
+effect of his own weakness, but never----excuse me a moment, says she,
+seeing I was going to reply; I foresee your objection and am coming to
+it immediately.
+
+The great cause of the ill humour of children is the care which is
+taken either to quiet or to aggravate them. They will sometimes cry
+for an hour, for no other reason in the world than because they
+perceive we would not have them. So long as we take notice of their
+crying, so long have they a reason for continuing to cry; but they
+will soon give over of themselves, when they see no notice is taken of
+them: for, old or young, nobody loves to throw away his trouble. This
+is exactly the case with my eldest boy, who was once the most peeviest
+little bawler, stunning the whole house with his cries; whereas now
+you can hardly hear there is a child in the house. He cries, indeed,
+when he is in pain; but then it is the voice of nature, which should
+never be restrained; and he is again hushed as soon as ever the pain
+is over. For this reason I pay great attention to his tears, as I am
+certain he never sheds them for nothing: and hence I have gained the
+advantage of being certain when he is in pain and when not; when he is
+well and when sick; an advantage which is lost with those who cry out
+of mere humour, and only in order to be appeased. I must confess,
+however, that this management is not to be expected from nurses and
+governesses: for, as nothing is more tiresome than to hear a child
+cry, and as these good women think of nothing but the time present,
+they do not foresee, that by quieting it to day, it will cry the more
+tomorrow. But what is still worse, this indulgence produces an
+obstinacy which is of more consequence as the child grows up. The very
+cause that makes it a squawler at three years of age, will make it
+stubborn and refractory at twelve, quarrelsome at twenty, imperious
+and insolent at thirty, and insupportable all its life.
+
+I come now to your objection, added she, smiling. In every indulgence
+granted to children, they can easily see our desire to please them,
+and therefore they should be taught to suppose we have reason for
+refusing or complying with their requests. This is another advantage
+gained by making use of authority, rather than persuasion, on every
+necessary occasion. For, as it is impossible they can always be blind
+to our motives, it is natural for them to imagine that we have some
+reason for contradicting them, of which they are ignorant. On the
+contrary, when we have once submitted to their judgment, they will
+pretend to judge of every thing; and thus become cunning, deceitful,
+fruitful in shifts and chicanery, endeavouring to silence those who
+are weak enough to argue with them: for, when one is obliged to give
+them an account of things above their comprehension, they attribute
+the most prudent conduct to caprice, because they are incapable of
+understanding it. In a word, the only way to render children docile
+and capable of reasoning, is not to reason with them at all; but to
+convince them, that it is above their childish capacities; for they
+will always suppose the argument in their favour, unless you can give
+them good cause to think otherwise. They know very well that we are
+unwilling to displease them, when they are certain of our affection;
+and children are seldom mistaken in this particular: therefore, if I
+deny any thing to my children, I never reason with them; I never tell
+them why I do so or so; but I endeavour, as much as possible, that
+they should find it out; and that even after the affair is over. By
+these means they are accustomed to think that I never deny them any
+thing without a sufficient reason, though they cannot always see it.
+
+On the same principle it is, that I never suffer my children to join
+in the conversation of grown persons, or foolishly imagine themselves
+upon an equality with them, because they are permitted to prattle. I
+would have them give a short and modest answer, when they are spoke
+to, but never to speak of their own head, or ask impertinent questions
+of persons so much older than themselves, to whom they ought to shew
+more respect.”
+
+These, interrupted I, are very rigid rules, for so indulgent a mother
+as Eloisa. Pythagoras himself was not more severe with his disciples.
+You are not only afraid to treat them like men, but seem to be fearful
+lest they should too soon cease to be children. By what means can they
+acquire knowledge more certain and agreeably, than by asking questions
+of those who know better than themselves? What would the Parisian
+ladies think of your maxims, whose children are never thought to
+prattle too much or too long: they judge of their future
+understanding, by the nonsense and impertinence they utter when young?
+That may not be amiss, Mr. Wolmar will tell me, in a country where the
+merit of the people lies in chattering, and a man has no business to
+think, if he can but talk. But I cannot understand how Eloisa, who is
+so desirous of making the lives of her children happy, can reconcile
+that happiness with so much restraint; nor amidst so much confinement,
+what becomes of the liberty with which she pretends to indulge them.
+
+“What, says she, with impatience, do we restrain their liberty, by
+preventing them from trespassing on ours? And cannot they be happy,
+truly, without a whole company’s sitting silent to admire their
+puerilities? To prevent the growth of their vanity is a surer means to
+effect their happiness: for the vanity of mankind is the source of
+their greatest misfortunes, and there is no person so great or so
+admired, whose vanity has not given him much more pain than pleasure.
+[80]
+
+What can a child think of himself, when he sees a circle of sensible
+people listening to, admiring, and waiting impatiently for, his wit,
+and breaking out in raptures at every impertinent expression? Such
+false applause is enough to turn the heart of a grown person; judge
+then what effect it must have upon that of a child. It is with the
+prattle of children, as with the predictions in the Almanac. It would
+be strange, if amidst such a number of idle words, chance did not now
+and then jumble some of them into sense. Imagine the effect which such
+flattering exclamations must have on a simple mother, already too much
+flattered by her own heart. Think not, however that I am proof against
+this error, because I expose it. No, I see the fault, and yet am
+guilty of it. But, if I sometimes admire the repartees of my son, I do
+it at least in secret. He will not learn to become a vain prater, by
+hearing me applaud him; nor will flatterers have the pleasure, in
+making me repeat them, of laughing at any weakness.
+
+I remember one day, having company, I went out to give some necessary
+orders, and on my return found four or five great blockheads busy at
+play with my boy; they came immediately to tell me, with great
+rapture, the many pretty things he had been saying to them, and with
+which they seemed quite charmed. Gentlemen, said I, coldly, I doubt
+not but you know how to make puppets say very fine things; but I hope
+my children will one day be men, when they will be able to act and
+talk of themselves; I shall then be always glad to hear what they have
+said and done well. Seeing this manner of paying their court did not
+take, they since play with my children, but not as with Punchinello;
+and to say the truth, they are evidently better, since they have been
+less admired.
+
+As to their asking questions, I do not prohibit it indiscriminately. I
+am the first to tell them to ask, softly, of their father or me, what
+they desire to know. But I do not permit them to break in upon a
+serious conversation, to trouble every body with the first piece of
+impertinence that comes into their heads. The art of asking questions
+is not quite so easy as may be imagined. It is rather that of a
+master, than of a scholar. The wise know and enquire, says the Indian
+proverb, but the ignorant know not even what to enquire after. For
+want of such previous instruction, children, when at liberty to ask
+questions as they please, never ask any but such as are frivolous and
+answer no purpose, or such difficult ones whose solution is beyond
+their comprehension. Thus, generally speaking, they learn more by the
+questions which are asked of them, than from those which they ask of
+others.
+
+But were this method, of permitting them to ask questions, as useful
+as it is pretended to be, is not the first and most important science
+to them, that of being modest and discreet? and is there any other
+that should be preferred to this? Of what use then is an unlimited
+freedom of speech to children, before the age at which it is proper
+for them to speak? Or the right of impertinently obliging persons to
+answer their childish questions? These little chattering querists ask
+questions, not so much for the sake of instruction, as to engage one’s
+notice. This indulgence, therefore, is not so much the way to instruct
+them, as to render them conceited and vain; an inconvenience much
+greater, in my opinion, than the advantage they gain by it: for
+ignorance will by degrees diminish, but vanity will always increase.
+
+The worst that can happen from too long a reserve, will be, that my
+son, when he comes to years of discretion, will be less fluent in
+speech, and may want that volubility of tongue, and multiplicity of
+words, which he might otherwise have acquired: but when we consider
+how much the custom of passing away life in idle prattle, impoverishes
+the understanding, this happy sterility of words appears rather an
+advantage than otherwise. Shall the organ of truth, the most worthy
+organ of man, the only one whose use distinguishes him from the
+brutes, shall this be prostituted to no better purposes than those,
+which are answered as well by the inarticulate sounds of other
+animals? He degrades himself even below them, when he speaks and says
+nothing; a man should preserve his dignity, as such, even in his
+lightest amusements. If it be thought polite to stun the company with
+idle prate, I think it a much greater instance of true politeness to
+let others speak before us; to pay a greater deference to what is
+said, than to what we say ourselves; and to let them see we respect
+them too much, to think they can be entertained by our nonsense. The
+good opinion of the world, that which makes us courted and caressed by
+others, is not obtained so much by displaying our own talents, as by
+giving others an opportunity of displaying theirs, and by placing our
+own modesty as a foil to their vanity. You need not be afraid that a
+man of sense, who is silent only from reserve and discretion, should
+ever be taken for a fool. It is impossible in any country whatever,
+that a man should be characterised by what he has not said, or that he
+should be despised for being silent.
+
+On the contrary, it may be generally observed, that people of few
+words impose silence on others who pay an extraordinary attention to
+what they say, which gives them every advantage of conversation. It is
+so difficult for the most sensible man to retain his presence of mind,
+during the hurry of a long discourse; so seldom that something does
+not escape him, that he afterwards repents of, that it is no wonder if
+he chuses to suppress what is pertinent, to avoid the risk of talking
+nonsense.
+
+But there is a great difference between six years of age and twenty;
+my son will not be always a child, and in proportion as his
+understanding ripens, his father designs it shall be exercised. As to
+my part, my task does not extend so far. I may nurse children, but I
+have not the presumption to think of making them men. I hope, says
+she, looking at her husband, this will be the employment of more able
+heads. I am a woman and a mother, and know my place and my duty; and
+hence, I say again, it is not my duty to educate my sons, but to
+prepare them for being educated.
+
+Nor do I any thing more in this than pursue the system of Mr. Wolmar,
+in every particular; which, the farther I proceed, the more reason I
+find to pronounce excellent and just. Observe my children,
+particularly the eldest; have you ever seen children more happy, more
+chearful, or less troublesome? You see them jump, and laugh, and run
+about all day, without incommoding any one. What pleasure, what
+independence, is their age capable of, which they do not enjoy, or
+which they abuse? They are under as little restraint in my presence,
+as when I am absent. On the contrary, they seem always at more liberty
+under the eye of their mother, than elsewhere; and, though I am the
+author of all the severity they undergo, they find me always more
+indulgent than any body else: for I cannot support the thought of
+their not loving me better than any other person in the world. The
+only rules imposed on them in our company, are those of liberty
+itself, viz they must lay the company under no greater restraint, than
+they themselves are under; they must not cry louder than we talk; and
+as they are not obliged to concern themselves with us, they are not to
+expect our notice. Now, if ever they trespass against such equitable
+rules as these, all their punishment is, to be immediately sent away;
+and I make this a punishment, by contriving to render every other
+place disagreeable to them. Setting this restriction aside, they are,
+in a manner, quite unrestrained; we never oblige them to learn any
+thing; never tire them with fruitless corrections; never reprimand
+them for trifles; the only lessons which are given them being those of
+practice. Every person in the house, having my directions, is so
+discreet and careful in this business, that they leave me nothing to
+wish for; and, if any defect should arise, my own assiduity would
+easily repair it.
+
+Yesterday, for example, the eldest boy, having taken a drum from his
+brother, set him a crying. Fanny said nothing to him, at the time; but
+about an hour after, when she saw him in the height of his amusement,
+she in her turn took it from him, which set him a crying also. What,
+said she, do you cry for? You took it just now, by force, from your
+brother, and now I take it from you; what have you to complain of? Am
+not I stronger than you? She then began to beat the drum, as if she
+took pleasure in it. So far all went well, till sometime after, she
+was going to give the drum to the younger, but I prevented her, as
+this was not acting naturally, and might create envy between the
+brothers. In losing the drum, the youngest submitted to the hard law
+of necessity; the elder, in having it taken from him, was sensible of
+his injustice: both knew their own weakness, and were in a moment
+reconciled.”
+
+A plan, so new, and so contrary to received opinions, at first
+surprized me. By dint of explanation, however, they at length
+represented it in an admirable light, and I was made sensible that the
+path of nature is the best. The only inconvenience, which I find in
+this method, and which appeared to me very great, was to neglect the
+only faculty which children possess in perfection, and which is only
+debilitated by their growing into years. Methinks, according to their
+own system of education, that the weaker the understanding, the more
+one ought to exercise and strengthen the memory, which is then so
+proper to be exercised. It is that, said I, which ought to supply the
+place of reason; it is enriched by judgment. [81] The mind becomes
+heavy and dull by inaction. The seed takes no root in a soil badly
+prepared, and it is a strange manner of preparing children to become
+reasonable, by beginning to make them stupid. How! stupid! cried Mrs.
+Wolmar immediately. Do you confound two qualities so different, and
+almost contrary, as memory and judgment? As if an ill-digested and
+unconnected lumber of things, in a weak head, did not do more harm
+than good to the understanding. I confess, that, of all the faculties
+of the human mind, the memory is the first which opens itself, and is
+the most convenient to be cultivated in children: but which, in your
+opinion, should be preferred, that which is most easy for them to
+learn, or that which is most important for them to know? Consider the
+use which is generally made of this aptitude, the eternal constraint
+to which they are subject in order to display their memory, and then
+compare its utility to what they are made to suffer. Why should a
+child be compelled to study languages he will never talk, and that
+even before he has learnt his own tongue? Why should he be forced
+incessantly to make and repeat verses he does not understand, and
+whose harmony all lies at the end of his fingers; or be perplexed to
+death with circles and triangles, of which he has no idea; or why
+burthened with an infinity of names of towns and rivers, which he
+constantly mistakes, and learns anew every day? Is this to cultivate
+the memory to the improvement of the understanding, or is all such
+frivolous acquisition worth one of those many tears it costs him? Were
+all this, however, merely useless, I should not so much complain of
+it; but is it not pernicious to accustom a child to be satisfied with
+mere words? Must not such a heap of crude and indigested terms and
+notions be injurious to the formation of those primary ideas with
+which the human understanding ought first to be furnished? And would
+it not be better to have no memory at all, than to have it stuffed
+with such a heap of literary lumber, to the exclusion of necessary
+knowledge!
+
+If nature has given to the brain of children that softness of texture,
+which renders it proper to receive every impression, it is not fit for
+us to imprint the names of sovereigns, dates, terms of art, and other
+insignificant words of no meaning to them while young, nor of any use
+to them as they grow old: but it is our duty to trace out betimes all
+those ideas which are relative to the state and condition of humanity,
+those which relate to their duty and happiness, that they may serve to
+conduct them through life in a manner agreeable to their being and
+faculties. The memory of a child may be exercised, without poring over
+books. Every thing he sees, every thing he hears, catches his
+attention, and is stored up in his memory: he keeps a journal of the
+actions and conversation of men, and from every scene that presents
+itself, deduces something to enrich his memory. It is in the choice of
+objects, in the care to shew him such only as he ought to know, and to
+hide from him those of which he ought to be ignorant, that the true
+art of cultivating the memory consists.
+
+You must not think, however, continued Eloisa, that we entirely
+neglect that care on which you think so much depends. A mother, if she
+is the least vigilant, holds in her hands the reins over the passions
+of her children. There are ways and means to excite in them a desire
+of instruction; and so far as they are compatible with the freedom of
+the child, and tend not to sow in him the seeds of vice, I readily
+employ them, without being chagrined if they are not attended with
+success: for there is always time enough for knowledge, but not a
+moment should be lost in forming the disposition. Mr. Wolmar lays,
+indeed, so great a stress on the first dawnings of reason, that he
+maintains, though his son should be totally ignorant at twelve years
+old, he might know not a whit the less at fifteen; without considering
+that nothing is less necessary than for a man to be a scholar, and
+nothing more so than for him to be just and prudent. You know that our
+eldest reads already tolerably well. I will tell you how he became
+fond of it; I had formed a design to repeat to him, from time to time,
+some fable out of la Fontaine, and had already begun, when he asked me
+one day, seriously, if ravens could talk. I saw immediately the
+difficulty of making him sensible of the difference between fable and
+falsehood, and laying aside la Fontaine, got off as well as I could,
+being from that moment convinced that fables were only proper for
+grown persons, and that simple truth only should be repeated to
+children. In the room of la Fontaine, therefore, I substituted a
+collection of little interesting and instructive histories, taken
+mostly from the bible; and, finding he grew attentive to these tales,
+I composed others as entertaining as possible, and applicable to
+present circumstances. These I wrote out fair, in a fine book
+ornamented with prints, which I kept locked up, except at the times of
+reading. I read also but seldom, and never long at a time, repeating
+often the same story, and commenting a little, before I passed on to
+another. When I observed him particularly intent, I pretended to
+recollect some orders necessary to be given, and left the story
+unfinished just in the most interesting part, laying the book down
+negligently, and leaving it behind me. I was no sooner gone than he
+would take it up, and go to his Fanny or somebody else, begging them
+to read the remainder of the tale; but as nobody was at his command,
+and every one had his instructions, he was frequently refused. One
+would give him a flat denial, another had something else to do, a
+third muttered it out very low and badly, and a fourth would leave it
+in the middle, just as I had done before. When we saw him heartily
+wearied out with so much dependence, somebody intimated to him, to
+learn to read himself, and then he need not ask any body, but might
+turn it over at pleasure. He was greatly delighted with the scheme;
+but, where should he find any one obliging enough to instruct him?
+This was a new difficulty, which we took care, however, not to make
+too great. In spite of this precaution, he was tired out three or four
+times; but of this I took no other notice, than to endeavour to make
+my little histories the more amusing, which brought him again to the
+charge with so much ardour, that though it is not six months since he
+began to learn, he will be very soon able to read the whole
+collection, without any assistance.
+
+It is in this manner I endeavour to excite his zeal and inclination,
+to attain such knowledge as requires application and patience; but
+though he learns to read, he gets no such knowledge from books, for
+there is no such in the books he reads, nor is the application to it
+proper for children. I am desirous also of furnishing their heads with
+ideas, and not with words; for which reason I never set them to get
+any thing by heart.
+
+Never! said I, interrupting her, that is saying a great deal. Surely
+you have taught him his prayers and his catechism! There you are
+mistaken, she replied. As to the article of prayers, I say mine, every
+morning and evening, aloud in the nursery, which is sufficient to
+teach them, without obliging them to learn. As to their catechism,
+they know not what it is. What! Eloisa! your children never learn
+their catechism! No, my friend, my children do not learn their
+catechism. Indeed! said I, quite surprized, so pious a mother!----I
+really do not comprehend you. Pray what is the reason they do not
+learn it? The reason is, said she, that I would have them some time or
+other believe it: I would have them be Christians. I understand you, I
+replied; you would not have their faith consist in mere words; you
+would have them believe, as well as know, the articles of their
+religion; and you judge very prudently that it is impossible for a man
+to believe what he does not understand. You are very difficult, said
+Mr. Wolmar, smiling; pray, were you a Christian by chance? I
+endeavour to be one, answered I, resolutely. I believe all that I
+understand of the Christian religion, and respect the rest, without
+rejecting it. Eloisa made me a sign of approbation, and we resumed the
+former subject of conversation; when, after explaining herself on
+several other subjects, and convincing me of her active and
+indefatigable maternal zeal, she concluded by observing, that her
+method exactly answered the two objects she proposed, namely, the
+permitting the natural disposition and character of her children to
+discover themselves, and empowering herself to study and examine it.
+
+My children, continued she, lie under no manner of restraint, and yet
+cannot abuse their liberty. Their disposition can neither be depraved
+nor perverted; their bodies are left to grow, and their judgments to
+ripen at ease and leisure: subjection debases not their minds nor does
+flattery excite their self-love; they think themselves neither
+powerful men nor enslaved animals, but children happy and free. To
+guard them from vices, not in their nature, they have in my opinion, a
+better preservative than lectures which they would not understand, or
+of which they would soon be tired. This consists in the good behaviour
+of those about them; in the good conversation they hear, which is so
+natural to them all, that they stand in no need of instruction; it
+consists in the peace and unity of which they are witnesses; in the
+harmony which is constantly observed, and in the conduct and
+conversation of every one around them. Nursed hitherto in natural
+simplicity, whence should they derive those vices, of which they have
+never seen the example? Whence those passions they have no opportunity
+to feel, those prejudices which nothing they observe can impress? You
+see they betray no bad inclination; they have adopted no erroneous
+notions. Their ignorance is not opinionated, their desires are not
+obstinate; their propensity to evil is prevented, nature is justified,
+and every thing serves to convince me, that the faults we accuse her
+of, are not those of nature but our own.
+
+It is thus that, given up to the indulgence of their own inclinations,
+without disguise or alteration, our children do not take an external
+and artificial form, but preserve exactly that of their original
+character. It is thus that character daily unfolds itself to
+observation, and gives us an opportunity to study the workings of
+nature, even to her most secret principles. Sure of never being
+reprimanded or punished, they are ignorant of lying or concealing any
+thing from us; and in whatever they say, whether before us or among
+themselves, they discover, without restraint, whatever lies at the
+bottom of their hearts. Being left at full liberty to prattle all day
+long to each other, they are under no restraint before me. I never
+check them, enjoin them to silence, or indeed pretend to take notice
+of what they say, while they talk sometimes very blameably, though I
+seem to know nothing of the matter. At the same time, however, I
+listen to them with attention, and keep an exact account of all they
+say and do; for these are the natural productions of the soil which we
+are to cultivate. A naughty word in their mouths is a plant or seed
+foreign to the soil, sown by the vagrant wind: should I cut it off by
+a reprimand, it would not fail ere long to shoot forth again. Instead
+of that, therefore, I look carefully to find its root, and pluck it
+up. I am only, said she, smiling, the servant of the gardener; I only
+weed the garden, by taking away the vicious plants: it is for him to
+cultivate the good ones.
+
+It must be confessed also that with all the pains I may take, I ought
+to be well seconded to succeed, and that such success depends on a
+concurrence of circumstances, which is perhaps to be met with no where
+but here. The knowledge and discretion of a sensible father are
+required, to distinguish and point out in the midst of established
+prejudices, the true art of governing children from the time of their
+birth; his patience is required to carry it into execution, without
+ever contradicting his precepts by his practice; it is necessary that
+one’s children should be happy in their birth, and that nature should
+have made them amiable; it is necessary to have none but sensible and
+well disposed servants about one, who will not fail to enter into the
+design of their matter. One brutal or servile domestic would be enough
+to spoil all. In short, when one thinks how many adventitious
+circumstances may injure the best designs, and spoil the best-
+concerted projects, one ought to be thankful to Providence for every
+thing that succeeds, and to confess that wisdom depends greatly on
+good fortune. Say rather, I replied, that good fortune depends on
+prudence. Don’t you see that the concurrence of circumstances, on
+which you felicitate yourself, is your own doing, and that every one
+who approaches you is, in a manner, compelled to resemble you? O ye
+mothers of families! when you complain that your views, your
+endeavours, are not seconded, how little do you know your own power!
+Be but what you ought, and you will surmount all obstacles; you will
+oblige every one about you to discharge their duty, if you but
+discharge yours. Are not your rights those of nature? In spite of the
+maxims or practice of vice, these will be always respected by the
+human heart. Do you but aspire to be women and mothers, and the most
+gentle empire on earth will be also the most respectable.
+
+In the close of our conversation Eloisa remarked that her task was
+become much easier since the arrival of Harriot. It is certain, said
+she, I should have had less trouble if I would have excited a spirit
+of emulation between the brothers. But this step appeared to me too
+dangerous; I chose, therefore, rather to take more pains, and to run
+less risk. Harriot has made up for this; for, being of a different
+sex, their elder, fondly beloved by both, and very sensible for her
+age, I make a kind of governess of her, and with the more success, as
+her lessons are less suspected to be such.
+
+As to herself, her education falls under my care; but the principles
+on which I proceed are so different, as to deserve particular
+explanation. Thus much, at least, I can say of her already, that it
+will be difficult to improve on the talents nature has given her, and
+that her merit is equal to her mother’s, if her mother could possible
+have an equal.
+
+We now, my Lord, expect you every day here, so that this should be my
+last letter. But I understand the reason of your stay with the army,
+and tremble for the consequence. Eloisa is no less uneasy, and desires
+you will oftener let her hear from you; conjuring you, at the same
+time, to think how much you endanger the peace of your friends, by
+exposing your person. For my part, I have nothing to say to you on
+this subject. Discharge your duty; the advice of pusillanimity is as
+foreign from my heart as from yours. I know too well, my dear B----,
+the only catastrophe worthy of you, is, to lose your life in the
+service and for the honour of your country; but ought you not to give
+some account of your days to him, who has preserved his only for your
+sake?
+
+
+
+
+Volume IV
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXL. From Lord B---- to Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+I find, by your two last letters, that a former one is missing,
+apparently the first you wrote me from the army, and in which you
+accounted for Mrs. Wolmar’s secret uneasiness. Not having received
+that letter, I imagine it was in the mail of one of our couriers, who
+was taken; you will, therefore, my friend, be pleased to re-
+communicate its contents. I am at a loss to conjecture what they were,
+and am uneasy about them. For again, I say, if happiness and peace
+dwell not in Eloisa’s mind, I know not where they will find an asylum
+on earth. You may make her easy, as to the dangers she imagines we are
+here exposed to; we have to do with an enemy too expert to suffer us
+to pursue him. With a handful of men, he baffles our attempts, and
+deprives us of all opportunity to attack him. As we are very sanguine,
+however; we may probably raise difficulties which the best generals
+would not be able to surmount, and at length oblige the French to
+fight us. I foresee our first success will cost us dear, and that the
+victory we gained at Dettingen will make us lose one in Flanders. We
+make head against a very able commander. Nor is this all; he possesses
+the love and confidence of his troops, and the French soldiers, when
+they have a good opinion of their leader, are _invincible_. [82] On the
+contrary, they are good for so little when they are commanded by
+courtiers they despise, that frequently their enemies need only to
+watch the intrigues of the cabinet, and seize a proper opportunity,
+to vanquish with certainty the bravest people on the continent: this
+they very well know. The duke of Marlborough, taking notice of the
+good look and martial air of a French soldier, taken prisoner at the
+battle of Blenheim, told him, if the French army had been composed of
+fifty thousand such men as he, it would not have been so easily
+beaten; Zounds sir, replied the grenadier, there are men enough in it
+like me, but it wants such a man as you; now such a man at present
+commands the French troops, and is on our side wanting; but we have
+courage, and trouble ourselves little about that. At all events,
+however, I intend to see their operations for the remainder of the
+campaign, and am resolved not to leave the army till it goes into
+winter-quarters. We shall all be gainers by such a delay, the season
+being too far advanced for us to think of crossing the mountains this
+year. I shall spend the winter with you, and not go to Italy till the
+beginning of the spring. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar I have thus changed
+my design, that I may have more time to contemplate that affecting
+picture you so pathetically describe, and that I may have also the
+opportunity to see Mrs. Orbe settled with them. Continue, my dear sir,
+to write with your usual punctuality, and you will do me a greater
+pleasure than ever: my equipage having been taken by the enemy, I have
+no books; but amuse myself in reading over your letters.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLI. To Lord B----.
+
+
+What pleasure does your lordship give me in acquainting me with your
+design of passing the winter with us at Clarens! but how dearly you
+make me pay for it by prolonging your stay at the army! what
+displeases me most, however, is to perceive that your resolution of
+making a campaign was fixed before we parted, though you mentioned
+nothing of it to me. I see, my lord, your reason for keeping it a
+secret, and cannot be pleased with you for it. Did you despise me so
+much as to think me unfit to accompany you? or have you ever known me
+mean enough to be attached to any thing I should prefer to the honour
+of dying with my friend? But if it was improper for me to follow you
+to the army, you should at least have left me in London; that would
+have displeased me less than your sending me hither.
+
+By your last letter I am convinced that one of mine is indeed missing;
+the loss of which must have rendered the two succeeding ones in many
+respects obscure; but the necessary explanations to make them
+intelligible, shall be soon transmitted you. What is at present more
+particularly needful, is to remove your uneasiness concerning that of
+Mrs. Wolmar.
+
+I shall not take upon me to give you a regular continuation of the
+discourse we had together after the departure of her husband. Many
+things have since intervened that make me forget great part of it, and
+it was resumed at so many different times during his absence, that I
+shall content myself, to avoid repetition, with giving you a summary
+of the whole.
+
+In the first place she told me, that Mr. Wolmar, who neglected nothing
+in his power to make her happy, was nevertheless the sole author of
+all her disquietude; and that the more sincere their mutual attachment
+grew, the greater was her affliction. Would you think it, my lord?
+This gentleman so prudent, so reasonable, so little addicted to any
+kind of vice, so little subject to the tyranny of human passions,
+knows nothing of that faith which gives virtue all its merit; and in
+the innocence of an irreproachable life, feels only at the bottom of
+his heart, the dreadful tranquillity of the unbeliever. The reflection
+which arises from this contrast, in principle and morals, but
+aggravates Eloisa’s grief; she would think him even less culpable in
+disregarding the author of his Being, had he more reason to dread his
+anger, or presumption to brave his power. That the guilty should be
+led to appease their consciences at the expence of truth; that the
+pride of thinking differently from the vulgar may induce others to
+embrace error, she can readily conceive; but, continued she sighing,
+how a man so virtuous, and so little vain of his understanding, should
+be an infidel, surpasses my conception!
+
+But before I proceed farther, it will be necessary to inform you of
+the peculiar character of this married couple. You are to conceive
+them as living solely for each other, and constantly taken up with
+their family; it being necessary to know the strictness of the union
+subsisting between them, to comprehend how their difference of
+sentiments, in this one article, is capable of disturbing it. Mr.
+Wolmar, educated in the customs of the Greek church, was not one of
+those who could support the absurdity of such ridiculous worship. His
+understanding, superior to the feeble yoke imposed on it, soon shook
+it off with contempt; rejecting, at the same time, every thing offered
+to his belief on such doubtful authority; thus forced in a manner into
+impiety, he degenerates into Atheism.
+
+Having resided ever since in Roman-catholic countries, he has never
+been induced to a better opinion of Christianity, by what he found
+professed there. Their religion, he saw, tended only to the interest
+of their priests; that it consisted entirely of ridiculous grimaces,
+and a jargon of words without meaning. He perceived that men of sense
+and probity were unanimously of his opinion, and that they did not
+scruple to say so; nay, that the clergy themselves, under the rose,
+ridiculed in private what they inculcated and taught in public; hence
+he has often assured me that, after having taken much time and pains
+in the search, he never met with above three priests in his life that
+believed a God. [83]
+
+By endeavouring to set himself to rights in there matters, he
+afterwards bewildered himself in metaphysical enquiries; and, seeing
+only doubts and contradictions offer themselves on every side,
+advanced so far that, when he returned to the doctrines of
+Christianity, he came too late, and incapable of either belief or
+conviction, the best arguments appeared to him inconclusive. He
+finished his career, therefore, by equally opposing all religious
+tenets whatever; and was converted from Atheism only to become a
+Sceptic.
+
+Such is the husband which heaven has destined to Eloisa; to her whose
+true faith and sincere piety cannot have escaped your observations;
+but to know how much her gentle soul is naturally inclined to
+devotion, requires that long intimacy with her, in which her cousin
+and I have lived. It might be said, no terrestrial object being equal
+to her tenderness, her excess of sensibility is reduced to ascend to
+its source: not like a saint Theresa, whose amorous heart only changes
+its object: hers is a heart truly inexhaustible, which neither love
+nor friendship can drain; but whose affections are still raised to the
+only Being, worthy her ardent love. [84] Her love to God does not
+detach her from his creatures; it gives her neither severity nor
+spleen. But all her affections, proceeding from the same cause, and
+tempering each other become more sweet and attracting; she would, I
+believe, be less devout, if her love toward her husband, her children,
+her cousin, and me were less than it is. What is very singular, also,
+is that she knows but little of her own heart; and even complains that
+she finds in herself, a soul barren of tenderness and incapable of
+love to the sublimest object.----“Do what you will, she often says,
+the heart is affected only by the interposition of the senses, or the
+assistance of the imagination; and how shall we see or imagine the
+immensity of the Supreme Being? [85] When I would raise myself up to
+the deity, I know no longer where I am; perceiving no relation between
+us, I know not how to reach him, I neither see nor feel anything, I
+drop into a kind of annihilation; and, if I may venture to judge of
+others by myself, I should apprehend the ecstasies of the mystics are
+no less owing to the fulness of the heart than the emptiness of the
+head.”
+
+“What must I do then, added she, to get rid of these delusions of a
+wandering mind? I substitute a less refined worship, but within the
+reach of my comprehension, in the room of those sublime
+contemplations, which surpass my mental faculties. With regret I
+debase the majesty of the divinity, and interpose perceptible objects
+between the deity and my feeble senses; not being able to contemplate
+his essence, I contemplate at least his works, and admire his
+goodness; but whatever method I take, instead of that pure love and
+affection he demands, it is only an interested gratitude I have to
+offer him.”
+
+Thus, every thing is productive of sentiment in a susceptible mind;
+the whole universe presenting to Eloisa, nothing but what is a subject
+for love and gratitude. On every side she sees and adores the
+benevolent hand of providence; her children are pledges committed by
+it to her care; she receives its gifts, in the produce of the earth;
+she sees her table covered by its bounty; she sleeps under its
+protection; she awakes in peace under its care; she is instructed by
+its chastisements, is made happy by its favours: all the benefits she
+reaps, all the blessings she enjoys, are so many different subjects
+for adoration and praise. If the attributes of the divinity are beyond
+her feeble sight, she feels in every part of the creation, the common
+father of mankind. To honour thus the supreme benevolence, is it not
+to serve as much as possible an infinite Being?
+
+Think, my lord, what pain it must give a woman of such a disposition,
+to spend a life of retirement with a man who, while he forms a part of
+her existence, cannot partake, of that hope which makes her existence
+dear; not to be able to join him in praise and gratitude to the deity,
+nor to converge with him on the blessed futurity we have to hope from
+his goodness! to see him insensible, in doing good, to every thing
+which should make virtue agreeable to us; and, with the strangest
+absurdity, thinking like an infidel and acting as a Christian. Imagine
+her walking abroad with her husband; the one admiring, in the
+beautiful verdure of spring, or golden fruits of autumn, the power and
+beneficence of the great Creator of all things; the other seeing in
+them nothing but a fortuitous combination of atoms, united only by
+chance. Imagine to yourself the situation of a married couple, having
+a sincere regard for each other, who, for fear of giving offence, dare
+not indulge themselves in such sentiments or reflections as the object
+around them inspire; but who are bound in duty, even from their
+reciprocal affections, to lay themselves under continual restraint.
+Eloisa and I hardly ever walk out together, but some striking or
+picturesque object puts her in mind of this disagreeable circumstance.
+Alas! said she with great emotion to me, one day, this beautiful
+prospect before us, so lively, so animating in our eyes, is a dead and
+lifeless scene in those of the unfortunate Wolmar. In all that harmony
+of created beings which nature displays, in vain do they unite to
+speak their Maker’s praise: Mr. Wolmar perceives only a profound and
+eternal silence.
+
+You who know Eloisa, who know what delight her communicative mind
+takes in imparting its sentiments; think what she must suffer by such
+constraint, even though it were attended with no other inconvenience,
+than that unsocial reserve which is peculiarly disagreeable between
+two persons so intimately connected. But Eloisa has much greater cause
+of uneasiness. In vain does she oppose those involuntary terrors,
+those dreadful ideas that rush upon her mind. They return with
+redoubled force, and disturb every moment of her life. How horrid must
+it be for such an affectionate wife to think the supreme Being is the
+avenger of his offended attributes! to think the happiness of him on
+whom her own depends must end with his life; and to behold a reprobate
+of God in the father of her children! all her sweetness of disposition
+can hardly preserve her from falling into despair at this horrible
+idea; her religion only, which imbitters the infidelity of her
+husband, yielding her strength to support it. If heaven, says she
+sometimes, refuses me the conversion of this honest man, I have but
+one blessing to ask; which is that I may die before him.
+
+Such, my lord, is the too just cause of Eloisa’s chagrin; such is the
+secret affliction which preys on her mind, and is aggravated by the
+care she takes to conceal it. Atheism, which stalks abroad undisguised
+among the Papists, is obliged to hide its head in every country, where
+reason, giving a sanction to religion, deprives infidels of all
+excuse. Its principles are naturally destructive; and, though they
+find partisans among the rich and great, who promote them, they are
+held in the utmost horror by an oppress’d and miserable people; who,
+seeing their tyrants thus freed from the only curb to restrain their
+insolence, comfort themselves with the hope of another life, their
+only consolation in this. Mrs. Wolmar, foreseeing the ill-consequences
+of her husband’s scepticism, and being desirous to preserve her
+children from the bad effects of so dangerous an example, prevailed on
+him to keep his principles a secret; to which she found no great
+trouble to persuade a man who, though honest and sincere, is yet
+discreet, unaffected, without vanity, and far from wishing to deprive
+others of a blessing which he himself cannot enjoy. In consequence of
+this, he keeps his tenets to himself; he goes to church with us;
+conforms himself to custom; and without making a verbal confession of
+what he does not believe, avoids giving scandal, and pays all that
+respect to the established religion of the country which the state has
+a right to demand of its citizens.
+
+They have been married now almost eight years, during which time Mrs.
+Orbe only has been in the secret; nor probably would she of herself
+ever have discovered it. Such care indeed is taken to save
+appearances, and with so little affectation, that, after having spent
+six weeks together in the greatest intimacy, I had not the least
+suspicion; and should perhaps never have known Mr. Wolmar’s sentiments
+on religious matters, if Eloisa herself had not apprized me of them.
+
+Several motives determined her to that confidence: In the first place,
+a too great reserve would have been incompatible with the friendship
+that subsists between us. Again, it would be only aggravating her
+uneasiness at her own cost, to deny herself the consolation of sharing
+it with a friend. She was, besides, unwilling that my presence would
+be long an obstacle to the conversation they frequently held together
+on a subject she had so much at heart. In short, knowing you intended
+soon to join us here, she was desirous, with the consent of her
+husband, that you should be previously made acquainted with his
+sentiments; as she hopes to find from your prudence and abilities, a
+supplement to our hitherto fruitless efforts, worthy of your
+character.
+
+The opportunity she laid hold of to place this confidence in me, made
+me suspect also another reason, which however she herself never
+insinuated. Her husband has just left us; we lived formerly together;
+our hearts had been enamoured of each other; they still remembered
+their former transports; had they now forgot themselves but for a
+moment, we had been plunged into guilt and infamy. I saw plainly she
+was fearful of our private conversations, and sought to prevent the
+consequences she feared; and I was myself too well convinced, by the
+remembrance of what happened at Meillerie, that they who consider
+least in themselves are the safest to be trusted.
+
+Under these groundless apprehensions, which her natural timidity
+inspired, she conceived she could take no better precaution than
+always to have a witness to our conversation, whose presence could not
+fail of being respected; and to call in, as a third person, the awful
+and upright judge, who searches the heart, and is privy to the most
+secret actions of men. Thus, committing herself to the immediate
+protection of the divinity, I found the deity always between us. What
+criminal desire could ever assail such a safeguard? my heart grew
+refined by her zeal, and I partook of her virtue.
+
+Thus, the gravest topics of discourse took up almost all our private
+conferences in the absence of her husband; and since his return, we
+have resumed them frequently in his presence. He attends to our
+conversation, as if he was not at all concerned; and, without
+despising our endeavours, sometimes advises us in our method of
+argument. It is this which makes me despair of success; for had he
+less sincerity, one might attack that vicious faculty of the mind that
+nourishes his infidelity; but, if we are to convince him by dint of
+reasoning, where shall we find information that has escaped his
+knowledge, or arguments that have eluded his sagacity? For my part,
+when I have undertaken to dispute with him, I have found that all mine
+had been before exhausted to no purpose by Eloisa; and that my
+reasoning fell far short of that pathetic eloquence which dictated by
+the heart, flowed in persuasive accents from her tongue. I fear, my
+lord, we shall never make a convert of this man. He is too frigid, not
+immoral; his passions are not to be moved; sensibility, that innate
+proof of the truth of religion, is wanting; and the want of this alone
+is enough to invalidate all others.
+
+Notwithstanding Eloisa’s care to disguise her uneasiness from him, he
+knows and partakes of it; his discernment will not permit him to be
+imposed on. His own chagrin therefore, on account of hers, is but too
+apparent. Hence he has been tempted several times, she told me, to
+affect a change of sentiments; and, for the sake of Eloisa’s peace, to
+adopt tenets he could not in fact believe: but his soul was above the
+meanness of hypocrisy. This dissimulation, instead of imposing on
+Eloisa, would only have afforded a new cause of sorrow. That
+sincerity, that frankness, that union of hearts, which now comfort
+them under their afflictions, would then have no more subsisted
+between them. Was it by making himself less worthy her esteem that he
+could hope to calm her fears? No, instead therefore of deceiving her,
+he tells her sincerely his thoughts; but this he does in a manner so
+simple and unaffected, so little disdainful of received opinions, so
+unlike that ironical, contemptuous behaviour of free-thinkers, that
+such melancholy confessions are extremely afflicting. As she cannot,
+however, inspire her husband with that faith and hope, with which she
+herself is animated, she studies with the more assiduity to indulge
+him, in all those transient pleasures to which his happiness is
+confined. Alas! says she weeping, if the poor unfortunate has his
+heaven in this life, let us make it, at, least, as agreeable to him as
+possible! [86]
+
+That veil of sorrow, which this difference in opinion throws over
+their union, gives a farther proof of the irresistible ascendant of
+Eloisa, in the consolation with which that affliction is tempered, and
+which perhaps no other person in the world would be able to apply. All
+their altercations, all their disputes, on this important point, so
+far from giving rise to ill nature, contempt, or anger, generally end
+in some affecting scene which the more endears them to each other.
+
+Our conversation falling yesterday upon the same subject, as it
+frequently does when we three are by ourselves, we were led into a
+dispute concerning the origin of evil; in which I endeavoured to
+prove, that no absolute or general evil existed in the system of
+nature; but that even particular and relative evils were much less in
+reality, than in appearance; and that, on the whole, they were more
+than recompensed by our particular and relative good. As an example of
+this, I appealed to Mr. Wolmar himself, and, penetrated with a sense
+of the happiness of his situation, I described it so justly, and in
+such agreeable colours, that he seemed himself affected with the
+description. “Such,” says he, interrupting me, “are the delusive
+arguments of Eloisa: she always substitutes sentiment in the place of
+reason, and argues so affectingly, that I cannot help embracing her at
+every reply: Was it not her philosophical preceptor,” added he,
+smiling, “that taught her this manner of reasoning?” Two months
+before, this piece of pleasantry would have cruelly disconcerted me;
+but my first embarrassment was now over, and I joined in the laugh:
+nor did Eloisa, tho’ she blush’d a little, appear any more embarrassed
+than myself. We continued the dispute. Wolmar, not contending about
+the quantity of evil, contented himself with observing that whether
+little or much, evil still existed; and thence inferred the want
+either of power, wisdom, or goodness, in the first cause. I, on my
+part, stove to deduce the origin of physical evil from the properties
+of matter, and of moral evil from the free agency of man. I advanced,
+that nothing was impossible to the deity, except the creation of
+substances as perfect and exempt from evil as himself. We were in the
+heat of our dispute when I perceived Eloisa had left us. “Can you
+guess whither she is gone?” said her husband, seeing me look around
+for her. “I suppose,” said I, “to give some orders in her family.”
+“No,” replied he, “she would not have left us at this time for that.
+Business of that kind is, I know not how, transacted without my ever
+seeing her interfere.” “Then she is gone to the nursery?” “No; her
+children are not more at her heart, than my conversion.” “Well then,”
+said I, “I know not what she is gone about; but I am well assured she
+is employed in some useful concern.” “Still less,” said he coldly;
+“come, come along; you shall see if I guess right.”
+
+He then stept softly along the room, and I followed him in the same
+manner: when, coming to the door of Eloisa’s closet, and finding it
+shut, he threw it suddenly open. Oh! my lord! what a sight did this
+present us! Eloisa on her knees, her hands lifted up to heaven, and
+her face bathed in tears! She rose up precipitately, wiping her eyes,
+hiding her face, and trying to escape us: never did I see so affecting
+a confusion. Her husband did not give her time to get away; but ran to
+her, in a kind of transport. “Ah, my dear!” said he, embracing her,
+“even the fervency of your prayers betrays the weakness of your cause:
+what prevents their efficacy? if your desires were heard, they would
+presently be granted.” “I doubt not,” said she, with a devout
+confidence, “but they will be granted; how soon or late, I leave to
+heaven. Could I obtain it, at the expense of my life, I should lay it
+down with pleasure, and think the last the best employed of all my
+days.”
+
+Come, my lord, leave those scenes of destruction you are now engaged
+in, and act a nobler part. Can a philosopher prefer the honour of
+destroying mankind, to the virtue of endeavouring to save them? [87]
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLII. To Lord B----.
+
+
+What! my lord, after being absent a whole campaign, must you take a
+journey to Paris? Have you then entirely forgotten Clarens, and its
+inhabitants? Are we less dear to you than my lord H----? or, are you
+more necessary to that friend, than to those who expect you here? you
+oblige us to oppose our wishes to yours, and make me in particular
+lament, that I have not interest enough at the court of France, to
+prevent your obtaining the passports you wait for. But, no matter; go,
+visit your worthy countryman. In spite of you both, we will be
+revenged of you for the preference given him; for, whatever pleasure
+you may enjoy in his company, I know that, when you come to be with
+us, you will regret the time you staid away.
+
+On receiving your letter, I at first suspected you were charged with
+some secret commission. If peace were in view, where could be found a
+more worthy mediator? But when do kings put their confidence in men of
+worth? Dare they listen to the truth? do they know how to respect true
+merit? No, my dear Lord B----, you are not made for a minister of
+state; and I think too well of you to imagine, if you had not been
+born a peer, you would ever have risen to that dignity. Come, come, my
+friend, you will be better at Clarens, than at court. What an
+agreeable winter shall we pass together, if the hope of seeing you
+here does not deceive me! our happiness is every day preparing, by the
+arrival of one or other of those privileged minds, who are so dear to
+each other, so worthy of each other’s esteem, and who seem only to
+wait for you to be able to live without all the rest of the world. On
+hearing what a lucky accident brought hither the baron’s adversary,
+you foresaw the consequences of that rencounter; it has really fallen
+out as you foretold. That old litigant, tho’ almost as obstinate and
+inflexible as his opponent, could not resist the ascendant we got over
+him. After seeing and conversing with Eloisa, he began to be ashamed
+of contending with her father; and on leaving her, set out for Bern,
+in so favourable a disposition, that we hear an accommodation is far
+advanced, and from the baron’s last letter expect his return home in a
+few days. This you will already have been told by Mr. Wolmar: but
+probably you do not yet know that Mrs. Orbe, having settled her
+affairs, arrived here on Thursday last, and resides entirely at the
+house of her friend. As I knew beforehand the day of her arrival, I
+set out to meet her, unknown to Mrs. Wolmar, whom she had a mind to
+surprize: we met on this side Lutry and returned together.
+
+I think I never saw her so sprightly and agreeable; but unequal,
+absent, giving little attention to any thing, and seldom replying;
+talking by fits and starts; in a word, given up entirely to that
+restlessness which is natural to us, when just on the point of
+obtaining what we have long ardently desired. One would have thought,
+every minute, that she was afraid of being obliged to return. Her
+journey, tho’ so long deferred, was undertaken so precipitately, that
+it almost turned the heads of both mistress and domestics. A whimsical
+disorder appeared throughout the whole of her little baggage. If her
+woman imagined, as she did every now and then, that she had left
+something behind, Clara as constantly assured her she had put it into
+the seat of the coach where, upon farther enquiry, it was not to be
+found.
+
+As she was unwilling Eloisa should hear the rattling of her coach, she
+got out in the avenue before we came to the gate; and, skudding across
+the courtyard like a sylph, ran upstairs with so much precipitation
+that she was obliged to stop and take breath on the first landing
+place, before she could get up the next flight. Mr. Wolmar came out to
+meet her, but she was in too much hurry to speak to him. On opening
+the door of Eloisa’s apartment, I saw her sitting near the window,
+with the little Harriot on her knee. Clara had prepared for her a fine
+compliment, in her way, a compound of affection and pleasantry; but,
+on setting her foot over the threshold, compliment and pleasantry were
+all forgotten; she flew forward to embrace her friend with a transport
+impossible to be described, crying out ah! my dear, dear cousin!
+Harriot, seeing her mother, fled to meet her, and crying out _Mamma,
+Mamma_, ran with so much force against her, that the poor child fell
+backwards on the floor. The effect of the sudden appearance of Clara,
+the fall of Harriot, the joy, the apprehensions, that seized upon
+Eloisa at that instant, made her give a violent shriek, and faint
+away. Clara was going to lift up the child when she saw her friend
+turn pale, which made her hesitate whom to assist; till, seeing me
+take up Harriot, she flew to the relief of Eloisa; but, in
+endeavouring to recover her, sunk down likewise in a swoon by the side
+of her friend.
+
+The child, seeing them both without motion, made such loud
+lamentations as soon brought the little Frenchwoman into the room; the
+one clung about her mother, the other ran to her mistress. For my
+part, I was so struck, so affected, that I stalked about the room with
+out knowing what I did: venting broken exclamations, and making
+involuntary motions to no purpose. Wolmar himself, the unsusceptible
+Wolmar, seemed affected. But where is the heart of iron whom such a
+scene of sensibility would not affect? where is the unfortunate mortal
+from whom such a scene of tenderness would not have extorted tears?
+Instead of running to Eloisa, this fortunate husband threw himself on
+a settee, to enjoy the delightful scene. “Be not afraid,” says he,
+seeing our uneasiness. “In these accidents nature only is exhausted
+for a moment, to recover itself with new vigour; they are never
+dangerous. Let me prevail on you not to interrupt the pleasure I take
+in this transporting sight, but partake it with me. How ravishingly
+delightful must it be to you? I never tasted any thing like it, and am
+yet the most unhappy of all here.”
+
+You may judge, my lord, by the first moment of their meeting, the
+consequences of the reunion of these charming friends. It has excited
+throughout the whole house a sound of gladness, a tumultuous joy, that
+has not yet subsided. Eloisa was in such an agitation as I never saw
+her in before; it was impossible for her to think of any thing all
+that day, but to gaze on her new visitor, and load her with fresh
+caresses. No body even thought of the saloon of Apollo; there was no
+occasion for thinking of it when every place gave equal pleasure. We
+were hardly, even the next day, composed enough to think of making an
+entertainment on the occasion. Had it not been for Wolmar, every thing
+would have gone wrong. In the mean time, every one was dressed in the
+best manner. No other care was admitted, than what tended to
+amusement. The entertainment was not grand, but extremely joyous;
+throughout the whole there reigned a pleasing confusion and disorder,
+which was its greatest embellishment.
+
+The morning was spent in putting Mrs. Orbe in possession of her
+employment of intendant or housekeeper, and she betrayed the same
+eagerness to enter into her office, as a child does after a new
+plaything; at which we were highly diverted. In entering the saloon at
+dinner, both cousins were agreeably surprized to see on every side,
+their names in cypher, artificially formed with flowers. Eloisa
+guessed in an instant to whom she was obliged for that piece of
+ingenuity, and embraced me in a transport of joy. Clara, contrary to
+former custom, hesitated to follow her example; till Wolmar
+reprimanding her, she blushed, and embraced me. Her sweet confusion,
+which I observed but too plainly, had an effect on me which I cannot
+describe; but I could not feel myself in her arms without emotion.
+
+After dinner, a fine collation was set out in the gynaeceum, or
+women’s apartment; where for once Mr. Wolmar and I were admitted, and
+were entertained agreeably. In the evening all the house, now
+increased by three persons, assembled to dance. Clara seemed
+ornamented by the hands of the Graces, never having appeared to so
+much advantage as on that day. She danced, she chatted, she laugh’d,
+she gave orders, she was capable of every thing. Having protested she
+would tire me out, she danced down five or six country dances in a
+breath; and then reproached me for footing it with the gravity of a
+philosopher. I, on the other hand, told her she danc’d like a fairy;
+that she was full as mischievous, and that she would not let me rest
+night nor day. You shall see to the contrary, says she, here’s that
+will set you to sleep presently: with that she started up, and led
+down another dance.
+
+She was really indefatigable; but it was otherwise with Eloisa: she
+could hardly support herself; her knees trembled, as she danced; she
+was too much affected, to be chearful. One might observe a tear of joy
+every now and then trickle from her eyes; she regarded her cousin with
+a kind of delicious transport; took a pleasure in conceiving herself
+the guest for whom the entertainment was made, and looked fondly upon
+Clara as the mistress of the house who entertained her.
+
+After supper, I play’d off the fireworks I brought from China, which
+had a pretty effect. We sat up great part of the night. At length it
+became time to break up: Mrs. Orbe was tired, or had danced enough to
+be so; and Eloisa was desirous she should not sit up too late.
+
+After this we became insensibly tranquil, and good order took place.
+Clara, giddy and inconsiderate as she seems, knows how to check her
+sallies, and put on an air of authority, when she pleases. She has,
+besides great good sense, an exquisite discernment, the penetration of
+Wolmar, and the goodness of Eloisa; and tho’ extremely liberal, has a
+good deal of discretion in her generosity: for, tho’ left so young a
+widow, and charged with the care of a daughter, the fortunes of both
+increase in her hands; so that there is no reason to apprehend the
+house will, under her direction, be less prudently governed than
+before. In the mean time, Eloisa has the satisfaction of devoting
+herself entirely to an occupation more agreeable to her taste; that
+is, the education of her children: and I doubt not but Harriot will
+profit greatly by one of her mothers having relieved the other. I say
+her mothers, because by the manner in which they both behave to her,
+it is difficult to distinguish which is really so; so that some
+strangers, who arrived here to day, are still, or appear to be, in
+doubt about it. In fact, they both call her _Harriot_, or _my child_,
+indifferently. She calls the one her _Mamma_, and the other her
+_little Mamma_: she has the same love for both, and pays them equal
+obedience. If the ladies are asked whose child it is, each answers it
+is hers: if Harriot be questioned, she says that she has two mothers;
+so that it is no wonder that people are puzzled. The most discerning,
+however, think her the child of Eloisa; Harriot, whose father was of a
+fair complexion, being fair like her, and something resembling her in
+features. A greater maternal tenderness appears also in the soft
+regards of Eloisa, than in the sprightlier looks of Clara. The child
+puts on also a more respectful air, and is more reserved in her
+behaviour before the former. She places herself involuntarily oftener
+on the side of Eloisa, because she most frequently talks to her. It
+must be confessed all appearances are in favour of our _little mamma_;
+and I perceive the deception is so agreeable to the two cousins, that
+it may be sometimes perhaps intended.
+
+In a fortnight, my lord, nothing will be wanting here but your
+presence; and when you are arrived, I shall have a very bad opinion of
+that man, who should be tempted to ransack the world for a virtue, or
+a pleasure, which may not be found in this house.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLIII. To Lord B----.
+
+
+For these three days past I have attempted every evening successively
+to write to you; but found myself, through the fatigue of the day, too
+sleepy to effect my purpose at night, and in the morning I am again
+called upon early to my employment. A pleasing tranquillity, more
+intoxicating than wine, takes possession of my senses; and I cannot
+without regret bear a moment’s avocation from the new and agreeable
+amusements I find here.
+
+I cannot indeed conceive that any place would be disagreeable to me in
+such company; but do you know why Clarens in itself is agreeable? it
+is that here I find myself actually in the country, which I could
+hardly ever say before. The inhabitants of cities know not how to
+enjoy the country; they know not what it is to be there; and, even
+when they are there, know not what to do with themselves. They are
+ignorant of all rustic business and amusements; they despise them;
+they seem at home as if they were in a foreign country, and I am not
+at all surprized that they are displeased with it. Among the country
+people, we should live as they do, or not associate with them at all.
+
+The Parisians, who imagine they go into the country, mistake the
+thing; they carry Paris along with them. They are attended with their
+singers, their wits, their authors, and their parasites. Cards, music,
+and plays, engross all their attention; [88] their tables are spread
+in the same manner as at Paris; they sit down to their meals at the
+same hours; are served with the same dishes, and in the same pomp: in
+a word, they do just the same things in the country as they did in
+town, where, for that reason, it had been better they had stayed; for,
+however opulent they are, or careful to omit nothing they are
+accustomed to, they always find something wanting, and perceive the
+impossibility of carrying Paris altogether along with them. Thus, that
+variety they are so fond of eludes their search; they are acquainted
+only with one manner of living, and are therefore a continual burthen
+to themselves. To me every rural employment affords something
+agreeable; nor is there any so painful and laborious as to excite our
+compassion for the labourer. As the object of both public and private
+utility, husbandry is peculiarly interesting; and, as it was the first
+employment of man in his state of innocence, it fills the mind with
+the most pleasing sensations, and affects us with the agreeable ideas
+of the golden age. The imagination cannot help being warmed by the
+prospects of seedtime and harvest: If we look around us, and see the
+fields covered with hay makers, and with flocks of sheep scattered at
+a distance, one is sensibly affected with a pleasure arising one knows
+not how. The voice of nature thus sometimes softens our savage hearts,
+and, though its dictates are too often fruitless, it is so agreeable
+that we never hear it without pleasure.
+
+I must confess, that the misery which appears on the face of some
+countries, where the taxes devour the produce of the earth, the eager
+avarice of a greedy collector, the inflexible rigour of an inhuman
+master, take away much of the beauty of the prospect. To see the poor
+jaded cattle ready to expire under the whip; to see the unhappy
+peasants themselves emaciated with fasting, clothed in rags, groaning
+with fatigue, and hardly secured from the inclemencies of the weather
+by their wretched huts; these are deplorable sights, and it makes one
+almost blush to be a man when one thinks how the very vitals of such
+poor objects are drained to satisfy their cruel masters. But what
+pleasure is it, on the other hand, to see the prudent and humane
+proprietors, in milder governments, make the cultivation of their
+lands the instrument of their benevolence, their recreation, their
+pleasures! to see them with open hands distribute the bounties of
+providence! to see their servants, their cattle, and every creature
+about them, fatten on the abundance that flows from their barns, their
+cellars and granaries! to see them surrounded with peace and plenty,
+and make, of the employment that enriches them, a continual
+entertainment! How is it possible for one to be inattentive to the
+agreeable illusions which such objects present? we forget the age we
+live in, and the vices of our cotemporaries, and are transported in
+imagination to the time of the patriarchs; we are desirous to set
+one’s own hands to work; to join in the rustic employment, and partake
+of the happiness annexed to it. Oh! how delightful were the days of
+love and innocence, when the women were affectionate and modest, the
+men simple and content! such were the days when a lover did not regret
+fourteen years of servitude to obtain his mistress. Fair daughter of
+Laban! keeper of thy father’s flocks, how amiable must thou have been!
+how irresistible thy charms! No, never doth beauty exert its power so
+much as when in the midst of rural scenes and rustic simplicity. Here
+is the real seat of its empire; here she sits on her throne,
+surrounded by the graces; adorned by whose lands, she captivates all
+beholders. Excuse this rhapsody, my lord; I return now to my subject.
+
+For this month past the autumnal heats have been preparing a
+favourable vintage, which the first has already induced us to begin;
+[89] the parched leaves falling off the vines, and exposing to view
+the clustered grapes, whose juicy ripeness invites the hands of the
+gatherers. Vines loaded with this salutary fruit, which heaven bestows
+on the unfortunate as a cure for all their woes; the sound of the
+casks, tubs, and tons, which they are hooping anew on every side, the
+songs of the gatherers with which the vintage re-echoes; the continual
+trotting backwards and forwards of those who carry the grapes to the
+press, the harsh sound of the rustic instruments that animate the
+people to work; the agreeable and affecting picture of a general good
+humour, which seems to be extended at that time over the face of the
+whole earth; add to these the fog, which the sun exhales in a morning
+and draws up like the curtain of theatre, to display so delightful a
+scene; all conspire to give it the air of an entertainment; and that
+an entertainment which is the more pleasing on reflection, that it is
+the only one in which mankind have art enough to join utility with
+delight.
+
+Mr. Wolmar, who has one of the best vineyards in the country, has made
+all the necessary preparations for his vintage. His backs, his
+winepress, his cellar, his casks, are all ready for that delicious
+liquor for which they are designed. Mrs. Wolmar herself takes charge
+of the crop; the choice of the labourers, and the order and
+distribution of the several parts of the work falling to her share.
+Mrs. Orbe takes care of all entertainments, and of the payment of the
+day-labourers agreeable to the police established here; the laws of
+which are never infringed or broken. As to my part, I am set to
+inspect the press and enforce the directions of Eloisa, who cannot
+bear the steam of the backs; and Clara did not fail to recommend me to
+this employ, as it was so well adapted to a toper. Thus every one
+having an allotted task, we are all up early in the morning, and are
+assembled to go to the vineyard. Mrs. Orbe, who never thinks herself
+sufficiently employed, undertaking further to observe and rate those
+that are idle; in doing which I can safely say, with respect to me at
+least, that she acquits herself with a malicious assiduity. As to the
+old baron, while we are all employed, he walks out with his gun, and
+comes, every now and then, to take me from my work, to go with him a
+thrush-shooting; and I am taxed by my companions with being secretly
+engaged to him. So that by degrees I lose my old name of philosopher
+and get that of an idler; appellations which in reality are not so
+very different. You see, by what I have told you of the baron, that we
+are quite reconciled, and that Wolmar has reason to be content with
+his second experiment. [90] Shall I hate the father of my friend? no,
+were I his son, I could not respect him more than I do. In fact, I
+know not any man more sincere, more open, more generous, or more
+honourable in every respect than this old gentleman. But the
+extravagance of his notions and prejudices is odd enough. Since he is
+certain I cannot be united to his family, he is extremely civil; and,
+provided I be not his son-in-law, he will readily give up every thing,
+and allow me a superiority to himself. The only thing I cannot forgive
+him, is, that when we are alone, he will some time rally the pretended
+philosopher on his former lectures. His pleasantry on this head hurts
+me, and I am always vexed at it; but he turns my resentment into
+ridicule, and says, Come along, let us go bring down a thrush or two;
+we have carried this argument far enough. And then he calls out, as we
+go out of doors; here, Clara, Clara! provide a good supper for your
+master; I am going to get him an appetite. Notwithstanding his age,
+also, I can assure you, he brushes among the vines with his gun, with
+as much activity as myself, and is incomparably a better marksman. I
+have some satisfaction, however, in that he dares not drop a word
+before his daughter; the little scholar prescribing no less to her
+father than to her preceptor. But to return to our vintage.
+
+It is now a week since we have been employed in this agreeable
+occupation, yet we have hardly done half our work. Besides the wines
+intended for sale and for common use, which are only simply tho’
+carefully made, our benevolent fairy makes others of a more exquisite
+flavour for us drinkers; I myself assisting in the magical operations.
+
+We make wines of all countries from the grapes of one vineyard: to
+make one sort, she orders the stalks of the bunches to be twisted when
+the grape is ripe, and lets them dry by the heat of the sun upon the
+stock; for another, she has the grapes picked and stoned before they
+are put into the press; Again, for a third sort, she has the red
+grapes gathered before sunrising, and carefully conveyed to the press,
+fresh with their bloom and covered with the morning dew, to make white
+wine. She makes a sweet wine, by putting into the casks _must_,
+reduced to a syrup by evaporation; a dry wine, by checking its
+fermentation; a bitter cordial by steeping wormwood; [91] and a
+muscadel wine, with the help of simples. All those different wines
+have their peculiar methods of preparation; every one of which is
+simple and wholesome. And thus an industrious economy makes up for a
+diversity of soils, and unites twenty climates in one. You cannot
+conceive with what assiduity, with what alacrity, all our business is
+done. We sing and laugh all day long, without the least interruption
+to our work. We live altogether in the greatest familiarity; are all
+treated on a footing, and yet no one forgets himself. The ladies put
+on none of their airs, the countrywomen are decent, the men droll, but
+never rude. Those are the most caressed who sing the best songs, tell
+the best stories, or hit off the best joke. Our good understanding
+even gives rise to pleasant bickerings between us, and our mutual
+raillery is exerted only to shew how far we can bear with good temper
+each others severity. There is no returning home to play the gentle
+folks; we stay all the day long in the vineyard; Eloisa having caused
+a lodge to be built there, whither we retreat to warm ourselves when
+cold, or to shelter us from the rain. We dine with the peasants, and
+at their hour, as well as work with them. We eat their soup, a little
+coarse indeed, but very good, and seasoned with excellent herbs. We
+laugh not at their downright behaviour and rustic compliments; but, in
+order to free them from constraint, give into their own ways without
+affectation. This complacence on our side, also, is not lost upon
+them; they are sensible of it; and, seeing that we are so ready to go
+out of our way for them, are more willing to go on in their own for
+us. At dinner the children are brought from the house, and pass the
+rest of the day in the vineyard. How rejoiced are the peasants to see
+them! then, taking them up in their sturdy arms, they bless them, and
+wish heaven may prolong their days to resemble their parents, and make
+them in like manner a blessing to their country. When I think that the
+most of these men have born arms, and understand the use of the sword
+and musket, as well as the management of the hoe and pruning-knife, in
+seeing Eloisa so loved and respected by them, and herself and children
+received with such affecting acclamations, I cannot help calling to
+mind the virtuous and illustrious Agrippina, shewing her son to the
+troops of Germanicus. Incomparable Eloisa! who exercises in the
+simplicity of private life, the despotic power of wisdom and
+beneficence; your person a dear and sacred trust deposited in the
+hands of your country-men, every one of whom would defend and protect
+you at the hazard of his own life; it is yours to live more securely,
+more honourably, in the midst of a whole people who love you, than
+monarchs surrounded with guards.
+
+In the evening, we all return home chearfully together; the workpeople
+being lodged and boarded with us all the time of the vintage; and even
+on Sundays after the evening service, we assemble and dance together
+till supper time. On the other days of the week, also, we remain
+altogether, after we are returned home, except the baron, who, eating
+no suppers, goes to bed early, and Eloisa, who with her children stays
+with him till his bedtime. Thus, from the time we take upon ourselves
+the business of the vintage till we quit it, we never once mix the
+city and country life together. These Saturnalia are much more
+agreeable and discreet than those of the Romans. The constraint they
+affected was too preposterous to improve either the master or the
+slave; but the peaceful equality which prevails here, re-establishes
+the order of nature, is productive of instruction to some, of
+consolation to others, and of a friendly connection between all. [92]
+Our assembly room is an old hall with a great chimney and a good fire
+in it. On the mantlepiece are lighted up three lamps, made by Mr.
+Wolmar’s orders, of tin, just to catch the smoke and reflect the
+light. To prevent giving rise to envy, every thing is carefully
+avoided that might in the eyes of these poor people, appear more
+costly than what they meet with at home; no other mark of opulence
+being displayed than the choice of the best of common things, and a
+little more profusion in their distribution. Supper is served upon two
+long tables; where the pomp and luxury of entertainments is amply
+supplied by good humour and plenty. Every one sits down to table,
+master, labourers, and servants; every one without distinction gets up
+to help himself, without exception or preference; the whole repast
+ending in gratitude and festivity. All drink at their discretion,
+subject to no other rules than those of decency and sobriety. The
+presence of superiors, whom they so truly respect, keeps the
+workpeople within bounds; yet lays no restraint on their ease and
+chearfulness. And should any one happen to forget himself and give
+offence, the company is not disturbed by reprimands, the offender
+being dismissed the next day, without farther notice.
+
+Thus, do I take advantage of the pleasures of the country and the
+season. I resume the freedom of living after the manner of the
+country, and to drink pure wine pretty often; but I drink none that is
+not poured out by the hands of one or other of the two cousins; who
+take upon them to measure my thirst by the strength of my head, and to
+manage my reason as they think proper; nor does any one know better
+how to manage it, or has like them the art to give or take it away
+from me at pleasure. When the fatigue of the day, or the length and
+festivity of the repast, add to the strength of the liquor, I indulge
+myself without restraint in the sallies it inspires. They are no
+longer such as I need suppress, even in the presence of the sagacious
+Wolmar. I am no longer afraid his penetrating eye should see into the
+bottom of my heart; and, when a tender idea arises in my memory, one
+look from Clara dissipates it; one look of Eloisa makes me blush for
+my weakness.
+
+After supper, we sit up an hour or two to peel hemp; every one singing
+a song in turn. Sometimes the women sing all together, or one sings
+alone, and the rest join in chorus to the burthen of the song. Most of
+their songs are old tales, set to no very agreeable tunes. There is,
+not withstanding something antique and affecting, which on the whole
+is very pleasing. The words are generally very simple, unaffected, and
+often very sorrowful: they are, nevertheless, diverting. Clara cannot
+forbear smiling, Eloisa blushing, and myself from giving a sigh, when
+the same turns and expressions are repeated in these songs, which have
+heretofore been made use of between us. On those occasions, as I look
+upon them, the remembrance of times past rushes upon my mind: I am
+seized with a trembling, an insupportable burthen oppresses my heart,
+and leaves so deep an impression of sorrow that I can hardly shake it
+off. I find, nevertheless, in these evenings a sort of pleasure which
+I cannot describe, and which is nevertheless very great.
+
+The union of people of different conditions, the simplicity of their
+occupation, the idea of ease, concord and tranquillity, the peaceful
+sensation it awakes in the soul; these altogether have something
+affecting that disposes every one to make choice of the most
+interesting songs. The concert of female voices is also not without
+its charms. For my part, I am convinced, that of all kinds of harmony
+there is none so agreeable as singing in unison; and that we only
+require a variety of concords, because our taste is depraved. Does not
+harmony in fact exist in every single note? What then can we add to
+it, without changing the proportions which nature has established in
+the relation of harmonious sounds.
+
+Nature has done every thing in the best manner, but we would do
+better, and so spoil all.
+
+There is as great an emulation among us about the work of the evening,
+as about that of the day; and a piece of roguery I was guilty of
+yesterday, brought me into a little disgrace. As I am not the most
+expert at hemp-peeling, and am sometimes absent in thought, I begun
+to be tired with always being pointed at for doing the least work. I
+shovelled the stalks with my feet therefore from my next neighbours,
+to enlarge my own heap; but that inexorable Mrs. Orbe, perceiving it;
+made a sign to Eloisa, who, detecting me in the fact, reprimanded me
+severely. Come, come, says she, aloud, I’ll have no injustice done
+here, though in jest; it is thus, people accustom themselves to
+cheating, and prove rogues in good earnest, and then, what is worse,
+make a jest of it.
+
+In this manner we pass our evenings. When it is near bedtime, Mrs.
+Wolmar stands up, and says, Come, now let us to our fireworks. On
+which, every one takes up his bundle of hemp-stalks, the honourable
+proofs of his labour, which are carried in triumph into the middle of
+the courtyard, and there laid as trophies in a heap, and set on fire.
+Everyone, however, has not indiscriminately this honour; but those to
+whom Eloisa adjudges it, by giving the torch to him or her, who has
+done most work that evening; and when this happens to be herself, she
+does it with her own hands, without more to do. This ceremony is
+accompanied with acclamations and clapping of hands. The stalks soon
+burn up in a blaze, which ascends to the clouds; a real bonfire, about
+which we laugh and sing, till it is out. After this, the whole company
+are served with liquor, and every one drinks to the health of the
+conqueror, and goes to bed, content with a day past in labour,
+chearfulness and innocence, which he would willingly begin again the
+next day, the next after that, and every day, to the last of his life.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLIV. To Mr. WOLMAR.
+
+
+Enjoy, my dear Wolmar, the fruits of your labour. Receive the
+acknowledgements of a heart, which you have taken so much pains to
+render worthy of being offered to your acceptance. Never did any man
+undertake so arduous a task; never did any one attempt what you have
+executed; nor did ever a susceptible and grateful mind, feel more than
+that with which you have inspired me. Mine had lost its force, its
+vigour, its very being; but you have restored them all; I was dead to
+virtue, to happiness, and owe to you that moral life, to which you
+have raised me. O my benefactor! my father! in giving myself up
+entirely to you, I can only offer, as to the deity, the gifts I have
+received at your hands.
+
+Must I confess to you my weakness and my fears? Hitherto I have always
+distrusted myself. It is not a week ago that I blushed for the
+weakness of my heart, and thought all our pains had been lost. That
+cruel and discouraging moment, however, thanks to heaven and you, is
+past, never to return. I do not think myself cured, only because you
+tell me so, but because I feel it: I stand no longer in need of your
+answering for me, who have put me in a state to answer for myself. It
+was necessary for me to be absent from you and Eloisa, to know what I
+should be without your support. It is at a distance from her abode,
+that I learn not to be afraid to approach her.
+
+As I write the particulars of our journey to Mrs. Orbe, I shall not
+repeat them here; I am not unwilling you should know my foibles; but I
+have not the courage to tell you of them. It is, my dear Wolmar, my
+last fault. I feel myself so far already from being liable to commit
+the like again, that I cannot think of it without disdain; and yet it
+is so little a while since, that I cannot acknowledge it without
+shame. You, who can so readily forgive my errors, will doubtless
+forgive the shame which attends my repentance.
+
+Nothing is now wanting to compleat my happiness. My Lord B---- has
+told me all. Shall I then, my dear friend, be devoted entirely to you?
+shall I educate your children? shall the eldest of the three be
+preceptor to the rest? with what ardour have I not desired it? The
+hope of being thought worthy of such employment has redoubled my
+assiduity to second your paternal care and instructions.
+
+How often have I not expressed my earnestness, in this particular, to
+Eloisa! with what pleasure have I not interpreted the discourse of
+both of you, in my favour! but although she was convinced of my zeal
+for your service, and seemed to approve of its object, she never
+entered so explicitly into my designs as to encourage me to speak more
+openly. I was sensible I ought rather to merit that honour than ask
+for it. I expected of you and her that proof of your confidence and
+esteem. I have not been deceived in my expectation, nor shall you, my
+dear friends, believe me, be deceived in yours.
+
+You know that, in the course of our conversation on the education of
+your children, I have thrown together upon paper some of those
+sentiments which such conversation furnished me with, and which you
+approved. Since my departure, some new reflections have suggested
+themselves on the same subject: I have reduced the whole into a kind
+of system, which, when I have properly digested, I shall communicate
+to you for your examination. I do not think, however, I shall be able
+to make it fit for your inspection till after our arrival at Rome. My
+system begins, or finishes, that of Eloisa; or rather, it is nothing
+more than a connection and illustration of hers; for it consists only
+in rules to prevent the natural disposition from being spoiled, in
+subjecting it to the laws and customs of society.
+
+I have recovered my reason by your care: my heart is again sound and
+at liberty: I see myself beloved by all whose love I could wish to
+possess: futurity presents me with an agreeable prospect. With all
+this, my situation should surely be delightful; but it is decreed, my
+soul shalt never enjoy tranquillity. As the end of our journey
+approaches, I see the crisis of the fate of my illustrious friend: it
+is I, who, so to speak, ought to decide it. Cannot I at least do that
+once for him which he has so often done for me? cannot I nobly
+discharge the greatest and most important duty of my life? My dear
+Wolmar, I retain all your lessons in my heart; but, to make them
+useful, why don’t I possess your sagacity? Ah could I but one day see
+Lord B---- happy! could I, agreeable to your projects, see us but all
+assembled together, never to part again! could I entertain a wish for
+any thing on earth besides! Yes one, the accomplishment of which
+depends not on you, nor me, nor on any other person in the world; but
+on him who has a reward in store for the virtues of Eloisa, and, keeps
+a secret register of your good actions.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLV. To Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Where are you, my charming cousin? where is the amiable confident of
+that feeble heart, which is, on so many accounts, yours; and which you
+have so often comforted in despair? come, and let me lay open to you
+the confession of its last error. Is it not always your province to
+purify it by confession and pardon? is there a fault which it can
+reproach itself with after it hath confessed it to you? No, it is no
+longer the same; and its regeneration is owing to you: you have given
+me a new heart, which now offers you its first services: but I shall
+not think myself quite free from that which I quit, till I have
+deposited it in your hands.
+
+The moment of my life in which I had most reason to be contented with
+myself was that in which I left you. Recovered of my errors, I looked
+upon that instant as the tardy era of my return to my duty. I begun it
+therefore, by paying off part of that immense debt I owed to
+friendship, in leaving so delightful an abode to follow a benefactor,
+a philosopher, who, pretending to stand in need of my services, put
+the success of his to the proof. The more disagreeable my departure,
+the more I piqued myself, on making so great a sacrifice. After having
+spent half my time in nourishing an unhappy passion, I consecrated the
+other half to justify it, and to render, by my virtues a more worthy
+homage to her, who so long received that of my heart. I proudly
+contemplated the first of my days in which I had neither given
+occasion for my own blushes, for yours, for hers, nor for those of any
+one who was dear to me. My Lord B----, being apprehensive of a
+sorrowful parting, was for our setting out early, without taking a
+formal leave; but, though hardly any body was stirring in the house,
+we could not elude your friendly vigilance. Your door half open and
+your woman on the watch; your coming out to meet us, and our going in
+and finding a table set out and tea made ready, all these
+circumstances brought to my mind those of former times; and, comparing
+my present departure with that which came to my remembrance, I
+found myself so very differently disposed to what I was on the former
+occasion, that I rejoiced to think, Lord B----, was a witness of that
+difference, and hoped to make him forget at Milan the shameful scene
+of Besancon. I never found myself so resolute before; I prided myself
+in displaying my temper before you, behaving with more fortitude than
+you had ever seen in me; and gloried, in parting, to think I had
+appeared before you such as I was going ever afterwards to be. This
+idea added to my courage; I supported my spirits by your esteem; and
+perhaps should have left you without weeping, if a tear, trickling
+down your cheek, had not drawn a sympathetic drop from my eyes.
+
+I left you with a heart fully sensible of its obligations, and
+particularly penetrated with such as your friendship has laid me
+under; resolved to employ the rest of my life in deserving them. My
+Lord B----, taking me to task for my past follies, laid before me no
+very agreeable picture; and I knew by the just severity with which he
+censured my foibles, that he was little afraid of imitating them. He
+pretended, nevertheless, to be apprehensive of it; and spoke to me
+with some uneasiness of his journey to Rome, and the unworthy
+attachments which, in spite of himself, led him thither: but I saw
+plainly that he exaggerated his own dangers, to engage my attention
+the more to him, and draw it off from those to which I was myself
+exposed. Just as we got into Velleneuve, one of our servants, who was
+but badly mounted, was thrown off his horse, and got a small contusion
+on his head: on which his master had him bled, and determined to stay
+there that night. We accordingly dined early, and afterwards took
+horses and went to Bex, to see the silt manufactury; where, at my
+lord’s desire, who had some particular reason for requesting it, I
+took a sketch of the building and works, so that we did not return to
+Velleneuve till night. After supper we chatted a good while over our
+punch, and went to bed pretty late. It was in this conversation he
+informed me of the charge intended to be committed to my care, and
+what measures had been taken to bring it about. You may judge of the
+effect this piece of information had upon me; a conversation of this
+nature did not incline me to sleep. It was at length, however, time to
+retire.
+
+As I entered the chamber appointed for me, I immediately recollected
+it to be the same in which I had formerly slept, on my journey to
+Sion. The view of it made an impression on me, which would be very
+difficult for me to describe. I was struck with such lively ideas of
+what I then was, that I imagined myself again in the same situation,
+though ten years of my life had passed away in the interval, and all
+my troubles had been forgotten. But alas! that reflection was but of a
+short duration, and the next moment oppressed me with the weight of my
+former afflictions. How mortifying were the recollections that
+succeeded to my first reverie! what dreadful comparisons suggested
+themselves to my mind! ye pleasures of early youth; ye exquisite
+delights of a first passion, O why, said I, doth your remembrance
+wound a heart already too much oppressed with griefs? thrice happy
+were those days! days now no more, in which I loved and was beloved
+again; in which I gave myself up in peaceful innocence, to the
+transports of a mutual passion; in which I drank its intoxicating
+draughts, and all my faculties were lost in the rapture, the extasy,
+the delirium of love. On the rocks of Meillerie, in the midst of frost
+and snow, with the frightful precipices before my eyes, was there a
+being in the creation so happy as I? and yet I then wept! I then
+thought myself unfortunate! sorrow even then ventured to approach my
+heart! what therefore should I be now, when I have possessed all that
+my soul held dear, and lost it for ever? I deserve my misfortune, for
+having been so little sensible of my happiness!----did I weep then?
+----didst thou weep? unfortunate wretch!----thou shall weep no more
+----thou hast no right to weep.----Why is she not dead? said I, in a
+transport of rage, yes, I should then be less unhappy; I could then
+indulge myself in my griefs: I should embrace her cold tomb with
+pleasure: my affliction should be worthy of her: I might then say,
+She hears my cries, she sees my tears, she is moved by my groans,
+she approves and accepts of my homage.----I should then, at least,
+have cherished the hope of being united to her again.----But she
+lives and is happy in the possession of another.----She lives, and
+her life is my death; her happiness is my torment; and heaven,
+having taken her from me, deprives me even of the mournful pleasure
+of regretting her loss----she lives, but not for me: she lives for
+my despair, who am an hundred times farther from her than if she
+were no more.
+
+I went to bed under those tormenting reflections; they accompanied me
+in my sleep and disturbed it with terrible apprehensions. The most
+poignant afflictions, sorrow, and death composed my dreams; and all
+the evils I ever felt, represented themselves to my imagination in a
+thousand new forms, to torment me over again. One vision in
+particular, and that the most cruel of all, still pursued me; and
+though the confused apparitions of various phantoms, several times
+appeared and vanished, they all ended in the following.
+
+Methought I saw the departed mother of your friend on her deathbed,
+and her daughter on her knees before her, bathed in tears, kissing her
+hands and receiving her last breath. This scene, which you once
+described to me, and which will never be effaced from my memory, was
+represented in striking colours before me. O my dear mother, said
+Eloisa, in accents that chilled my very soul, she who is indebted to
+you for her life, deprives you of yours! Alas! take back what you gave
+me; for without you it will be only a life of sorrow. My child,
+answered her languishing mother, God is just, and his will must be
+obeyed----you will be a mother in your turn, and----she could say no
+more----On this methought, I went forward to look upon her; but she
+was vanished, and Eloisa lay in her place; I saw her plainly and
+perfectly knew her, though her face was covered with a veil. I gave a
+shriek, and ran to take off the veil; but, methought after many
+attempts to lay hold of it I could not reach it, but tormented myself
+with vain endeavours to grasp what, though it covered her face,
+appeared to be impalpable. Upon which, methought, she addressed me in
+a faint voice, and said, Friend, be composed, the awful veil that is
+spread over me, is too sacred to be removed. At these words I
+struggled, made a new effort, and awoke; when I found myself in my
+bed, harassed with fright and fatigue, my face covered with big drops
+of sweat, and drowned in tears.
+
+My fears being a little dissipated, I went to sleep again; again the
+same dream put me into the same agitations: I awoke again and went to
+sleep the third time, when the same mournful scene still presented
+itself, the same appearance of death, and always the same impenetrable
+veil, eluding my grasp, and hiding from me the dying object which it
+covered.
+
+On waking from this last dream, my terror was so great, that I could
+not overcome it, though quite awake. I threw myself out of bed,
+without well knowing what I did, and wandered up and down my chamber,
+like a child in the dark, imagining myself beset with phantoms, and
+still fancying in my ears, the sound of that voice, whose plaintive
+notes I never heard without emotion. The dawn of day beginning to cast
+some light upon the objects in my chamber, served only to transform
+them, agreeable to my troubled imagination. My fright increased, and
+at length entirely deprived me of reason. Having with some difficulty
+found the door, I ran out of my room, bolted into that of Lord B----
+and, drawing open his curtains, threw myself down upon his bed almost
+breathless, crying out, She is gone----she is gone----I shall
+never see her more.----His lordship started out of his sleep, and flew
+to his sword, imagining himself attacked by robbers. But he presently
+perceived who it was; and I soon after recollected myself: this was
+the second time of my life that I had appeared before him in such
+confusion.
+
+He made me sit down and compose myself; and as soon as he had learnt
+the cause of my fright, endeavoured to turn it into ridicule; but,
+seeing me too deeply affected with it, and that the impression it had
+made was not to be easily effaced, he changed his tune. For shame,
+says he with an air of severity, you neither deserve my friendship nor
+esteem: had I taken a quarter of the pains with one of my footmen
+which I have done with you, I had made a man of him: but you are fit
+for nothing. It is indeed, my lord, answered I, too true. I had
+nothing good in me but what came from her, whom now I shall see no
+more; and am therefore good for nothing. At this he smiled, and
+embraced me. Come, come, says he, endeavour to compose yourself;
+tomorrow you will be a reasonable creature. He then changed the
+conversation and proposed to set out. The horses were accordingly
+ordered to be put to. In getting into the chaise, my lord whispered
+something to the postilion, who immediately drove off.
+
+We travelled for some time without speaking. I was so taken up with my
+last night’s dream, that I heard and saw nothing; not even observing
+that the lake, which, the day before, was on my right hand, was now on
+my left. The rattling of the chaise upon the pavement, however, at
+length awoke me out of my lethargy; I looked up, and to my great
+surprise, found we were returned to Clarens. About a furlong from the
+gate, my lord ordered us to be set down; and, taking me aside, you
+see, my design, said he; it has no need of further explanation: go
+thou visionary mortal, continued he, pressing my hand between his, go
+and see her again. Happy is exposing your follies only to your
+friends, make haste, and I will wait for you here; but be sure you do
+not return, till you have removed that fatal veil which is woven in
+your brain.
+
+What could I say? I left him without making any answer, and, trembling
+as I advanced, slowly approached the house. What a part, said I to
+myself, am I going to act here? how dare I shew myself? what pretext
+have I for this unexpected return? with what face can I plead my
+ridiculous terrors, and support the contemptuous looks of the generous
+Wolmar? In short, the nearer I drew to the house, the more childish my
+fears seemed to me, aid the more contemptible my extravagant
+behaviour: my mind, however, still misgave me, and I went on, tho’
+every step more slowly, till I came just to the court-yard; when I
+heard the door of the elysium just open and shut again. Seeing nobody
+come out, I made a tour round the aviary keeping as close to it as
+possible; I then listened, and could hear you conversing together;
+but, tho’ I could not distinguish a word you said, I thought I
+perceived something in the sound of your voice so languishing and
+tender, that I could not hear it without emotion; and in Eloisa’s a
+sweet and affectionate accent, not only such as is usual to her, but
+so mild and peaceful as to convince me all was well.
+
+This restored me to my senses at once, and woke me in good earnest
+from my dream. I perceived myself immediately so altered that I
+laughed at my ridiculous fears; and, while I reflected that only a
+hedge and a few shrubs prevented me from seeing her alive and in good
+health, whom I imagined I should never see again, I renounced for ever
+my fearful and chimerical apprehensions; and determined, without more
+ado; to return without even seeing her. You may believe me, Clara,
+when I protest to you that I not only did not see her, but went back,
+proud of not having been so weak as to push my credulity to the end,
+and of having at least done so much credit to myself, as not to have
+it said of a friend of Lord B----’s, that he could not get the better
+of a dream.
+
+This, my dear cousin, is what I had to tell you, and is the last
+confession I have to make. The other particulars of our journey are
+not at all interesting; let it suffice, therefore, to assure you, that
+not only his lordship has been very well satisfied with me since, but
+that I am still more so with myself, who am more sensible of my cure
+than he can be. For fear of giving him any needless distrust, I
+concealed from him my not having actually seen you. When he asked me
+if the veil was drawn aside, I answered without hesitation in the
+affirmative; and we have not mentioned it since. Yes, cousin, the veil
+is drawn aside for ever; that veil which has so long hoodwinked my
+reason. All my unruly passions are extinguished. I see and respect my
+duty. You are both dearer to me than ever, but my heart knows no
+difference between you; nor feels the least inclination to separate
+the inseparables.
+
+We arrived the day before yesterday at Milan, and the day after
+tomorrow we shall leave it. In about a week we hope to be at Rome, and
+expect to find letters from you on our arrival. How tedious will seem
+the time before I shall see those two surprising persons who have so
+long troubled the repose of the greatest of minds! O Eloisa! O Clara!
+no woman that is not equal to you, is worthy of such a man!
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLVI. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+We all waited impatiently to hear from you, so that you will easily
+guess how much pleasure your letters gave our little community; but
+what you will hardly imagine is, that they should give me less than
+any other person in the house. They all were pleased that you had
+happily passed the Alps; for my part, I had no pleasure in reflecting
+that the Alps were between us.
+
+With respect to the particulars of your return, we have said nothing
+of them to the baron; besides I skipped over some of your soliloquies,
+in reading your letter before every body. Mr. Wolmar is so ingenuous,
+as only to laugh at you; but Eloisa could not recollect the last
+moments of her dying mother, without shedding fresh tears. Your letter
+had no other effect upon her than reviving her affliction.
+
+As to myself, I will confess to you, my dear preceptor, that I am no
+longer surprized to see you in continual astonishment at yourself;
+always committing some new folly, and always repenting of it: you have
+long passed your life in self-reproach over night, and in applauding
+yourself in the morning.
+
+I will freely acknowledge to you, also, that the great effort of your
+courage, in turning back when so near us, just as wise as you came,
+does not appear to me so extraordinary as it may to you. There seems
+to me more vanity in it, than prudence; and, I believe, upon the
+whole, I should have liked a little less fortitude with more
+discretion. From such a manner of running away, may not one ask, to
+what purpose you came? you were ashamed to shew your self, and it is
+of your being afraid to shew your self that you ought in fact to be
+ashamed. As if the pleasure of seeing your friends were not an ample
+recompense for the petty chagrin their raillery might give you. Ought
+you not to have thought yourself happy in the opportunity of diverting
+us with your bewildered looks? as I could not laugh at you then,
+however, I will laugh at you now; tho’ I lose half the pleasure in not
+seeing your confusion.
+
+Unhappily there is something worse than all this; which is, that I
+have caught your fears, without having your means of dispelling them.
+That dream of yours has something in it so horrible, that I am at once
+terrified and afflicted with it, in spite of all I can do. In reading
+your letter I am apt to blame your agitation; after I have read it, I
+blame your security. It is impossible to see a sufficient reason for
+your being so much affected, and at the same time for your becoming
+tranquil. It is very strange, that your fearful apprehensions should
+prevail till the very moment in which you might have been satisfied,
+and that you should stop there. Another step, a motion, a word had
+done the business. You were alarmed without reason, and composed again
+without cause: but you have infected me with a terror which you no
+longer feel; and it appears, that, if you have given an instance once
+in your life of your fortitude, it has been at my expense. Since the
+receipt of your fatal letter, my heart is constantly oppressed. I
+cannot approach Eloisa, without trembling at the thoughts of losing
+her. I think every now and then I see a deadly paleness over-spread
+her countenance; and this morning, as I embraced her, tears burst
+involuntarily from me, and poured down my cheeks. O, that veil! that
+veil! There is something so prophetic in it, that it troubles me every
+time I think of it. No, I cannot forgive you for not removing it, when
+you had it in your power, and fear I shall never have a moment’s peace
+of mind till I see you again in company with her. You must own, that,
+after having talked so long of philosophy, you have here given a very
+unreasonable proof of yours. Dream again, and come and see your
+friends; it were better for you to do this and be a _visionary
+mortal_, than to run away from them and be a philosopher.
+
+It appears by a letter of Lord B----’s to Mr. Wolmar, that he thinks
+seriously of coming to settle with us. As soon as he is determined,
+and his heart has made its choice, may you both return steadfast and
+happy! This is the constant prayer of our little community, and above
+all that of your friend,
+
+Clara Orbe.
+
+P. S. If you really heard nothing of our conversation in the elysium,
+it is perhaps so much the better for you; for you know me to be
+vigilant enough to see some people without their seeing me, and
+severe enough to verify the proverb, that _listeners seldom, hear any
+good of themselves_.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLVII. From Mr. Wolmar.
+
+
+As I write to Lord B----, and explain myself so fully with respect to
+you, I have hardly any thing more to say at present than to refer you
+to his letter. Yours would perhaps require of me a return of
+civilities; but these I had rather make in actions than in words. To
+make you one of my family, to treat you as my brother, my friend; to
+make her you loved your sister; to put into your hands a paternal
+authority over my children; to invest you with my privileges, after
+having robbed you of yours; these are the compliments I have to make
+you. If, on your part, you justify my conduct, it will be sufficient
+praise. I have endeavoured to honour you with my esteem; it is yours
+to honour me by your merit. Let no other encomiums pass between us.
+
+So far am I from being surprized at seeing you affected with a dream,
+that I see no very good reason for your reproaching yourself for being
+so. One dream more or less seems to be of no importance in such
+systematical gentlemen as yourself, whose very principles are
+visionary.
+
+What I reproach you for, is less the effect of your dream, than the
+species of it; and that for a reason very different, perhaps, from
+what you may imagine. A certain tyrant once condemned a man to death
+for dreaming that he had stabbed him. Recollect the reason he gave for
+that sentence, and make the application. What! you are going to
+determine the fate of your friend, and you are thinking of your old
+amours! Had it not been for the conversation of the preceding evening,
+I should never forgive you that dream. Think in the daytime of what
+you are going to do at Rome, and you will dream less at night of what
+is doing at Vevey.
+
+The little Frenchwoman is sick, which keeps Mrs. Wolmar so constantly
+employed that she has not time to write to you. Some body, however,
+will willingly take upon themselves that agreeable talk. Happy youth!
+to whose happiness every thing conspires! the rewards of virtue all
+await your merit. As to that of my good will, trouble no one with it;
+it is from you only I expect it.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLVIII. To Mr. Wolmar.
+
+
+Let this letter be kept to ourselves. Let the errors of the best of
+men be for ever buried in profound secrecy. In what a dangerous task
+have I engaged! O my sensible and generous friend! why do I not retain
+your counsel in my memory, as I do your benevolence at my heart! never
+did I before stand in more need of your prudence, nor did ever the
+apprehensions of falling short of it so much embarrass the little I
+have. Ah! what is become of your paternal advice, your instruction,
+your knowledge? what will become of me without you? Yes, I would give
+up every flattering prospect in life to have you here, in this
+critical moment, though but for one week.
+
+I have been deceived in all my conjectures: I have as yet done nothing
+but blunder. I was afraid only of the marchioness. After having seen
+her and been struck with admiration at her beauty and address, I
+applied myself, with all my might, to wean the affections of her noble
+lover from so attracting an object. Charmed with the thoughts of
+bringing him over to the side where I thought there was no danger, I
+launched out in the praise of Laura, and spoke of her with the esteem
+and admiration with which she had inspired me: in weakening his
+stronger attachment for her rival, I hoped, by degrees, entirely to
+destroy both. My lord easily gave in to my design; and, exceeding even
+the bounds of complaisance, perhaps to punish my importunities, by
+alarming me on the other side, affected a much greater warmth of
+passion for Laura than he really felt. But what shall I say to him
+now? the ardour of his passion remains without any affectation. His
+heart, exhausted by so many trials, was left in a state of weakness of
+which she has taken the advantage. It would be difficult indeed for
+any man long to affect a passion for her, which he did not feel. In
+fact, it is impossible to look upon this lovely unfortunate, without
+being struck by her air and figure; a certain cast of languor and
+depression, which constantly shades her charming features, in damping
+the vivacity of her looks, renders them but the more affecting; and as
+the sun darts its rays through the passing clouds, so do her eyes cast
+the more piercing looks through the clouds of grief that obscure their
+lustre. Her very dejection has all the grace of modesty; in seeing,
+one pities her; in hearing, one respects her. In short, I can avow, in
+justification of my friend, that I know only two men in the world, who
+could see and converse with her without danger.
+
+Oh Wolmar! he is lost to reason. I see, and feel it; I own it to you
+with bitterness of heart. I tremble to think how far his extravagant
+passion may make him forget himself and his duty. I tremble lest that
+intrepid love of virtue, which makes him despise the opinion of the
+world, should hurry him into the other extreme, and lead him to
+trespass even the sacred laws of decorum and decency. Shall my Lord
+B---- contract such a marriage? can you think it----under the eve of
+his friend too! who sees, who suffers it! and who lies under
+infinite obligations to him! no, he shall rip open my breast, and
+tear out my heart with his own hand, ere he shall thus abuse it.
+
+But what shall I do! how shall I behave myself? you know his
+impetuosity of temper. Argument will avail nothing; and his discourse
+of late, has only increased my apprehensions for him. At first, I
+affected not to understand him, and reasoned indirectly in general
+maxims; he in turn affected not to understand me. If I endeavour to
+touch him a little more to the quick, he answers sententiously, and
+imagines he has refuted me. If I reply and enforce my argument, he
+flies into a passion, and talks in a manner so unfriendly, that a real
+friend knows not how to answer him. You may believe that, on this
+occasion, I am neither timid nor bashful; when we are doing our duty,
+we are too apt to be proud and tenacious; but pride has nothing to do
+here; it is necessary I should succeed; and unsuccessful attempts will
+only prejudice better means. I hardly dare enter with him into any
+argument, for I every day experience the truth of what you told me,
+that he is a better reasoner than I, and that the way to win him to my
+party is not to irritate him by dispute.
+
+Besides, he looks, a little cold upon me at present. Appearances would
+make one apt to think he is uneasy at my importunity. How this
+weakness debases a man in so many respects superior to the rest of
+mankind! the great, the sublime Lord B----, stands in awe of his
+friend, his creature, his pupil! it even seems by some words he has
+let fall concerning the choice of his residence if he does not marry,
+that he has a mind to try my fidelity by opposing it to my interest.
+He well knows I ought not, neither can I leave him. No, I will do my
+duty and follow my benefactor. If I were base and mean, what should I
+gain by my perfidy? Eloisa and her generous husband would not trust
+the education of their children to one who hath betrayed his friend.
+You have often told me, that the inferior passions are not easily
+converted from their pursuit; but that the superior ones may be armed
+against themselves. I imagined, I might be able to make use of that
+maxim in the present case. In fact, the motives of compassion, of a
+contempt for the prejudices of the world, of habit, of every thing
+that determines my Lord B---- on this occasion, are of that inferior
+nature and elude all my attacks: whereas true love is inseparable from
+generosity, and by that one always has some hold of him. I have
+attempted that indirect method, and despair not of success. It may
+seem cruel; and, to say truth, I have not done it without some
+repugnance: all circumstances, however considered, I conceive I am
+doing service even to Laura herself. What would she do in the rank to
+which she might be raised by marriage, but expose her former ignominy?
+but, how great may she not be in remaining what she is! If I know any
+thing of that extraordinary young lady, she is better formed to enjoy
+the sacrifice she has made, than the rank she ought to refuse. If this
+resource fails me, there remains one more in the magistracy, on the
+account of their difference of religion; but this method shall not be
+taken, till I am reduced to the last extremity, and have tried every
+other in vain. Whatever may happen, I shall spare nothing to prevent
+so unworthy and disgraceful an alliance. Believe me, my dear Wolmar, I
+shall be tenacious of your esteem to the latest hour of my life, and
+whatever my lord may write to you, whatever you may have said, depend
+on it, cost what it will, while this heart beats within my breast,
+Lauretta Pisana shall not be Lady B----.
+
+If you approve of my measures, this letter needs no answer; if you
+think me in any wise mistaken, oblige me with your instructions. But
+be expeditious, for there is not a moment to lose. I shall have my
+letter directed by a strange hand: do the same by your answer. After
+having read what I have written, please, also, to burn my letter, and
+be silent as to its contents. This is the first, and the only secret I
+ever desired you to conceal from my two cousins: and if I had dared to
+consider more in my own judgement, you yourself should have known
+nothing of it. [93]
+
+
+
+
+Letter CXLIX. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe
+
+
+The courier from Italy seemed only to wait for your departure, for his
+own arrival; as if to punish you for having staid only for him. Not
+that I myself made the pretty discovery of the cause of your
+loitering: it was my husband who observed, that after the horses had
+been put to at eight o’clock, you deferred your departure till eleven;
+not out of regard to us, but for a reason easy to be guessed at; from
+your asking twenty times, if it was ten o’clock, because the post
+generally goes by at that time.
+
+Yes, my dear cousin, you are caught; you cannot deny it. In spite of
+the prophetic Chaillot, her Clara, so wild, or rather so discreet, has
+not been so to the end. You are caught in the same toils from which
+you took so much pains to extricate your friend, and have not been
+able to preserve that liberty yourself, to which you restored me. It
+is my turn to laugh now. Ah my dear friend, one ought to have your
+talents to know how to laugh like you, and give even to raillery the
+affecting turn and appearance of kindness. Besides, what a difference
+in our situation! with what face can I divert myself with an evil, of
+which I am the cause, and from which you have taken upon yourself, to
+free me. There is not a sentiment in your breast that does not awake a
+sense of gratitude in mine, even your weakness being in you the effect
+of virtue. It is this which consoles and diverts me. My errors are to
+be lamented; but one may laugh at the false modesty which makes you
+blush at a passion as innocent as yourself.
+
+But to return to your Italian courier, and leave moralizing for a
+while. This courier then, who has been so long in coming, you will ask
+what he has brought us. Nothing but good news of our friends, and a
+letter as big as a packet for you. O ho! I see you smile and take
+breath now. As the letter is sent you, however, you will doubtless
+wait patiently to know what it contains. It may yet nevertheless be of
+some estimation, even though it did not come when expected; for it
+breathes such a----but I will only write news to you, and I dare say
+what I was going to say is none.
+
+With that letter is come another from Lord B----, to my husband, with
+a great many compliments also for us. This contains some real news,
+which is so much the more unexpected, as the first was silent on the
+subject. Our friends at Rome were to set out the next day for Naples,
+where Lord B---- has some business; and from whence they are to go to
+see mount Vesuvius.----Can you conceive, my dear, that such a sight
+can be entertaining? but on their return to Rome, think, Clara, guess
+what may happen.----Lord B---- is on the point of being married----
+not, I thank heaven, to that unworthy marchioness, who he tells us on
+the contrary, is much indisposed. To whom then?----To Laura, the
+amiable Laura, who----yet, what a marriage! Our friend says not a word
+about it. Immediately after the marriage, they will all three set out
+and come thither, to take their future measures. What they are to be,
+my husband has not told me; but he expects that St. Preux will stay
+with us.
+
+I must confess to you his silence gives me some little uneasiness; I
+cannot see clearly through it. I think I see an odd peculiarity of
+circumstances and contest of human passions absolutely unintelligible.
+I cannot see how so good a man should contract so lasting an affection
+for so bad a woman as the marchioness, or indeed, how a woman of such
+a violent and cruel temper could entertain so ardent a love, if one
+may so call her guilty passion for a man of so different a
+disposition. Neither can I imagine, how a young creature, so generous,
+affectionate and disinterested as Laura, could be able to support her
+first dissoluteness of manners; how that flattering and deceitful
+tenderness of heart, which misleads our sex, should recover her; how
+love, which is the ruin of so many modest women, should make her
+chaste.
+
+Will Lady B---- then come hither? hither, my dear Clara! what do you
+think of it? after all, what a prodigy must that astonishing woman be,
+who, ruined by a dissolute and abandoned education, was reclaimed by
+her tenderness of heart, and whom love hath conducted to virtue! ought
+any one to admire her more than I, who have acted quite contrary; who
+was led astray by inclination, when every thing else conspired to
+conduct me in the paths of virtue. I sunk not so low it is true; but
+have I raised myself like her? have I avoided so many snares, and made
+such sacrifices as she has made? from the lowest ignominy she has
+risen to the highest degree of honour, and is a thousand times more
+respectable than if she had never fallen. She has sense and virtue:
+what needs she more to resemble us? if it be impossible for a woman to
+repair the errors of her youth, what right have I to more indulgence
+than she? with whom can I hope to stand excused, and to what respect
+can I pretend, if I refuse to respect her.
+
+And yet, though my reason tells me this, my heart speaks against it;
+and, without being able to tell why, I cannot think it right that Lord
+B---- should contract such a marriage, and that his friend should be
+concerned in the affair. Such is the force of prejudice! so difficult
+is it to shake off the yoke of public opinion! which, nevertheless,
+generally induces us to be unjust: the past good is effaced by the
+present evil; but, is the past evil ever effaced by any present good?
+
+I hinted to my husband my uneasiness, as to the conduct of St. Preux
+in this affair. He seems, said I, to be ashamed to speak of it to my
+cousin: I know he is incapable of baseness, but he is too easy, and
+may have too much indulgence for the foibles of a friend. No, answered
+he, he has done what he ought, and I know will continue to do so; this
+is all I am at liberty to tell you at present of the matter; but St.
+Preux is honest, and I will engage for him, you will be satisfied with
+his conduct.----It is impossible, Clara, that Wolmar can deceive me,
+or St. Preux him. So positive an assurance therefore fully satisfied
+me; and made me suspect my scruples to be the effect of a fallen
+delicacy, and that if I was less vain and more equitable, I should
+find Laura more deserving the rank of Lady B----.
+
+But to take leave of her for the present, and return to ourselves.
+Don’t you perceive too well, in reading this letter, that our friends
+are likely to return sooner than we expected? and is not your heart a
+little affected by it? does it not flutter, and beat quicker than
+ordinary? that heart too susceptible, and too nearly akin to mine? is
+it not apprehensive of the danger of living familiarly with a beloved
+object? to see him every day? to sleep under the same roof? and if my
+errors did not lessen me in your esteem, does not my example give you
+reason to fear for yourself? In your younger years, how many
+apprehensions for my safety did not your good sense and friendship
+suggest, which a blind passion made me despise! It is now, my dear
+friend, my turn to be apprehensive for you, and I have the better
+claim to your regard; as what I have to offer is founded on sad
+experience. Attend to me then, ere it be too late; lest, having past
+half your life in lamenting my errors, you should pass the other in
+lamenting your own. Above all things, place not too great a confidence
+in your gaiety of temper, which, though it may be a security to those
+who have nothing to fear, generally betrays those who are in real
+danger. You, my dear Clara, once laughed at love, but that was because
+you were a stranger to the passion, and not having felt its power, you
+thought yourself above its attacks. Love is avenged, and laughs in its
+turn at you. Learn to distrust its deceitful mirth, lest it should one
+day cost you an equal portion of grief. It is time, my dear friend, to
+lay you open to yourself; for hitherto you have not taken that
+interesting view: you are mistaken in your own character, and know not
+how to set a just value upon yourself. You consider in the opinion of
+Chaillot; who, because of your vivacity of disposition; judged you to
+be little susceptible of heart; but a heart like yours was beyond her
+talents to penetrate. Chaillot was incapable of knowing you, nor does
+any person in the world know you truly but myself. I have left you in
+your mistake so long as it could be of service to you, but at present
+it may be hurtful, and therefore it is necessary to undeceive you.
+
+You are lively, and imagine yourself to have but little sensibility.
+How much, alas! are you deceived: your vivacity itself proves
+evidently the contrary. Is it not always exerted on sentimental
+subjects? does not even your pleasantry come from the heart? your
+raillery is a greater proof of your affection than the compliments of
+others; you smile, but your smiles penetrate our hearts; you laugh,
+but your laughter draws from us the tears of affection; and I have
+remarked, that among those who are indifferent to you, you are always
+serious.
+
+If you really were no other than you pretend to be, tell me, what
+motive could have so forcibly united us? where had been those bonds of
+unparalleled friendship that now subsists between us? By what miracle
+should such an attachment give the preference to a heart so little
+capable of it? can she who lived but for her friend, be incapable of
+love? she who would have left father, husband, relations, and country
+to have followed her? what have I done in comparison of this! I, who
+have confessedly a susceptible heart, and permitted myself to love;
+yet, with all my sensibility, have hardly been able to return your
+friendship! these contradictions have instilled into your head as
+whimsical an idea of your own character as such a giddy brain can
+conceive; which is, to conceit yourself at once the warmest friend and
+the coldest lover. Incapable of disowning these gentle ties with which
+you perceived you were bound, you thought yourself incapable of being
+fettered by any other. You thought nothing in the world could affect
+you but Eloisa; as if those hearts which are by nature susceptible,
+could be affected but by one object, and as if, because you loved no
+other than me, I could be the proper object of your affection. You
+pleasantly asked me once, if souls were of a different sex. No, my
+dear, the soul is of no sex; but its affections make that distinction,
+and you begin to be too sensible of it. Because the first lover that
+offered himself did not affect you, you immediately concluded no other
+could; because you was not in love with your suitor, you concluded you
+could never be in love with any one. When he became your husband,
+however, you loved him, and that with so ardent an affection, that it
+injured even the intimacy with your friend: that heart, so little
+susceptible, as you pretend, could annex to love as tender a
+supplement to satisfy the fond desires of a worthy man.
+
+Ah my poor cousin! it is your task for the future to resolve your own
+doubts, and if it be true,
+
+_Ch’un freddo amante è mal sicuro amica._
+
+I am greatly afraid I have at present one reason more than ever I had
+to rely upon you. But to go on with what I had to say to you on this
+subject.
+
+I suspect that you were in love much sooner than you perhaps imagine;
+or at least, that the same inclination which ruined me would have
+reduced you, had I not been first caught in the snare. Can you
+conceive a sentiment so natural and agreeable, could be so tardy in
+its birth? can you conceive that at our age, we could either of us
+live in a familiarity with an amiable young man without danger, or
+that the conformity so general in our taste and inclination, should
+not extend to this particular? No, my dear, you, I am certain, would
+have loved him, if I had not loved him first. Less weak, though not
+less susceptible, you might have been more prudent than I, without
+being more happy. But what inclination could have prevailed in your
+generous mind, over the horror you would have felt at the infidelity
+of betraying your friend! it was our friendship that saved you from
+the snares of love: you respected my lover with the same friendship,
+and thus redeemed your heart at the expense of mine.
+
+These conjectures are not so void of foundation as you may imagine;
+and had I a mind to recollect those times which I could wish to
+forget, it would not be difficult for me to trace even in the care you
+imagined you took only in my concerns, a farther care, still more
+interesting, in those of the object of my affection. Not daring to
+love him yourself, you encouraged me to do it; you thought each of us
+necessary to the happiness of the other, and therefore, that heart,
+which has not its equal in the world, loved us both the more tenderly.
+Be assured, that had it not been for your own weakness, you would not
+have been so indulgent to me; but you would have reproached yourself
+for a just severity towards me, with an imputation of jealousy. You
+were conscious of having no right to contend with a passion in me,
+which ought nevertheless to have been subdued; and, being more fearful
+of betraying your friend than of not acting discreetly, you thought,
+in offering up your own happiness to ours, you had made a sufficient
+sacrifice to virtue.
+
+This, my dear Clara, is your history; thus hath your despotic
+friendship laid me under the necessity of being obliged to you for my
+shame, and of thanking you for my errors. Think not, however, that I
+would imitate you in this. I am no more disposed to follow your
+example than you mine; and as you have no reason to fear falling into
+my errors, I have no longer, thank heaven! the same reasons for
+granting you indulgence. What better use can I make of that virtue to
+which you restored me, than to make it instrumental in the
+preservation of yours?
+
+Let me therefore give you my farther advice on the present occasion.
+The long absence of our preceptor has not softened your regard for
+him. Your being left again at liberty, and his return, have given rise
+to opportunity, which love hath been ingenious enough to improve. It
+is not a new sentiment produced in your heart; it is only one which,
+long concealed there, has at length seized this occasion to discover
+itself. Proud enough to avow it to yourself, you are perhaps impatient
+to confess it to me. That confession might seem to you almost
+necessary to make it quite innocent; in becoming a crime in your
+friend it ceased to be one in you, and perhaps you only gave yourself
+up to the passion you so many years contended with the more
+effectually to cure your friend.
+
+I was sensible, my dear, of all this; and was little alarmed at a
+passion which I saw would be my own protection, and on account of
+which you have nothing to reproach yourself. The winter we passed
+together in peace and friendship, gave me yet more hopes of you; for I
+saw that so far from losing your vivacity, you seemed to have improved
+it. I frequently observed you affectionate, earnest, attentive; but
+frank in your professions, ingenuous even in your raillery, unreserved
+and open, and in your liveliest sallies, the picture of innocence.
+
+Since our conversation in the _elysium_, I have not so much reason to
+be satisfied with you. I find you frequently sad and pensive. You take
+as much pleasure in being alone as with your friend: you have not
+changed your language, but your accent; you are more cautious in your
+pleasantry; you don’t mention him so often; one would think you were
+in constant fear lest he should overhear you; and it is easy to see by
+your uneasiness that you wanted to hear from him, much oftener than
+you confessed.
+
+I tremble, my good cousin, lest you should not be sensible of the
+worst of your disorder, and that the shaft has pierced deeper than you
+seem to be aware of. Probe your heart, my dear, to the bottom; and
+then tell me, again I repeat it, tell me if the most prudent woman
+does not run a risk by being long in the company of a beloved object;
+tell me if the confidence which ruined me can be entirely harmless to
+you; you are both at liberty; this is the very circumstance that makes
+opportunity dangerous. In a mind truly virtuous, there is no weakness
+will get the better of conscience, and I agree with you, that one has
+always fortitude enough to avoid committing a wilful crime: but alas!
+what is a constant protection against human weakness? Reflect however,
+on consequences; think on the effects of shame. We must pay a due
+respect to ourselves, if we expect to receive it from others; for how
+can we flatter ourselves, that others will pay to us what we have not
+for ourselves? or where can we think she will stop in the career of
+vice, who sets out without fear? These arguments I should use even to
+women, who pay no regard to religion and morality, and have no rule of
+conduct but the opinion of others: but with you, whose principles are
+those of virtue and Christianity, who are sensible of, and respect,
+your duty, who know and follow other rules than those of public
+opinion, your first honour is to stand excused by your own conscience,
+and that is the most important.
+
+Would you know where you are wrong in this whole affair? It is, I say
+again, in being ashamed of entertaining a sentiment which you have
+only to declare, to render it perfectly innocent: but, with all your
+vivacity, no creature in the world is more timid. You affect
+pleasantry only to shew your courage, your poor heart trembling all
+the while for fear. In pretending to ridicule your passion, you do
+exactly like the children, who sing in the dark because they are
+afraid. O my dear friend, reflect on what you yourself have often
+said; it is a false shame which leads to real disgrace, and virtue
+never blushes at any thing but what is criminal. Is love in itself a
+crime? does it not, on the contrary, consist of the most refined as
+well as the most pleasing of all inclinations? is not its end laudable
+and virtuous? does it ever enter into base and vulgar minds? does it
+not animate only the great and noble? does it not ennoble their
+sentiments? does it not raise them even above themselves? alas! if to
+be prudent and virtuous we must be insensible to love, among whom
+could virtue find its votaries on earth? among the refuse of nature
+and the dregs of mankind.
+
+Why then do you reproach yourself? have you not made choice of a
+worthy man? is he not disengaged? are not you so too? does he not
+deserve all your esteem? has he not the greatest regard for you? will
+you not be even too happy in conferring happiness on a friend so
+worthy of that name; paying, with your hand and heart, the debts long
+ago contracted by your friend; and in doing him honour by raising him
+to yourself, as a reward to unsuccessful, to persecuted merit.
+
+I see what petty scruples still lie in your way. The receding from a
+declared resolution, by taking a second husband; the exposing your
+weakness to the world; the marrying a needy adventurer; for low minds,
+always lavish of scandal, will doubtless so call him. These are the
+reasons which make you rather ashamed of your passion than willing to
+justify it; that make you desirous of stifling it in your bosom,
+rather than render it legitimate. But pray does the shame lie in
+marrying the man one loves, or in loving without marrying him? between
+these lies your choice. The regard you owe to the deceased requires
+you should respect his widow so much, as rather to give her a husband
+than a gallant: and, if your youth obliges you to make choice of one
+to supply his place, is it not paying a further regard to his memory,
+to fix that choice upon the man he most often esteemed when living.
+
+As to his inferiority in point of fortune, I shall perhaps only offend
+you in replying to so frivolous an objection, when it is opposed to
+good sense and virtue. I know of no debasing inequality, but that
+which arises either from character or education. To whatever rank a
+man of a mean disposition and low principle may rise, an alliance with
+him will always be scandalous. But a man educated in the sentiments of
+virtue and honour is equal to any other in the world, and may take
+place in whatever rank he pleases. You know what were the sentiments
+of your father, when your friend was proposed for me. His family is
+reputable, tho’ obscure. He is every where deservedly esteemed. With
+all this, was he the lowest of mankind, he would deserve your
+consideration: for it is surely better to derogate from nobility than
+virtue; and the wife of a mechanic is more reputable than the mistress
+of a prince.
+
+I have a glimpse of another kind of embarrassment, in the necessity
+you lie under of making the first declaration: for, before he presumes
+to aspire to you, it is necessary you should give him permission; this
+is one of the circumstances justly attending an inequality of rank,
+which often obliges the superior to make the most mortifying advances.
+
+As to this difficulty, I can easily forgive you, and even confess it
+would appear to me of real consequence, if I could not find out a
+method to remove it. I hope you depend so far on me as to believe this
+may be brought about without your being seen in it; and on my part, I
+depend so much on my measures, that I shall undertake it with
+assurance of success: for notwithstanding what you both formerly told
+me of the difficulty of converting a friend into a lover, if I can
+read that heart which I too long studied, I don’t believe that on this
+occasion any great art will be necessary. I propose, therefore, to
+charge myself with this negotiation, to the end that you may indulge
+yourself in the pleasure of his return, without reserve, regret,
+danger, or scandal. Ah my dear cousin! how delighted shall I be to
+unite for ever two hearts so well formed for each other, and which
+have been long united in mine. May they still (if possible) be more
+closely united! may we have but one heart amongst us! Yes, Clara, you
+will serve your friend by indulging your love, and I shall be more
+certain of my own sentiments, when I shall no longer make a
+distinction between him and you.
+
+But, if notwithstanding what I have alledged, you will not give into
+this project, my advice is, at all events, to banish this dangerous
+man; always to be dreaded by one or the other: for, be it as it may,
+the education of our children is still less important to us than the
+virtue of their mothers. I leave you to reflect, during your journey,
+on what I have written. We will talk further about it on your return.
+
+I send this letter directly to Geneva; lest, as you were to lie but
+one night at Lausanne, it should not find you there. Pray bring me a
+good account of that little republic. From the agreeable description,
+I should think you happy in the opportunity of seeing it; if I could
+set any store by pleasures, purchased with the absence of my friends.
+I never loved grandeur, and at present I hate it, for having deprived
+me so many years of your company. Neither you nor I, my dear, went to
+buy our wedding cloaths at Geneva; and yet, however deserving your
+brother may be, I much doubt whether your sister-in-law will be more
+happy, with her Flanders lace and India silks, than we in our native
+simplicity. I charge you, however, notwithstanding my ill-natured
+reflections, to engage them to celebrate their nuptials at Clarens. My
+father hath written to yours, and my husband to the bride’s mother, to
+invite them hither. Their letters you will find inclosed: please to
+deliver them, and enforce their invitations with your interest. This
+is all I could do, in order to be present at the ceremony; for I
+declare to you, I would not upon any account leave my family. Adieu.
+Let me have a line from you, at least to let me know when I am to
+expect you here. It is now the second day since you left me, and I
+know not how I shall support two days more without you.
+
+P. S. While I was writing this letter, Miss Harriot truly must give
+herself the air of writing to her mamma too. As I always like children
+should write their own thoughts, and not those which are dictated to
+them, I indulged her curiosity; and let her write just what she
+pleased, without altering a word. This makes the third letter
+inclosed. I doubt, however, whether this is what you will look for in
+casting your eye over the contents of the packet. But, for the other
+letter, you need not look long, as you will not find it. It is
+directed to you, at Clarens; and at Clarens only it ought to be read:
+so, take your measures accordingly.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CL. Harriot to her Mother.
+
+
+Where are you then, mamma? They say at Geneva; which is such a long,
+long way off that one must ride two days, all day long, to reach you:
+surely, mamma, you don’t intend to go round the world? my little pappa
+is set out this morning for Etange; my little grand pappa is gone a
+hunting; my little mamma is gone into her closet to write; and there
+is nobody with me but Pernette and the Frenchwoman. Indeed, mamma, I
+don’t know how it is; but, since our good friend has left us, we are
+all scattered about strangely. You began first, mamma; you soon began
+to be tired, when you had nobody left to tease: but what is much worse
+since you are gone, is, that my little mamma is not so good humour’d
+as when you were here. My little boy is very well, but he does not
+love you; because you did not dance him yesterday as you used to do.
+As for me, I believe I should love you a little bit still, if you
+would return quickly, that one might not be so dull. But, if you would
+make it up with me quite, you must bring my little boy something that
+would please him. To quiet him indeed, would not be very easy, you
+would be puzzled to know what to do with him. O that our good friend
+was but here now! for it is as he said, my fine fan is broke to
+pieces, my blue skirt is torn all to pieces, my white frock is in
+tatters; my mittens are no worth a farthing. Fare you well, mamma, I
+must here end my letter; for my little mamma has finished hers, and is
+coming out of her closet. I think her eyes are red, but I durst not
+say so: in reading this, however, she will see I observed it. My good
+mamma, you are certainly very naughty, to make my little mamma cry.
+
+P. S. Give my love to my grand pappa, to my uncles, to my new aunt and
+her mamma, and to every body: tell them I would kiss them all, and you
+too, mamma; but that you are all so far of, I can’t reach you.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLI. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
+
+
+I cannot leave Lausanne without writing you a line, to acquaint you of
+my safe arrival here; not however so chearfully disposed as I could
+wish. I promised myself much pleasure in a journey, which you have
+been too often tempted to take; but, in refusing to accompany me, you
+have made it almost disagreeable; and how should it be otherwise?
+when it is troublesome, I have all the trouble to myself, and when it
+is tolerably agreeable, I regret your not being with me to partake of
+the pleasure. I had nothing to say, it is true, against your reasons
+for staying at home; but you must not think I was therefore satisfied
+with them. If you do, indeed, my good cousin, you are mistaken; for
+the very reason why I am dissatisfied is, that I have no right to be
+so. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, to have always the best
+of the argument, and to prevent your friend from having what she
+likes, without leaving her one good reason to find fault with you. All
+had gone to rack and ruin, no doubt, had you left your husband, your
+family, and your little marmots in the lurch for one week; it had been
+a wild scheme, to be sure; but I should have liked you a hundred times
+the better for it: whereas, in aiming to be all perfection, you are
+good for nothing at all, and are only sit to keep company with angels.
+
+Notwithstanding our past disagreement, I could not help being moved at
+the sight of my friends and relations; who, on their part, received me
+with pleasure; or, at least, with a profusion of civilities. I can
+give you no account of my brother, till I am better acquainted with
+him. With a tolerable figure, he has a good deal of the formal air of
+the country he comes from. He is serious, cold, and I think has a
+surly haughtiness in his disposition, which makes me apprehensive for
+his wife, that he will not prove so tractable a husband as ours; but
+will take upon him a good deal of the lord and master.
+
+My father was so delighted to see me, that he even left unfinished the
+perusal of an account of a great battle which the French, as if to
+verify the prediction of our friend, have lately gained in Flanders.
+Thank heaven, he was not there! Can you conceive the intrepid Lord
+B---- would stand to see his countrymen run away, or that he would
+have joined them in their flight? No, never; he would sooner have
+rushed a thousand times on death.
+
+But, a propos of our friend,----our other friend hath not written for
+some time. Was not yesterday the day for the courier to come from
+Italy? If you receive any letters, I hope you will not forget I am a
+party concerned in the news.
+
+Adieu, my dear cousin; I must set out. I shall expect your letters at
+Geneva; where we hope to arrive tomorrow by dinner time. As for the
+rest, you may be assured, that, by some means or other, you shall be
+at the wedding; and that, if you absolutely will not come to Lausanne,
+I will come with my whole company to plunder Clarens, and drink up all
+the wine that is to be found in the town.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLII. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar
+
+
+Upon my word, my dear, you have read me a charming lecture! you keep
+it up to a miracle! you seem to depend, however, too much on the
+salutary effect of your sermons. Without pretending to judge whether
+they would formerly have lull’d your preceptor to sleep, I can assure
+you they do not put me to sleep at present; on the contrary, that
+which you sent me yesterday was so far from affecting me with
+drowsiness that it kept me awake all night. I bar, however, the
+remarks of that Argus your husband, if he should see the letter. But I
+will write in some order, and I protest to you, you had better burn
+your fingers, than shew it him.
+
+If I should be very methodical, and recapitulate with you article for
+article, I should usurp your privilege; I had better, therefore, set
+them down as they come into my head; to affect a little modesty also,
+and not give you too much fair-play, I will not begin with our
+travellers, or the courier from Italy. At the worst, if it should so
+happen, I shall only have my letter to write over again, and to
+reverse it, by putting the beginning at the latter end. I am
+determined however to begin with the supposed Lady B----. I can assure
+you, I am offended at the very title; nor shall I ever forgive St.
+Preux for permitting her to take it, Lord B---- for conferring it on
+her, or you for acknowledging it. Shall Eloisa Wolmar receive Lauretta
+Pisana into her house! permit her to live with her! think of it,
+child, again. Would not such a condescension in you be the most cruel
+mortification to her? can you be ignorant that the air you breathe is
+fatal to infamy? will the poor unfortunate dare to mix her breath with
+yours? will she dare to approach you? She would be as much affected by
+your presence as a creature possessed would be at the sacred relics in
+the hand of the exorcist: your looks would make her sink into the
+earth; the very sight of you would kill her.
+
+Not that I despise the unhappy Laura; God forbid! on the contrary, I
+admire and respect her, the more as her reformation is heroic and
+extraordinary. But is it sufficient to authorise those mean
+comparisons by which you debase yourself; as if in the indulgence of
+the greatest weakness, there was not something in true love that is a
+constant security to our person, and which made us tenacious of our
+honour? but I comprehend and excuse you. You have but a confused view
+of low and distant objects: you look down from your sublime and
+elevated station upon the earth, and see no inequalities on its
+surface. Your devout humility knows how to take an advantage even of
+your virtue.
+
+But what end will all this serve? will our natural sensations make the
+less impression? will our self-love be less active? in spite of your
+arguments you feel a repugnance at this match: you tax your sensations
+with pride; you would strive against them and attribute them to
+prejudice. But tell me, my dear, how long has the scandal attendant on
+vice consisted in mere opinion? what friendship do you think can
+possibly subsist between you and a woman, before whom, one cannot
+mention chastity, or virtue, without making her burst into tears of
+shame, without renewing her sorrows, without even insulting her
+penitence? believe me, my dear, we may respect Laura, but we ought not
+to see her; to avoid her is the regard which modest women owe to her
+merit: it would be cruel to make her suffer in our company.
+
+I will go farther, you say your heart tells you, this marriage ought
+not to take place. Is not this as much as to tell you it will not.
+Your friend says nothing about it in his letter! in the letter which
+he wrote to me! and yet you say that letter is a very long one----and
+then comes the discourse between you and your husband----that husband
+of yours is a slyboots, and ye are a couple of cheats thus to trick me
+out of the news ye have heard. But then your husband’s sentiments!----
+methinks his sentiments were not so necessary; particularly for you
+who have seen the letter, nor indeed were they for me, who have not
+seen it: for I am more certain of the conduct of your friend from my
+own sentiments, than from all the wisdom of philosophy.
+
+See there now!----did I not tell you so? that intruder will be
+thrusting himself in, no body knows how. For fear he should come
+again, however, as we are now got into his chapter, let us go through
+it, that it may be over, and we may have nothing to do with him again.
+
+Let us not bewilder ourselves with conjectures, had you not been
+Eloisa, had not your friend been your lover, I know not what business
+he would now have had with you, nor what I should have had to do with
+him. All I know is, that, if my ill fears had so ordered it that he
+had first made love to me, it had been all over with his poor head;
+for, whether I am a fool or not, I should certainly have made him one.
+But what signifies what I might have been? let us come to what I am.
+Attached by inclination to you, from our earliest infancy, my heart
+has been in a manner absorbed by yours; affectionate and susceptible
+as I was, I of myself was incapable of love or sensibility. All my
+sentiments came from you; you alone stood in the place of the whole
+world, and I lived only to be your friend. Chaillot saw all this, and
+founded on it the judgment she passed on me. In what particular, my
+dear, have you found her mistaken?
+
+You know I looked upon your friend as a brother: as the son of my
+mother was the lover of my friend. Neither was it my reason, but my
+heart that gave him this preference. I should have been even more
+susceptible than I am, had I never experienced any other love. I
+caressed you, in caressing the dearest part of yourself, and the
+chearfulness which attended my embraces was a proof of their purity.
+For doth a modest woman ever behave so to the man she loves? did you
+behave thus to him? no, Eloisa, love in a female heart is cautious and
+timid; reserve and modesty are all its advances; it discloses by
+endeavouring to hide itself, and whenever it confers the favour of its
+caresses, it well knows how to set a value upon them. Friendship is
+prodigal, but love is avaricious and sparing.
+
+I confess indeed, that too intimate connections at his age and mine,
+are dangerous; but, with both our hearts engaged by the same object,
+we were so accustomed to place it between us, that, without
+annihilating you at least, it was impossible for us to come together.
+Even that familiarity, so dangerous on every other occasion, was then
+my security. Our sentiments depend on our ideas, and when these have
+once taken a certain turn, they are not easily perverted. We had
+talked together too much in one strain, to begin upon another; we had
+advanced too far to return back the way we came: love is jealous of
+its prerogative, and will make its own progress; it does not chuse
+that friendship should meet it half way. In short, I am still of the
+same opinion, that criminal caresses never take place between those
+that have been long used to the endearing embraces of innocence. In
+aid of my sentiments, came the man destined by heaven to constitute
+the momentary happiness of my life. You know, cousin, he was young,
+well made, honest, complaisant and solicitous to please; it is true,
+he was not so great a master in love as your friend; but it was me
+that he loved: and, when the heart is free, the passion which is
+addressed to ourselves, hath always in it something contagious. I
+returned his affections therefore, with all that remained of mine, and
+his share was such as left him no room to complain of his choice. With
+all this, what had I to apprehend. I will even go so far as to confess
+that the prerogatives of the husband, joined to the duties of a wife,
+relaxed for a moment the ties of friendship; and that, after my change
+of condition, giving myself up to the duties of my new station, I
+became a more affectionate wife than I was a friend: but, in returning
+to you, I have brought back two hearts instead of one, and have not
+since forgot that I alone am charged with that double obligation.
+
+What, my dear friend, shall I say farther? at the return of our old
+preceptor, I had, as it were, a new acquaintance to cultivate:
+methought I looked upon him with very different eyes; my heart
+fluttered as he saluted me, in a manner I had never felt before; and
+the more pleasure that emotion gave me, the more it made me afraid. I
+was alarmed at a sentiment which seemed criminal, and which perhaps
+would not have existed had it not been innocent. I too plainly
+perceived that he was not, nor could be any longer your lover; I was
+too sensible that his heart was disengaged, and that mine was so too.
+You know the rest, my dear cousin; my fears, my scruples were, I see,
+as well known to you as to myself. My unexperienced heart, was so
+intimidated by sensations so new to it, that I even reproached myself
+for the earnest desire I felt to rejoin you; as if that desire had not
+been the same before the return of our friend. I was uneasy that he
+should be in the very place where I myself most inclined to be, and
+believe I should not have been so much displeased to find myself less
+desirous of it, as at conceiving that it was not entirely on your
+account. At length, however, I returned to you, and began to recover
+my confidence. I was less ashamed of my weakness after having
+confessed it to you. I was even less ashamed of it in your company: I
+thought myself protected in turn, and ceased to be afraid of myself. I
+resolved, agreeable to your advice, not to change my conduct towards
+him. Certainly a greater reserve would have been a kind of
+declaration, and I was but too likely to let slip involuntary ones, to
+induce me to make any directly. I continued, therefore, to trifle with
+him through bashfulness, and to treat him familiarly through modesty:
+but perhaps all this, not being so natural as formerly, was not
+attended with the same propriety, nor exerted to the same degree. From
+being a trifler, I turned a downright fool; and what perhaps increased
+my assurance was, I found I could be so with impunity. Whether it was
+your example that inspired me, or whether it be that Eloisa refines
+every thing that approaches her, I found myself perfectly tranquil,
+while nothing remained of my first emotions, but the most pleasing,
+yet peaceful sensations, which required nothing more than the
+tranquillity I possessed.
+
+Yes, my dear friend, I am as susceptible and affectionate as you; but
+I am so in a different manner. Perhaps, with more lively passions, I
+am less able to govern them; and that very chearfulness, which has
+been so fatal to the innocence of others has preserved mine. Not that
+it has been always easy, I confess; any more than it is to remain a
+widow at my years, and not be sometimes sensible that the daytime
+constitutes but one half of our lives. Nay, notwithstanding the grave
+face you put on the matter, I imagine your case does not differ in
+that greatly from mine. Mirth and pleasantry may then afford no
+unseasonable relief; and perhaps be a better preservative than graver
+lessons. How many times, in the stillness of the night, when the heart
+is all open to itself, have I driven impertinent thoughts out of my
+mind, by studying tricks for the next day! how many times have I not
+averted the danger of a private conversation by an extravagant fancy!
+there is always, my dear, when one is weak, a time wherein gaiety
+becomes serious; but that time will not come to me.
+
+These are at least my sentiments of the matter, and what I am not
+ashamed to confess in answer to you. I readily confirm all that I said
+in the elysium, as to the growing passion I perceived, and the
+happiness I had enjoyed during the winter. I indulged myself freely in
+the pleasing reflections of being always in company with the person I
+loved, while I desired nothing farther; and, if that opportunity had
+still subsisted, I should have coveted no other. My chearfulness was
+the effect of contentment, and not of artifice. I turned the pleasure
+of conversing with him into drollery, and perceived that, in
+contenting myself with laughing, I was not paving the way for future
+sorrow.
+
+I could not indeed help thinking sometimes, that my continual playing
+upon him gave him less real displeasure than he affected. The cunning
+creature was not angry at being offended, and if he was a long time
+before he could be brought to temper, it was only, that he might enjoy
+the pleasure of being intreated. Again, I in my turn have frequently
+laid hold of such occasions to express a real tenderness for him,
+appearing all the while to make a jest of him: so that you would have
+been puzzled to say which was the most of a child. One day, I remember
+that you was absent, he was playing at chess with your husband, while
+I and the little Frenchwoman were diverting ourselves at shuttlecock
+in the same room; I gave her the signal, and kept my eye on our
+philosopher; who, I found by the boldness of his looks and the
+readiness of his moves, had the best of the game. As the table was
+small, the chessboard hung over its edge, I watched my opportunity,
+therefore, and without seeming to design it, gave the board a knock
+with a back stroke of my racquet, and overturned the whole game on the
+floor. You never in your life law a man in such a passion: he was even
+so enraged that, when I gave him his choice of a kiss, or a box in the
+ear by way of penance, he sullenly turned away from me as I presented
+him my cheek. I asked pardon, but to no purpose: he was inflexible,
+and I doubt not that he would lave left me on my knees, had I
+condescended to kneel for it. I put an end to his resentment, however,
+by another offence which made him forget the former, and we were
+better friends than ever.
+
+I could never have extricated myself so well by any other means; and I
+once perceived that, if our play had become serious, it might have
+proved too much so. This was one evening when he played with us that
+simple and affecting duo of Leo’s _Vado a morir ben mio_. You sung
+indeed with indifference enough: but I did not; for just as we came to
+the most pathetic part of the song, he leaned forward, and as my hand
+lay upon the harpsichord, imprinted on it a kiss, whose impression I
+felt at my heart. I am not very well acquainted with the ardent kisses
+of love; but this I can say, that mere friendship, not even ours, ever
+gave or received any thing like that. After such moments, what is the
+consequence of reflecting on them in solitude, and of bearing him
+constantly in memory? for my part, I was so much affected at the time,
+that I sung out of tune and put the music out. We went to dancing, I
+made the philosopher dance; we eat little or nothing; sat up very
+late; and, though I went to bed weary, I only dosed till morning.
+
+I have therefore very good reason for not laying any restraint on my
+humour, or changing my manners. The time that will make such an
+alteration necessary is so near, that it is not worth while to
+anticipate. The time to be prudish and reserved will come but too
+soon. While I am in my twenties, therefore, I shall make use of my
+privilege; for when once turned of thirty, people are no longer wild
+without being ridiculous; and your find-fault of a husband hath
+assurance enough to tell me already that I shall be allowed but six
+months longer to dress a salad with my fingers. Patience! to retort
+his sarcasm, however, I tell him I will dress it for him in that
+manner for these six years to come, and if I do, I protest to you he
+shall eat it;----but to return from my ramble. If we have not the
+absolute command over our sentiments, we have at least some over our
+conduct. I could, without doubt, have requested of heaven a heart more
+at ease; but may I be able to my last hour to plead at its dread
+tribunal, a life as innocent as that which I passed this winter! in
+fact, I have nothing in the least to reproach myself with, respecting
+the only man in whose power it might be to make me criminal. It is not
+quite the same, my dear, since his departure: being accustomed to
+think for him in his absence, I think of him every hour in the day,
+and, to confess the truth, find him more dangerous in idea than in
+person. When he is absent, I am over head and ears in love; when
+present, I am only whimsical. Let him return, and I shall be cured of
+all my fears. The chagrin his absence gives me, however, is not a
+little aggravated by my uneasiness at his dream. If you have placed
+all to the account of love, therefore you are mistaken; friendship has
+had part in my uneasiness. After the departure of our friends your
+looks were pale and changed; I expected you every moment to fall sick.
+Not that I am credulous: I am only fearful. I know very well that a
+bad dream does not necessarily produce a sinister event; but I am
+always afraid lest such an event should succeed it. Not one night’s
+rest could I get for that unlucky dream, till I saw you recover your
+former bloom. Could I have suspected the effects his anxiety would
+have had on me, without knowing any thing of it, I would certainly
+have given every thing I had in the world that he should have shewn
+himself when he came back so much like a fool from Villeneuve.
+
+At length, however, my fears vanished with your suspicious looks. Your
+health and appetite having a greater effect on me than your
+pleasantries. The arguments these sustained at table, against my
+apprehensions, in time dissipated them. To increase our happiness our
+friend is on his return, and I am in every respect delighted. His
+return, so far from alarming me, gives me confidence; and as soon as
+we see him again, I shall fear nothing for your life, nor my repose.
+In the mean time be careful, dear cousin, of my friend; and be under
+no apprehensions for yours; she will take care of herself, I will
+engage for her. And yet I have still a pain at my heart----I feel an
+oppression which I cannot account for. Ah my dear! to think that we
+may one day part for ever! that one may survive the other! how unhappy
+will she be on whom that lot shall fall! She will either remain little
+worthy to live, or lifeless before her death.
+
+You will ask me, to what purpose is all this vain lamentation? you
+will say, fie on these ridiculous terrors! instead of talking of death
+let us chuse a more entertaining topic, and talk about your marriage.
+Your husband has indeed long entertained such a notion, and perhaps if
+he had never spoken of it to me, it would never have come into my
+head. I have since thought of it now and then, but always with
+disdain. It would be absolutely making an old woman of me; for, if I
+should have any children by a second marriage, I should certainly
+conceit myself the grandmother of those of the first. You are
+certainly very good to take upon yourself so readily to spare the
+blushes of your friend, and to look upon your taking that trouble as
+an instance of your charitable benevolence. For my own part,
+nevertheless, I can see very well that all the reasons, founded on
+your obliging solicitude, are not equal to the least of mine against a
+second marriage.
+
+To be serious, I am not mean-spirited enough to number among those
+reasons any reluctance I should have to break an engagement rashly
+made with myself, nor the fear of being censured for doing my duty,
+nor an inequality in point of fortune in a circumstance where that
+person reaps the greatest honour to whom the other would be obliged
+for his: but, without repeating what I have so often told you
+concerning my case of independency and natural aversion to the
+marriage yoke, I will abide by only one objection, and this I draw
+from those sacred dictates which nobody in the world pays a greater
+regard to than yourself. Remove this obstacle, cousin, and I give up
+the point. Amidst all those airs of mirth and drollery, which give you
+so much alarm, my conscience is perfectly easy. The remembrance of my
+husband excites not a blush; I even take pleasure to think him a
+witness of my innocence; for why should I be afraid to do that, now he
+is dead, which I used to do when he was living? but will this be the
+case, Eloisa, if I should violate those sacred engagements which
+united us; if I should swear to another that everlasting love, which I
+have so often swore to him; if my divided heart should rob his memory
+of what it bestowed on his successor, and be incapable without
+offending one to discharge the obligations it owes the other? will not
+that form, now so pleasing to my imagination, fill me with horror and
+affright? will it not be ever present to poison my delight? and will
+not his remembrance, which now constitutes the happiness of my life,
+be my future torment? with what face can you advise me to take a
+second husband, after having vowed never to do the like yourself, as
+if the same reasons which you give me were not as applicable to
+yourself in the same circumstances? they were friends, you say and
+loved each other. So much the worse. With what indignation will not
+his shade behold a man who was dear to him, usurp his rights, and
+seduce his wife from her fidelity? in short, though it were true that
+I owed no obligation to the deceased, should I owe none to the dear
+pledge of his love? and can I believe he would ever have chosen me,
+had he foreseen that I should ever have exposed his only child to see
+herself undistinguished among the children of another? another word,
+and I have done: who told you, pray, that all the obstacles between us
+arise from me? In answering for him, have you not rather consulted
+your will than your power? Or, were you certain of his consent, do you
+make no scruple to offer me a heart exhausted by a former passion? do
+you think that mine ought to be content with it, and that I might be
+happy with a man I could not make so? think better of it, my dear
+cousin. Not requiring a greater return of love than I feel, I should
+not be satisfied with less, and I am too virtuous a woman to think the
+pleasing my husband a matter of indifference. What security have you
+then for the completion of your hopes? Is the pleasure he may take in
+my company, which may be only the effect of friendship; is that
+transitory delight, which at his age may arise only from the
+difference of sex; Is this, I say, a sufficient foundation? If such
+pleasure had produced any lasting sentiment, is it to be thought he
+would have been so profoundly silent, not only to me, but to you, and
+even to your husband; by whom an eclairissement of that nature could
+not fail of being favourably received.
+
+Has he ever opened his lips on this head to any one? in all the
+private conversations I have had with him, he talked of no body but
+you. In those which you have had, did he ever say anything of me? how
+can I imagine that, if he had concealed a secret of this kind in his
+breast, I should not have perceived him to be under some constraint,
+or that it would not, by some indiscretion or other, have escaped him?
+nay, since his departure, which of us does he most frequently mention
+in his letters? which of us is the subject of his dreams? I admire
+that you should think me so tender and susceptible, and should not at
+the same time suppose my heart would suggest all this. But I see
+through your device, my sweet friend; it is only to authorise your
+pretensions to reprisals, that you charge me with having formerly
+saved my heart at the expense of yours. But I am not so to be made the
+dupe of your subtlety. And so here is an end of my confession; which I
+have made, not to contradict, but to set you right; having nothing
+farther to say on this head, than to acquaint you with my resolution.
+You now know my heart as well, if not better, than myself. My honour,
+my happiness are equally dear to you as to myself; and, in the present
+tranquillity of your passions, you will be the best able to judge of
+the means to secure both the one and the other. Take my conduct
+therefore under your direction. I submit it entirely to you. Let us
+return to our natural state, and reciprocally change our employment;
+we shall both do the better for it: do you govern, and you shall find
+me tractable: let it be your place to direct what I should do, and it
+shall be mine to follow your directions.
+
+Take my heart, and inclose it up in yours; what business have
+inseparables for two? but to return to our travellers; though, to say
+truth, I have already said so much about one, that I hardly dare speak
+a word about the other, for fear you should remark too great a
+difference in my stile, and that even my friendship for the generous
+Englishman should betray too much regard for the amiable Swiss.
+Besides, what can I say about letters I have not seen? you ought at
+least to send me that of Lord B----. But you durst not send it without
+the other. ’Tis very well. You might however have done better. Well,
+recommend me to your duennas of twenty: they are infinitely more
+tractable than those of thirty.
+
+I must revenge myself, however, by informing you of the effect of your
+fine reserve. It has only made me imagine the letter in question, that
+letter which breathes such a----only a hundred times more tender
+than it really is. Out of spite, I take pleasure in conceiving it
+filled with soft expressions which cannot be in it; so that if I am
+not passionately admired, I shall make you suffer for it. After all, I
+cannot see with what face you can talk to me of the Italian post. You
+prove in your letter that I was not in the wrong to wait for it, but
+for not having waited long enough. Had I stayed but one poor quarter
+of an hour longer, I should have met the packet, have laid hold of it
+first, and read it at my ease. It had then been my turn to make a
+merit of giving it you. But, since the grapes are too sour, you may
+keep the letters. I have two others which I would not change for them
+were they better worth reading than I imagine they are. There is that
+of Harriot, I can assure you, even exceeds your own; nor have either
+you or I, in all our lives, ever wrote any thing so pretty. And yet
+you give yourself airs forsooth of treating this prodigy as a little
+impertinent. Upon my word I suspect that to arise from mere envy; and,
+since I have discovered in her this new talent, I purpose, before you
+spoil her writing as you have done her speech, to establish between
+her apartment and mine an Italian post, from whence I will have no
+pilfering of packets.
+
+Farewell, my dear friend, you will find inclosed the answers to your
+letters, which will give you no mean idea of my interest here. I would
+write to you something about this country and its inhabitants; but it
+is high time to put an end to this volume of a letter. You have
+besides quite perplexed me with your strange fancies. As we have five
+or six days longer to stay here, and I shall have time to give another
+look at what I have already seen, you will be no loser by the delay;
+and you may depend on my transmitting you another volume as big as
+this, before my departure.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLIII. Lord B---- to Mr. Wolmar.
+
+
+No! my dear Wolmar, you were not mistaken: St. Preux is to be depended
+on; but I am not; and I have paid dear for the experience that hath
+convinced me of it. Without his assistance I should have been a dupe
+to the very proof to which I put his fidelity. You know that, to
+satisfy his notions of gratitude; and divert his mind with new
+objects, I pretended that my journey to Italy was of greater
+importance than it really was. To bid a final adieu to the attachments
+of my youth, and bring back a friend perfectly cured of his, were, the
+fruits I promised myself from the voyage. I informed you that his
+dream, at Villeneuve, gave me some uneasiness for him. That dream made
+me even suspect the motives of his transport, on being told that you
+had chosen him preceptor for your children, and that he should pass
+the remainder of his life with you. ‘The better’ to observe the
+effusions of his heart, I had at first removed all difficulties, by
+declaring my intention of settling also in your part of the world; and
+thus I prevented any of those objections his friendship might have
+made on account of leaving me. A change in any resolutions, however,
+made me soon alter my tale.
+
+He had not seen the marchioness thrice, before we were both agreed in
+our opinion of her. Unfortunate woman! possessed of noble qualities,
+but without virtue! her ardent, sincere passion, at first affected me,
+and nourished mine; but her passion was tinged with the blackness of
+her soul, and inspired me in the end with horror. When he had seen
+Laura, and knew her disposition; her beauty, her wit and unexampled
+attachment, I formed a resolution to make use of her to acquire a
+perfect knowledge of the situation of St. Preux. If I marry Laura,
+said I to him, it is not my intention to carry her to London, where
+she may be known; but to a place, where virtue is respected in
+whomsoever it is found: you will there discharge your duty of
+preceptor, and we shall still continue to live together. If I do not
+marry her, it is time for me, however, to think of settling. You know
+my house in Oxfordshire, and will make your choice, either to take
+upon you the education of Mr. Wolmar’s children, or to accompany me in
+my retirement. To this, he made me just such an answer as I expected;
+but I had a mind to observe his conduct. If, in order to spend his
+time at Clarens, he had promoted a marriage which he ought to have
+opposed, or on the contrary, preferred the honour of his friend to his
+own happiness; in either case, I say, the experiment answered my end,
+and I knew what to think of the situation of his heart.
+
+On trial, I found him to be such as I wished; firmly resolved against
+the project I pretended to have formed, and ready with all his
+arguments to oppose it; but I was continually in her company, and was
+moved by her tenderness and affliction. My heart, totally disengaged
+from the marchioness, began to fix itself on her rival, by this
+constant intercourse. The sentiments of Laura increased the attachment
+she had before inspired; and I began to be ashamed of sacrificing to
+that prejudice I despised, the esteem which I was so well convinced
+was due to her merit; I began even to be in doubt, whether I had not
+laid myself under some obligation to do that merit justice, by the
+hopes I had given her, if not in words, at least by my actions. Though
+I never promised her any thing, yet to have kept her in suspense and
+expectation for nothing, would be to deceive her; and I could not help
+thinking such a deception extremely cruel. In short, annexing a kind
+of duty to my inclination, and consulting happiness more than
+reputation, I attempted to reconcile my passion to reason, and
+resolved to carry my pretended scheme as far as it would go, and even
+to execute it in reality, if I could not recede without injustice.
+After some time, however, I began to be more uneasy on account of St.
+Preux, as he did not appear to act the part he had undertaken with
+that zeal I expected. Indeed he opposed my professed design of
+marriage, but took little pains to check my growing inclination;
+speaking to me of Laura in such a strain of encomium as, at the same
+time that he appeared to dissuade me from marrying her, added fuel to
+the flame by increasing my affection. This inconsistency gave me some
+alarm; I did not think him so steady as before. He seemed shy of
+directly opposing my sentiments, gave way to my arguments, was fearful
+of giving offence, and indeed seemed to have lost all that intrepidity
+in doing his duty, which the true passion for it inspires. Some other
+observations which I made also, increased my distrust. I found out
+that he visited Laura unknown to me; and that, by their frequent
+signs, there was a secret understanding between them. On her part, the
+prospect of being united to the man she loved seemed to give her no
+pleasure; I observed in her the same degree of tenderness indeed, but
+that tenderness was no longer mixed with joy at my approach; a gloomy
+sadness perpetually clouding her features. Nay, sometimes in the
+tenderest part of our conversations, I have caught her casting a side
+glance on St. Preux; on which a tear would often steal silently down
+her check, which she endeavoured to conceal from me. In short, they
+carried the matter so far, that I was at last greatly perplexed. What
+could I think? it is impossible, said I to myself, that I can all this
+while have been cherishing a serpent in my bosom? how far have I not
+reason to extend my suspicions, and return those he formerly
+entertained of me? weak and unhappy as we are, our misfortunes are
+generally of our own seeking! Why do we complain that bad men torment
+us, while the good are so ingenious at tormenting each other! All this
+operated but to induce me to come to a determination. For, though I
+was ignorant of the bottom of their intrigue, I saw the heart of Laura
+was still the same; and that proof of her affection endeared her to me
+the more. I proposed to come to an explanation with her before I put
+an end to the affair; but I was desirous of putting it off till the
+last moment, in order to get all the light I could possibly
+beforehand. As for St. Preux, I was resolved to convince myself, to
+convince him, and in short to come at the truth of the matter before I
+took any step in regard to him; for it was easy to suppose that an
+infallible rupture must happen, and I was unwilling to place a good
+disposition and a reputation of twenty years standing, in the balance
+against mere suspicions.
+
+The marchioness was not ignorant of what passed; having her spies in
+the convent where Laura resides, who informed her of the report of her
+marriage. Nothing more was necessary to excite her rage. She wrote me
+threatening letters; nay; she went farther; but, as it was not the
+first time she had done so, and we were on our guard, her attempts
+were fruitless. I had only the pleasure to see that our friend did not
+spare himself on this occasion nor make any scruple to expose his own
+life to save that of his friend.
+
+Overcome by the transports of her passion, the marchioness fell sick,
+and was soon past recovery; putting at once an end to her misfortunes
+and her guilt. [94] I could not help being afflicted to hear of her
+illness, and sent doctor Eswin to give her all the assistance in his
+power, as a physician. St. Preux went also to visit her in my behalf;
+but she would neither see one nor the other. She would not even bear
+to hear me named during her illness, and inveighed against me with the
+most horrid imprecations every time I was mentioned. I was grieved at
+heart for her situation, and felt my wounds ready to bleed afresh;
+reason however supported my spirits and resolution, but I should have
+been one of the worst of men to think of marriage, while a woman, so
+dear to me, lay in that extremity. In the mean time our friend,
+fearing I should not be able to resist the strong inclination I had to
+see her, proposed a journey to Naples; to which I consented.
+
+The second day after our arrival there, he came into my chamber with a
+fixed and grave countenance, holding a letter in his hand, which he
+seemed to have just received. I started up, and cried out, The
+marchioness is dead! would to God, said he, coldly, she were! it were
+better not to exist, than to exist only to do evil; but it is not of
+her I bring you news; tho’ what I bring concerns you nearly; be
+pleased, my lord, to give me an uninterrupted hearing. I was silent,
+and thus he began.
+
+In honouring me with the sacred name of friend, you taught me how to
+deserve it. I have acquitted myself of the charge you entrusted with
+me, and, seeing you ready to forget yourself, have ventured to assist
+your memory. I saw you unable to break one connection but by entering
+into another; both equally unworthy of you. Had an unequal marriage
+been the only point in question, I should only have reminded you, that
+you was a peer of England, and advised you either to renounce all
+pretensions to public honour, or to respect public opinion. But a
+marriage so scandalous! can you? no, my lord, you will not make so
+unworthy a choice. It is not enough that your wife should be virtuous,
+her reputation should be unstained. Believe me, a wife for Lord
+B---- is not easily to be found. Read that, my lord, and see what I
+have done.
+
+He then gave me a letter. It was from Laura. I opened it with emotion
+and read as follows.
+
+My Lord,
+
+“Love at length prevailed, and you were willing to marry me: but I am
+content. Your friend has pointed out my duty, and I perform it
+without regret. In dishonouring you, I should have lived unhappy; in
+leaving your honour unstained, methinks I partake of it. The sacrifice
+of my felicity to a duty so severe, makes me forget even the shame of
+my youth. Farewell! from this moment I am no longer in your power or
+my own. Farewell, my lord, for ever! pursue me not in my retreat, to
+despair; but: hear my last request. Confer not on any other woman,
+that honour I could not accept. There was but one heart in the world
+made for yours, and it was that of”
+
+_Laura_.
+
+The agitation of mind I was in, on reading this letter, prevented me
+from speaking. He took the advantage of my silence, to tell me that,
+after my departure, she had taken the veil in the convent where she
+boarded; that the court of Rome, being informed she was going to be
+married to a Lutheran, had given orders to prevent his seeing her; and
+confessed to me frankly, that he had taken all these measures in
+concert with herself. I did not oppose your designs, continued he,
+with all the power I might; fearing your return to the marchioness,
+and being desirous of combating your old passion by that which you
+entertained for Laura. In seeing you run greater lengths than I
+intended, I applied to your understanding: but, having from my own
+experience but too just reason to distrust the power of argument, I
+sounded the heart of Laura; and, finding in it all that generosity
+which is inseparable from true love, I prevailed on her to make this
+sacrifice. The assurance of being no longer the object of your
+contempt, inspired her with a fortitude which renders her the more
+worthy of your esteem. She has done her duty, you must now do yours.
+
+Then eagerly embracing and pressing me to his heart, “I read, says he,
+in our common destiny, those laws which heaven dictates to both, and
+requires us to obey. The empire of love is at an end, and that of
+friendship begins: my heart attends only to its sacred call; it knows
+no other tie than that which unites me to you. Fix on whatever place
+of residence you please, Clarens, Oxford, London, Paris, or Rome; it
+is equal to me, so we but live together. Go whither you will, seek an
+asylum wherever you think fit, I will follow you throughout the world:
+for I solemnly protest, in the face of the living God, that I will
+never leave you till death.”
+
+I was greatly affected at the zeal and affection of this young man;
+his eyes sparkling with pleasure on this effusion of his heart. I
+forgot at once both the marchioness and Laura. Is there indeed any
+thing in the world to be regretted, while one preserves so dear a
+friend? Indeed, I was now fully convinced, by the part he so readily
+took on this occasion, that he was entirely cured of his ancient
+passion; and that the pains you had taken, were not thrown away upon
+him. In short, I could not doubt, by the solemn engagement he had thus
+voluntarily made, that his attachment to me was truly sincere; and
+that his virtue had entirely got the better of his inclinations. I can
+therefore bring him back with confidence. Yes, my dear Wolmar, he is
+worthy to educate youth; and what is more, of being received into your
+house.
+
+A few days after, I received an account of the death of the
+marchioness; at which I was but little affected, as she had indeed
+been long dead in respect to me. I had hitherto regarded marriage as a
+debt, which every man contracts at the time of his birth, with his
+country and mankind; for which reason, I had resolved to marry, the
+less out of inclination than duty; but I am now of another opinion.
+The obligation to marriage, I now conceive, is not so universal; but
+that it depends on the rank and situation which every man holds in
+life. Celibacy is, doubtless, wrong in the common people, such as
+manufacturers, husbandmen, and others, who are really useful and
+necessary to the state. But for those superior orders of men, who
+compose the legislature and the magistracy, to which every other
+aspires, and which are always sufficiently supplied, it is both lawful
+and expedient. For were the rich all obliged to marry, the increase of
+number among those subjects which are a dead weight on the state,
+would only tend to its depopulation. Mankind will always find masters
+enough, and England will sooner want labourers than peers.
+
+I think myself at full liberty, therefore, in the rank to which I was
+born, to indulge my own inclination in this respect. At my age, it is
+too late to think of repairing the shocks my heart hath sustained from
+love. I shall devote my future hours therefore to friendship, the
+pleasures of which I can no where cultivate so well as at Clarens. I
+accept, therefore, your obliging offers, on such conditions, as my
+fortune ought to add to yours, that it may not be useless to me.
+Besides, after the engagement St. Preux hath entered into, I know no
+other method of detaining him with you, but by residing with you
+myself; and if ever he grows tired or troublesome, it will be
+sufficient for me to leave you, to make him follow. The only
+embarrassment I shall in this case lie under, respects my customary
+voyages to England; for, tho’ I have no longer any interest in the
+house of peers, yet while I am one of the number, I think it necessary
+I should continue to do my duty as such. But I have a faithful friend
+among my brother peers, whom I can empower to answer for me in
+ordinary cases; and on extraordinary occasions, wherein I think it my
+duty to go over in person, I can take my pupil along with me; and even
+he, his pupils with him, when they grow a little bigger and you can
+prevail on yourself to trust them with us. Such voyages cannot fail of
+being useful to them, and will not be so very long as to make their
+absence afflicting to their mother.
+
+I have not shewn this letter to St. Preux, nor, do I desire you should
+shew every part of it to the ladies: it is proper that my scheme to
+sound the heart of our friend, should be known only to you and me. I
+would not have you conceal anything from them, however, that may do
+honour to this worthy youth, even tho’ it should be discovered at my
+expense: but I must here take my leave.
+
+I have sent the designs and drawings for my pavilion, for you to
+reform, alter, and amend, as you please; but I would have you to
+execute them immediately if possible. I would have struck out the
+music room; for I have now lost almost all pretensions to taste, and
+am careless of amusement: at the request of St. Preux, however, I have
+left it, as he proposes now and then to exercise your children there.
+You will receive also some few books, to add to your library. But what
+novelty will you find in books? No, my dear Wolmar, you only want to
+understand that of nature, to be the wisest of men.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLIV. Answer.
+
+
+I was impatient, my dear B----, to come to the end of your adventures.
+It seemed very strange to me, that, after having so long resisted the
+force of your inclinations, you had waited only for a friend to assist
+you to give way to them: tho’, to say truth, we find ourselves often
+more weak when supported by others, than when we rely solely on our
+own strength. I confess, however, I was greatly alarmed by your last
+letter, when you told me your marriage with Laura was a thing
+absolutely determined. Not but that, in spite of this assurance, I
+still entertained some doubts of the event; and, if my suspicions had
+been disappointed, I would never have seen St. Preux again. As it is,
+you have both acted as I flattered myself you would, and have so fully
+justified the good opinion I had of you, that I shall be delighted
+whenever you think proper to return, and settle here agreeable to the
+design we had planned. Come, ye uncommon friends! come to increase and
+partake of the happiness we here enjoy. However flattering the hopes
+of those who believe in a future state, for my part, I had rather
+enjoy the present in their company; nay, I perceive you are both more
+agreeable to me with the tenets you possess, than you would be if
+unhappy enough to think as I do.
+
+As to St. Preux, you know what were my sentiments of him at your
+departure; there was no need to make any experiment on his heart to
+settle my judgment concerning him. My proof had been before made, and
+I thought I knew him as well as it was possible for one man to know
+another. I had, besides, more than one reason to place a confidence in
+him; and was more secure of him than he was of himself. For tho’ he
+seems to have followed your example in renouncing matrimony, you will
+perhaps find reason here to prevail on him to change his system. But I
+will explain myself farther on this head when I see you.
+
+With respect to yourself, I think your sentiments on celibacy quite
+new and refined. They may, for ought I know, be judicious also, when
+applied to political institutions, intended to balance and keep in
+equilibrium the relative powers of states; but I am in doubt, whether
+they are not more subtle than solid, when applied to dispense with the
+obligations that individuals lie under to the laws of nature. It seems
+to me that life is a blessing we receive on condition of transmitting
+it to our successors; a kind of tenure which ought to pass from
+generation to generation; and that every one who had a father, is
+indispensably obliged to become one. Such has been hitherto your
+opinion also; it was one of your motives for going to Italy: but I
+know from whence you derive your new system of philosophy; there is an
+argument in Laura’s letter, which your heart knows not how to
+invalidate.
+
+Our sprightly cousin has been for these eight or ten days past at
+Geneva, with her relations, on family affairs: but we daily expect her
+return. I have told my wife as much as was expedient she should know
+of your letter. We had learnt of Mr. Miol, that your marriage was
+broken off; but she was ignorant of the part St. Preux had in that
+event: and you may be assured it will give her great pleasure to be
+informed of all he has done to merit your beneficence, and justify
+your esteem. I have shewn her the plan and designs for your pavilion,
+in which she thinks there is much taste. We propose to make some
+little alterations, however, as the ground requires; which, as they
+will make your lodging the more convenient, we doubt not you will
+approve.
+
+We wait, nevertheless, for the sanction of Clara, before we resolve;
+for, without her, you know there is nothing to be done here. In the
+meantime I have set the people to work, and hope to have the masonry
+pretty forward before winter.
+
+I am obliged to you for your books; but I no longer read those I am
+master of, and it is too late in life for me to begin to study those I
+do not understand. I am, however, not quite so ignorant as you would
+make me. The only volume of nature’s works which I read, is the heart
+of man; of my abilities for comprehending which, my friendship for you
+is a sufficient proof.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLV. Mrs. Orbe to Mrs. Wolmar.
+
+
+My stay here, my dear cousin, gives me a world of anxieties; the worst
+of all which is, that the agreeableness of the place would induce me
+to stay longer. The city is delightful, its inhabitants hospitable,
+and their manners courteous; while liberty, which I love of all
+things, seems to have taken refuge amongst them. The more I know of
+this little state, the more I find an attachment to one’s country
+agreeable; and pity those who, pretending to call themselves of this
+or that country, have no attachment to any. For my part, I perceive
+that, if I had been born in this, I should have had truly a Roman
+soul. As it is, I dare not, however, pretend to say that
+
+_Rome is no more at Rome, but where I dwell._
+
+For I am afraid you will be malicious enough, to think the contrary.
+But why need we talk always about Rome, and Rome? the subject of this
+letter shall be Geneva. I shall say nothing about the face of the
+country, it is much like ours, except that it is less mountainous, and
+more rural. I shall also say nothing about the government: my good
+father will, doubtless, give you enough of it; as he is employed here
+all day long, in the fulness of his heart, talking politics with the
+magistrates; and I find him not a little mortified that the gazette so
+seldom makes mention of Geneva. You may judge of the tediousness of
+their conversation, by the length of my letters: for, when I am
+wearied with their discourse, I leave them, and, in order to divert
+myself am tiresome to you. All I remember of their long conferences
+is, that they hold in high esteem the great good sense which prevails
+in this city. When we regard indeed the mutual action and reaction of
+all parts of the state, which afford a reciprocal balance to each
+other, it is not to be doubted that there are greater abilities
+employed in the government of this little republic than in that of
+some great kingdoms, where every thing supports itself by its own
+proper strength; and the reins of administration may be thrown into
+the hands of a blockhead, without any danger to the constitution. I
+can assure you, this is not the case here. I never hear any body talk
+to my father about the famous ministers of great courts, without
+thinking of the wretched musician who thundered away upon our great
+organ at Lausanne, and thought himself a prodigious able hand because
+he made a great noise. The people here have only a little spinner, but
+in general they make good harmony, though the instrument be now and
+then a little out of tune.
+
+Neither shall I say any thing about,----but with telling you what I
+shall not say, I shall never have done. To begin then with one thing,
+that I may sooner come to a conclusion. Of all people in the world
+those of Geneva are the most easily known and characterised. Their
+manners, and even their vices, are mixed with a certain frankness
+peculiar to themselves. They are conscious of their natural goodness
+of heart, and that makes them not afraid to appear such as they are.
+They have generosity, sense and penetration; but they are apt to love
+money too well; a fault which I attribute to their situation and
+circumstances, which make it so necessary; the territory of this state
+not producing a sufficient nourishment for its inhabitants. Hence it
+happens that, the natives of Geneva, who are scattered up and down
+Europe to make their fortunes, copy the airs of foreigners; and,
+having adopted the vices of the countries where they have lived, bring
+them home in triumph with their wealth. [95] Thus the luxury of other
+nations makes them despise the simplicity of their own; its spirit and
+liberty appear ignoble, and they forge themselves chains of gold, not
+as marks of slavery, but as ornaments they are proud of.
+
+But what have I to do with these confounded politics? indeed here I am
+stunned with them, and have them constantly rung in my ears. I hear
+nothing else talked of; unless when my father is absent, which never
+happens except when the post arrives. It is ourselves, my dear,
+nevertheless, that infect every place we go to; for, as to the
+conversation of the people, it is generally useful and agreeable;
+indeed there is little to be learned even from books, which may not
+here be acquired by conversation. The manners of the English have
+reached even so far as this country; and the men, living more separate
+from the women than in ours, contract among themselves a graver turn,
+and have more solidity in their discourse. This advantage is attended;
+nevertheless, with an inconvenience that is very soon experienced.
+They are extremely prolix, formal, proverbial, and argumentative.
+Instead of writing like Frenchmen, as they speak, they, on the
+contrary, speak as they write. They declaim instead of talking; and
+one thinks they are always going to support a thesis. They divide
+their discourse into chapters and sections, and take the same method
+in their conversations as they do in their books. They speak as if
+they were reading, strictly observing etymological distinctions, and
+pronouncing their words exactly as they are spelt: in short, their
+conversations consist of harangues; and they prattle as if they were
+preaching.
+
+But what is the most singular is, that, with this dogmatical and
+frigid air in their discourse, they are lively, impetuous, and betray
+strong passions; nay, they would express themselves well enough upon
+sentimental subjects, if they were not too particular in words, or
+knew how to address the heart. But their periods and their commas are
+insupportable; and they describe so composedly the most violent
+passions, that, when they have done, one looks about one to see who is
+affected.
+
+In the mean time, I must confess I am bribed a little to think well of
+their hearts, and to believe they are not altogether void of taste.
+For you must know, as a secret, that a very pretty gentleman for a
+husband, and, as they say, very rich, hath honoured me with his
+regards; and I have more gratitude and politeness than to call in
+question what he has told me. Had he but come eighteen months sooner,
+what pleasure should I have taken in having a sovereign for my slave,
+and in turning the head of a noble lord! but at present, mine is not
+clear enough to make that sport agreeable.
+
+But to return to that taste for reading which makes the people of
+Geneva think. It extends to all ranks and degrees amongst them, and is
+of advantage to all. The French read a great deal; but they read only
+new books; or rather they run them over, less for the sake of knowing
+what they contain, than to have it to say they have read them. On the
+contrary, the readers at Geneva peruse only books of merit; they read
+and digest what they read; making it their business to understand, not
+to criticize upon, them. Criticisms and the choice of books are made
+at Paris; while choice books are almost the only ones that are read at
+Geneva. By this means, their reading has less variety and is more
+profitable. The women, on their part, employ a good deal of their time
+also in reading; [96] and their conversation is affected by it, but in
+a different manner. The fine ladies are affected and set up for wits
+here, as well as with us. Nay, the petty citizens themselves learn
+from their books a kind of methodical chit-chat, a choice of words
+which one is surprized to hear from them, as we are sometimes with the
+prattle of forward children. They must unite all the good sense of the
+men, all the sprightliness of the women, and all the wit common to
+both; or the former will appear a little pedantic, and the latter
+prudish.
+
+As I was looking out of my window yesterday, I overheard two
+tradesmens daughters, both very pretty, talking together in a manner
+sprightly enough to attract my attention. I listened, and heard one of
+them propose to the other, laughing, to write a journal of their
+transactions. “Yes,” replied the other immediately, “a journal of a
+morning and a comment at night.” What say you, cousin? I know not if
+this be the stile of tradesmens daughters; but I know one must be
+taken up greatly indeed, not to be able, during the whole day, to make
+more than a comment on what has passed. I fancy this lass had read the
+Arabian nights entertainments.
+
+Thus, with a stile a little elevated, the women of Geneva are lively
+and satirical; and one sees here the effect of the nobler passions, as
+much as in any city in the world. Even in the simplicity of their
+dress there is taste; they are graceful also in their manners, and
+agreeable in conversation. As the men are less gallant than
+affectionate, the women are less coquettish than tender; their
+susceptibility gives, even to the most virtuous among them, an
+agreeable and refined turn, which reaches the heart, and thence
+deduces all its refinement. So long as the ladies of Geneva preserve
+their own manners, they will be the most amiable women in Europe; but
+they are in danger of being soon all Frenchified, and then Frenchwomen
+will be more agreeable than they.
+
+Thus every thing goes to ruin, when manners grow corrupted. Even taste
+depends on morals, and disappears with them; giving way to affect and
+pompous pretensions, that have no other foundation than fashion. True
+wit also lies nearly under the same circumstances. Is it not the
+modesty of our sex that obliges us to make use of address to resist
+the arts of men? and, if they are reduced to make use of artifice to
+excite our attention, have we less occasion for ingenuity to seem not
+to understand them? is it not the men who set our tongues and wits at
+liberty? who make us so keen at repartee, and oblige us to turn their
+persons and pretensions into ridicule? you may say what you will, but
+I maintain it that a certain coquettish air and malicious raillery,
+confounds a gallant much more than silence or contempt. What pleasure
+have I not taken in seeing a discontented Celadon, blush, stammer and
+lose himself at every word; while the shafts of ridicule, less flaming
+but more pointed than those of love, flew about him like hail; in
+seeing him shot thorough and thorough with icicles, whose coldness
+added to the smart of the wounds! even you yourself, who never loved
+to give pain, do you believe your mild and ingenuous behaviour, your
+timid, gentle looks conceal less roguery and art than my hoydening?
+Upon my word, my dear, I much doubt, with all your hypocritical airs,
+if an account were taken of all the lovers you and I have made fools
+of, whether yours would not be the longer list. I cannot help laughing
+every time I think of that poor Constans, who came to me in such a
+passion to reproach you with having too great a regard for him. She is
+so obliging to me, says he, that I know not what to complain of, and
+declines my pretensions with so much good sense, that I am ashamed of
+finding myself so unable to reply to her arguments; in short she is so
+much my friend, that I find myself incapable of supporting the
+character of her lover.
+
+But to return to my subject. I believe there is no place in the world
+where married people agree better, and are better managers, than in
+this city: here a domestic life is peaceful and agreeable; the
+husbands are in general obliging, and the wives almost Eloisas. Here
+your system really exists. The two sexes employ and amuse themselves
+so differently that they are never tired with each others customs and
+company, but meet again with redoubled pleasure. This heightens the
+enjoyment of the wise; abstinence from what we delight in, is a tenet
+of your philosophy; it is indeed the epicurism of reason.
+
+But, unhappily, this ancient modesty begins a little to decline. The
+sexes begin to associate more frequently, they approach in person and
+their hearts recede. It is here as with us, every thing is a mixture
+of good and bad, but in different proportions. The virtues of the
+natives of this country are of its own production; their vices are
+exotic. They are great travellers, and easily adopt the customs and
+manners of other nations; they speak other languages with facility,
+and learn without difficulty their proper accent, nevertheless they
+have a disagreeable drawling tone in the pronunciation of their own;
+particularly among the women, who travel but little. More humbled by
+their insignificance, than proud of their liberty, they seem among
+foreigners to be ashamed of their country, and are therefore in a
+hurry, as one may say, to naturalise themselves in that where they
+happen to reside; and perhaps the character they have of being
+avaricious and selfish, contributes not a little to this false shame.
+It would be better, without doubt, to wipe off the stain by a
+disinterested example, than to scandalize their fellow citizens by
+being ashamed of their country. But they despise the place of their
+nativity, even while they render it estimable; and are still more in
+the wrong not to give their city the honour of their own personal
+merit.
+
+And yet, however avaricious they may be, they are not accused of
+amassing fortunes by low and servile means: they seldom attach
+themselves to the great, or dance attendance at courts; personal
+slavery being as odious to them as that of the community. Pliant and
+flexible as Alcibiades, they are equally impatient of servitude; and,
+though they adopt the customs of other nations, they imitate the
+people without being slaves to the prince. They are chiefly employed
+in trade, because that is the surest road to wealth, consistent with
+liberty.
+
+And this great object of their wishes makes them often bury the
+talents with which they are prodigally endowed by nature. This brings
+me back to the beginning of my letter. They have ingenuity and
+courage, are lively and penetrating, nor is there any thing virtuous
+or great which surpasses their comprehension and abilities. But, more
+passionately fond of money than of honour, in order to live in
+abundance they die in obscurity, and the only example they leave to
+their children, is the love of those treasures which for their sakes
+they have amassed.
+
+I learn all this from the natives themselves; for they speak of their
+own characters very impartially.
+
+For my part, I know not what they may be abroad, but at home they are
+an agreeable people: and I know but one way to quit Geneva without
+regret. Do you know, cousin, what this is? you may affect as much
+ignorance and humility as you please; if you should say you have not
+already guessed, you certainly would tell a fib. The day after
+tomorrow our jovial company will embark in a pretty little ship,
+fitted out for the occasion: for we chuse to return by water on
+account of the pleasantness of the season and that we may be all
+together. We purpose to pass the first night at Morges, to be the next
+day at Lausanne, on account of the marriage ceremony, and the day
+following to be at----you know where. When you see at a distance the
+flags flying, the torches flaming, and hear the cannon roar; I charge
+you skid about the house like a mad thing, and call the whole family
+to arms! to arms! the enemy! the enemy is coming!
+
+P. S. Although the distribution of the apartments incontestably
+belongs to me as housekeeper, I will give it up to you on this
+occasion; insisting only that my father be placed in those of Lord
+B---- on account of his charts and maps; with which I desire it may
+be compleatly hung from the ceiling to the floor.
+
+
+Letter CLVI. From Mrs. Wolmar.
+
+How delightful are my sensations in beginning this letter! it is the
+first time in my life that I ever wrote to you without fear or shame!
+I am proud of the friendship which now subsists between us, as it is
+the fruit of an unparallel’d conquest over a fatal passion: a passion
+which may sometimes be overcome, but is very rarely refined into
+friendship. To relinquish that which was once dear to us when honour
+requires it, may be effected by the efforts of ordinary minds; but to
+have been what we once were to each other, and to become what we now
+are, this is a triumph indeed. The motive for ceasing to love may
+possibly be a vicious one; but that which converts the most tender
+passion into as sincere a friendship cannot be equivocal: it must be
+virtuous. But should we ever have arrived at this of ourselves? never,
+never, my good friend; it had been rashness to attempt it. To avoid
+each other was the first article of our duty, and which nothing should
+have prevented us from performing. We might without doubt have
+continued our mutual esteem; but we must have ceased to write, or to
+converse. All thoughts of each other must have been suppressed, and
+the greatest regard we could have reciprocally shewn, had been to
+break off all correspondence.
+
+Instead of that, let us consider our present situation; can there be
+on earth a more agreeable one, and do we not reap a thousand times a
+day the reward of our self-denial? to see, to love each other, to be
+sensible of our bliss, to pass our days together in fraternal intimacy
+and peaceful innocence; to think of each other without remorse, to
+speak without blushing; to do honour to that attachment for which we
+have been so often reproached; this is the point at which we are at
+last arrived. O my friend! how far in the career of honour have we
+already run! let us resolve to persevere, and finish our race as we
+have begun.
+
+To whom are we indebted for such extraordinary happiness? you cannot
+be ignorant: you know it well. I have seen your susceptible heart
+overflow with gratitude at the goodness of the best of men, to whom
+both you and I have been so greatly obliged: a goodness that does not
+lay us under fresh obligations, but only renders those more dear which
+were before sacred. The only way to acknowledge his favours is to
+merit them; for the only value he sets on them consists in their
+emolument to us. Let us then reward our benefactor by our virtue; for
+this is all he requires, and therefore all we owe him. He will be
+satisfied with us and with himself, in having restored us to our
+reason.
+
+But permit me to lay before you a picture of your future situation,
+that you may yourself examine it and see if there be any thing in it
+to make you apprehensive of danger: Yes, worthy youth, if you respect
+the cause of virtue, attend with a chaste ear to the counsels of your
+friend. I tremble to enter upon a subject in which I am sorry to
+engage; but how shall I be silent without betraying my friend? will it
+not be too late to warn you of the danger when you are already
+entangled in the snare? Yes, my friend, I am the only person in the
+world who is intimate enough with you to present it to your view. Have
+I not a right to talk to you as a sister, as a mother?
+
+Your career, you tell me, is finished; if so, its end is premature.
+Though your first passion be extinguished, your sensibility still
+remains; and your heart is the more to be suspected, as its only cause
+of restraint no longer exists. A young man, of great ardor and
+susceptibility resolves to live continent and chaste; he knows, he
+feels, he has a thousand times said, that fortitude of mind which is
+productive of every virtue, depends on the purity of sentiment which
+supports it. As love preserved him from vice in his youth, his good
+sense must secure him in manhood; however severe may be the duty
+enjoined him, he knows there is a pleasure arising from it, that will
+compensate its rigour; and, though it be necessary to enter the
+conflict when conquest is in view, can he do less now out of piety to
+God than he did before out of regard to a mistress? such I imagine is
+your way of reasoning, and such the maxims you adopt for your future
+conduct: for you have always despised those persons who, content with
+outward appearances, have one doctrine for theory and another for
+practice, and who lay upon others a burthen of moral duties which they
+themselves are unwilling to bear.
+
+But what kind of life has such a prudent, virtuous man made choice of,
+in order to comply with those rules he has prescribed? less a
+philosopher than a man of probity and a Christian, he has not surely
+taken his vanity for a guide: he certainly knows that it is much
+easier to avoid temptations, than to withstand them; does he therefore
+avoid all dangerous opportunities? does he shun those objects which
+are most likely to move his passions? has he that humble diffidence of
+himself which is the best security to virtue? quite the contrary; he
+does not hesitate rashly to rush on danger. At thirty years of age, he
+is going to seclude himself from the world, in company with women of
+his own age; one of which was once too dear to him for him ever to
+banish the dangerous idea of their former intimacy from his mind;
+another of whom has lived with him in great familiarity, and a third
+is attached to him by all those ties which obligations conferred
+excite in grateful minds. He is going to expose himself to every thing
+that can renew those passions which are but imperfectly extinguished;
+he is going to entangle himself in those snares which he ought, of all
+others, to avoid. There is not one circumstance attending his
+situation which ought not to make him distrust his own strength, nor
+one which will not render him for ever contemptible should he be weak
+enough to be off his guard for a moment. Where then is that great
+fortitude of mind, in which he presumes to place such confidence? in
+what instance has it hitherto appeared that he can be answerable for
+it, for the future? did he acquire it at Paris, in the house of the
+colonel’s lady? or was he influenced by it last summer at Meillerie?
+has it been his security during the winter, against the charms of
+another object, or this spring against the terrifying apprehensions of
+a dream? by the slender assistance it once afforded him, is there any
+reason to suppose it will always bring him off victorious? he may know
+when his duty requires how to combat the passions of a friend; but
+will he be as capable of combating his own? Alas! let him learn from
+the best half of his life to think modestly of the other.
+
+A state of violence and constraint may be supported for a while. Six
+months, for instance, a year, is nothing; fix any certain time and we
+may presume to hold out. But when that state is to last as long as we
+live, where is the fortitude that can support itself under it? who can
+sustain a constant state of self-denial? O my friend! a life of
+pleasure is short, but a life of virtue is exceeding long. We must be
+incessantly on our guard. The instant of enjoyment is soon passed, and
+never more returns; that of doing evil passes away too; but as
+constantly returns, and is ever present. Forget ourselves for a
+moment, and we are undone! is it in such a state of danger and trial,
+that our days can pass away in happiness and tranquillity, or is it
+for such as have once escaped the danger to expose themselves again to
+like hazards? what future occasions may not arise as hazardous as
+those you have escaped, and what is worse, equally unforeseen? do you
+think the monuments of danger exist only at Meillerie? they are in
+every place where we are; we carry them about with us: yes, you know
+too well that a susceptible mind interests the whole universe in its
+passion, and that every object here will excite our former ideas and
+remind us of our former sensations.
+
+I believe, however, I am presumptuous enough to believe, that will
+never happen to me; and my heart is ready enough to answer for yours.
+But, though it may be above meanness, is that easy heart of yours
+above weakness? and am I the only person here it will cost you pains
+to _respect_? forget not, St. Preux, that all who are dear to me are
+intitled to be respected as myself; reflect that you are continually
+to bear the innocent play of an amiable woman; think of the eternal
+disgrace you will deservedly fall into, if your heart should go astray
+for a moment, and you should harbour any designs on her you have so
+much reason to honour.
+
+I would have your duty, your word and your ancient friendship restrain
+you; the obstacles which virtue throws in your way may serve to
+discourage idle hopes; and, by the help of your reason, you may
+suppress your fruitless wishes: but would you thence be freed from the
+influence of sense and the snares of imagination? obliged to respect
+us both and to forget our sex, you will be liable to temptation from
+our servants, and might perhaps think yourself justified by the
+condescension: but would you be in reality less culpable? or can the
+difference of rank change the nature of a crime? on the contrary, you
+would debase yourself the more, as the means you might employ would be
+more ignoble. But is it possible that you should be guilty of such
+means! no, perish the base man, who would bargain for an heart, and
+make love a mercenary passion! such men are the cause of all the
+crimes which are committed by debauchery: for she who is once bought
+will be ever after to be sold: and amidst the shame into which she is
+inevitably plunged, who may most properly be said to be the author of
+her misery, the brutal wretch who insults her in a brothel, or her
+seducer who shewed her the way thither, by first paying a price for
+her favours?
+
+I will add another consideration which, if I am not mistaken, will
+affect you. You have been witness of the pains I have taken to
+establish order and decency in my family. Tranquility and modesty,
+happiness and innocence prevail throughout the whole. Think, my
+friend, of yourself, of me, of what we were, of what we are, and what
+we ought to be. Shall I have it one day to say, in regretting my lost
+labour, it is to you I owe the disorder of my house?
+
+Let us, if it be necessary, go farther, and sacrifice even modesty to
+a true regard for virtue. Man is not made for a life of celibacy, and
+it is very difficult in a state so contrary to that of nature, not to
+fall into some public or private irregularity. For how shall a man be
+always on his guard against an intestine enemy? Look upon the rash
+votaries of other countries, who enter into a solemn vow, not to be
+men. To punish them for their presumption, heaven abandons them to
+their own weakness: they call themselves saints, for entering into
+engagements which necessarily make them sinners; their continence is
+only pretended, and, for affecting to set themselves above the duties
+of humanity, they debase themselves below it. It is easy to stand upon
+punctilio, and affect a nice observance of laws which are kept only in
+appearance; [97] but a truly virtuous man cannot but perceive that his
+essential duties are sufficient without extending them to works of
+supererogation.
+
+It is, my dear St. Preux, the true humility of a Christian, always to
+think his duty too much for his strength; apply this rule, and you
+will be sensible that a situation which might only alarm another man,
+ought to make you tremble. The less you are afraid, the more reason
+you have to fear, and if you are not in some degree deterred by the
+severity of your duty, you can have little hopes of being able to
+discharge it.
+
+Such are the perils that threaten you here. I know that you will never
+deliberately venture to do ill; and the only evils you have cause to
+apprehend are those which you cannot foresee. I do not however bid you
+draw your conclusions solely from my reasoning; but recommend it to
+your mature consideration. If you can answer me in a manner
+satisfactory to yourself, I shall be satisfied; if you can rely upon
+yourself, I too shall rely upon you. Tell me that you have overcome
+all the foibles of humanity, that you are an angel, and I will receive
+you with open arms.
+
+But is it possible for you, whilst a man, to lead a life of continual
+self-denial and mortification? to have always the most severe duties
+to perform! to be constantly on your guard with those whom you so
+sincerely love! no, no, my amiable friend, happy is he who in this
+life can make one single sacrifice to virtue. I have one in view,
+worthy of a man who has struggled and suffered in its cause. If I do
+not presume too far, the happiness I have ventured to design for you,
+will repay every obligation of my heart, and be even greater than you
+would have enjoyed, had providence favoured our first inclinations. As
+I cannot make you an angel myself, I would unite you to one who would
+be the guardian of your heart, who will refine it, reanimate it to
+virtue, and under whose auspices you may securely live with us in this
+peaceful retreat of angelic innocence. You will not, I conceive, be
+under much difficulty to guess who it is I mean, as it is an object
+which has already got footing in the heart which it will one day
+entirely possess, if my project succeeds.
+
+I foresee all the difficulties attending it, without being
+discouraged, as the design is virtuous, I know the influence I have
+over my fair friend, and think I shall not abuse it by exerting my
+power in your favour. But you are acquainted with her resolutions, and
+before I attempt to alter them I ought to be well assured of your
+sentiments, that while I am endeavouring to prevail on her to permit
+your addresses, I may be able to answer for your love and gratitude:
+for if the inequality which fortune has made between you deprives you
+of the privilege of making such a proposal yourself, it is still more
+improper that this privilege should be granted before we know how you
+will receive it. I am not unacquainted with your delicacy, and know
+that if you have any objections to make, they will respect her rather
+than yourself. But banish your idle scruples. Do you think you can be
+more tenacious of my friend’s reputation than I am? no, however dear
+you are to me, you need not be apprehensive lest I should prefer your
+interest to her honour. But as I value the esteem of people of sense,
+so I despise the prejudices and inconsiderate censures of the
+multitude, who are ever led by the false glare of things, and are
+strangers to real virtue. Were the difference in point of fortune
+between you a hundred times greater than it is, there is no rank in
+life to which great talents and good behaviour have not a right to
+aspire: and what pretensions can a woman have to disdain to make that
+man her husband, whom she is proud to number among her friends? You
+know the sentiments of us both in these matters. A false modesty and
+the fear of censure, lead to more bad actions than good ones; for
+virtue never blushes at any thing but vice.
+
+As to yourself, that pride which I have some time remarked in you
+cannot be exerted with greater impropriety than on this occasion; and
+it would be a kind of ingratitude in you to receive from her,
+reluctantly, one favour more. Besides, however nice and difficult you
+may be in this point, you must own it is more agreeable, and has a
+much better look, for a man to be indebted for his fortune to his wife
+than to a friend; as he becomes a protector of the one, and is
+protected by the other and as nothing can be more true than, that a
+virtuous man cannot have a better friend than his wife.
+
+If after all, if there remain in the bottom of your heart any
+repugnance to enter into new love engagements, you cannot too speedily
+suppress them, both for your own honour and my repose: for I shall
+never be satisfied with either you or myself till you really become
+what you ought to be, and take pleasure in what your duty requires.
+Ah! my friend, ought I not to be less apprehensive of such a
+repugnance to new engagements, than of inclinations too relative to
+the old? what have I not done with regard to you, to discharge my
+duty? I have even exceeded my promises. Do I not even give you an
+Eloisa? will you not possess the better half of myself, and be still
+dearer to the other? with what pleasure shall I not indulge myself,
+after such a connection, in my attachment to you! yes, accomplish to
+her those vows you made to me, and let your heart fulfil with her all
+our former engagements. May it, if possible, give to hers all it owes
+to mine. O St. Preux! to her I transfer that ancient debt. Remember it
+is not easily to be discharged.
+
+Such, my friend is the scheme I have projected to reunite you to us
+without danger; in giving you the same place in our family which you
+already hold in our hearts, attached by the most dear and sacred
+connections, we shall live together, sisters and brothers; you no
+longer your own enemy nor ours. The warmest sentiments when legitimate
+are not dangerous. When we are no longer under the necessity of
+suppressing them, they cannot excite our apprehensions. So far indeed
+from endeavouring to suppress sentiments so innocent and delightful,
+we should make them at once both our pleasure and our duty. We should
+then love each other with the purest affection, and should enjoy the
+united charms of friendship, love and innocence. And, if in executing
+the charge you have taken upon yourself, heaven should recompense the
+care you take of our children, by blessing you with children of your
+own, you will then know from experience how to estimate the service
+you have done us. Endowed with the greatest blessings of which human
+nature is capable, you will learn to support with pleasure the
+agreeable burthen of a life useful to your friends and relations; you
+will, in short, perceive that to be true which the vain philosophy of
+the vicious could never believe; that happiness is even in this world
+the reward of the virtuous.
+
+Reflect at leisure on my proposal, not however to determine whether it
+suits you; I require not your answer on that point; but whether it is
+proper for Mrs. Orbe, and whether you can make her as happy as she
+ought to make you. You know in what manner she has discharged her duty
+in every station of her sex. Judge by what she is, what she has a
+right to expect. She is as capable of love as Eloisa, and should be
+loved in the same degree. If you think you can deserve her, speak; my
+friendship will try to effect such an union, and from hers, flatters
+itself with success. But, if my hopes are deceived in you, you are at
+least a man of honour and probity, and are not unacquainted with her
+delicacy; you would not covet happiness at the expense of her
+felicity: let your heart be worthy of her, or let the offer of it
+never be made.
+
+Once more, I say, consult your own heart; consider well of your answer
+before you send it. In matters relative to the happiness of one’s
+whole life, common prudence will not permit us to determine without
+great deliberation: but, in an affair where our whole soul, our
+happiness both here and hereafter is at stake, even to deliberate
+lightly would be a crime. Call to your aid, therefore, my good friend,
+all the dictates of true wisdom; nor will I be ashamed to put you in
+mind of those which are most essential. You don’t want religion: I am
+afraid however, you do not draw from it all the advantage which your
+conduct might receive from its precepts; but that your philosophical
+pride elevates you above true Christian simplicity: in particular,
+your notions of prayer are by no means consistent with mine. In your
+opinion, that act of humiliation is of no use to us. God having
+implanted in every man’s conscience all that is necessary to direct
+him aright, has afterwards left him to himself, a free agent, to act
+as he pleases. But you well know this is not the doctrine of St. Paul,
+nor that which is professed in our church. We are free agents, it is
+true, but we are by nature ignorant, weak and prone to evil: of whom
+then shall we acquire strength and knowledge, but of the source of all
+power and wisdom? and how shall we obtain them if we are not humble
+enough to ask? take care, my friend, that to the sublime ideas you
+entertain of the supreme Being, human pride doth not annex the abject
+notions, which belong only to man. Can you think the deity wants such
+arts as are necessary to human understanding, or that he lies under
+the necessity of generalising his ideas to comprehend them the more
+readily? according to your notions of things, providence would be
+under an embarrassment to take care of individuals. You seem to be
+afraid that, constant attention to a diversity of objects must perplex
+and fatigue infinite wisdom, and to think that it can act better by
+general than particular laws; doubtless because this seems easier for
+the Almighty. The deity is highly obliged to such great philosophers
+for furnishing him with convenient means of action, to ease him of his
+labour. But why should we ask any thing of him? Say you: is he not
+acquainted with our wants? Is he not a father that provides for his
+children? do we know better than he what is needful for us, or are we
+more desirous of happiness than he is that we should be happy?
+
+This, my dear St. Preux, is all sophistry. The greatest of our wants,
+even the only one we have no remedy for, is that of being insensible
+of them; and the first step to relief is the knowledge of our
+necessities. To be wise we must be humble; in the sensibility of our
+weakness we become strong. Thus justice is united to clemency, thus
+grace and liberty triumph together.
+
+Slaves by our weakness, we are set free by prayer: for it depends on
+us to seek and obtain favour; but the power to do this, depends not on
+ourselves.
+
+Learn then not always to depend on your own sagacity on difficult
+occasions; but on that Being whose omnipotence is equal to his wisdom,
+and who knows how to direct us in every thing aright. The greatest
+defect in human wisdom, even in that which has only virtue for its
+object, is a too great confidence, which makes us judge by the present
+of the future, and of our whole lives from the experience of a single
+moment. We perceive ourselves resolute one instant, and therefore
+conclude we shall always be so. Puffed up with that pride, which is
+nevertheless mortified by daily experience, we think we are under no
+danger of falling into a snare which we have once escaped. The modest
+language of true fortitude is, _I had resolution on this or that
+occasion_; but he who boasts of his present security knows not how
+weak he may prove on the next trial; and, relying on his borrowed
+strength as if it was his own, deserves to feel the want of it when he
+stands in most need of assistance. How vain are all our projects, how
+absurd our reasonings in the eyes of that Being, who is not confined
+to time or space! man is so weak as to disregard things which are
+placed at a distance from him: he sees only the objects which
+immediately surround him; changes his notions of things as the point
+of sight is changed from whence he views them. We judge of the future
+from what agrees with us now, without knowing how far that which
+pleases to day may be disagreeable tomorrow: we depend on ourselves,
+as if we were always the same, and yet are changing every day. Who can
+tell if they shall always desire what they now wish for? if they shall
+be tomorrow what they are to day, if external objects and even a
+change in the constitution of the body may not vary the modification
+of their minds, and if we may not be made miserable by the very means
+we have concerted for our happiness? shew me the fixed and certain
+rule of human wisdom, and I will take it for my guide. But if the best
+lesson it can teach us is, to distrust our own strength, let us have
+recourse to that superior wisdom which cannot deceive us, and follow
+those dictates which cannot lead us astray. It is that wisdom I
+implore to enlighten my understanding to advise you; do you implore
+the same to direct your resolutions? Whatever these be, I well know
+you will take no step which does not at present appear honourable and
+just: but this is not enough, it is necessary you should take such as
+will be always so; and of the means to do this, neither you nor I are
+of ourselves competent judges.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLVII. Answer.
+
+
+From Eloisa! a letter from her after seven years silence! yes it is
+her writing. I see, I feel it: can my eyes be a stranger to characters
+which my heart can never forget? and do you still remember my name? do
+you still know how to write it? does not your hand tremble as your pen
+forms the letters? Ah Eloisa! whither have you hurried my wandering
+thoughts? the form, the fold, the seal, the superscription of your
+letter call to my mind those very different epistles which love used
+to dictate. In this the heart and hand seem to be in opposition to
+each other. Ought the same hand writing to be employed in committing
+to paper sentiments so very different?
+
+You will be apt to judge that my thinking so much of your former
+letters, too evidently confirms what you have suggested in your last.
+But you are mistaken. I plainly perceive that I am changed, and that
+you are no longer the same; and what proves it to me the most is that
+except your beauty and goodness, every thing I see in you now is a new
+subject of admiration. This remark may anticipate your assurance. I
+rely not on my own strength, but on the sentiment which makes it
+unnecessary. Inspired with every thing which I ought to honour in her
+whom I have ceased to adore, I know into what degree of respect my
+former homage ought to be converted. Penetrated with the most lively
+gratitude, it is true, I love you as much as ever; but I esteem and
+honour you most for the recovery of my reason.
+
+Ever since the discerning and judicious Wolmar has discovered my real
+sentiments, I have acquired a better knowledge of myself, and am less
+alarmed at my weakness. Let it deceive my imagination as it will, the
+delusion will be still agreeable; it is sufficient that it can no
+longer offend you, and that my ideal errors serve in the end to
+preserve me from real danger.
+
+Believe me, Eloisa, there are impressions which neither time,
+circumstance, nor reason can efface. The wound may heal, but the scar
+will remain, an honorable mark that preserves the heart from any
+other wound. Love and inconstancy are incompatible; when a lover is
+fickle he ceases to be a lover. For my part, I am no longer a lover;
+but, in ceasing to adore you as such, I remain under your protection.
+I am no longer apprehensive of danger from you, but then you prevent
+my apprehensions from others. No, respectable Eloisa, you shall never
+see in me any other than a friend to your person and a lover only of
+your virtues: but our love, our first, our matchless love shall never
+be rooted out of my heart. The remembrance of the flower of my age
+shall never be thus tarnished: for, were I to live whole centuries,
+those happy hours of my youth will never return, nor be banished from
+my memory. We may, it is true, be no longer the same; but I shall
+never forget what we have been.
+
+Let us come now to your cousin. I cannot help confessing, my dear
+friend, that since I have no longer dared to contemplate your charms,
+I have become more sensible to hers. What eyes could be perpetually
+straying from beauty to beauty without fixing their admiration on
+either? mine have lately gazed on hers perhaps with too much pleasure;
+and I must own that her charms, before imprinted on my heart, have
+during my absence made a deeper impression. The sanctuary of my heart
+is shut up; but her image is in the temple. I gradually become to her
+what I might have been at first, had I never beheld you; and it was in
+your power only to make me sensible of the difference between what I
+feel for her and the love I had for you. My senses, released from that
+terrible passion, embrace the delightful sentiments of friendship. But
+must love be the result of this union? Ah Eloisa! what difference!
+where is the enthusiasm? the adoration? where are those divine
+transports, those distractions, a hundred times more sublime, more
+delightful, more forcible than reason itself? a slight warmth, a
+momentary delirium, seize me, affect me a while and then vanish. In
+your cousin and me I see two friends who have a tender regard for each
+other and confess it. But have lovers a _regard_ for each other? no,
+_you_, and _I_ are two words prohibited in the lover’s language. Two
+lovers are not two persons, but one.
+
+Is my heart then really at ease? how can it be so? she is charming,
+she is both your friend and mine: I am attached to her by gratitude,
+and think of her in the most delightful moments of reflection. How
+many obligations are hence conferred on a susceptible mind, and how is
+it possible to separate the tenderest sentiments from those to which
+she has such an undoubted right! Alas! it is decreed that between you
+and her, my heart will never enjoy one peaceful moment!
+
+O women, women! dear and fatal objects! whom nature has made beautiful
+for our torment, who punish us when we brave your power, who pursue
+when we dread your charms; whose love and hate are equally
+destructive; and whom we can neither approach nor fly with impunity!
+beauty, charm, sympathy! inconceivable Being, or chimera! source of
+pain and pleasure! beauty more terrible to mortals than the element to
+which the birth of your Goddess is ascribed: it is you who create
+those tempests which are so destructive to mankind. How, dearly,
+Eloisa! how dearly, Clara! do I purchase your cruel friendship!
+
+I have lived in a tempest and it is you who have always raised it: but
+how different are the agitations which you separately excite!
+different as the waves of the lake of Geneva from those of the main
+ocean. The first are short and quick, and by their constant agitation
+are often fatal to the small barks that ride without making way on
+their surface: but on the ocean, calm and mild in appearance, we find
+ourselves mounted aloft and softly borne forward to a vast distance on
+waves, whose motions are slow and almost imperceptible. We think we
+scarce move from the place, and arrive at the farthest parts of the
+earth.
+
+Such is in fact the difference between the effects which your charms
+and hers have on my heart. That first unequalled passion, which
+determined the destiny of my life, and which nothing could conquer
+but itself, had its birth before I was sensible of its generation; it
+hurried me on before I knew where I was, and involved me in
+irrevocable ruin before I believed myself led astray. While the wind
+was fair, my labouring bark was every moment alternately roaring into
+the clouds and plunging into the deep: but I am now becalmed and know
+no longer where I am. On the contrary, I see, I feel too well how much
+her presence affects me, and conceive my danger greater than it really
+is. I experience some slight raptures, which are no sooner felt than
+gone. I am one moment transported with passion and the next peaceful
+and calm: in vain is the vessel beaten about by the waves, while there
+is no wind to fill its sails: my heart, contented with her real
+charms, does not exaggerate them: she appears more beautiful to my
+eyes than to my imagination; and I am more afraid of her when present
+than absent. Your charms have, on the contrary, had always a very
+different effect; but at Clarens I alternately experience both.
+
+Since I left it, indeed, the image of our cousin presents itself
+sometimes more powerfully to my imagination. Unhappily, however, it
+never appears alone: it affects me not with love, but with
+disquietude.
+
+These are in reality my sentiments with regard both to the one and the
+other. All the rest of your sex are nothing to me; the pangs I have so
+long suffered have banished them entirely from my remembrance;
+
+_E fornito ’l mio tempo a mezzo gli anni._
+
+Adversity has supplied the place of fortitude, to enable me to conquer
+nature and triumph over temptation. People in distress have few
+desires, you have taught me to vanquish by resisting them. An unhappy
+passion is an instrument of wisdom. My heart is become, if I may so
+express myself, the organ of all my wants, for when that is at ease I
+want nothing. Let not you or your cousin disturb its tranquillity, and
+it will for the future be always at ease.
+
+In this situation, what have I to fear from my self? and by what cruel
+precaution would you rob me of happiness, in order to prevent my being
+exposed to lose it? how capricious is it to have made me fight and
+conquer, to rob me afterwards of the reward of my victory? do you not
+condemn those who brave unnecessary danger? why then did you recall me
+at so great a hazard, to run so many risks? or, why would you banish
+me when I am so worthy to remain? Ought you to have permitted your
+husband to take the trouble he has done for nothing? why did you not
+prevent his taking the pains which you were determined to render
+fruitless? why did you not say to him, _leave the poor Wretch at the
+other end of the world, or I shall certainly transport him again?_
+alas! the more afraid you are of me the sooner you ought to recall me
+home. It is not in your presence I am in danger, but in your absence;
+and I dread the power of your charms only where you are not. When the
+formidable Eloisa pursues me, I fly for refuge to Mrs. Wolmar, and I
+am secure. Whither shall I fly if you deprive me of the asylum I find
+in her? all times and places are dangerous while she is absent; for in
+every place I find either Clara or Eloisa. In reflecting on the time
+past, in meditating on the present, the one and the other alternately
+agitate my heart, and thus my restless imagination becomes tranquil
+only in your presence, and it is with you only I find security against
+myself. How shall I explain to you the change I perceive in
+approaching you? you have always exerted the same sovereign power; but
+its effects are now different from what they were: in suppressing the
+transports you once inspired, your empire is more noble and sublime; a
+peaceful serenity has succeeded to the storm of the passions: my
+heart, modelled by yours, loves in the same manner and becomes
+tranquil by your example. But in this transitory repose I enjoy only a
+short truce with the passions; and, though I am exalted to the
+perfection of angels in your presence, I no sooner forsake you than I
+fall into my native meanness. Yes, Eloisa, I am apt sometimes to think
+I have two souls, and that the good one is deposited in your hands.
+Ah! why do you seek to separate me from it?
+
+But you are fearful of the consequences of youthful desires,
+extinguished only by trouble and adversity. You are afraid for the
+young women who are in your house and under your protection. You are
+afraid of that which the prudent Wolmar was not afraid of. How
+mortifying to me are such apprehensions! do you then esteem your
+friend less than the meanest of your servants? I can, however, forgive
+your thinking ill of me; but never your not paying yourself that
+respect which is so justly your due. No, Eloisa, the flame with which
+I once burnt has purified my heart; and I am no longer actuated like
+other men. After what I have been, should I so debase myself though
+but for a moment, I would hide myself in the remotest corner of the
+earth, and should never think myself too far removed from Eloisa.
+
+What! could I disturb that peaceful order and domestic tranquillity,
+in which I take so much pleasure? could I sully that sweet retreat of
+innocence and peace, wherein I have dwelt with so much honour? could I
+be so base as----no, the most debauched, the most abandoned, of men
+would be affected with so charming a picture. He could not fail of
+being enamoured with virtue in this asylum. So far from carrying
+thither his licentious manners, he would betake himself thither to
+cast them off. Could I then, Eloisa, be capable of what you insinuate?
+and that under your own eyes? no, my dear friend, open your doors to
+me without scruple; your mansion is to me the temple of virtue; its
+sacred image strikes me in every part of it, and binds me to its
+service. I am not indeed an angel; but I shall dwell in the habitation
+of angels, and will imitate their example. Those who would not wish to
+resemble them, will never seek their company.
+
+You see it is with difficulty I come to the chief object of your last
+letter; that which I should have first and most maturely considered,
+and which only should now engage my thoughts, if I could pretend to
+the happiness proposed to me. O Eloisa, benevolent and incomparable
+friend! in offering me thus your other half, the most valuable present
+in the universe next to yourself, you do more for me if possible than
+ever you have done before. A blind ungovernable passion might have
+prevailed on you to give me yourself; but to give me your friend is
+the sincerest proof of your esteem. From this moment I begin to think
+myself, indeed, a man of real merit, since I am thus distinguished.
+But how cruel, at the same time, is this proof of it. In accepting
+your offer I should bely my heart, and to deserve must refuse it. You
+know me, and may judge.
+
+It is not enough that your charming cousin should engage my
+affections; I know she should be loved as you are. But will it, can it
+be? or does it depend on me to do her that justice, in this
+particular, which is her due? alas! if you intended ever to unite me
+to her, why did you not leave me a heart to give her; a heart which
+she might have inspired with new sentiments, and which in turn might
+have offered her the first fruits of love! I ought to have a heart at
+ease and at liberty, such as was that of the prudent and worthy Orbe,
+to love her only as he did. I ought to be as deserving as he was, in
+order to succeed him: otherwise the comparison between her former and
+present situation will only serve to render the latter less
+supportable, the cold and divided love of a second husband, so far
+from consoling her for the loss of the first, will but make her regret
+him the more. By her union with me, she will only convert a tender
+grateful friend into a common husband. What will she gain by such an
+exchange? She will be doubly a loser by it; her susceptible mind will
+severely feel its loss; and how shall I support a continual sadness,
+of which I am the cause, and which I cannot remove? in such a
+situation alas! her grief would be first fatal to me. No, Eloisa, I
+can never be happy at the expense of her ease. I love her too well to
+marry her.
+
+Be happy! no, can I be happy without making her so? can either of the
+parties be separately happy or miserable in marriage? are not their
+pleasures and pains, common to both? and does not the chagrin which
+one gives to the other always rebound on the person who caused it? I
+should be made miserable by her afflictions, without being made happy
+by her goodness. Beauty, fortune, merit, love, all might conspire to
+ensure my felicity! but my heart, my froward heart, would counterwork
+them all; would poison the source of my delights, and make me
+miserable in the very midst of happiness.
+
+In my present situation, I take pleasure in her company: but if I
+attempt to augment that pleasure by a closer union, I shall deprive
+myself of the most agreeable moments of my life. Her turn for humour
+and gaiety may give an amorous cast to her friendship, but this is
+only whilst there are witnesses to her favours. I may also feel too
+lively an emotion for her; but it is only when by your presence you
+have banished every tender sentiment for Eloisa. When she and I are by
+ourselves, it is you only who render our conversation agreeable. The
+more our attachment increases, the more we think on the source from
+which it sprung; the ties of friendship are drawn closer, and we love
+each other but to talk of you. Hence arise a thousand pleasing
+reflections, pleasing to Clara and more so to me, all which a closer
+union would infallibly destroy. Will not such reflections, in that
+case too delightful, be a kind of infidelity to her? and with what
+face can I make a beloved and respectable wife the confident of those
+infidelities of which my heart, in spite of me, would be guilty? this
+heart could no longer transfuse itself into hers. No longer daring to
+talk of you, I should soon forbear to speak at all. Honour and duty
+imposing on me a new reserve, would thus estrange from me the wife of
+my bosom, and I should have no longer a guide or a counsellor to
+direct my steps or correct my errors. Is this the homage she has a
+right to expect from me? is this that tribute of gratitude and
+tenderness which I ought to pay to her? is it thus that I am to make
+her and myself happy?
+
+Is it possible that Eloisa, can have forgotten our mutual vows? for my
+part, I never can forget them. I have lost all, except my sincerity,
+and that I will preserve inviolate to my last hour. As I could not
+live for you, I will die unmarried. Nay, had I not already made such a
+promise to myself, I would do it now. For though it be a duty to
+marry, it is yet a more indispensable one not to make any person
+unhappy; and all the sentiments such a contract would now excite in
+me, would be mixed with the constant regret of that which I once
+vainly hoped for: a regret which would at once be my torment, and that
+of her who should be unfortunate enough to be my wife. I should
+require of her those days of bliss which I expected with you. How
+should I support the comparison! what woman in the world could bear
+that? ah, no, I could never endure the thoughts of being at once
+deprived of you, and destined to be the husband of another.
+
+Seek not then, my dear friend, to shake those resolutions on which
+depends the repose of my life: seek not to recall me out of that state
+of annihilation into which I am fallen; lest, in bringing me back to a
+sense of my existence, my wounds should bleed afresh, and I should
+again sink under a load of misfortunes. Since my return I perceived
+how deeply I became interested in whatever concerned your charming
+friend; but I was not alarmed at it, as I knew the situation of my
+heart would never permit me to be too solicitous. Indeed I was not
+displeased with an emotion, which, while it added softness to the
+attachment I always had for Clara, would assist in diverting my
+thoughts from a more dangerous object, and enable me to support your
+presence with greater confidence. This emotion has something in it of
+the pleasure of love without any of its pains. The calm delight I take
+in seeing her is not disturbed by the restless desire of possessing
+her: contented to pass my whole life in the manner I passed the last
+winter, I find between you both that peaceful and agreeable situation,
+[98] which tempers the austerity of virtue and renders its lessons
+amiable. If a vain transport affects me for a moment, every thing
+conspires to suppress it; and I have too effectually vanquished those
+infinitely more impetuous and dangerous emotions to fear any that can
+assail me now. I honour your friend no less than I love her, and that
+is saying every thing. But should I consult only my own interest, the
+rights of the tenderest friendship are too valuable, to risk their
+loss, by endeavouring to extend them; and I need not even think of the
+respect which is her due to prevent my ever saying a single word in
+private conversation which would require interpretation, or which she
+ought not to understand. She may perhaps have sometimes remarked a
+little too much solicitude in my behaviour towards her but she has
+surely never observed in my heart any desire to express it. Such as I
+was for six months past, such would I be with regard to her, as long
+as I live. I know none who approach you, so perfect as she is; but
+were she even more perfect than yourself, I feel that after having
+been your lover I should never have become hers.
+
+But before I conclude this letter, I must give you my opinion of
+yours. Yes, Eloisa, with all your prudence and virtue, I can discover
+in it the scruples of a timorous mind, which thinks it a duty to
+frighten itself; and conceives its security lies in being afraid. This
+extreme timidity is as dangerous as excessive confidence. In
+constantly representing to us imaginary monsters, it wastes our
+strength in combating chimeras; and by terrifying us without cause,
+makes us less on our guard against, as well as less capable of
+discerning, real dangers. Read over again, now and then, the letter
+which Lord B----, wrote to you last year, on the subject of your
+husband; you will find in it some good advice that may be of service
+to you in many respects. I do not discommend your devotion, it is
+affecting, amiable, and like yourself; it is such as even your husband
+should be pleased with. But take care lest timidity and precaution
+lead you to quietism, and lest by representing to yourself danger on
+every side, you are induced at length to confide in nothing. Don’t you
+know, my dear friend, that a state of virtue is a state of warfare.
+Let us employ our thoughts less on the dangers which threaten us, than
+on ourselves; that we may be always prepared to withstand temptation.
+If to run in the way of temptation is to deserve to fall, to shun it
+with too much solicitude is often to fly from the opportunities of
+discharging the noblest duties; it is not good to be always thinking
+of temptations, even with a view to avoid them. I shall never seek
+temptation: but, in whatever situation Providence may place me for the
+future, the eight months I passed at Clarens will be my security; nor
+shall I be afraid that any one will rob me of the prize you taught me
+to deserve. I shall never be weaker than I have been, nor shall ever
+have greater temptations to resist. I have left the bitterness of
+remorse and I have tasted the sweets of victory, after all which I
+need not hesitate a moment in making my choice; every circumstance of
+my past life, even my errors, being a security for my future
+behaviour.
+
+I shall not pretend to enter with you into any new or profound
+disquisitions, concerning the order of the universe, and the
+government of those beings, of which it is composed: it will be
+sufficient for me to say, that in matters so far above human
+comprehension there is no other way of rightly judging of things
+invisible, but by induction from those which are visible; and that all
+analogy makes for those general laws which you seem to reject. The
+most rational ideas we can form of the supreme Being confirm this
+opinion: for, although omnipotence lies under no necessity of adopting
+methods to abridge his labour, it is nevertheless worthy of supreme
+wisdom to prefer the most simple modes of action, that there may be
+nothing useless either in cause or effect. In the formation of man he
+endowed him with all the necessary faculties to accomplish what should
+be required of him, and when we ask of him the power to do good, we
+ask nothing of him, but what he has already given us. He has given us
+understanding to know what is good, a heart to love [99] and liberty
+to make choice of it. Therefore, in these sublime gifts consists
+divine grace; and as we have all received it, we are all accountable
+for its effects.
+
+I have heard, in my time, a good deal of arguments against the free
+agency of man, and despise all its sophistry. A casuist may take what
+pains he will to prove that I am no free agent, my innate sense of
+freedom constantly destroys his arguments: for whatever choice I make
+after deliberation, I feel plainly that it depended only on myself to
+have made the contrary. Indeed all the scholastic subtilties I have
+heard on this head are futile and frivolous; because they prove too
+much, are equally used to oppose truth and falsehood; and, whether man
+be a free agent or not, serve equally to prove one or the other. With
+these kind of reasoners, the Deity himself is not a free agent, and
+the word liberty is in fact a term of no meaning. They triumph, not in
+having solved the difficulty, but in having substituted a chimera in
+its room. They begin by supposing that every intelligent being is
+merely passive, and from that supposition deduce consequences to prove
+its inactivity: a very convenient method of argumentation truly! if
+they accuse their adversaries of reasoning in this manner, they do us
+injustice. We do not _suppose_ ourselves free and active beings; we
+feel that we are so. It belongs to them to shew not only that this
+sentiment may deceive us, but that it really does so. [100] The bishop
+of Cloyne has demonstrated that, without any diversity in appearances,
+body or matter may have no absolute existence; but is this enough to
+induce us to affirm that it absolutely has no existence? In all this,
+the mere phenomenon would cost more trouble than the reality; and I
+will always hold by that which appears the most simple.
+
+I don’t believe therefore, that after having provided in every shape
+for the wants of man in his formation, God interests himself in an
+extraordinary manner for one person more than another. Those who abuse
+the common aids of Providence are unworthy such assistance, and those
+who made good use of them have no occasion for any other. Such a
+partiality appears to me injurious to divine justice. You will say,
+this severe and discouraging doctrine may be deduced from the holy
+scripture. Be it so. Is it not my first duty to honour my Creator? In
+whatever veneration then I hold the sacred text, I hold its author in
+a still greater; and I could sooner be induced to believe the bible
+corrupted or unintelligible, than that God can be malevolent or
+unjust. St. Paul would not have the vessel say to the potter who
+formed it, why hast thou framed me thus? this is very well, if the
+potter should apply it only to such services as he constructed it to
+perform but if he should censure this vessel as being inadequate to
+the purpose for which it was constructed; has it not a right to ask,
+why hast thou made me thus?
+
+But does it follow from hence that prayer is useless? God forbid that
+I should deprive myself of that resource. Every act of the
+understanding which raises us to God carries us above ourselves; in
+imploring his assistance we learn to experience it. It is not his
+immediate act that operates on us, it is we that improve ourselves by
+raising our thoughts in prayer to him. [101] All that we ask aright,
+he bestows; and, as you observe, we acquire strength in confessing our
+weakness. But if we abuse this ordinance and turn mystics, instead of
+raising ourselves to God, we are lost in our own wild imaginations; in
+seeking grace, we renounce reason; in order to obtain of heaven one
+blessing, we trample under foot another; and in obstinately
+persisting, that heaven should enlighten our hearts, we extinguish the
+light of our understandings. But who are we that should insist on the
+deity’s performing miracles, when we please, in our favour?
+
+You know very well, there is no good thing that may not be carried
+into a blameable excess; even devotion itself, when it degenerates
+into the madness of enthusiasm. Yours is too pure ever to arrive at
+this excess; but you have reason to be on your guard against a less
+degree of it. I have heard you often censure the ecstasies of the
+pietists; but do you know from whence they arise? from allotting a
+longer time to prayer than is consistent with the weakness of human
+nature. Hence the spirits are exhausted, the imagination takes fire,
+they see visions, they become inspired and prophetical; nor is it then
+in the power of the understanding to stop the progress of fanaticism.
+
+Now, you shut yourself frequently in your closet, and are constant in
+prayer. You do not indeed as yet converse with pietists, [102] but you
+read their books. Not that I ever censured your taste for the writings
+of the worthy Fenelon: but what have you to do with those of his
+disciple? You read Muralt. I indeed read him too: but I make choice of
+his letters, you of his divine instinct. But remark his end, lament
+the extravagant errors of that sensible man, and think of yourself. At
+present a pious, a true Christian, beware Eloisa of becoming a mere
+devotee.
+
+I receive your counsel, my dear friend, with the docility of a child,
+and give you mine with the zeal of a father. Since virtue, instead of
+dissolving our attachments, has rendered them indissoluble, the same
+lessons may be of use to both, as the same interests connect us. Never
+shall our hearts speak to each other, never shall our eyes meet
+without presenting to both a respectable object which shall mutually
+elevate our sentiments, the perfection of the one reciprocally
+assisting the other.
+
+But though our deliberations may be common to both, the conclusion is
+not; it is yours alone to decide. Cease not, then, you who have ever
+been mistress of my destiny, cease not to be so still. Weigh my
+arguments, and pronounce sentence: whatever you order me to do, I will
+submit to your direction, and will at least deserve the continuance of
+it. Should you think it improper for me to see you personally again,
+you will yet be always present to my mind, and preside over my
+actions. Should you deprive me of the honour of educating your
+offspring, you will not deprive me of the virtues which you have
+inspired. These are the offspring of your mind, which mine adopts as
+its own, and will never bear to have them torn from it.
+
+Speak to me, Eloisa, freely. As I have now been explicit to what I
+think and feel on this occasion, tell me what I must do. You know how
+far my destiny is connected with that of my illustrious friend. I have
+not consulted him on this occasion; I have neither shewn him this
+letter nor yours. If he should know that you disapprove his project,
+or rather, that of your husband, he will reject it himself; and I am
+far from designing to deduce from thence any objection to your
+scruples; he only ought to be ignorant of them till you have finally
+determined. In the mean time, I shall find some means or other to
+delay our departure, in which, though they may surprize him a little,
+I know he will acquiesce. For my own part, I had rather never see you
+more, than to see you only just to bid you again adieu: and to live
+with you as a stranger, would be a state of mortification which I have
+not deserved.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLVIII. From Mrs. Wolmar.
+
+
+How does your headstrong imagination affright and bewilder itself! and
+at what, pray? truly at the sincerest proofs of my friendship and
+esteem which you ever experienced: at the peaceful reflections which
+my solicitude for your real happiness inspired; at the most obliging,
+the most advantageous, and the most honourable proposal that was ever
+made you; at my desire, perhaps an indiscreet one, of uniting you by
+indissoluble ties to our family; at the desire of making a relation, a
+kinsman of an ingrate, who affects to believe I want to discard him as
+a friend. To remove your present uneasiness, you need only take what I
+write in the most natural sense the words will bear. But you have long
+delighted in tormenting yourself with false constructions. Your
+letters are like your life, sublime and mean, masterly and puerile.
+Ah, my dear philosopher! will you never cease to be a child?
+
+Where, pray, have you learnt that I intended to impose on you new
+laws, to break with you, and send you back to the farthest part of the
+world? do you really find this to be the tenor of my letter? in
+anticipating the pleasure of living with you, I was fearful of those
+inconveniencies, which I conceived might possibly arise; therefore
+endeavoured to remove them, by making your fortune more equal to your
+merit and the regard I had for you. This is my whole crime; is there
+anything in it at which you have reason to be alarmed?
+
+Indeed, my friend, you are in the wrong; for you are not ignorant how
+dear you are to me, and how easy it is for you to obtain your wish
+without seeking occasion to torment others or yourself.
+
+You may be assured that, if your residence here is agreeable to you,
+it will be equally so to me; and that nothing Mr. Wolmar has done for
+me gives me greater satisfaction than the care he has taken to
+establish you in this house. I agree to it with pleasure, and know we
+shall be useful to each other. More ready to listen to good advice
+than to suggest it to ourselves, we have both occasion for a guide?
+who can be more sensible of the danger of going astray than he whose
+return has cost him so dear? what object can better represent that
+danger? after having broken through such connections as once subsisted
+between us, the remembrance of them should influence us to do nothing
+unworthy of the virtuous motives which induced us to break them. Yes,
+I shall always think myself obliged to make you the witness of every
+action of my life, and to communicate to you every sentiment with
+which my heart is inspired. Ah! my friend! I may be weak before the
+rest of the world, but I can answer for myself in your company.
+
+It is in this delicacy, which always survives true love, and not in
+Mr. Wolmar’s subtle distinctions, that we are to look for the cause of
+that elevation of soul, that innate fortitude we experience. Such an
+explication is at least more natural, and does more honour to our
+hearts, than his, and has a greater tendency to encourage us to
+virtue, which alone is sufficient to give it the preference. Hence you
+may be assured, that, so far am I from being in such a whimsical
+disposition as you imagine, that I am just the reverse. In so much
+that, if the project of your returning to reside here must be given
+up, I shall esteem such an event as a great misfortune to you, to me,
+to my children, and even to my husband; on whose account alone you
+know I have many reasons for desiring your presence. But to speak only
+of my own particular inclination: you remember your first arrival. Did
+I shew less pleasure at seeing you than you felt in seeing me? has it
+ever appeared to you that your stay at Clarens gave me the least
+trouble or uneasiness? did you think I betrayed the least pleasure at
+your departure? must I go farther and speak to you with my usual
+freedom? I will frankly confess to you then, that the six last months
+we passed together were the happiest of my life, and that in that
+short space of time I tasted all the happiness of which my sensibility
+has furnished me the idea.
+
+Never shall I forget one day, in particular, of the past winter, when,
+after having been reading the journal of your voyages and that of your
+friend’s adventures, we supped in the Apollo. It was then that,
+reflecting on the felicity with which Providence had blessed me in
+this world, I looked round and saw all my friends about me; my father,
+my husband, my children, my cousin, Lord B----, and you, without
+counting Fanny, who did not cast the least blemish on the scene. This
+little saloon, said I to myself, contains all that is dear to my
+heart, and perhaps all that is desirable in this world. I am here
+surrounded by everything that interests me. The whole universe to me
+is in this little spot. I enjoy at once the regard I have for my
+friends, that which they have for me, and that which they have for
+each other: their mutual goodwill either comes from or relates to me:
+I see nothing but what seems to extend my being, and nothing to
+divide it. I exist in a manner in all those who are about me: my
+imagination can extend no farther. I have nothing more to desire: to
+reflect and to be happy is with me the same thing; I live at once in
+all that I love, I am replete with happiness and satisfied with life:
+come death when thou wilt! I no longer dread thy power: the measure of
+my life is full, and I have nothing new to experience worth enjoyment.
+The greater pleasure I enjoyed in your company, the more agreeable is
+it to me to reflect on it, and the more disquietude also hath every
+thing given me that might disturb it. We will for a moment lay aside
+that timid morality and pretended devotion, with which you reproach
+me. You must confess at least that the social pleasures we tasted
+sprung from that openness of heart, by which every thought, every
+sentiment, of the one was communicated to the other, and from which
+every one, conscious of being what he ought, appeared such as he
+really was. Let us suppose now any secret intrigue, any connection
+necessary to be concealed, any motive of reserve and secrecy intruding
+on our harmony; that moment the reciprocal pleasure we felt in seeing
+each other would vanish. Shyness and restraint would ensue; we should
+no sooner meet together than we should wish to part; and at length
+circumspection and decorum would bring on distrust and distaste. It is
+impossible long to love those of whom we are afraid or suspicious.
+They soon become troublesome----Eloisa troublesome!----troublesome to
+her friend! no, no, that cannot be; there can be no evils in nature,
+but such as it is possible to support.
+
+In thus freely telling you my scruples, I do not pretend, however, to
+make you change your resolutions; but to induce you to reconsider the
+motives on which they are founded; lest, in taking a step, all the
+consequences of which you may not foresee, you might have reason to
+repent at a time, when you will not dare retract it. As to Mr.
+Wolmar’s having no fears, it was not his place to fear, but yours. No
+one is so proper a judge of what is to be feared of you, as yourself.
+Consider the matter well then; and, if nothing is in reality to be
+feared, tell me so, and I shall think of it no more: for I know your
+sincerity, and never can distrust your intentions. Your heart may be
+capable of an accidental error; but can never be guilty of a
+premeditated crime, and this it is that makes the distinction between
+a weak man and a wicked one.
+
+Besides, though my objections had really more weight than I am
+inclined to think they have, why must things be viewed in their most
+disadvantageous light. Surely there can be no necessity for such
+extreme precautionary measures. It cannot be requisite that you should
+break through all your projects, and fly from us for ever. Though a
+child in years, you are possessed of all the experience of age. The
+tranquillity of mind which succeeds the noble passion, is a sensation
+which increases by fruition. A susceptible heart may dread a state of
+repose, to which it has been unaccustomed; but a little time is
+sufficient to reconcile us to our peaceful situation, and in a little
+time more we give it the preference. For my part, I foresee the hour
+of your security to be nearer than you yourself imagine. Extremes, you
+know, never last long; you have loved too much not to become in time
+indifferent: the cinder which is cast from the furnace can never be
+lighted again, but before it becomes such the coal must be totally
+burnt out. Be vigilant but for a few years more, and you will then
+have nothing to fear, your acceptance of my proposal would at once
+have removed all danger; but, independent of that view, such an
+attachment has charms enough to be desired for its own sake; and if
+your delicacy prevents you from closing with my proposals, I have no
+need to be informed how much such a restraint must cost you. At the
+same time, however, I am afraid that the pretences which impose on
+your reason, are many of them frivolous: I am afraid, that in piquing
+yourself on the fulfilling of engagements which no longer exist, you
+only make a false shew of virtue, in a constancy, for which you are by
+no means to be commended, and which is at present entirely misplaced.
+I have already told you, that I think the observance of a rash and
+criminal vow is an additional crime. If yours were not so at first, it
+is become so now; and that is sufficient to annul it. The promise
+which no man ought to break, is that of being always a man of virtue
+and resolute in the discharge of his duty; to change when that is
+changed, is not levity, but constancy. And at all times as virtue
+requires you to do, and you will never break your word. But if there
+be among your scruples any solid objection, we will examine it at
+leisure. In the mean time, I am not very sorry that you did not
+embrace my scheme with the same avidity as I formed it; that my
+blunder, if it be one, may give you less pain. I had meditated this
+project during the absence of my cousin, with whom, however, I have
+since had some general conversation on the subject of a second
+marriage, and find her so averse to it, that, in spite of the regard
+which I know she has for you, I am afraid I must exert a greater
+authority than becomes me, to overcome her reluctance; for this is a
+point in which friendship ought to respect the bent of the
+inclinations.
+
+I will own nevertheless that I still abide by my design; it would be
+so agreeable to us all, would so honourably extricate you from your
+present precarious situation in life; would so unite all our
+interests, and makes so natural an obligation of that friendship which
+is so delightful to all, that I cannot think of giving it up entirely.
+No, my friend, you can never be too nearly allied to me; it is not
+even enough that you might be my cousin; I could wish you were my
+brother.
+
+Whatever may be the consequence of these notions, do more justice to
+my sentiments for you. Make use without reserve of my friendship, my
+confidence and my esteem. Remember I shall not prescribe any rules to
+you; nor do I think I have any reason to do it. Deny me not however
+the privilege of giving you advice, but imagine not I lay you under
+any commands. If you think you can securely reside at Clarens, come
+hither; stay here: you cannot give me greater pleasure. But, if you
+think a few years longer absence necessary to cure the suspicious
+remains of impetuous youth, write to me often in your absence; come
+and see us as often as you will, and let us cultivate a correspondence
+founded on the most cordial intimacy.
+
+What pains will not such consolation alleviate? what absence will not
+be supportable under the pleasing hope of at last closing our days
+together! I will do yet more; I am ready to put one of my children
+under your care; I shall think him safer in your hands than my own;
+and, when you bring him back, I know not which of you will give me the
+greater pleasure by your return. On the other hand, if you become
+entirely reasonable, banish your chimerical notions, and are willing
+to deserve my cousin, come, pay her your best respects and make her
+happy. Come then, and surmount every obstacle that opposes your
+success and make a conquest of her heart: such assistance as my
+friendship can give shall not on my part be wanting. Come, and make
+each other happy, and nothing more will be wanting to render me
+compleatly so. But, whatever resolution you take, after having
+maturely considered the matter, speak confidently, and affront your
+friend no more by your groundless suspicions.
+
+Let me not however, in thinking so much of you, forget myself. My turn
+to be heard must come at last; for you as with your friends in a
+dispute, as with your adversaries at chess; you defend yourself by
+attacking them. You excuse your being a philosopher by accusing me of
+being a devotee. I am then, in your opinion a devotee, or ready to
+become one: well be it so. Contemptible denominations never change the
+nature of things. If devotion is commendable, why am I to blame in
+being devout? But, perhaps that epithet is too low for you. The
+dignity of the philosopher disdains the worship of the vulgar: it
+would serve God in a more sublime manner, and raise even to heaven
+itself its pretensions and its pride. Poor philosophers!----but to
+return to myself.
+
+I have, from my childhood, respected virtue, and have always
+cultivated my reason. I endeavoured to regulate my conduct by human
+understanding and sentiment, and have been ill conducted. Before you
+deprive me of the guide I have chosen, give me another on which I may
+depend. I thought myself as wise as other people, and yet a thousand
+others have lived more prudently than I; they must therefore have had
+resources which I had not. Why is it that I; knowing myself well born,
+have had reason to conceal my life and conversation from the world?
+why did I hate the sin which I committed even in spite of myself? I
+thought I knew my own strength, I relied on it, and was deceived. All
+the resistance which was in my own power, I think, I made; and yet I
+fell----how must those have done who have escaped? they must have had
+a better support.
+
+From their example I was induced to seek the same support, and have
+found in it a peculiar advantage which I did not expect. During the
+reign of the passions, they themselves contribute to the continuance
+of the anxieties they at first occasion; they retain hope always by
+the tide of desire, and hence we are enabled to support the absence of
+felicity: If our expectations are disappointed, hope supplies its
+place; and the agreeable delusion lasts as long as the passion which
+gave it birth. Thus, in a situation of this kind, passion supports
+itself, and the very solicitude it causes is a chimerical pleasure
+which is substituted for real enjoyment. Nay more: those who have no
+desires must be very unhappy; they are deprived, if I may be allowed
+the expression, of all they possess. We enjoy less that which we
+obtain than that which we hope for, and are seldom happy but in
+expectation. In fact, man, made to desire every thing and obtain
+little, of boundless avarice yet narrow capacity, has received of
+heaven a consolatory aid, which brings to him in idea every thing he
+desires, displays it to his imagination, represents it to his view,
+and in one sense makes it his own; but to render such imaginary
+property still more flattering and agreeable, it is even modified to
+his passion. But this shadow vanishes the moment the real object
+appears; the imagination can no longer magnify that which we actually
+possess, the charms of illusion cease, where those of enjoyment begin.
+The world of fancy, therefore, the land of chimeras, is the only world
+worthy to be inhabited; and such is the inanity of human enjoyments
+that, except that Being which is self existent; there is nothing
+delightful but that which has no existence at all.
+
+If this effect does not always follow in the particular objects of our
+passions, it is infallible in the common sentiment which includes the
+whole. To live without pain is incompatible with our state of
+mortality: it would be in fact to die. He who has every thing in his
+power, if a creature, must be miserable, as he would be deprived of
+the pleasure of desiring; than which every other want would be more
+supportable. [103]
+
+This is indeed what I have in part experienced since my marriage and
+your return. Every thing around me gives me cause of content, and yet
+I am not contented. A secret languor steals into the bottom of my
+heart; I find it puffed up and void, as you formerly said was the case
+with yours; all my attachments are not sufficient to fill it. This
+disquietude I confess is strange: but it is nevertheless true. O my
+friend! I am indeed too happy: my happiness is a burthen to me. Can you
+think of a remedy for this disgust? for my part, I must own that a
+sentiment so unreasonable and so involuntary, has in a great measure
+diminished the value of life, and I cannot imagine what blessings it
+can bestow which I want, or with which I should be satisfied. Can any
+woman be more susceptible than I am? can she love her father, her
+husband, her children, her friends, her relations better than I do?
+can she be more generally beloved? can she lead a life more agreeable
+to her taste? or can she be more at liberty to exchange it for any
+other? can she enjoy better health? can she have more expedients to
+divert her, or stronger ties to bind her to the world? and yet
+notwithstanding all this, I am constantly uneasy: my heart yearns for
+something of which it is entirely ignorant.
+
+Therefore finding nothing on this globe capable of giving it
+satisfaction, my desiring soul seeks an object in another world; in
+elevating itself to the source of sentiment and existence, its languor
+vanishes: it is reanimated, it acquires new strength and new life. It
+thence obtains a new existence, independent of corporeal passions, or
+rather it exists no longer in me, but in the immensity of the supreme
+Being; and, disencumbered for a while from its terrestrial shackles,
+returns to them again with patience, consoled with the expectation of
+futurity.
+
+You smile at all this, my good friend; I understand you. I have indeed
+pronounced my own condemnation, having formerly censured the heart,
+which I now approve. To this I have only one word to answer; and that
+is, I then spoke without experience. I do not pretend to justify it in
+every shape. I don’t pretend to say, this visionary taste is prudent,
+I only say, it is a delightful supplement to that sense of happiness
+which in other things exhausts itself by enjoyment. If it be
+productive of evil, doubtless it ought to be rejected; if it deceives
+the heart by false pleasure, it ought also on that account to be
+rejected. But after all, which has the greater incentive to virtue,
+the philosopher with his sublime maxims, or the Christian with his
+humble simplicity? who is most happy even in this world, the sage with
+his profound understanding, or the enthusiast with his rapture of
+devotion? what business have I to think or imagine, when my faculties
+are all in a manner alienated? will you say intoxication has its
+pleasures? be it so, and be mine esteemed such if you will. Either
+leave me in this agreeable delirium, or shew me a more delightful
+situation.
+
+I have condemned indeed the ecstasies of the mystics, and condemn them
+still, when they serve to detach us from our duty; and, by raising in
+us a disgust against an active life by the charms of contemplation,
+seduce us into that state of quietism which you imagine me so near;
+and from which I believe myself nevertheless to be as far distant as
+yourself. I know very well that to serve God is not to pass our lives
+on our knees in prayer; that it is to discharge on earth those
+obligations which our duty requires; it is to do, with a view to
+please him, every thing which the situation in which he hath placed us
+demands.
+
+_Il cor gradisce;
+E serve a lui chi’l suo dover compisce._
+
+We ought first to perform the duties of our station, and then pray
+when we have time. This is the rule I have endeavoured to follow: I
+don’t make that self examination, with which you reproach me, a task,
+but a recreation. I don’t see why, among the pleasures that are within
+my reach, I should be forbidden the most affecting and the most
+innocent of all.
+
+I have examined myself with more severity, since the receipt of your
+letter. I have enquired into the effects which that pious inclination,
+that so much displeases you, produces in my mind; and I can safely
+say, I see nothing that should give me reason to fear, at least so
+soon as you imagine, the evils of excessive and superfluous devotion.
+
+In the first place, I have not so fervent a longing after this
+exercise as to give me pain when I am deprived of an opportunity, nor
+am I out of humour at every avocation from it. It never interrupts my
+thoughts in the business of the day, nor gives me any disgust or
+impatience in the discharge of my duty. If retirement be sometimes
+necessary, it is when I have felt some disagreeable emotion, and am
+better in my closet than elsewhere. It is there that, entering into
+the examination of myself, I recover my temper and ease. If any care
+troubles me, if any pain affects me, it is there I go and lay them
+down. Every pain, every trouble vanishes before a greater object. In
+reflecting on all the bounties of providence towards me, I am ashamed
+to be sensible of such trifling ills, and to forget its greater
+mercies. I require neither frequent nor long intervals of solitude.
+When I am affected by involuntary sadness, the shedding a few tears
+before him who is the comforter of hearts, relieves mine in an
+instant. My reflections are never bitter nor grievous; even my
+repentance is free from dread: my errors give me less cause of fear
+than of shame; I regret that I have committed them, but I feel no
+remorse, nor dread of their effects. The God I serve is a merciful
+Being; a Father, whose goodness only affects me, and surpasses all his
+other attributes. His power astonishes me; his immensity confounds my
+ideas; his justice----but he has made man weak; and though he be just,
+he is merciful. An avenging God is the God of the wicked. I can
+neither fear him on my own account, nor pray for his vengeance to be
+exerted against any other. It is the God of peace, the God of goodness
+whom I adore. I know, I feel, I am the work of his hands, and trust to
+see him at the last day such as he has manifested himself to my heart,
+during my life.
+
+It is impossible for me to tell you how many pleasing ideas hence
+render my days agreeable, and give joy to my heart. In leaving my
+closet in such a disposition, I feel myself more light and gay. Every
+care vanishes, every embarrassment is removed; nothing rough or
+disagreeable appears; but all is smooth and flowing: every thing wears
+a pleasant countenance; it costs me no pains to be in good humour; I
+love those better whom I loved before, and am still more agreeable to
+them; even my husband is more pleased with the disposition which is
+the effect of such rational devotion. Devotion, he says, is the opium
+of the soul. When taken in small quantities, it enlivens, it animates,
+it supports it: a stronger dose lulls it to sleep, enrages or destroys
+it. I hope I shall never proceed to such extremes.
+
+You see I am not so much offended at the title of devotee, as perhaps
+you intended; but then I do not value it at the rate you imagine: yet
+I would not have the term devotion applied to an affected external
+deportment, and to a sort of employment which dispenses with every
+other. Thus that Mrs. Guyon you mention, had in my opinion done better
+to have carefully discharged her duty as mistress of her family, to
+have educated her children in the Christian faith; and to have
+governed her servants prudently, than to compose books of devotion,
+dispute with bishops, and at last be imprisoned in the Bastille for
+her unintelligible reveries.
+
+I approve just as little of that mystical and metaphorical language,
+which feeds the heart with chimeras, and in the place of spiritual
+love, substitutes sentiments too nearly allied to carnal affections,
+and too apt to excite them. The more susceptible the heart, or lively
+the imagination, the more we ought to be on our guard against those
+images by which they may be affected; for how can we see the relations
+of the mystical object if we do not at the same time see the sensual;
+and how can a modest woman have the assurance to contemplate those
+objects in her imagination, which she would blush to look on?
+
+But what sets me most against these devotees by profession, is that
+affectation of manners which renders them insensible to humanity; that
+excessive pride which makes them look down with pity on the rest of
+mankind. If ever they condescend to stoop from their imaginary
+elevation to do an act of charity, it is always done in a manner
+extremely mortifying to the object: their pity is so cruel and
+insulting, their justice is so rigid, their charity so severe, their
+zeal so bitter, their contempt so much like hatred, that even the
+insensibility of the rest of the world is less cruel than their pity.
+Their love for heaven serves them as an excuse for loving nobody on
+earth; they have even no affection for one another; nor is there an
+instance of sincere friendship to be found among people of extreme
+devotion. The more detached they affect to be from the world, the more
+they expect from it; and one would think their devotion to God is
+exerted only that they may have a pretext to exercise his authority
+over the rest of his creatures.
+
+I have such an aversion for all abuses of this kind as should
+naturally be my security: if nevertheless I am doomed to fall, it will
+not be voluntarily, and I hope, from the friendship of those who are
+about me, that it will not be without warning. I must own, I now think
+that it was possible for my former inquietude concerning my husband,
+to have effected such a change. Happily, the prudent letter of my Lord
+B----, to which you very reasonably refer me, together with his
+sensible and consolatory conversation, as well as yours, have entirely
+dissipated my fears and changed my principles. I now see plainly that
+an intolerant spirit must by degrees become obdurate. For what charity
+can be long preserved for those who we think must inevitably be
+damned? to love them would be to hate God for punishing them. To act
+then on principles of humanity, we must take upon ourselves to
+condemn actions only, and not men. Let us not assume the horrible
+function of devils. Let us not so lightly throw open the gates of hell
+for our fellow creatures. Alas! if all those are destined to be
+eternally miserable who deceive themselves, where is the mortal who
+can avoid it?
+
+O my friends! of what a load have you eased my heart? In teaching me
+that an error in judgment is no crime, you have delivered me from a
+thousand tormenting scruples. I leave to others the subtle
+interpretation of dogmas which I do not comprehend, and content myself
+with those glaring truths which strike and at once convince me; those
+practical truths which instruct me in my duty. As to any thing
+farther, I abide by the rule of your old answer to Mr. Wolmar. A man
+is not master of his own sentiments to believe or disbelieve what he
+pleases. Can it be a crime for one not to be a logician? no, it is not
+the business of conscience to instruct us in the truth of things, but
+in the maxims of our duty. It does not teach us to reason well, but to
+act aright. In what can my husband be criminal before God? does he
+turn his eye from the contemplation of the deity? God himself hath hid
+his face from his view. He does not shun the truth; the truth avoids
+him. He is not actuated by pride; he does not seek to convert any one
+to his own opinion. He is glad they are of a different one. He
+approves of our sentiments, he wishes he had the same, but cannot. He
+is deprived of our consolations and our hopes. He acts uprightly
+without even expecting a recompense: he is in fact more virtuous, more
+disinterested than we. He is indeed truly to be pitied! but wherefore
+should he be punished? no: goodness, sincerity, honesty, virtue, these
+are what heaven requires, and what it will undoubtedly reward: these
+constitute the true service which the deity requires, and that service
+Mr. Wolmar most uniformly performs. If God judges of our faith by our
+words, to be truly virtuous is to believe in him. A true Christian is
+a virtuous man: the real infidels are the vicious.
+
+Be not surprized, therefore, my dear friend, that I do not dispute
+with you many particulars of your letter, concerning which we are not
+of the same opinion. I know too well what you are, to be in pain about
+what you believe. What do all those idle questions about free agency
+concern me? whether I myself have the power to do good, or can obtain
+it by prayer, if in the end I am enabled to do it, does it not amount
+to the same thing? whether I acquire what is wanting by asking for it,
+or the deity grants it to my prayers, if it be necessary to ask in
+order to have it, is not this a sufficient explanation? happy enough
+to agree about the principal articles of our faith, why need we
+enquire farther? ought we to be desirous of penetrating into the
+bottomless abyss of metaphysics, and, in disputing about the divine
+essence, throw away the short time which is allotted us here to revere
+and honour the deity? we are ignorant what he is; but we know that he
+exists, and that is sufficient: he manifests himself in his works, we
+feel him constantly within us. We may dispute, but cannot sincerely
+disbelieve his existence. He has given us that degree of sensibility
+which enables us to perceive, to embrace him; let us pity those to
+whom he has not imparted such a portion of susceptibility, without
+flattering ourselves that we shall be able to make them sensible of
+what they cannot see. Let us respect his decrees in silence and do our
+duty: this is the best method to make proselytes.
+
+Do you know any man of better sense or a more enlightened
+understanding than Mr. Wolmar? do you know any one more sincere, more
+upright, more just, less subject to the control of his passions; who
+will be a greater gainer by divine justice or the soul’s immortality?
+Do you know any man more nervous, more sublime, more convincing in a
+dispute than Lord B----? is there any person by his virtue more worthy
+of entering on the defence of the cause of God, more certain of his
+existence, more sincerely penetrated with the idea of divine majesty,
+more zealous for his glory and more capable of supporting it? yet you
+have been a witness of what passed during three months at Clarens: you
+have seen two men, having the highest esteem and respect for each
+other, and equally disdainful of the pedantry and quirk of scholastic
+logic, pass a whole winter in prudent and peaceful as well as lively
+and profound argumentations, with a view to convert each other; you
+have seen them attack and defend themselves and take every advantage
+of which human understanding is capable; and that on a subject wherein
+both, being equally interested, desired nothing so earnestly as to be
+of one mind.
+
+What was the consequence? their mutual esteem is augmented, and yet
+both retain their former sentiments: if such an example does not
+for ever cure a prudent man of the rage of dispute, the love of truth
+I am sure never will.
+
+For my part, I have thrown aside, and that for ever, such an useless
+weapon; and am determined never to mention a single word more to my
+husband about religion, unless it be to give a reason for mine. Not
+that a notion of divine toleration has rendered me indifferent to his.
+I must confess that, though I am become tranquil about his future
+state, I do not find I am the less zealous for his conversion. I would
+lay down my life to see him once convinced of the truth of divine
+revelation, if not for the sake of his future happiness, at least for
+his happiness in this life. For of how many pleasures is he not on
+this account deprived? what sentiments can give him comfort in his
+afflictions? what spectator excites him to those good deeds he
+performs in secret? what reward does he hope for from his virtue? how
+can he look upon death? no, I hope he will not meet it in this
+terrible situation. There remains but one expedient more for me to try
+to prevent it; and to that I consecrate the remainder of my life. This
+is not to convince, but to affect him; to set him a prevailing
+example, and to make religion so amiable that he shall not be able to
+resist her charms. Ah! my friend! what a forcible argument against
+infidelity is the life of a true Christian? do you believe there is a
+being on earth proof against it? this is the task I impose on myself
+for the future; assist me to perform it. Mr. Wolmar is cold, but not
+insensible. What a picture might we lay open to his heart? his
+friends, his children, his wife all uniting to his edification! When
+without preaching about God in our discourses, we shall demonstrate
+him by those actions which he inspires, by those virtues of which he
+is the author, by the pleasure we take in his service: when he shall
+see a sketch of paradise in his own house; when an hundred times a day
+he shall be compelled to cry out: “human nature is of itself incapable
+of this; something divine must prevail here.”
+
+If my enterprise pleases you, if you find yourself worthy to concur in
+it, come and let us pass our days together, and never part more till
+death. If the project displeases or frightens you, listen to the
+dictates of your conscience; that will teach you your duty. I have no
+more to say. Agreeable to what Lord B---- intimates, I shall expect
+you both towards the latter end of next month. You will hardly know
+your apartment again; but in the alteration made in it you will
+discover the care of a good friend, who took a pleasure in ornamenting
+it for you. You will find there, also, a small assortment of books,
+which she bought for you at Geneva, of a better taste than the
+_Adonis_; not, but that for the jest’s sake you will find that too.
+You must however be discreet; for, as she would not have you know this
+is her doing, I hasten to finish my letter before she comes to forbid
+my speaking of it. Adieu, my dear friend; our party of pleasure to the
+castle of Chillon will take place tomorrow without you. It will not
+be the better for that. The bailiff has invited us with our children,
+which leaves me no excuse: but I know not why, and yet I cannot help
+wishing we were safe returned.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLIX. From Fanny Anet.
+
+
+Oh sir! O my benefactor! what tidings do they order me to write to
+you! Madam----my poor mistress----good God! methinks I see already how
+frightened you are! but you cannot see the affliction we are all in
+here.----But I have not a moment to lose----I must tell you.----I
+must run----Oh that I had already told you all!----what will become of
+you, when you know our misfortune! The whole family went out yesterday
+to dine at Chillon. The baron, who was going into Savoy to spend some
+days at the castle of Blonay, went away after dinner.
+
+The company attended him a little way, and afterwards walked along the
+dyke. Mrs. Orbe and the bailiff’s lady went before with my master; my
+mistress followed, having hold by one hand of Harriot and by the other
+of Marcellin. I came after with the eldest. His honour, the bailiff,
+who had staid behind to speak to some body, came up; and joining the
+company, offered my mistress his arm; which, in order to accept of,
+she sent Marcellin to me. I ran forward to meet him while the child
+did the same towards me; but, in running, his foot slipped and he fell
+unhappily into the water. I screamed out, when my mistress, turning
+her head and seeing the child in the water, flew back in an instant
+and threw herself in after him.
+
+Unhappy that I am! why did I not throw myself in too! better had I
+been drowned on the spot! with difficulty I kept the eldest from
+leaping after its mother; who kept struggling with the other in her
+arms.----No boat, nor people were at hand, so that some time past
+before they could be got out of the water----the child soon recovered,
+but as for the mother----the fright, the fall, the condition she was
+in----ah none knows better than I the danger of such a fall! She was
+taken out and remained a good while insensible. The moment she came to
+herself, she enquired eagerly after the child----heavens! with what
+transport did she embrace him! I thought she was quite well again; but
+her spirits lasted her but for a moment: she insisted on being brought
+home, but fainted away several times during the journey. By some
+orders she gave me, I saw she believed she should not recover. Her
+fears were alas! too true! she will never recover. Mrs. Orbe is a good
+deal more altered than she. They are all distracted; I am the most
+sensible in the whole house----Why should I be uneasy? ah! my good
+mistress, if I love you, I shall never have occasion for another.----
+Oh my dear sir! may heaven enable you to support this trial! adieu!
+the physician is this moment coming out of the chamber. I must run to
+meet him----if he gives me hopes, I will let you know it. If I say
+nothing, you will know too well the cause.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLX. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+Imprudent, unfortunate man! unhappy dreamer! you will now indeed never
+see her more----the veil----Eloisa is no more.----
+
+She has herself written to you, I refer you to her letter: respect, I
+charge you, her last request. Great and many are the obligations you
+have to discharge on this side the grave.----
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLXI. From Mr. Wolmar.
+
+
+I was unwilling to interrupt the first transports of your grief: my
+writing to you would but have aggravated your sorrow, as I was no
+better qualified to relate than you to read our sad tale. At present,
+possibly, such a relation may not be disagreeable to both. As nothing
+remains but the remembrance of her, my heart takes a delight in
+recalling every token of that remembrance to my mind. You will have
+some consolation in shedding tears to her memory; but of that grand
+relief of the unfortunate I am constitutionally deprived, and am
+therefore more unhappy than you.
+
+It is not, however, of her illness, but of herself, I would write.
+Another might have thrown herself into the water to save her child.
+Such an accident, her fever, her death are natural; and may be common
+to other mortals: but the employment of her last moments, her
+conversation, her sentiments, her fortitude, all these are peculiar to
+Eloisa. She was no less singular in the hour of death than she had
+been during the whole course of her life; and as I was the sole
+witness to many particulars, you can learn them from me alone.
+
+You already know that her fright, her agitation, the fall, and the
+water she had imbibed, thew her into fainting fits, from which she did
+not recover till after she was brought home. On being carried into the
+house, she asked again for the child; the child was brought; and,
+seeing him walk about and return her caresses, she became apparently
+easy, and consented to take a little rest. Her sleep was but short,
+and as the physician was not yet come, she made us sit round on the
+bed; that is, Fanny, her cousin and me. She talked to us about her
+children, of the great diligence and care which her plan of education
+required, and of the danger of a moment’s neglect. Without making her
+illness of any great importance, she foresaw, she said, that it would
+prevent her for some time from discharging her part of that duty, and
+charged us to divide it amongst us.
+
+She enlarged on her own projects, on yours, on the most proper means
+to carry them into execution; on the observations she had made as to
+what would promote or injure them; and, in a word, on every thing
+which might enable us to supply her place, in the discharge of the
+duties of a mother, so long as she might be prevented from it herself.
+I thought so much precaution unnecessary for one who imagined she
+should be prevented from exercising such employment only for a few
+days: but what added to my apprehensions was to hear her enter into a
+long and particular charge respecting Harriot. As to her sons, she
+contented herself with what concerned their education in the earliest
+infancy, as if relying on another for the care of their youth.
+
+But in speaking of Harriot, she went farther, extending her remarks
+even to her coming-of-age; and, being sensible that nothing could
+supply the place of those reflections which her own experience
+dictated, she gave us a clear: and methodical abstract of the plan of
+education she had laid down, recommending it to the mother in the most
+lively and affecting manner.
+
+All these exhortations, respecting the education of young persons and
+the duty of mothers, mixt with frequent applications to herself, could
+not fail to render the conversation extremely interesting: I saw
+indeed that it affected her too much. In the mean time, her cousin
+held one of her hands, pressing it every now and then to her lips, and
+bathing it with tears, at every reply: Fanny was not less moved; and
+as for Eloisa herself, I observed the big tears swell out of her eyes
+and steal down her cheeks; but she was afraid to let us see she wept,
+lest it should alarm us. But I then saw, that she knew her life was
+drawing towards its final period. My only hope was that her fears
+might deceive her, and represent the danger greater than it really
+was. Unhappily, however, I knew her too well to build much upon such a
+deception. I endeavoured several times to stop her, and at last begged
+of her not to waste her spirits by talking so much at once on a
+subject which might be continued at our leisure. Ah! my dear, replied
+she, don’t you know that nothing hurts a woman so much as silence?
+and, since I find myself a little feverish, I may as well employ my
+discourse about useful matters as prattle away the time about trifles.
+
+The arrival of the physician put the whole house into a confusion,
+which it is impossible to describe. All the domestics were gathered
+about the door of the chamber, where they waited with their arms
+folded and anxious looks, to know his opinion of their mistress’s
+situation, as if their own destiny were depending. This sight threw
+poor Mrs. Orbe into such an agony of grief, that I began to be afraid
+for her senses. Under different pretences, therefore, I dismissed
+them, that their presence might no longer affect her. The physician
+gave us indeed a little hope, but in such vague terms that it served
+to convince me there was none. Eloisa was also reserved on account of
+her cousin. When the doctor left the chamber I followed him, which
+Clara was also going to do; but Eloisa detained her, and gave me a
+wink which I understood, and therefore immediately told the physician,
+that if there were any real danger he should as carefully conceal it
+from Mrs. Orbe as from the patient, lest her despair should render her
+incapable of attending her friend. He told me the case was indeed
+dangerous, but that four and twenty hours being hardly elapsed since
+the accident, it required more time to form a certain judgment; that
+the succeeding night might determine the fate of the patient; but that
+he could not positively pronounce any thing till the third day. Fanny
+alone was by, on his saying this, on whom we prevailed with some
+difficulty to stifle her emotions, and agreed upon what was proper to
+tell Mrs. Orbe and the rest of the family.
+
+Toward the evening, Eloisa prevailed with her cousin, who had sat up
+with her the preceding night, and was desirous of continuing her
+vigilance, to go to bed for some hours. In the mean time, the patient
+being informed that she was to be bled in the foot, and that the
+physician was prescribing for her, she sent for him to her bedside and
+addressed him thus.
+
+“Mr. Bouffon, when it is necessary to flatter a timid patient as to
+the danger of his case, the precaution is humane, and I approve of it;
+but it is a piece of cruelty to lavish equally on all, the
+disagreeable remedies which to many may be superfluous. Prescribe for
+me every thing that you think will be really useful, and I will
+punctually follow your prescriptions. But as to those of mere
+experiment, I beg you will excuse me: it is my body and not my mind
+which is disordered; and I am not afraid to end my days, but to
+misspend those which remain. The last moments of life are too precious
+to be thrown away. If you cannot prolong mine, therefore, I beg you
+will at least not shorten them, by preventing me from employing them
+as I ought. Either recover me entirely, or leave me; I can die alone.”
+Thus, my friend, did this woman, so mild and timid on ordinary
+occasions, know how to exert herself in a resolute and serious manner
+at this important crisis.
+
+The night was cruel and decisive. Suffocation, oppression, fainting,
+her skin dry and burning. An ardent fever tormented her, during the
+continuance of which she was heard frequently to call out _Marcellin_,
+as if to prevent his running into the water, and to pronounce also
+another name, formerly repeated on a like occasion. The next day the
+physician told me plainly, that he did not think she could live three
+days. I alone was made privy to this afflicting piece of information,
+and the most terrible hour of my life was that wherein I kept it a
+secret in my breast, without knowing what use to make of it. I strayed
+out alone into the garden, musing on the measures I ought to take; not
+without many afflicting reflections on the misfortune of being reduced
+in the last stage of life to that solitude, of which I was
+sufficiently tired, even before I had experienced a more agreeable
+one.
+
+I had promised Eloisa the night before, to tell her faithfully the
+opinion of the physician, and she had engaged me by every prevailing
+argument to keep my word. I felt that engagement on my conscience: but
+what to do, I was greatly at a loss! Shall I, said I to myself, in
+order to discharge an useless and chimerical duty, afflict her soul
+with the news, and lengthen the pangs of death? to tell her the hour
+of her dissolution, is it not in fact to anticipate the fatal moment?
+in so short an interval what will become of the desires, the hopes,
+the elements of life? shall I kill my Eloisa?
+
+Thus meditating on what I should do, I walked on with long and hasty
+strides, and in an agitation of mind I had never before experienced.
+It was not in my power to shake off the painful anxiety; it remained
+an insupportable weight on my spirits. At length I was determined by a
+sudden thought.
+
+For whose sake, said I, do I deliberate? for hers, or for mine? on
+whose principles do I reason? is it on her system or my own? What
+demonstration have I of the truth? In support of her system she also
+has nothing but opinion; but that opinion carries with it the force of
+evidence, and is in her eyes a demonstration. What right have I, in a
+matter which relates chiefly to her, to prefer my opinion, which I
+acknowledge to be doubtful, to hers which she thinks demonstrated? let
+us compare the consequences of both. According to hers, her
+disposition in the last hour of her life will decide her fate to all
+eternity. According to mine, all that I can do for her will be a
+matter of indifference in three days. According to my system, she will
+be then insensible to every thing: but if she be in the right, what a
+difference will there be! eternal happiness or misery! Perhaps----that
+word is terrible----wretch! risk thy own soul and not hers.
+
+This was the first doubt I ever had concerning that scepticism you
+have so often attacked; but it was not the last. This doubt however
+freed me from the other. I immediately resolved; and for fear my mind
+should change, ran directly to Eloisa’s chamber; where, after
+dismissing every body from their attendance, I sat down by her
+bedside. I did not make use of those trifling precautions which are
+necessary with little minds. I was indeed for some time silent; but
+she looked at me and seemed to read my thoughts. Then, holding out her
+hand, do you think, said she, you bring me news? no, my dear friend, I
+know it already; the cold hand of death is upon me; we must part for
+ever.
+
+She proceeded, and continued with me a long conversation, of which I
+may one day give you an account; and during which she engraved her
+testament on my heart. If I had indeed been ignorant of her
+disposition before, her temper of mind at this time would sufficiently
+have informed me.
+
+She asked me, if her danger was known in the house. I told her, every
+one was greatly apprehensive; but that they knew nothing for certain;
+and that the physician had acquainted me only with his opinion. On
+this she conjured me carefully to keep it a secret for the remainder
+of the day. Clara, continued she, will not be able to support this
+stroke, unless it comes from my hand. I shall take upon me that
+affecting office tonight. It is chiefly for this reason that I desired
+to have the advice of a physician, that I might not subject her
+unnecessarily, and merely on my own suggestions to so cruel a trial.
+Take care that she may know nothing of it before the time, or you will
+certainly risk the loss of a friend, and your children that of a
+mother.
+
+She then asked me after her father. I owned that I had sent an express
+to him: but took care to conceal from her, that the messenger, instead
+of contenting himself with delivering my letter, as I had ordered him,
+blundered out a story, from which my old friend, falsely collecting
+that his daughter was drowned, fell down stairs in a swoon and hurt
+himself; so that he kept his bed at Blonay. The hopes of seeing her
+father, affected her very sensibly, and the certainty I had of the
+vanity of such hope, had no small share in my uneasiness.
+
+The paroxysms of the preceding night had rendered her extremely weak:
+nor did this long conversation at all increase her strength. In this
+feeble situation, therefore, she strove to get a little sleep in the
+day time; nor did I know, till two days after, that she did not sleep
+the whole time. The family continued in great anxiety; every one
+waiting in mournful silence for each other to remove their uneasiness,
+yet, without daring to ask any questions for fear of being told more
+than they wished to know. If there were any good news, they said to
+themselves, every one would be eager enough to tell it; and the bad we
+shall know but too soon. In this terrible suspense they were satisfied
+so long as they heard of no alteration for the worse. Amidst this
+dreadful silence, Mrs. Orbe only was active and talkative. As soon as
+she came out of Eloisa’s chamber, instead of going to rest, she ran up
+and down the house, asking what the doctor said to the one, and to the
+other. She had sat up all the preceding night, and could not be
+ignorant of what she had seen; but she strove even to impose on
+herself and to distrust the evidence of her senses. Those she
+interrogated always giving her favourable answers, encouraged her to
+ask others, which she continued to do with such an air of solicitude
+and poignant distress, that whoever had known the truth could not have
+been prevailed upon to tell it her.
+
+In the presence of Eloisa she concealed her anxiety, and indeed the
+affecting object which she had before her eyes was sufficiently
+afflicting to suppress her vivacity. She was above all things
+solicitous to hide her fears from Eloisa; but she could very ill
+conceal them. Her trouble even appeared in her affectation to hide it.
+Eloisa, on her part also, spared no pains to deceive her cousin, as to
+the true state of her case. Without making light of her illness, she
+affected to speak of it as a thing that was already past, seeming
+uneasy only at the time necessary to restore her. How greatly did I
+suffer to see them mutually striving to comfort each other, while I
+knew that neither of them entertained that hope in their own breasts,
+with which each endeavoured to inspire the other.
+
+Mrs. Orbe had sat up the two preceding nights and had not been
+undressed for three days. Eloisa proposed, therefore, that she should
+retire to her own bed: but she refused. Well, then, said Eloisa, let a
+little bed be made up for you in my chamber; if, added she, as if she
+had just thought of it, you will not take part of mine? come, my dear,
+says she, what say you? I am not worse, and, if you have no objection
+you shall sleep with me. This proposal was accepted. For my part, they
+turned me out of the room, and really I stood in need of rest.
+
+I rose early the next morning; and, being anxious for what might have
+passed in the night, as soon as I heard them stirring, I went into her
+chamber. From the situation in which Mrs. Orbe appeared the preceding
+evening, I expected to find her extremely agitated. In entering the
+room, however, I saw her sitting on the settee, spiritless and pale,
+or rather of a livid complexion: her eyes heavy and dead; yet, she
+appeared calm and tranquil, but spoke little; as for Eloisa, she
+appeared less feeble than over night; the tone of her voice was
+strong, and her gesture animated; she seemed indeed to have borrowed
+the vivacity of her cousin. I could easily perceive, however, that
+this promising appearance was in a great measure the effect of her
+fever; but I remarked also in her looks that something had given her
+a secret joy which contributed to it not a little; but of which I
+could not discover the cause. The physician confirmed his former
+opinion, the patient continued also in the same sentiments, and there
+remained no hope.
+
+Being obliged to leave her for some time, I observed, in coming again
+into her apartment, that every thing appeared in great order. She had
+caused flower-pots to be placed on the chimney piece; her curtains
+were half open and tied back; the air of the room was changed, a
+grateful odour every where diffusing itself, so that no one would have
+taken it for the bed chamber of the sick. The same taste and elegance
+appeared also in her deshabille; all which gave her rather the air of
+a woman of quality, waiting to receive company, than of a country lady
+who was preparing for her last moments. She saw my surprise, smiled at
+it, and guessing my sentiments was going to speak to me, when the
+children were brought into the room. These now engaged her attention;
+and you may judge whether, finding herself ready to part from them for
+ever, her caresses were cold or moderate. I even took notice that she
+turned oftener, and with more warmth, to him who was the cause of her
+death, as if he was become more dear to her on that account.
+
+These embraces, sighs and transports were all mysterious to the poor
+children. They loved her indeed tenderly; but it was with that
+tenderness peculiar to their age. They comprehended nothing of her
+condition, of the repetition of her caresses, of her regret at never
+seeing them more: as they saw us sorrowful and affected, they wept;
+but knew nothing more. We may teach children to repeat the word death;
+but we cannot give them any idea of it: they neither fear it for
+themselves or others; they fear to suffer pain, but not to die. When
+the excess of pain drew complaints from their poor mother, they
+pierced the air with their cries; but when we talked to them of losing
+her, they seemed stupid and comprehended nothing. Harriot alone, being
+a little older than the others, and of a sex in which understanding
+and sentiment appear earlier than in the other, seemed troubled and
+frightened to see her little mamma in bed, whom she used always to see
+stirring about with her children. I remember that, on this occasion,
+Eloisa made a reflection quite in character, on the ridiculous vanity
+of Vespasian, who kept his bed so long as he was able to do any thing,
+and rose when he could do no more. [104] I know not, says she, if it
+be necessary that an emperor should die out of his bed? but this I
+know that the mother of a family should never take to her bed, unless
+to die.
+
+After having wept over the children, and taken every one of them
+apart, particularly Harriot, whom she kept sometime, and who lamented
+and sobbed grievously. She called them all three together; gave them
+her blessing, and, pointing to Mrs. Orbe, go, my children, said she,
+go, and throw yourselves at the feet of your mother: this is she whom
+Providence has given you, depriving you of nothing in taking me.
+Immediately they all ran to her, threw themselves on their knees, and,
+laying hold of her hands, called her their good mamma, their second
+mother. Clara stooped forward to embrace them, but strove in vain to
+speak; she could only utter a few broken and imperfect exclamations,
+amidst sighs and sobs that stifled her voice. Judge if Eloisa was not
+moved! the scene indeed became too affecting: for which reason I
+interrupted it.
+
+As soon as it was over, we sat down again round the bed; and, though
+the vivacity of Eloisa was a little suppressed by the foregoing scene,
+she preserved the same air of content in her looks; she talked on
+every subject with all that attention and regard which bespeaks a mind
+at ease; nothing escaped her; she was as intent on the conversation as
+if she had nothing else to think of. She proposed that we should dine
+in her chamber, that she might have as much of our company as possible
+for the short time she had to live: you may believe this proposal was
+not on our part rejected.
+
+The dinner was served up without noise, confusion or disorder, but
+with as much regularity as if it had been in the Apollo. Fanny and the
+children dined with us. Eloisa, taking notice that every one wanted an
+appetite, had the art to prevail on us to eat of almost every thing;
+one time by pretending to instruct the cook, at another by asking
+whether she might not venture to taste this or that, and then by
+recommending it to us to take care of our health, without which we
+should not be capable of doing her the service her illness required.
+In short, no mistress of a family, however solicitous to do the
+honours of her house, could in full health have shewn, even to
+strangers, more obliging, or more amiable marks of her kindness, than
+those which dying Eloisa expressed for her family. Nothing of what I
+expected happened, nothing of what really happened ever entered my
+head. In short I was lost in astonishment.
+
+After dinner, word was brought up that the clergyman was come. He came
+as a friend to the family, as he often favoured us with a visit.
+Though I had not sent for him, as Eloisa did not request it, I must
+confess to you, I was pleased to hear he was come, and imagine the
+most zealous believer could not on the same occasion have welcomed him
+with greater pleasure. His presence indeed promised the removal of
+many of my doubts, and some relief from my perplexity.
+
+You will recollect the motives for my telling her of her approaching
+end. By the effect which, according to my notions, such a shocking
+piece of information should have had on her, how could I conceive that
+which it really had? how could I imagine that a woman, so devout as
+not to pass a day, when in health, without meditation, who made the
+exercise of prayer her delight and amusement, should at such a time as
+this, when she had but two days to live; when she was just ready to
+appear before her awful judge, instead of making peace with God and
+her conscience, amuse herself in ornamenting her chamber, chatting
+with her friends, and diverting them at their meals, without ever
+dropping a word concerning God’s grace, or her own salvation? what
+could I think of her, and her real sentiments? how could I reconcile
+her conduct with the notions I had entertained of her piety? how could
+I reconcile the use she made of her last moments to what she had said
+to the physician, of their great importance? all this appeared to me
+an inexplicable enigma; for though I did not expect to find her
+practising all the hypocritical airs of the devotees, it seemed to me,
+however, high time to think of what she judged of so much importance,
+and that it should suffer no delay. If one is devout amidst the noise
+and hurry of life, how can one be otherwise at the moment we are going
+to quit it, and when there remains no longer time to think of another?
+
+These reflections led me farther than I thought I ever should proceed.
+I began to be uneasy lest my opinions, indiscreetly maintained, might
+at length have gained too much upon her belief. I had not adopted
+hers, and yet I was not willing that she should have renounced them.
+Had I been sick, I should certainly have died in my own way of
+thinking, but I was desirous that she should die also in hers. These
+contradictory notions will appear to you very extravagant; I myself do
+not find them very reasonable: they were, however, such as really
+suggested themselves, at that time. I do not undertake to justify, I
+only relate them.
+
+At length the time drew near, when my doubts were to be cleared up:
+for it was easy to see that, sooner or later, the minister would turn
+the conversation on the object of his duty; and though Eloisa had been
+capable of disguising her sentiments, it would be too difficult for
+her to do it in such a manner that a person, attentive and
+prepossessed as I was, should not see through the disguise.
+
+It soon after happened as I expected. To pass over, however, the
+commonplace compliments with which this worthy clergyman introduced
+the subject, as well as the affecting manner in which he represented
+the happiness of crowning a well-spent life by a Christian exit; he
+added, that he had indeed remembered her to have maintained opinions,
+on some points, different from those of the church, or such as may be
+most reasonably deduced from the sacred writings; but that, as she had
+never persisted in defending them, he hoped she would die, as she had
+lived, in the communion of the faithful, and acquiesce in all the
+particulars of their common confession.
+
+As Eloisa’s answer removed at once all my doubts, and differed a good
+deal from the commonplace discourses on such occasions, I shall give
+it you almost word for word; for I listened to it very attentively,
+and committed it to paper immediately after.
+
+“Permit me, sir, said she, to begin by thanking you for all the care
+you have taken to conduct me in the paths of virtue and Christianity,
+and for that complacency with which you have borne with my errors when
+I have gone astray. Filled with a due respect for your zeal, as well
+as gratitude for all your goodness, I declare with pleasure that it is
+to you I am indebted for all my good resolutions, and that you have
+always directed me to do what was right, and to believe what was true.
+
+“I have lived and I die in the protestant communion, whose maxims are
+deduced from scripture and reason; concerning which my heart hath
+always confirmed what my lips uttered; and though I may not have had
+always that docility in regard to your precepts which perhaps I ought,
+it has arisen from my aversion to all kind of hypocrisy: that which I
+could not believe, I never could profess; I have always sincerely
+sought what was most conformable to truth, and the glory of my
+Creator. I may have been deceived in my research; I have not the
+vanity to think I have always been in the right. I may, indeed, have
+been constantly in the wrong; but my intention has been invariably
+good. This was as much as was in my own power. If God did not
+vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding farther, he is too merciful
+and just to demand of me an account of what he has not committed to my
+care.
+
+“This, sir, is all I think necessary to say on the opinions I profess.
+As to the rest, let my present situation answer for me. With my head
+distracted by illness and subjected to the delirium of a fever, is it
+now a proper time to endeavour to reason better than I did when in
+health? when my understanding was unimpaired and as sound as I
+received it from my Maker,----if I was deceived then, am I less
+subject to be so now? and in my present weakness, does it depend on me
+to believe otherwise than I did when in full health and strength of
+body and mind? It is our reason which determines our belief, but mine
+has lost its best faculties; what dependence then could be made on the
+opinions I should now adopt without it? what now remains for me to do,
+is to appeal to what I believed before; for the uprightness of my
+intention is the same, though I have lost my judgment. If I am in an
+error, I am sorry for and detest it; and this is sufficient to set my
+heart at ease as to my belief.
+
+“With respect to my preparation for death; that, sir, is made; badly
+indeed I own, but it is done in the best manner I could; and at least
+much better than I can do it now. I endeavoured to discharge that
+important part of my duty before I became incapable of it. I prayed in
+health;----when I was strong, I struggled with divine grace for favour;
+at present, now I am weak, I am resigned, and rely upon it. The best
+prayers of the sick, are patience and resignation. The preparation of
+death, is a good life; I know of no other. While I conversed with you,
+while I meditated by myself, while I endeavoured to discharge the
+duties which Providence ordained for me; it was then I was preparing
+myself for death: for meeting my God and judge at my last hour. It was
+then I adored him with all my faculties and powers; what more can I
+now do, when I have lost them? is my languid soul in a condition to
+raise itself to the Almighty? this remnant of a half extinguished
+life, absorbed in pain, is it worthy of being offered up to God? no,
+sir, he leaves it me to employ it for those he taught me to love, and
+from whom it is his sovereign will that I should now depart: I am
+going to leave them to go to him, it is therefore with them I should
+now concern myself; I shall soon have nothing to do but with him
+alone: the last pleasure I take on earth shall be in doing my last
+duty; is not that to serve him, and do his will; to discharge all
+those duties which humanity enjoins me before I throw it off entirely?
+what have I to do to calm troubles which I have not? my conscience is
+not troubled: if sometimes it has accused me, it has done it more when
+I was in health than at present. It tells me now that God is more
+merciful than I am criminal; and my confidence increases as I find I
+approach nearer to him. I do not present him with an imperfect, tardy,
+or forced repentance, which, dictated by fear, can never be truly
+sincere, and is only a snare by which the false penitent is deceived.
+I do not present him with the service of the remnant and latter end of
+my days, full of pain and sorrow, a prey to sickness, grief, anxiety,
+death; and which I would not dedicate to his service till I could do
+nothing else. No, I present before him my whole life, full indeed of
+errors and faults, but exempt from the remorse of the impious, and the
+crimes of the wicked.
+
+“To what punishment can a just God condemn me? the reprobate, it is
+said, hate him. Must he not first make me not love him? no, I fear not
+to be found one of that number. O thou great eternal being! supreme
+intelligence! source of life and happiness! creator! preserver!
+father! lord of nature! God powerful and good, of whose existence I
+never doubted for a moment and under whose eye I have always delighted
+to live! I know, I rejoice that I am going to appear before thy
+throne. In a few days my soul, delivered from its earthly tabernacle,
+shall begin to pay thee more worthily that immortal homage which will
+constitute my happiness to all eternity. I look upon what I shall be,
+till that moment comes, as nothing. My body, indeed, still lives; but
+my intellectual life is at an end. I am at the end of my career, and
+am already judged from what is past. To suffer, to die, is all that I
+have now to do: and this is nature’s work. I have endeavoured to live
+in such a manner as to have no occasion to concern myself at death,
+and now it approaches, I see it without fear. Those who sleep on the
+bosom of a father, are in no fear of being awaked.”
+
+This discourse, begun in a grave and slow voice, and ending in a more
+elevated and animated tone, made on everyone present, myself not
+excepted, an impression the more lively, as the eyes of her who
+pronounced it seemed to sparkle with a supernatural fire; rays of
+light seemed to encircle her brow; and, if there be any thing in this
+world which deserves the name of celestial, it was certainly the face
+of Eloisa, while she was thus speaking.
+
+The minister himself was transported at what he heard; and, lifting up
+his hands and eyes to heaven, good God! said he, behold the worship
+that truly honours thee! deign to render it propitious; for how seldom
+do mortals offer thee the like! Madam, continued he, turning to Eloisa
+and approaching her bed, I thought to have instructed you, but have
+myself been instructed. I have nothing farther to say. You have that
+true faith, which knows how to love God. Bear with you that precious
+repose and testimony of a good conscience, and believe me it will not
+deceive you. I have seen many Christians in your situation, but never
+before saw any thing like this. What a difference between such a
+peaceful end, and that of those terrified sinners, who implore heaven
+with vain and idle prayers unworthy to be heard. Your death, madam, is
+as exemplary as your life: you have lived to exercise your charity to
+mankind, and die a martyr to maternal tenderness. Whether it please
+God to restore you to us, to serve us as an example, or whether he is
+pleased to call you to himself to crown your virtue with its due
+reward, may we all so long as we survive, live like you, and in the
+end follow your example in death; we shall then be certain of
+happiness in another life.
+
+He offered now to take his leave; but Eloisa prevailed on him to stay.
+You are one of my friends, said she to him, and one of those I take
+the greatest pleasure to see; it is for those my last moments are so
+precious. We are going to part for too long a time, to part so soon
+now. He was well pleased to stay, and I went out and left them.
+
+At my return, I found the conversation continued still on the same
+subject; but in a less interesting manner. The minister complained
+much of that false notion, which makes religion only of use to persons
+on their deathbed, and represents its ministers as men of ill omen. We
+are looked upon, says he, in common rather as the messengers of sorrow
+and death, than of the glad tidings of life and salvation: and that
+because, from the convenient opinion of the world that a quarter of an
+hour’s repentance is sufficient to efface fifty years of guilt, we are
+only welcome at such a time. We must be clothed in a mourning habit
+and affect a morose air, in short nothing is spared to render us
+dismal and terrifying. It is yet worse, in other religious
+professions. A dying roman-catholic is surrounded by objects the most
+terrifying, and is pestered with ceremonies that in a manner bury him
+alive. By the pains they take to keep the devils from him, he imagines
+he sees his chamber full of them; he dies a hundred times with fear
+before he expires, and it is in this state of horror the church
+delights to plunge the dying sinner, in order to make the greater
+advantage of his purse.
+
+Thank God, said Eloisa, that we were not brought up in those venal
+religions, which murder people to inherit their wealth, and who,
+selling heaven to the rich, would extend even to the other world that
+unjust inequality which prevails in this. I do not at all doubt that
+such mournful ideas encourage infidelity, and create a natural
+aversion for that species of worship, which adopts them. I hope,
+continued she, looking steadfastly at me, that he who may educate our
+children will adopt very different maxims: and that he will not
+represent religion to them as a mournful exercise, by continually
+setting before them the prospect of death. If they learn once but to
+live well, they will of themselves know how to die.
+
+In the continuation of this discourse, which became less affecting and
+more interrupted than I shall tell you, I fully comprehended the
+maxims of Eloisa, and the conduct at which I had been surprized. It
+appeared that, perceiving her situation quite desperate, she contrived
+only to remove that useless and mournful appearance which the fear of
+most persons when dying makes them put on. This she did either to
+divert our affliction, or to banish from her own view a spectacle so
+moving, and at the same time unnecessary. Death, said she, is of
+itself sufficiently painful! why must it be rendered hideous? the care
+which others throw away in endeavouring to prolong their lives, I will
+employ to enjoy mine to the last moment. Shall I make an hospital of
+my apartment, a scene of disgust and trouble, when my last care will
+be to assemble in it all those who are most dear to me? If I suffer
+the air to stagnate, I must banish my children or expose their health
+to danger. If I put on a frightful dress and appearance myself, I
+shall be known no longer; I shall be no longer the same person you
+will all remember to have loved, and will be able to bear me no
+more. I shall, even alive, have the frightful spectacle of horror
+before me, which I shall be to my friends when I am dead. Instead of
+this, I have discovered the art to extend my life without prolonging
+it. I exist, I love, am loved, and live till the last breath forsakes
+me. The moment of death is nothing: the natural evil is a trifle; and
+I have overcome all those of opinion.
+
+This and a good deal of similar discourse passed between the patient,
+the minister, sometimes the doctor, Fanny, and me. Mrs. Orbe was
+present all the while but never joined in the conversation. Attentive
+to the wants of her friend, she was very assiduous to serve her, when
+she wanted any assistance; the rest of the time she remained
+immoveable and almost inanimate; she kept looking at her without
+speaking, and without understanding any thing of what was said.
+
+As to myself; fearing that Eloisa would talk too much for her
+strength, I took the opportunity of the minister and physician’s
+talking to each other aside, to tell her, in her ear, that she talked
+a great deal for a sick person, and reasoned very profoundly for one
+who conceived herself incapable of reasoning. Yes, replied she, very
+low, I talk too much for a person that is sick, but not for one that
+is dying; I shall very soon have nothing more to say. With respect to
+argument, I reason no more now; I have done with it. I have often
+reflected on my last illness; I am now to profit by my reflection. I
+am no longer capable of reflecting nor resolving; I am now only able
+to talk of what I have before thought of, and to practice what I have
+formerly resolved.
+
+The remainder of the day passed away in nearly the same tranquillity,
+and almost in the same manner as if no sick person was in the house.
+Eloisa, just as in full health, calm and resigned, talked with the
+same good sense and the same spirit; putting on, now and then, an air
+of serenity approaching even to sprightliness. In short, I continued
+to observe a certain appearance of joy in her eyes, which increased my
+uneasiness, and concerning which I was determined to come to an
+explanation.
+
+I delayed it no longer than the same evening: when, seeing I had an
+inclination to be left alone with her, she told me I had prevented
+her, for that she had something to say to me. It is very well, replied
+I, but as I intimated my intention first, give me leave first to
+explain myself.
+
+Then sitting down by her and looking at her attentively, my Eloisa,
+said I, my dear Eloisa, you have wounded my very soul. Yes, continued
+I, seeing her look upon me with some surprise, I have penetrated your
+sentiments; you are glad to die, you rejoice to leave me. Reflect on
+my behaviour to you since we have lived together: have I ever deserved
+on your part so cruel a desire? at that instant she clasped both my
+hands in hers, and with a voice that thrilled my soul, who? I! said
+she, I glad to leave you! Is it thus you penetrate my sentiments? Have
+you so soon forgot our conversation of yesterday? at least,
+interrupted I, you die content----I have seen----I see it. Hold, said
+she, it is indeed true, I die content; but it is content to die, as I
+have lived, worthy the name of your wife. Ask of me no more, for I can
+tell you no more: but here, continued she, taking a folded paper from
+under her pillow, here is what will unfold to you the mystery. This
+paper was a letter which I saw was directed to you. I give it to you
+open, added she, giving it into my hands, that after having read it
+you will determine within yourself, either to send or suppress it,
+according as you think best. I desire, however, you will not read it
+till I am no more; and I am certain you will grant that request.
+
+This letter, my dear St. Preux, you will find inclosed. She who wrote
+it I well know is dead; but I can hardly bring myself to believe that
+she no longer exists.
+
+She questioned me afterwards, expressing great uneasiness, about her
+father. Is it possible, said she, that he should know his daughter to
+be in danger and she not hear from him! has any misfortune happened to
+him? or has he ceased to love me? can it be that my father, so tender
+a father, should thus abandon his child? that he should let me die
+without seeing him; without receiving his last blessing; without
+embracing him in my last moments. Good God! how bitterly will he
+reproach himself, when he comes to find that he will see me no more!
+----this reflection so extremely afflicted her, that I judged she
+would be less affected to know her father was ill than to suspect
+his indifference. I therefore determined to acquaint her with the
+truth, and in fact found her more easy than under her first
+suspicions. The thoughts of never seeing him again, however, much
+affected her. Alas! said she, what will become of him when I am
+gone? shall he live to survive his whole family! what a life of
+solitude will his be? It is impossible he should long survive! at
+this moment nature resumed its empire, and the horrors of
+approaching death were extremely perceptible. She sighed, clasped
+her hands, lifted up her eyes to heaven; and, I saw plainly,
+endeavoured to pray, with all that difficulty which she before
+observed, always attended the prayers of the sick.
+
+When it was over, she turned to me, and, complaining that she felt
+herself very weak; told me, she foresaw this would be the last time we
+should have an opportunity of conversing together. I conjure you,
+therefore, continued she, by our sacred union, in the name of those
+dear infants the pledges of our love, harbour no longer such unjust
+suspicions of your wife. Can I rejoice to leave you? you, the business
+of whose life it has been to instruct and make me happy! you, who, of
+all the men in the world, were the most capable to make me so; you,
+with whom only perhaps I could have lived within the bounds of
+discretion and virtue! no! believe me, if I could set any value upon
+life, it would be that I might spend it with you.----These words,
+pronounced with great tenderness, affected me to that degree, that as
+I pressed her hands frequently with my lips I found them wet with my
+tears. I never before thought my eyes made for weeping. These tears
+were the first I ever shed since my birth, and shall be the last till
+the hour of my death. After having wept the last for Eloisa, there is
+nothing left on earth that can draw from me a tear.
+
+This was a day of great fatigue for poor Eloisa. Her preparation of
+Mrs. Orbe in the preceding night, her interview with the children in
+the morning, that with the minister in the afternoon, together with
+the above conversation with me in the evening had quite exhausted her.
+She betook herself to rest, and slept better that night than on the
+preceding, whether on account of her lassitude, or that in fact her
+fever and paroxysms were less violent.
+
+Early the next morning, word was brought me that a stranger, very
+indifferently dressed, desired very earnestly to speak particularly to
+Eloisa: and though he was informed of her situation, he still
+continued his importunity, saying, his business related to an act of
+great charity, that he knew Mrs. Wolmar very well, and that while she
+had life remaining, she would take pleasure in exerting her
+benevolence. As Eloisa had established it as an inviolable rule that
+no person, particularly such as appeared to be in distress, should be
+turned away, the servants brought me word of the man and his request:
+on which I ordered him in. His appearance was mean to the greatest
+degree, being clothed almost in rags, and having in his air and manner
+all the symptoms of indigence. I did not observe, however, any thing
+further either in his looks or discourse to make me suspicious of him;
+though he still persisted in his resolution of telling his business to
+none but Eloisa. I told him that if it related to any remedy he might
+be possessed of, to save her life, I would give him all the recompense
+he might expect from her, without troubling her in her present
+extremity. No, sir, replied he, poor as I am, I desire not your money.
+I demand only what belongs to me, what I esteem beyond all the
+treasures on earth, what I have lost by my own folly, and what Mrs.
+Wolmar alone, to whom I owe it, can a second time restore.
+
+This discourse, though unintelligible, determined me, however, what to
+do. A designing knave might indeed have said as much, but he could
+never have said it in the same manner. He required that none of the
+servants should be present, a precaution which seemed mysterious and
+strange; I indulged him, and introduced him to Eloisa. He had said
+that he was known to Mrs. Orbe; he passed by her, however, without her
+taking notice of him, at which I was a little surprized. Eloisa
+recollected him immediately. Their meeting was extremely affecting.
+Clara, hearing a noise, came forward, and soon remembered her old
+acquaintance, nor without some tokens of joy: but these were soon
+checked by her affliction. One sentiment only engrossed her attention,
+and her heart was insensible to every thing else.
+
+It is needless, I imagine, to tell you who this person was; a thousand
+ideas will rise up in your memory and suggest it. But whilst Eloisa
+was comforting him, however, she was seized with a violent stoppage of
+her breath, and became so ill that we thought she was going to
+expire. To prevent any further surprise or distraction, at a time when
+her relief only was to be thought on, I put the man into the closet,
+and bid him lock himself in. Fanny was then called up, and after some
+time Eloisa recovered from her fit; when, looking round and seeing us
+all in a consternation about her, she said, never mind, children, this
+is only an essay; it is nothing like so painful as one would think.
+
+All was soon tranquil again; but the alarm was so great that I quite
+forgot the man in the closet, till Eloisa whispered me to know what
+was become of him. This was not, however, till dinner was served up
+and we were all sat down to table. I would have gone into the closet
+to speak to him, but he had locked the door on the inside as I had
+directed him; I was obliged, therefore, to have patience till after
+dinner.
+
+During our repast, du Boffon, who dined with us, speaking of a young
+widow who was going to marry again, made some reflections on the
+misfortunes of widows in general; to which, I replied, the fortune of
+those was still harder who were widows while their husbands were
+living. That, indeed, sir, answered Fanny, who saw this discourse was
+directed to her, is too true, especially if such husbands are beloved.
+The conversation then turned upon hers; and, as she always spoke of
+him very affectionately, it was natural for her to do so now, at a
+time when the loss of her benefactress threatened to make that of her
+husband still more severe. This indeed she did in the most affecting
+terms, commending the natural goodness of his disposition, lamenting
+the bad examples by which he had been reduced, and so sincerely
+regretting his loss that, being sufficiently disposed before to
+sorrow, she burst out into a flood of tears. At this instant the
+closet door flew open, and the poor man, rushing out, threw himself at
+her feet, embraced her knees and mingled his tears with hers. She was
+holding a glass in her hand, which immediately fell to the ground;
+while the poor creature was so affected with joy and surprise that she
+had fallen into a fit, had not proper care been instantly taken to
+prevent it.
+
+What followed is easily imagined. It was known in a moment over the
+whole house that Claud Anet was come. The husband of our good Fanny!
+what a festival! he was hardly got out of the chamber before he was
+stripped of his tatters and dressed in a decent manner. Had each of
+the servants had but two shirts a piece, Anet would soon have had as
+many as them all. They had indeed so far prevented me that, when I
+went out with a design to get him equipped, I was obliged to make use
+of my authority to make them take back the cloaths they had furnished
+him.
+
+In the mean time Fanny would not leave her mistress. In order,
+however, to give her an opportunity of an hour or two’s conversation
+with her husband, we pretended the children wanted to take an airing,
+and sent them both to take care of them.
+
+This scene did not disturb Eloisa so much as the preceding ones. There
+was nothing in it disagreeable, and it rather did her good than harm.
+Clara and I passed the afternoon with her by ourselves, and had two
+hours of calm uninterrupted conversation, which she rendered the most
+agreeable and interesting of any we had ever experienced in our lives.
+
+She opened it with some observations on the affecting scene we had
+just beheld, and which recalled strongly to her mind the times of her
+early youth. Then, following the order of events, she made a short
+recapitulation of the incidents of her life, with a view to shew that,
+taking it for all in all, she had been fortunate and happy; that she
+had risen, gradually to the highest pinnacle of earthly happiness, and
+that the accident, which now cut her off in the middle of her days,
+seemed in all appearance, according to the natural course of things,
+to mark the point of separation between the good and evil of mortal
+life.
+
+She expressed her gratitude to heaven in that it had been pleased to
+give her a susceptible and benevolent heart, a sound understanding and
+an agreeable person; in that it had been pleased to give her birth in
+a land of liberty, and not in a country of slaves; that she came of an
+honourable family and not of an ignoble or criminal race; that she was
+born to a moderate fortune, and not either to the superfluous riches
+of the great, which corrupt the mind, or to the indigence of the poor,
+which debases it. She felicitated herself that she was born of
+parents, both of them good and virtuous, replete with justice and
+honour, and who, tempering the faults of each other, had formed her
+judgment on theirs, without subjecting her to their foibles or
+prejudices. She boasted the advantages, she had enjoyed, of being
+educated in a rational and holy religion; which, so far from debasing,
+elevates and ennobles mankind; which, neither favouring impiety nor
+fanaticism, permits its professors to make use, at the same time, both
+of faith and reason, to be at once both devout and humane.
+
+Then, pressing the hand of Clara, which she constantly held in hers,
+and looking at her with the most affecting tenderness, all these
+blessings, said she, I have enjoyed in common with others; but this
+one----this, heaven reserved for me alone: I am a woman, and yet have
+known a true friend. Heaven gave us birth at the same time; it gave us
+a similarity of inclinations which has subsisted to this hour: it
+formed our hearts one for the other; it united us in the cradle; I
+have been blest with her friendship during my life, and her kind hand
+will close my eyes in death. Find another example like this in the
+world, and I have no longer any thing to boast. What prudent advice
+hath she not given me? from what perils hath she not saved me? under
+what afflictions hath she not comforted me? what should I indeed have
+been without her? what should I not have been, had I listened more
+attentively to her counsel?
+
+Clara, instead of replying, leaned her head on the breast of her
+friend, and would have stifled her sighs by her tears: but it was
+impossible. Eloisa embraced her with the most cordial affection, and
+for a long time a scene of tearless silence succeeded.
+
+When they recovered themselves, Eloisa continued her discourse. These
+blessings, said she, were mixed, with their inconveniences; such is
+the lot of humanity! My heart was made for love; difficult as to
+personal merit, but indifferent to that of opinion, it was morally
+impossible that my father’s prejudices should ever agree with my
+inclinations. My heart required a lover of its own peculiar choice.
+Such a one offered himself, I made choice of him, or rather heaven so
+directed my choice, that though a slave to passion, I should not be
+abandoned to the horrors of my guilt, and that the love of virtue
+should still keep possession of my heart, even after I was criminal.
+He made use of the specious insinuating language of virtue, by which a
+thousand base men daily seduce our sex; but perhaps he only of all
+mankind, was sincere. Did I then know his heart? ah! no. I then knew
+no more of him than his professions, and yet I was seduced. I did that
+through despair which others have done through wantonness: I even
+threw myself, as my father reproached me, into his arms; and yet he
+loved and respected me: by that respect alone I began to know him
+truly. Every man capable of such behaviour must have a noble soul.
+Then, I might safely have trusted him; but I had done that before, and
+afterwards ventured to trust in my own strength, and so was deceived.
+
+She then went on, to lavish encomiums on the merit of this unhappy
+lover; I will not say she did him more than justice, but the pleasure
+she took in it was very obvious. She even praised him at her own
+expense, and by endeavouring to be just to him, was unjust to herself.
+She went even so far as to maintain that he held adultery in greater
+horror than she did; forgetting that he himself had disproved any such
+suggestion.
+
+All the other incidents of her life were related in the same spirit.
+The behaviour of Lord B----, her husband, her children, your return,
+our friendship, every thing was set in the most favourable light. She
+recapitulated even her misfortunes with pleasure, as accidents which
+had prevented greater misfortunes. She lost her mother at a time when
+that loss was peculiarly felt; but if heaven had been pleased to spare
+her, a disturbance, fatal to the peace of her family might have been
+the consequence. The assistance of her mother, feeble as it was, would
+have been sufficient to strengthen her resolution to resist the will
+of her father, whence family discord and scandal would have arisen,
+perhaps some disaster or dishonour, and perhaps still worse if her
+brother had lived. She had married a man, against her own inclination,
+whom she did not love; and yet she maintained, that she could not have
+been so happy with any other man, not even with the object of her
+passion. The death of Mr. Orbe had deprived her of a friend in the
+husband, but had restored to her a more amiable one in the wife. She
+even went so far as to include her uneasiness, her pains, in the
+number of blessings, as they had served to prevent her heart from
+being hardened against the sufferings of others. It is unknown, said
+she, the delight of bemoaning our own misfortunes or those of others.
+A susceptible mind finds a contentment in itself, independent of
+fortune. How deeply have I not sighed! how bitterly have I not wept!
+and yet, were I to pass my life again, the evil I have committed would
+be all that I would wish retrenched; that which I have suffered would
+be again agreeable. These, St. Preux, were her own words; when you
+have read her letter, they will perhaps seem more intelligible.
+
+Thus, continued she, you see to what felicity I was arrived. I enjoyed
+a considerable share of happiness, and had still more in view. The
+increasing prosperity of my family, the virtuous education of my
+children, all that I held dear in the world assembled, or ready to be
+assembled around me. The time present and the future equally
+flattering, enjoyment and hope united to compleat my happiness. Thus
+raised to the pinnacle of earthly bliss, I could not but descend; as
+it came before it was expected, it would have taken its flight while I
+was delighted in the thoughts of its duration. What could Providence
+have done to have sustained me on the summit of felicity? a permanent
+situation is not the lot of mankind? no, when we have acquired every
+thing, we must lose something, though it were from no other cause than
+that the pleasure of enjoyment diminishes by possession. My father is
+already in the decline of life; my children of an age when life is
+very uncertain: how many losses might not hereafter assist me, without
+my having it in my power to repair, or console myself under, one! A
+mother’s affection constantly increases, whilst the tenderness of her
+offspring diminishes in proportion as they are absent, or reside at a
+distance from her. Mine, as they grow up, would be taken from me: they
+would live in the great world, and might neglect me. You intend to
+send one of them to Russia; how many tears would not his departure and
+absence cost me! all by degrees would be detached from me, and I
+should have nothing to supply their loss. How often should I find
+myself not in the situation in which I now am going to leave you! and
+after all, I must still die. Die perhaps the last of you all, alone
+and forsaken! the longer one lives, the more desirous we are of
+living, even when our enjoyments are at an end: hence I might survive
+till life became a burthen, and yet should fear to die; ’tis the
+ordinary consequence of old age. Instead of that, my last moments are
+now agreeable, and I have strength to resign myself to death, if death
+it may be called to leave behind us what we love. No, my friends, my
+children, think not that I shall leave you; I will remain with you; in
+leaving you thus united, my heart, my soul, will still reside among
+you. You will see me continually among you; you will perceive me
+perpetually near you----the time will also come when we shall be
+united again; nor shall the virtuous Wolmar himself escape me. My
+return to God speaks peace to my soul, and sweetens the bitter moment
+that approaches; it promises me for you also the same felicity. I have
+been happy, I am still happy, and am going to be so for ever; my
+happiness is determined, beyond the power of fortune, to all eternity.
+
+Just then the minister entered. Eloisa was truly the object of his
+respect and esteem; nobody knowing better than he the liveliness and
+sincerity of her belief. He was but too much affected with the
+conversation he had held with her the day before, and above all with
+the serenity and fortitude he had observed in her. He had often seen
+persons die with ostentation, but never with such calmness. Perhaps
+also to the interest he took in her situation was added a little
+curiosity to see whether such her uncommon serenity would last to the
+end. Eloisa had no occasion to change the subject of discourse to
+render it more agreeable to the character of our visitor. As her
+conversation when in health was never on frivolous topics, so now she
+continued, on her sickbed, to talk over with the same tranquillity,
+such subjects as she thought most interesting to herself and her
+friends; speaking indifferently on matters by no means indifferent in
+themselves.
+
+Thus, following the chain of her ideas relative to her notions of
+remaining with her friends, the discourse turned on the situation of
+the soul separated from the body: when she took occasion to admire the
+simplicity of such persons, who promised on their deathbeds to come
+back to their friends, and bring them news of the other world. This,
+continued she, is just as reasonable, as the stories of ghosts and
+apparitions, that are said to commit a thousand disorders, and torment
+credulous good women; as if departed spirits had lungs to scold and
+hands to fight with. [105] How is it possible for a pure spirit to act
+upon a soul inclosed in a body, and which, by virtue of its union with
+such body can perceive nothing but by means of the corporeal organs?
+this is not to be conceived. I must confess, however, I see nothing
+absurd in supposing that the soul when delivered from the body, should
+return, wander about, or perhaps reside near the persons of such as
+were dear to it in life: not indeed to inform them of its existence;
+it has no means of communicating such information; neither can it act
+on us, or perceive what we act, for want of the organs of sense
+necessary to that end; but methinks it might become acquainted with
+our thoughts and perceptions, by an immediate communication similar to
+that by which the Deity is privy to all our thoughts, and by which we
+reciprocally read the thoughts of each other, in coming face to face:
+[106] for, added she, turning to the minister, of what use can the
+senses be when there is nothing for them to do? the supreme Being is
+neither seen nor understood; he only makes himself felt, he speaks
+neither to the eyes nor the ears, but only to the heart.
+
+I understood, by the answer of the pastor and from some signs which
+passed between them, that the resurrection of the body had been one of
+the points on which they had formerly disputed. I perceived also that
+I now began to give more attention to the articles of Eloisa’s
+religion, where her faith seemed to approach the bounds of reason.
+
+She seemed to take so much pleasure in these notions that, had she not
+been predetermined to abide by her former opinions, it had been
+cruelty to endeavour to invalidate one that seemed so agreeable to her
+in her present condition. What an additional pleasure, said she, have
+I not an hundred times taken, in doing a good action, in the
+imagination that my good mother was present, and that she knew the
+heart and approved the intentions of her daughter! there is something
+so comfortable in the thoughts of living under the eyes of those who
+were dear to us, that with respect to ourselves, they can hardly be
+said to be deceased. You may judge whether Clara’s hand was not
+frequently pressed during this discourse.
+
+The minister had replied hitherto with a good deal of complacency and
+moderation; he took care, however, not to forget his profession for a
+moment, but opposed her sentiments on the business of another life. He
+told her the immensity, glory and other attributes of God, would be
+the only objects which the souls of the blessed would be employed in
+contemplating: that such sublime contemplation, would efface every
+other idea, that we should see nothing, that we should remember
+nothing, even in heaven, but that after so ravishing a prospect, every
+thing earthly would be lost in oblivion.
+
+That may well be, returned Eloisa; there is such an immense distance
+between the lowness of our thoughts and the divine essence, that we
+cannot judge what effect it may have on us, when we are in a situation
+to contemplate its beauty. But, as I have hitherto been able to reason
+only from my ideas, I must confess that I leave some persons so dear
+to me, that it would grieve me much to think I should never remember
+them more. One part of my happiness, say I, will consist in the
+testimony of a good conscience; I shall certainly remember then how I
+have acted on earth: if I remember this, I cannot forget those persons
+who were dear to me; who must be still so: to see [107] them no more
+then will be a pain to me, and pain enters not into the mansions of
+the blest. But if, after all, I am mistaken, says she, smiling, a
+mistake for a day or two will be soon at an end. I shall know, sir, in
+a short time, more on this subject than even yourself. In the mean
+time, this I am well assured of, that so long as I remember that I
+have lived on earth, so long shall I esteem those I loved there, among
+whom my worthy pastor will not have the lowest place.
+
+In this manner passed the conversation all that day, during which
+Eloisa appeared to have more ease, more hope and assurance than ever,
+seeming, in the opinion of the minister, to enjoy a foretaste of that
+happiness she was going to partake among the blessed. Never did she
+appear more tender, more amiable, in a word, more herself than at this
+time; always sensible, sentimental, possessing the fortitude of the
+philosopher and the mildness of a Christian. Nothing of affectation,
+nothing assuming or sententious escaped her; her expression always
+dictated by her sentiments with the greatest simplicity of heart. If
+sometimes she stifled the complaints which her sufferings might have
+drawn from her, it was not through affectation of a stoical
+intrepidity; but to prevent those who were about her from being
+afflicted; and when the pangs of approaching death triumphed over her
+strength, she strove not to hide her sufferings, but permitted us to
+comfort her; and when she recovered from them a little, comforted us
+in her turn. In the intervals of her pain, she was chearful, but her
+chearfulness was extremely affecting; a smile sitting frequently on
+the lip while the eye ran over with tears. To what purpose is that
+terror which permits us not to enjoy what we are going speedily to
+lose? Eloisa was even more pleasing, more amiable than when in health;
+and the last day of her life was the most glorious of all.
+
+Towards the evening she had another fit which, though not so severe
+as that in the morning, would not permit us to leave the children long
+with her. She, remarked, however, that Harriot looked changed, and
+though we accounted for it by saying she wept much and eat little, she
+said no, her illness was in the blood.
+
+Finding herself better, she would have us sup in her own chamber; the
+doctor being still with her. Fanny also, whom we always used to send
+for when we chose she should dine or sup at our table, came up unsent
+for; which Eloisa perceiving, she smiled and said, yes, child, come,
+you shall sup with me tonight; you may have your husband longer than
+you will have your mistress. Then turning to me, she said, I shall
+have no need to recommend Claud Anet to your protection. No, replied
+I, whosoever you have honoured with your benevolence needs no other
+recommendation to me.
+
+Eloisa, finding she could bear the light, had the table brought near
+the bed, and what is hardly to be conceived of one in her situation,
+she had an appetite. The physician who saw no danger in gratifying
+her, offered her a bit of chicken; which she refused, but desired a
+bit of fish, which she eat with a little bread, and said it was very
+good. While she was eating, you should have seen the looks of Mrs.
+Orbe; you should have seen, I say, for it is impossible to describe
+them. What she eat was so far from doing her harm, that she seemed the
+better for it during the remainder of the repast. She was even in such
+good humour as to take upon her to complain that we had been so long
+without wine. Bring, says she, a bottle of Spanish wine for these
+gentlemen. By the looks of the physician, she saw he expected to taste
+some genuine Spanish wine, and casting her eyes at Clara, smiled at
+the conceit. In the mean time Clara, without giving attention to that
+circumstance, looked with extreme concern, sometimes at Eloisa, and
+then on Fanny, of whom her eyes seemed to say, or ask something, which
+I could not understand.
+
+The wine did not come so soon as was expected; the valet de chambre,
+who was entrusted with the key of the cellar, having taken it away
+through mistake. On enquiry, indeed, it was found that the provision
+intended for one day had lasted five, and that the key was gone
+without any body’s perceiving the want of it, notwithstanding the
+family had sat up several nights. The physician was amazed, and for my
+part, at a loss whether I should attribute this forgetfulness to the
+concern or the sobriety of the servants, I was ashamed to make use of
+ordinary precautions with such domestics, and therefore ordered the
+door of the cellar to be broke open, and that for the future every one
+might drink at their discretion.
+
+At length a bottle was brought us, and the wine proved excellent; when
+the patient having a mind to taste it, desired some mixed with water;
+on which the doctor gave her a glass, and ordered her to drink it
+unmixed. Clara and Fanny now cast their eyes more frequently at each
+other, but with looks timid and constrained, as if they were fearful
+of saying too much.
+
+Her fasting, weakness, and ordinary way of living made the wine have a
+great effect on Eloisa. She perceived it, and said she was
+intoxicated. After having deferred it so long, said she, it was hardly
+worth while to begin to make me tipsy now, for a drunken woman is a
+most odious sight. In fact she began to prattle sensibly however as
+usual, but with more vivacity than before. It was astonishing,
+nevertheless, that her colour was not heighten’d: her eyes sparkled
+only with a fire moderated by the languor of her illness; and
+excepting her paleness she looked to be in full health. Clara’s
+emotion became now extremely visible. She cast a timid look
+alternately on Eloisa, on me, on Fanny, and above all on the
+physician; these were all expressive of so many interrogatories which
+she was desirous but fearful to make. One would have thought every
+moment that she was going to speak, but that the fear of a
+disagreeable reply prevented her: indeed her disquietude appeared at
+length so great that it seemed oppressive.
+
+Fanny, encouraged by all these signs and willing to relieve her,
+attempted to speak, but with a trembling voice, faltering out that her
+mistress seemed to have been in less pain to ay----that her last
+convulsion was not so strong as the preceding----that the evening
+seemed----and there she stopped. Clara, who trembled like a leaf while
+Fanny was speaking, now fixed her eyes on the physician, listening
+with all her attention and hardly venturing to breathe lest she should
+not perfectly understand what he was going to say.
+
+A man must have been stupid not to have guessed the meaning of all
+this. Du Boffon got up, felt the pulse of the patient, and said, here
+is neither intoxication nor fever; the pulse promises well. Clara rose
+up in a moment, and, addressing the doctor with the utmost impatience,
+would have interrogated him more particularly, but her speech failed
+her. How sir! said she----the pulse! the fever! she could say no more;
+but her eyes sparkled with impatience, and not a muscle in her face
+but indicated the most disquieting curiosity.
+
+The doctor, however, made no answer, but took up the patient’s hand
+again, examined her eyes and her tongue, and having stood silent a
+while, said, I understand you, madam; but it is impossible for me to
+say any thing positively at present, only this, that if the patient is
+in the same situation at this hour tomorrow morning I will answer for
+her life. The words had scarce dropt from his lips before Clara,
+rushing forward quick as lightening, overturned two chairs and almost
+the table to get at him, when she clung round his neck and kissed him
+a hundred times, sobbing and bathing his face with her tears. With the
+same impetuosity she took a ring of value from her finger, and put it
+forcibly on his, crying out, as well as she could, quite out of
+breath, O sir! if you do but restore her to us, it is not one life
+only you will be so happy as to save.
+
+Eloisa saw and heard this, which greatly affected her; looking on her
+friend, therefore, she thus broke out in a sorrowful and moving tone,
+cruel Clara! how you make me regret the loss of life! are you resolved
+to make me die in despair? must you be a second time prepared? these
+few words were like a clap of thunder; they immediately extinguished
+her transports, but could not quite stifle her rekindled hopes.
+
+The doctor’s reply to Mrs. Orbe was immediately known throughout the
+house, and the honest domestics already conceited their mistress half
+restored. They unanimously resolved, therefore, to make the doctor a
+present, on her recovery, to which each contributed three months
+wages, and the money was immediately put into the hands of Fanny; some
+borrowing of the others what they wanted to make up their quota of the
+sum. This agreement was made with so much eagerness and haste, that
+Eloisa heard in her bed the noise of their acclamations. Think, my
+friend, what an effect this must have had on the heart of a woman, who
+felt herself dying. She made a sign to me to come near, and whispered
+in my ear; see how they make me drink to the very bottom that bitter
+yet sweet cup of sensibility!
+
+When it was time to retire, Mrs. Orbe, who still partook of her
+cousin’s bed, called her women, to sit up that night to relieve Fanny:
+the latter however objected to the proposal, and seemingly with
+greater earnestness than she would have done, had not her husband been
+come. Mrs. Orbe persisted notwithstanding in her design, and both of
+them passed the night together in the closet. I sat up in the next
+chamber, but the hopes which the domestics entertained had so animated
+their zeal, that neither persuasions nor threats could prevail on one
+of them to go to bed that night. Thus the whole house sat up all night
+under so much impatience, that there was not one of the family who
+would not have gladly given a whole year of his life to have had it
+nine o’clock in the morning.
+
+I frequently heard them walking in her chamber, during the night,
+which did not disturb me; but toward the morning when things seem’d
+more quiet and still, I was alarmed at a low, indistinct noise that
+seemed to come from Eloisa’s room. I listened and thought I could now
+distinguish the groans of a person in extremity. I ran into the room,
+threw open the curtain, and there----O St. Preux! there I saw them
+both, those amiable friends, motionless, locked in each other’s
+embrace, the one fainted away and the other expiring. I cried out, and
+hastened to prevent or receive her last sigh; but it was too late;
+Eloisa was no more.
+
+I can give you no account of what passed for some hours afterwards;
+being ignorant of what befell myself during that time. As soon as I
+was a little recovered from my first surprise, I enquired after Mrs.
+Orbe; and learnt that the servants were obliged to carry her into her
+own chamber, where at last they were forced to confine her to prevent
+her returning into that of Eloisa; which she had several times done,
+throwing herself on the body, embracing, chasing, and kissing it in a
+kind of phrenzy, and exclaiming aloud in a thousand passionate
+expressions of fruitless despair.
+
+On entering her apartment, I found her absolutely frantic, neither
+seeing nor minding any thing, knowing nobody, but running about the
+room, and wringing her hands, sometimes muttering in a hollow voice
+some extravagant words, and at others sending forth such terrible
+shrieks as to make one shudder with horror. On the feet of the bed sat
+her woman, frightened out of her wits, not daring to breathe or stir,
+but seeking to hide herself and trembling every limb. In fact the
+convulsions, which at this time agitated the unhappy Clara, had
+something in them most terrifying. I made a sign that her woman should
+retire; fearing lest a single word of consolation, untimely offered,
+might have put her into an actual fury.
+
+I did not attempt therefore to speak to her; as she could neither have
+listened to or understood me; but observing after some time that her
+strength was quite exhausted with fatigue, I placed her on a settee;
+then sitting down by her and holding her hands, I ordered the children
+to be brought in and called them round her. Unhappily the first she
+took notice of was him that was the innocent cause of her friend’s
+death. The sight of him I could see made her tremble; her countenance
+changed, she turned away her looks from him in a kind of horror, and
+struggled to get her hands loose to push him from her. I called him
+then to me. Unfortunate boy, said I, for having been too dear to the
+one, you are become hateful to the other: it is plain their hearts
+were not in every thing alike. She was extremely angry at what I said,
+and retorted it severely; it had nevertheless its effect in the
+impression it made on her. For she immediately took the child up in
+her arms, and attempted to kiss him, but could not, and set him down
+again immediately. She did not even look upon him with the same
+pleasure as on the other, and I am very glad it is not this boy which
+is intended for her daughter.
+
+Ye susceptible minds! what would you have done in my situation? ye
+would have acted like Mrs. Orbe. After having taken care of the
+children, and of Clara, and given the necessary orders about the
+funeral, it was necessary for me to take my horse and be the sorrowful
+messenger of the heavy tidings to an unhappy father. I found him still
+in pain from his hurt, as well as greatly uneasy and troubled about
+the accident which had befallen his daughter. I left him overwhelmed
+with sorrow: with the sorrow of the aged, which breaks not out into
+external appearances, which excites neither transport nor exclamation,
+but preys inwardly and fatally on the heart. That he will never
+overcome his grief I am certain, and I can plainly foresee the last
+stroke that is wanting to compleat the misfortune of his friend. The
+next day I made all possible haste, in order to be at home early, and
+pay the last honours to the worthiest of women: but all was not yet
+over. She must be made to revive, to afflict me with the loss of her a
+second time.
+
+As I drew near my house, I saw one of my people come running out to
+meet me, who cried out from as far as he could be heard; sir, sir,
+make haste, make haste, my mistress is not dead. I could not
+comprehend what he meant; but made all the haste I could, and found
+the courtyard full of people, crying for joy and calling out aloud for
+blessings on Mrs. Wolmar. I asked the reason of all this; every one
+was transported with joy, but no body could give me a reasonable
+answer; for as to my own people their heads were absolutely turned. I
+made the best of my way therefore to Eloisa’s apartment, where I found
+more than twenty persons on their knees round the bed, with their eyes
+attentively fixed on the corpse, which, to my great surprise, I saw
+dressed out and lying on the bed: my heart fluttered, and I examined
+into her situation. But alas! she was dead and cold! This moment of
+false hope, so soon and so cruelly extinguished, was the most
+afflicting moment of my whole life. I am not apt to be choleric, but I
+found myself on this occasion extremely angry, and resolved to come at
+the bottom of this extravagant scene. But all was so disguised, so
+altered, so changed; that I had the greatest difficulty in the world
+to come at the truth. At length, however, I unravelled the mystery,
+and thus it was. My father-in-law, being alarmed at the accident he
+had heard, and thinking he could spare his valet de chambre, had sent
+him over before my arrival to learn the situation of his daughter.
+This old servant, being fatigued with riding on horseback, had taken a
+boat, and, crossing the lake in the night, arrived at Clarens the very
+morning of the day in which I returned. On his arrival he saw the
+universal consternation the house was in; and, learning the cause,
+went sobbing up to Eloisa’s apartment; where, throwing himself on his
+knees by the bedside, he wept and contemplated the features of his
+departed mistress. Then giving vent to his sorrows, he cried out, ah!
+my good mistress! ah! why did it not please God to take me instead of
+you! me, that am old, that have no connections, that can be of no more
+service on the face of the earth! but to take you, in the flower of
+youth, the pride of your family, the blessing of your house, the hope
+of the unfortunate, alas! was I present at your birth, thus to behold
+you dead!----
+
+In the midst of these and such like exclamations, which flowed from
+the goodness and sincerity of his heart, the weak old man, who kept
+his eyes still fixed on the corpse, imagined he saw it move: having
+once taken this into his head, he imagined farther that Eloisa turned
+her eyes, looked at him and made a sign to him with her head. Upon
+this he rose up in great transport and ran up and down the house,
+crying out his mistress was not dead, that she knew him, and that he
+was sure she was living and would recover. This was sufficient to call
+every body together, the servants, the neighbours, and the poor, who
+before made the air resound with their lamentations, now all as loudly
+cried out in transport; she is not dead! she lives! she lives! the
+noise spread and increased; the common people, all fond of the
+marvellous, readily propagated the news: every one easily believed
+what he wished might be true, and sought to give others pleasure by
+countenancing the general credulity. So that, in a short time, the
+deceased was reported not only to have made a motion with her head,
+but to have walked about, to have conversed, &c. more than twenty
+witnesses having had ocular proofs of circumstances that never
+happened or existed. No sooner were they possessed with the notion of
+her being alive, but a thousand efforts were made to restore her; they
+pressed in crowds about her bed, spoke to her, threw spirits in her
+face, felt for her pulse, and did every thing their foolish
+apprehensions suggested to recover her; till her women justly offended
+at seeing the body of her mistress surrounded by a number of men, got
+every body turned out of the room and soon convinced themselves how
+egregiously they had been deceived. Incapable, however, of resolving
+to put end to so agreeable an error, or perhaps still hoping for some
+miraculous event, they clothed the body with care, and though her
+wardrobe was left to them, they did not spare the richest apparel.
+After which laying her out on the bed, and leaving the curtains open,
+they returned to their tears amidst the public rejoicings of the
+multitude.
+
+I arrived in the height of this phrenzy, but when I became acquainted
+with the cause, found it impossible to bring the crowd to reason; and
+that if I had shut up my doors and had ordered the immediate burial of
+the corpse, it might have occasioned some disturbance; or that I
+should have passed, at least, for a paricide of a husband who had
+buried his wife alive, and should have been held in detestation by
+the whole country. I resolved therefore to defer the funeral. After
+six and thirty hours however, I found by the extreme heat of the
+weather, the corpse began to change, and, though the face preserved
+its features and sweetness, there seemed even there some signs of
+alteration. I mentioned it to Mrs. Orbe, who sat in a continued
+stupor, at the head of the bed. Not that she was so happy as to be the
+dupe of so gross a delusion; but she pretended to be so, that she
+might continue in the chamber, and indulge her sorrows.
+
+She understood my design, and silently withdrew. In a moment after,
+however, she returned, bringing in her hand that veil of gold tissue
+embroidered with pearls, which you brought her from the Indies: [108]
+when, coming up to the bed, she kissed the veil, and spreading it over
+the face of her deceased friend, she cried out with a shrill voice,
+“Accursed be that sacrilegious hand which shall presume to lift up
+this veil! accursed be that impious eye which shall dare to look on
+this disfigured face!” this action and imprecation had such an effect
+on the spectators, that, as if by a sudden inspiration, it was
+repeated by one and all from every quarter. Such an impression indeed
+did it make on our servants and the people in general, that the
+deceased being put into the coffin, dressed as she was, and with the
+greatest caution, was carried away and buried in the same attire,
+without any person daring to touch the veil that covered her face.
+[109]
+
+Those are certainly the most unhappy who, beside the supporting their
+own sorrows, are under the necessity of consoling others. Yet this is
+my task with my father-in-law, with Mrs. Orbe, with friends, with
+relations, with my neighbours, and with my own houshold. I could yet
+support it well enough with all but my old friend and Mrs. Orbe: but
+you must be a witness to the affliction of the latter to judge how
+much it adds to mine. So far from taking my endeavours to comfort her
+in good part, she even reproaches me for them; my solicitude offends
+her, and the coldness of my affliction but aggravates hers; she would
+have my grief be as bitter and extravagant as hers, her barbarous
+affliction would gladly see the whole world in despair. Every thing
+she says, every thing she does looks like madness; I am obliged
+therefore to put up with every thing, and am resolved not to be
+offended. In serving her who was beloved by Eloisa, I conceive I do a
+greater honour to her memory than by fruitless tears and lamentations.
+
+You will be able to judge, from one instance, of the rest of her
+behaviour. I thought I had gained my point, by engaging her to take
+care of herself, in order to be able to discharge those duties which
+her dying friend had imposed on her. Reduced very low by convulsions,
+abstinence and want of rest, she seemed at length resolved to attempt
+her usual method of living, and to come to table in the dining-room.
+The first time, however, I ordered the children to dine in the
+nursery, being unwilling to run the hazard of this essay in their
+presence: violent passions of every kind, being one of the most
+dangerous objects that can be shewn to children. For the passions when
+excessive have always something puerile and diverting to young minds,
+by which they are seduced to admire what they ought to dread.
+
+On entering the dining-room, she cast her eye on the table and saw
+covers laid for two persons only; at which she flung herself into the
+first chair that stood next her, refusing to come to table. I imagined
+I knew the reason, and ordered a third plate to be set on the table,
+at the place where her cousin used generally to sit. She then
+permitted me to lead her to her seat without reluctance, placing
+herself with great caution, and disposing her gown as if she was
+afraid to incommode the empty chair. On putting the first spoonful of
+soup to her mouth, however, she withdrew it, and asked, with a peevish
+air, what business that plate had there when no body made use of it? I
+answered, she was in the right, and had it taken away. She then strove
+to eat, but could get nothing down; by degrees her stomach swelled,
+her breath grew short, and all at once she started up and returned to
+her own chamber, without saying a word, or hearing any thing that I
+said to her, obstinately refusing every thing but tea all that day.
+
+The next day I had the same task to begin again. I now conceived the
+best way to bring her to reason was to humour her, and to endeavour to
+soften her despair by more tender sentiments. You know how much her
+daughter resembles Mrs. Wolmar; that she took a pleasure in
+heightening that resemblance, by dressing her in the same manner,
+having brought several cloaths for her from Geneva, in which she used
+to dress her like Eloisa. I ordered Harriot therefore to be dressed,
+as much in imitation of Eloisa as possible, and, after having given
+her lesson, placed her at table where Eloisa used to sit; three covers
+being laid as the day before.
+
+Clara immediately comprehended my design, and was affected, giving me
+a tender and obliging look. This was the first time she seemed
+sensible of my assiduity, and I promised myself success from the
+expedient.
+
+Harriot, proud to represent her little mamma, played her part
+extremely well; so well indeed that I observed the servants in waiting
+shed tears. She nevertheless always gave the name of mamma to her
+mother, and addressed her with proper respect. At length, encouraged
+by success and my approbation, she ventured to put her hand to the
+soup-spoon and cried, _Clara, my dear, do you chuse any of this?_ the
+gesture, tone and manner, in which she spoke this, were so exactly
+like those of Eloisa, that it made her mother tremble. A moment after,
+however, she burst into a fit of laughter, and, offering her plate,
+replied; yes child give me a little, you are a charming creature. She
+then began to eat with an eagerness that surprized me. Looking at her
+with some attention, I saw something wild in her eyes, and a greater
+impatience in her action and manner than usual. I prevented her
+therefore from eating any more, and ’twas well I did so; for, an hour
+after she was taken extremely ill with a violent surfeit, which, had
+she continued to eat more, might have been fatal. From this time I
+resolved to try no more projects of this kind, as they might affect
+her imagination too much. Sorrow is more easily cured than madness; I
+thought it better therefore to let her suffer under the one a little
+longer, than run the hazard of driving her into the other.
+
+This is the situation, my friend, in which we are at present. Since
+the baron’s return, indeed, Clara goes up every morning to his
+apartment, whether I am at home or abroad; where they generally pass
+an hour or two together. She begins also, to take a little more notice
+of the children. One of them has been sick; this accident has made her
+sensible that she has still something to lose, and has animated her
+zeal to the discharge of her duty. Yet, with all this, she is not yet
+sufficiently sorrowful; her tears have not yet begun to flow; we wait
+for you to draw them forth, for you to dry them up again. You cannot
+but understand me. Think of the last advice of Eloisa: it was indeed
+first suggested by me, and I now think it more than ever prudent and
+useful. Come and be reunited to all that remains of Eloisa. Her
+father, her friend, her husband, her children, all expect you, all
+desire your company, which cannot fail of being universally useful.
+
+In a word, without farther explanations, come, partake and cure us of
+our sorrows; I shall perhaps be more obliged to you than to any other
+man in the world.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLXII. From Eloisa.
+
+
+_This letter was inclosed in the preceding._
+
+Our projects are at an end. Circumstances, my good friend, are
+changed: let us bear it without murmuring; it is the will of
+consummate wisdom. We pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being
+reunited; such a reunion was not good for us. The goodness of
+Providence has prevented it, without doubt to prevent our misery.
+
+Long have I indulged myself in the salutary delusion, that my passion
+was extinguished; the delusion is now vanished, when it can be no
+longer useful. You imagined me cured of my love; I thought so too. Let
+us thank heaven that the deception hath lasted as long as it could be
+of service to us. In vain, alas! I endeavoured to stifle that passion
+which inspired me with life; it was impossible, it was interwoven with
+my heart-strings. It now expands itself, when it is no longer to be
+dreaded; it supports me now my strength fails me; it chears my soul
+even in death. O my friend! I can now make this confession without
+fear or shame; this involuntary sentiment has been of no prejudice to
+my virtue, it has never sullied my innocence; I have done my duty in
+all things which were in my power. If my heart was yours, it was my
+punishment, and not my crime. My virtue is unblemished, and my love
+has left behind it no remorse.
+
+I glory in my past life: but who could have answered for my future
+years? perhaps were I to live another day I should be culpable! what
+then might I not have been during whole years spent in your company?
+what dangers have I not run without knowing it? and to how much
+greater was I going to be exposed? every trial has indeed been made;
+but trials may be too often repeated. Have I not lived long enough to
+be happy and virtuous? in taking me hence, heaven deprives me of
+nothing which I ought to regret. I go, my friend, at a most favourable
+moment; satisfied with you and myself, I depart in peace.
+
+I foresee, I feel your affliction; I know too well you will be left to
+mourn; the thoughts of your sorrow cause my greatest uneasiness: but
+reflect on the consolation I leave with you. The obligations left you
+to discharge on the part of her who was so dear to you, ought to make
+it your duty to take care of yourself for her sake. You are left in
+charge with her better half. You will lose no more of Eloisa than you
+have long been deprived of. Her better part remains with you. Come and
+join her family, in the midst of whom Eloisa’s heart will still be
+found. Let every one that was dear to her unite to give her a new
+being. Your business, your pleasures, your friendship shall be her own
+work. The bonds of your union shall give her new life, nor will she
+totally expire but with the last of her friends.
+
+Think there remains for you another Eloisa, and forget not what you
+owe her. You are both going to lose the half of yourselves; unite
+therefore to preserve the other. The only method that remains for you
+to survive me, is to supply my place in my family and with my
+children. Oh that I could but invent still stronger bonds to unite
+those who are so dear to me! but reflect how much you are indebted to
+each other, and let that reflection strengthen your mutual attachment.
+Your former objections, against entering into such an engagement, will
+now become arguments for it. How can either of you ever speak of me
+without melting into tenderness? No, Eloisa and Clara shall for the
+future be so united together in your thoughts, that it shall not be in
+the power of your heart to separate them. Hers will share in every
+thing yours has felt for her friend; she will become both the
+confident and object of your passion. You will be happy in the
+enjoyment of that Eloisa who survives, without being unfaithful to her
+you shall have lost; and after so many disappointments and
+misfortunes, shall, before the age of life and love is past, burn with
+a lawful flame, and possess the happiness of an innocent passion.
+
+Secured by this chaste union, you will be at liberty to employ your
+thoughts entirely on the discharge of those duties which I have
+recommended; after which you need never be at a loss to account for
+the good you have done on earth. You know there exists also a man
+worthy of an honour, to which he durst not aspire: you know him to
+have been your deliverer, as well as the husband of your friend. Left
+alone, without connections in this life, without expectations from
+futurity, without joy, without comfort, without hope, he will soon be
+the most unfortunate of men. You owe to him the same pains he has
+taken with you, and you know the way to render them successful.
+Remember the instructions of my former letter. Pass your days with
+him. Let no one that loved me forsake him. As he restored your taste
+for virtue, so shew him the object and the value of it. Be you truly a
+Christian, to engage him to be one too; the success of the attempt is
+more probable than perhaps you imagine. He has done his duty, I will
+do mine, and you must hereafter do yours. God is just and my
+confidence in him will not deceive me.
+
+I have but a word or two more to say, concerning my children. I know
+the trouble their education will cost you; but at the same time I know
+you will not repine. In the most fatiguing moments of such employment,
+reflect that they are the children of Eloisa, and every thing will be
+easy. Mr. Wolmar will put into your hands the remarks I have made on
+your essay and on the character of my two sons. They are however
+unfinished, and I leave them to you, not as rules for your conduct,
+but submit them as hints to your judgment. Strive not to make my
+children scholars, but benevolent and honest men. Speak to them
+sometimes of their mother----you know how dear they were to her----
+tell Marcellin, I die willingly as I saved his life. Tell his brother,
+it was for him I could have wished to live. Tell their----but I find
+myself fatigued; I must put an end to this letter. In leaving my
+children with you, I part with you with less regret: for in them I
+still continue with you.
+
+Farewell, my dear friend! once more farewell. My life ends, alas! as
+it begun. Perhaps I have said too much at a time when the heart
+disguises nothing----ah! why should I be afraid to express all I feel?
+It is no longer I that speak; I am already in the arms of death.
+Before you read this letter, the worms will be preying on the features
+of your friend, and will take possession of a heart where your image
+will be found no more. But can my soul exist without you? without you,
+what happiness can I enjoy? No, we will not part----I go but to expect
+you. That virtue, which separated us on earth, will unite us for ever
+in the mansions of the blessed. I die in that peaceful hope; too happy
+to purchase, at the expense of my life, the privilege of loving you
+without a crime, and of telling you so once more.
+
+
+
+
+Letter CLXIII. From Mrs. Orbe.
+
+
+I am glad to hear that you begin to be so well recovered, as to give
+us hopes of seeing you soon here. You must, my friend, endeavour to
+get the better of your weakness and try to pass the mountains before
+the winter prevents you. The air of this country, will agree with you;
+you will see here nothing but sorrow; and perhaps our common
+affliction will be the means of soothing yours. Mine stands greatly in
+need of your assistance; for I can neither weep, nor speak, nor make
+myself understood. Mr. Wolmar indeed, understands me, but he makes me
+no answer. The affliction of an unfortunate father also is buried
+within himself; nor can any thing be conceived more cruelly
+tormenting: he neither hears, sees, nor understands any thing. Age has
+no vent for its griefs. My children affect me without knowing how to
+be affected themselves. I am solitary in the midst of company; a
+mournful silence prevails around me; and in the stupidity of my
+affliction, I speak to nobody; having but just life enough in me to
+feel the horrors of death. O come, you who partake of my loss, come
+and partake of my griefs. Come cherish my heart with your sorrow. This
+is the only consolation I can hope for; the only pleasure I can taste.
+
+But before you arrive, and inform me of your intentions relative to a
+project which I know has been mentioned to you, it is proper I should
+inform you first of mine. I am frank and ingenuous, and therefore will
+dissemble nothing. That I have loved you I confess: nay, perhaps I
+love you still, and shall always do so: but this I know not, nor
+desire to know. I am not ignorant that it is suspected, which I do not
+concern myself about. But what I have to say, and what you ought to
+observe, is this: that a man who was beloved by Eloisa, and could
+resolve to marry another woman, would, in my opinion, be so base and
+unworthy a creature, that I should think it a dishonour to call such a
+one my friend. And with respect to myself, I protest to you that the
+man, whoever he be, that shall presume to talk of love hereafter to
+me, shall never have a second opportunity as long as he lives.
+
+Think then only on the employment that awaits you, on the duties
+imposed on you, and on her to whom you engaged to discharge them. Her
+children are growing up apace, her father is insensibly wasting, her
+husband is in continual agitation of mind: in vain he strives to think
+her annihilated; his heart rebels against his reason. He speaks of
+her, he speaks to her, and sighs. Methinks I see already the repeated
+wishes of Eloisa half accomplished, and that you may put a finishing
+hand to so great a work. What a motive is here to induce both you and
+Lord B---- to repair hither. It is becoming his noble mind that our
+misfortunes have not made him change his resolution.
+
+Come then, dear and respectable friends, come and rejoin all that is
+left of Eloisa. Let us assemble all that was dear to her: let her
+spirit animate us, let her heart unite ours; let us live continually
+under her eye. I take a delight in conceiving that her amiable and
+susceptible spirit will leave its peaceful mansions to revisit ours;
+that it will take a pleasure in seeing its friends imitate her
+virtues, in hearing herself honoured by their acknowledgments, in
+seeing them kiss her tomb, and sigh at the repetition of her name. No,
+she has not yet forsaken these haunts which she used to make so
+delightful. They are still full of her. I see her in every object; I
+perceive her at every step; every hour of the day I hear her well-
+known voice. It was here she lived, here died, and here repose her
+ashes----As I go, twice a week, to the church, I cast my eye on the
+sad, revered spot----O beauty! is such thy last asylum!----sincerity!
+friendship! virtue! pleasure! innocence! all lie buried in her grave
+----I feel myself drawn as it were involuntarily to her tomb----I
+shudder as I approach----I dread to violate the hallowed earth----I
+imagine that I feel it shake and tremble under my feet----that I hear
+a plaintive voice call me from the hollow tomb----Clara! [110] where
+art thou? Clara! why dost thou not come to thy friend?----alas! her
+grave hath yet but half her ashes----it is impatient for the remainder
+of its prey----yet a little while, and it shall be satisfied!
+
+Finis.
+
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: See the 7th Plate.----The cuts are daily expected from
+Paris.]
+
+[Footnote 2: See Vol. II. p. 74.]
+
+[Footnote 3: This regards only the modern English romances.]
+
+[Footnote 4: See the letters to M. d’Alembert sur les spectacles.]
+
+[Footnote 5: Preface to Narcisse----Lettre à M. d’Alembert.]
+
+[Footnote 6 It is plain there is a chasm here, and the reader will
+find many in the course of this correspondence. Several of the letters
+are lost, others are suppressed, and some have been curtailed; but
+there appears to be nothing wanting essential to the story.]
+
+[Footnote 7: The Lady seems to have forgot what she said in the
+preceding paragraph.]
+
+[Footnote 8: Alluding to a letter which is suppressed.]
+
+[Footnote 9: Unhappy youth! not to perceive, that to suffer himself to
+be paid in gratitude, what he refused in money, was infinitely more
+criminal. Under the mask of instruction he corrupted her heart;
+instead of nourishment he gives her poison, and is thanked by a
+deluded mother for the ruin of her child. Nevertheless one may
+perceive in him a sincere love for virtue; but it is so soon
+dissipated by his passions, that with all his fine preaching, unless
+his youth may be admitted as an excuse, he is no better than a wicked
+fellow. The two lovers, however, deserve some compassion; the mother
+is chiefly in fault.]
+
+[Footnote 10: The sequel will but too well inform the reader, that
+this assertion of Eloisa’s was extremely ill grounded.]
+
+[Footnote 11: This sentiment is a very just one. Disorderly passions
+_lead_ to bad actions. But pernicious maxims corrupt the understanding,
+the very source and spring of good, and cut off the possibility of a
+return to virtue.]
+
+[Footnote 12: Titular grants are not very common in the present age,
+except those which are bought or are obtained by placemen, the most
+honourable appendage to which, that I know of, is the privilege of not
+being hanged.]
+
+[Footnote 13: In some countries, agreement in rank and fortune is held
+so far preferable to that of nature and of the heart, that an
+inequality in the former is judged sufficient to prevent or dissolve
+the most happy marriages, without any regard to the honour of the
+unfortunate lovers, who are daily made a sacrifice to such odious
+prejudices. I heard once a celebrated cause pleaded before the
+parliament at Paris, wherein the distinction of rank publicly and
+insolently opposed honesty, justice, and the conjugal vow; the
+unworthy parent, who gained his cause, disinheriting his son, because
+he refused to act the part of a villain. The fair sex are, in that
+polite country, subjected in the greatest degree to the tyranny of the
+laws. Is it to be wondered at, that they so amply avenge themselves in
+the looseness of their manners?]
+
+[Footnote 14: It appears by the sequel that these suspicions fell upon
+Lord B----, and that Clara applies them to herself.]
+
+[Footnote 15: Chimerical distinction of rank! It is an English peer
+that talks thus. Can there be any reality in all this? Reader, what
+think you of it?]
+
+[Footnote 16: This it is to entertain unreasonable prejudices in
+favour of one’s own country. I have never heard of a people, among
+whom foreigners in general are so ill received, and find so many
+obstacles to their advancement as among the English. From the peculiar
+taste of this nation, foreigners are encouraged in nothing; and by the
+form of government, they are excluded from all emoluments. We must
+agree in their favour, however, that an Englishman is never obliged to
+any person for that hospitality he churlishly refuses others. Where,
+except in London, is there to be seen any of these insolent islanders
+servilely cringing at court? In what country except their own do they
+seek to make their fortunes? They are churlish it is true, but their
+churlishness does not displease me, while it is consistent with
+justice. I think it very well they should be nothing but Englishmen;
+since they have no occasion to be men.]
+
+[Footnote 17: In imitation of Eloisa, he calls Clara, his cousin, and
+Clara, after her example, likewise calls him her friend.]
+
+[Footnote 18: Simple Eloisa! you give no proof here of yours.]
+
+[Footnote 19: The true philosophy of lovers is that of Plato; while
+the passion lasts they employ no other. A susceptible mind knows not
+how to quit this philosopher; a cold insensible reader cannot endure
+him.]
+
+[Footnote 20: Without anticipating the judgment which the reader, or,
+Eloisa may pass on the following narratives, it may not be improper to
+observe, that, if I had written them myself, though I might not have
+made them better, I should have done it in a different manner. I was
+several times going to cancel them, and substitute others written in
+my own way in their place; but I have at length ventured to insert
+them as they are. I bethought myself that a young man of four and
+twenty ought not to see things in the same light as a man of fifty,
+whom experience had too well instructed to place them in a proper
+point of view. I reflected also, that, without having played any great
+part in life, I was not however, in a situation to speak with absolute
+impartiality. Let these letters pass then as they were originally
+written. The common place remarks or trivial observations that may be
+found in them, are but small faults, and import little. But it is of
+the greatest importance to a lover of truth, that to the end of his
+life his passions should never affect the impartiality of his
+writings.]
+
+[Footnote 21: We ought, perhaps, to overlook this reasoning in a
+Swiss, who sees his own country well governed without the
+establishment of either of these professions. How can a state subsist
+without soldiers for its defence! no, every state must have defenders.
+But its members ought to be soldiers from principle, and not by
+profession. The same individuals among the Greeks and Romans were
+frequently magistrates in the city, and officers in the field; and
+never were either of those functions better served than before those
+strange prejudices took place, which now separate and dishonour them.]
+
+[Footnote 22: This reflection, whether true or false, can be extended
+only to the subalterns, and those who do not reside in Paris; for
+almost all the great and polite men in the kingdom are in the service,
+and even the court itself is military. But there is a great difference
+between the manners learned in a campaign, and those which are
+contracted by living in garrison.]
+
+[Footnote 23: Ye sweating fires, that in the furnace blaze. _A line of
+sonnet by Marini._]
+
+[Footnote 24: Provided always that no unforeseen object of pleasantry
+starts up to disturb their gravity; for in that case, it is laid hold
+of by every one in a moment, and it is impossible to recall their
+serious attention. I remember that a handful of gingerbread cakes once
+ludicrously put an end to a dramatic representation at the fair. The
+actions were indeed quadrupeds; but how many trifling things are there
+that would prove gingerbread cakes to some sort of men! it is well
+known whom Fontenelle intended to describe in his history of the
+Tyrintians.]
+
+[Footnote 25: To be afflicted at the decease of any person, betrays a
+sense of humanity, and is a sign of a good disposition, but is no
+instance of virtue; there being no moral obligation to lament even the
+death of a father. Whoever in such a case, therefore, is not really
+afflicted, ought not to affect the appearance of it; for it is more
+necessary always to avoid deceit, than to comply with custom.]
+
+[Footnote 26: Moliere ought not to be ranked here with Racine: the
+first indeed abounds with maxims and sentential observations, like all
+the others, especially in his versified pieces: but in Racine all is
+sentimental; he makes every character speak for the author, and is in
+this point truly singular among all the dramatic writers of his
+nation.]
+
+[Footnote 27: I should have but a bad opinion of the reader’s
+sagacity, who, knowing the character and situation of Eloisa, should
+think this piece of curiosity hers. It will be seen hereafter that her
+lover knew to whom to attribute it. If he could have been deceived in
+this point, he had not deserved the name of a lover.]
+
+[Footnote 28: If the reader approves of this criterion, and makes use
+of it to judge of this work, I will not appeal from his judgment,
+whatever it prove.]
+
+[Footnote 29: Freedom, ease, cleverness.]
+
+[Footnote 30: Speak for yourself, my dear philosopher, others may have
+been more happy. A coquet only, promises to every body, what she
+should reserve but for one.]
+
+[Footnote 31: Amorous imagination.]
+
+[Footnote 32: Things are changed since that time. By many
+circumstances one would suppose these letters to have been written
+above twenty years ago; but by their stile, and the manners they
+describe, one would conclude them to be of the last century.]
+
+[Footnote 33: I shall not give my opinion of this letter; but I doubt
+much, whether a judgment which allows them the qualities they despise,
+and denies them those which they value, will be pleasing to the French
+ladies.]
+
+[Footnote 34: Obliged by the tyrant to appear on the stage, he
+lamented his disgrace in some very affecting verses which justly
+irritated every honest mind against Caesar. _After having lived,_ said
+he, _sixty years with honour, I left my house this morning, a Roman
+knight, but shall return to it this evening an infamous stage-player.
+Alas! I have lived a day too long. O fortune! if it was my lot to be
+thus once disgraced, why did you not force me hither while youth and
+vigour had left me at least an agreeable person: but now, what a
+wretched object do I present to the insults of the people of Rome? a
+feeble voice, a weak body, a mere corpse an animated skeleton, which
+has nothing left of me but my name._ The entire prologue which he
+spoke on this occasion, the injustice done him by Caesar, who was
+piqued at the noble freedom with which he avenged his offended honour,
+the affront he receives at the circus, the meanness of Cicero in
+upbraiding him, with the ingenious and satirical reply of Laberius,
+are all preserved by Aulus Gellius, and compose in my opinion the most
+curious and interesting piece in his whole collection: which is, for
+the most part, a very insipid one.]
+
+[Footnote 35: They know nothing of this in Italy; the public would not
+suffer it, and thus the entertainment is subject to less expense: it
+would cost too much to be ill-served.]
+
+[Footnote 36: _Le bucheron_.]
+
+[Footnote 37: The light airs of the French music have not been
+unaptly compared to a cow’s courant, or the hobblings of a fat goose
+attempting to fly.]
+
+[Footnote 38: And why should he not omit it? have the women of these
+times any thing to do with concerns of this kind? what would become of
+us and the state? what would become of our celebrated authors, our
+illustrious academicians, if the ladies should give up the direction
+of matters of literature and business, and apply themselves only to
+the affairs of their family?]
+
+[Footnote 39: We find in the fourth part, that this feigned name was
+St. Preux.]
+
+[Footnote 40: Where did the honest Swiss learn this? women of gaiety
+have long since assumed more imperious airs. They begin by boldly
+introducing their lovers into the house, and if they permit their
+husbands to continue there, it is only while they behave towards them
+with proper respect. A woman who took pains to conceal a criminal
+intrigue, would shew that she was ashamed, and would be despised; not
+one female of spirit would take notice of her.]
+
+[Footnote 41: Mr. Richardson makes a jest of these attachments founded
+at first sight, and founded on an unaccountable congeniality of
+nature. It is easy to laugh at these attachments; but as too many of
+this kind take place, instead of entertaining ourselves with
+controverting them, would it not be better to teach us how to conquer
+them.]
+
+[Footnote 42: Admitting the analogy to be chimerical, yet it lasts as
+long as the illusion, which makes us suppose it real.]
+
+[Footnote 43: Minister of the parish.]
+
+[Footnote 44: See page 170 of the present volume.]
+
+[Footnote 45: See the first Vol. Letter 24.]
+
+[Footnote 46: No association is more common than pride and stinginess.
+We take from nature, from real pleasures, nay from the stock of
+necessaries, what we lavish upon opinion. One man adorns his palace at
+the expense of his kitchen: another prefers a fine service of plate to
+a good dinner: a third makes a sumptuous entertainment, and starves
+himself the rest of the year. When I see a side-board richly
+decorated, I expect that the wine will poison me. How often in the
+country, when we breathe the fresh morning air, are we tempted by the
+prospect of a fine garden? we rise early, and by walking gain a keen
+appetite, which makes us wish for breakfast. Perhaps the domestic is
+out of the way, or provisions are wanting, or the lady has not given
+her orders, and you are tired to death with waiting. Sometimes they
+prevent your desires, and make you a very pompous offer of every
+thing, upon condition that you accept of nothing. You must last till
+three o’clock, or breakfast with the tulips. I remember to have walked
+in a very beautiful park, which belonged to a lady, who tho’ extremely
+fond of coffee, never drank any but when it was at a very low price;
+yet she very liberally allowed her gardener a salary of a thousand
+crowns. For my part, I should chuse to have tulips less finely
+variegated, and to drink coffee whenever my appetite called for it.]
+
+[Footnote 47: A strange letter this, for the discussion of such a
+subject. Do men argue so coolly on a question of this nature, when
+they examine it on their own accounts? Is the letter a forgery, or
+does the author reason only with an intent to be refuted? what makes
+our opinion in this particular dubious, is the example of Robeck which
+he cites, and which seems to warrant his own. Robeck deliberated so
+gravely that he had patience to write a book, a large, voluminous,
+weighty, and dispassionate book; and when he had concluded, according
+to his principles, that it was lawful to put an end to our being, he
+destroyed himself with the same composure that he wrote. Let us beware
+of the prejudices of the times, and of particular countries. When
+suicide is out of fashion, we conclude that none but madmen destroy
+themselves; all the efforts of courage appear chimerical to dastardly
+minds; every one judges of others by himself. Nevertheless, how many
+instances are there, well attested, of men, in every other respect
+perfectly discreet; who, without remorse, rage, or despair, have
+quitted life for no other reason than because it was a burthen to
+them, and have died with more composure than they lived?]
+
+[Footnote 48: No, my lord, we do not put an end to misery by these
+means, but rather fill the measure of affliction, by burning asunder
+the last ties which attach us to felicity. When we regret what was
+dear to us, grief itself still attaches us to the object we lament,
+which is a state less deplorable, than to be attached to nothing.]
+
+[Footnote 49: Obligations more dear than those of friendship! is it a
+philosopher who talks thus! But this affected sophist was of an
+amorous disposition.]
+
+[Footnote 50: I do not rightly understand this: Kensington not being
+above a mile and a half from London, the noblemen who go to court, do
+not lie there; yet Lord B---- tells us, he was obliged to stay there I
+know not how many days.]
+
+[Footnote 51: What great obligation has he to her, who occasioned all
+the misfortunes of his life? Thou wretched querist! he is indebted to
+her for the honour, the virtue and peace of his beloved Eloisa: he
+owes her everything.]
+
+[Footnote 52: At Paris, they pique themselves on rendering society
+easy and commodious; and this ease is made to consist of a great
+number of rules, equally important with the above. In good company,
+every thing is regulated according to form and order. All these
+ceremonies are in and out of fashion as quick as lightening. The
+science of polite life consists in being always upon the watch, to
+seize them as they fly, to affect them, and shew that we are
+acquainted with the mode of the day.]
+
+[Footnote 53: In my Letter to M. D’Alembert, concerning the theatres,
+I have transcribed the following passage and some others; but as I was
+then preparing this edition, I thought it better to wait this
+publication till I took notice of the quotation.]
+
+[Footnote 54: I have narrowly examined into the management of great
+families, and I have found it impossible for a master who has twenty
+servants, to know whether he has one honest man among them, and not to
+mistake the greatest rascal perhaps to be that one. This alone would
+give me an aversion to riches. The rich lose one of the sweetest
+pleasures of life, the pleasure of confidence and esteem. They
+purchase all their gold at a dear rate!]
+
+[Footnote 55: Desert islands in the South sea, celebrated in Lord
+Anson’s voyage.]
+
+[Footnote 56: The mice, owls, hawks, and above all, children.]
+
+[Footnote 57: They were therefore like those fashionable little woods,
+so ridiculously twisted, that you are obliged to walk in a zig zag
+manner, and to make a _pirouette_ at every step.]
+
+[Footnote 58: I am persuaded that sometime hence, gardens will be
+furnished with nothing belonging to the country; neither plants or
+trees will be suffered to grow in them: we shall see nothing but China
+flowers, baboons, arbor work, gravel of all colours, and fine vases
+with nothing in them.]
+
+[Footnote 59: He might have enlarged on the bad taste of lopping trees
+in such a ridiculous manner, to make them shoot to the clouds, by
+taking off their fine tops, their umbrage, by draining the sap, and
+preventing their thriving. This method, it is true, supplies the
+gardeners with wood, but it robs the kingdom of it, which is not over
+stocked with it already. One would imagine that nature was different
+in France, from what it is in any other part of the world, they take
+so much pains to disfigure her. The parks are planted with nothing but
+long poles; they are like so many forests of masts, and you walk in
+the midst of woods without finding any shelter.]
+
+[Footnote 60: The sagacious Wolmar had not sufficiently reflected. Was
+he, who was so skilful in judging of men, so bad a judge of nature?
+Did he not know that if the author of nature displays his greatness in
+great things, he appears still greater in those which are small?]
+
+[Footnote 61: I do not know whether there has ever been an attempt to
+give a slight curve to these long walks, that the eye may not be able
+to reach the end of the walk, and that the opposite extremity may be
+hid from the spectator. It is true, the beauty of the prospects in
+perspective would be lost by these means; but proprietors would reap
+one advantage which they generally prize at a high rate, which is that
+of making their grounds more extensive in appearance, and in the midst
+of a starry plot thus bounded, one might think himself in a vast park.
+I am persuaded that the walk would be less tiresome, though more
+solitary; for whatever gives play to the imagination, excites ideas,
+and nourishes the mind; but gardeners are people who have no idea of
+these things. How often in a rural spot, would the pencil drop from
+their hands, as it did from Le Nostre’s in St. James’s park, if they
+knew like him what gave life to nature, and interested the beholder?]
+
+[Footnote 62: He might have added the conclusion, which is very fine,
+and as apposite to the subject.
+    _Si vedria che I lo nemici
+    Anno in seno, e si reduce
+    Nel parere a noi felici
+    Ogni lor felicita._]
+
+[Footnote 63: Mrs. Orbe was ignorant however that the first two names
+are titles of distinction in Russia; but Boyard is only that of a
+private gentleman.]
+
+[Footnote 64: The reader is not yet acquainted with this reason; but
+he is desired not to be impatient.]
+
+[Footnote 65: You women are very ridiculous, to think of rendering
+such a frivolous and fluctuating passion as that of love consistent.
+Every thing in nature is changeable, every thing is continually
+fluctuating, and yet you would inspire a constant passion! And what
+right have you to pretend that we must love you for ever, because we
+loved you yesterday? Then preserve the same face, the same age, the
+same humour; be always the same, and we will always love you, if we
+can. But when you alter continually, and require us always to love
+you, it is in fact desiring us every minute not to love you; it is not
+seeking for constant minds, but looking out for such as are as fickle
+as your own.]
+
+[Footnote 66: A bird of passage on the lake of Geneva, which is not
+good to eat.]
+
+[Footnote 67: Different sorts of birds on the lake of Geneva, and very
+good to eat.]
+
+[Footnote 68: These mountains are so high, that half an hour after
+sun-set, its rays still gild the tops of them, and the reflection of
+red on those white summits, forms a beautiful roseate colour, which
+may be perceived at a great distance.]
+
+[Footnote 69: The snipe on the lake of Geneva is not the bird called
+by that name in France. The more lively and animated chirping of the
+former, gives an air of life and freshness to the lake at night, which
+renders its banks still more delightful.]
+
+[Footnote 70: This letter appears to have been written before the
+receipt of the preceding.]
+
+[Footnote 71: Not that this philosophical age has not produced one
+true philosopher. I know one, I must confess, and but one; but the
+happiest circumstance is, that he resides in my native country. Shall
+I venture publicly to name him, whose honour it is to have remained
+unknown? Yes, learned and modest Abauzit, let your sublime simplicity
+forgive my zeal, which, to say truth, hath not your name for its
+object. No, it is not you I would make known in an age unworthy to
+admire you; it is Geneva I would honour, by making it known as the
+place of your residence. It is my fellow citizens who are honoured by
+your presence. Happy the country, where the merit that conceals
+itself, is by so much the more esteemed. Happy the people, among whom
+presumptuous and forward youth is ashamed of its dogmatic insolence,
+and blushes at its vain knowledge before the learned ignorance of age.
+Venerable and virtuous old man! you have never been praised by
+babbling wits; no noisy academician has written your elogium. Instead
+of depositing all your wisdom in books, you have displayed it in your
+life, as an example to the country you have deigned to make the object
+of your esteem. You have lived like Socrates; but he died by the hands
+of his fellow citizens, while you are cherished by yours.]
+
+[Footnote 72: The letter here alluded to is not inserted in this
+collection. The reason of it, will be seen hereafter.]
+
+[Footnote 73: There is near Clarens a village called Moutru, the right
+of common to which is sufficient to maintain the inhabitants, though
+they had not a foot of land of their own. For which reason, the
+freedom of that village is almost as difficult to be obtained as that
+of Berne. It is a great pity that some honest magistrate is not
+appointed to make these burghers a little more sociable, or their
+burghership less dear.]
+
+[Footnote 74: Man, perverted from his first state of simplicity,
+becomes so stupid that he even knows not what to desire. His wishes
+always tend to wealth and never to happiness.]
+
+[Footnote 75: To give to beggars, say some people, is to raise a
+nursery of thieves: though it is, on the contrary, to prevent their
+becoming such. I allow that the poor ought not to be encouraged to
+turn beggars; but, when once they are so, they ought to be supported,
+lest they should turn robbers. Nothing induces people to change their
+profession so much as their not being able to live by it: now those,
+who have once experienced the lazy life of a beggar, get such an
+aversion to work that they had rather go upon the highway, at the
+hazard of their necks, than betake themselves again to labour. A
+farthing is soon asked for and soon refused; but twenty farthings
+might provide a supper for a poor man, whom twenty refusals might
+exasperate to despair: and who is there who would ever refuse so
+slight a gift, if he reflected that he might thereby be the means of
+saving two men, the one from theft, and perhaps the other from being
+murdered? I have somewhere read that beggars are a kind of vermin,
+that hang about the wealthy. It is natural for children to cling about
+their parents; but the rich, like cruel parents, disown theirs, and
+leave them to be maintained by each other.]
+
+[Footnote 76: And that it does so, appears to me indisputable. There
+is true magnificence in the proportion and symmetry of the parts of a
+great palace; but there is none in a confused heap of irregular
+buildings. There is a magnificence in the uniformity of a regiment in
+battalia; but none in the crowd of people, that stand gazing on them,
+although perhaps there is not a man among them whose apparel is not of
+more value than those of any individual soldier. In a word,
+magnificence is nothing more than a grand scene of regularity, whence
+it comes to pass that, of all sights imaginable, the most magnificent
+are those of nature.]
+
+[Footnote 77: The noise of people in a house of distinction
+continually disturbs the quiet of the master of it. It is impossible
+for him to conceal any thing from so many Arguses. A crowd of
+creditors make him pay dear for that of his admirers. His apartments
+are generally so large and splendid, that he is obliged to betake
+himself to a closet that he may sleep at ease, and his monkey is often
+better lodged than himself. If he would dine, it depends on his cook
+and not on his appetite; if he would go abroad, he lies at the mercy
+of his horses. A thousand embarrassments stop him in the streets; he
+is impatient to be where he is going, but knows not the use of his
+legs. His mistress expects him, but the dirty pavement frightens him,
+and the weight of his laced coat oppresses him, so that he cannot walk
+twenty paces. Hence he loses, indeed, the opportunity of seeing his
+mistress; but he is well repaid by the by-standers for the
+disappointment, every one remarking his equipage, admiring it, and
+saying aloud to the next person, There goes Mr. Such-a-one!]
+
+[Footnote 78: Locke himself, the sagacious Locke, has forgot it,
+instructing us rather in the things we ought to require of our
+children, than in the means.]
+
+[Footnote 79: This doctrine, so true in itself, surprizes me as
+adopted by Mr. Wolmar; the reason of it will be seen presently.]
+
+[Footnote 80: If there ever was a man upon earth made happy by his
+vanity, it is past a doubt, that he was a fool.]
+
+[Footnote 81: Here appears to be some little mistake. Nothing is so
+useful to the judgment as memory: it is true, however, that it is not
+the remembrance of words.]
+
+[Footnote 82: The translator cannot help observing that it was
+extraordinary in Mr. Rousseau to put such a false, ridiculous,
+assertion in the mouth of an Englishman.]
+
+[Footnote 83: God forbid, that I should give a sanction to assertions
+so rash and severe; I insinuate only, that there are people who make
+such assertions; and for whose indiscretion, the conduct of the clergy
+in every country and of all religions, often give but too much
+occasion. So far am I, however, from intending meanly to screen myself
+by this note, that my real opinion on this subject is, that no true
+believer can be a persecutor and an enemy to toleration. If I were a
+magistrate, and the law inflicted death on atheists, I would begin to
+put it in execution, by burning the first man that should come to
+accuse and prosecute another.]
+
+[Footnote 84: How! Will the deity take up with only the refuse of his
+creatures? not so; all the love the human heart can possess for
+created beings is so little, that when they think it is replete, it is
+yet vacant; an infinite object only can possess it entirely.]
+
+[Footnote 85: It is certain, the mind must be fatigued by the unequal
+talk of contemplating the deity. Such ideas are too sensible for the
+vulgar, who require a more sensible object of devotion. Are the
+Catholics to blame, then, in filling their legends, their calendars,
+and their churches with little angels, cherubs, and handsome saints?
+The infant Jesus, in the arms of his modest and beautiful mother, is
+one of the most affecting, and, at the same time, the most agreeable
+spectacles that Christian devotion can present to the view of the
+faithful.]
+
+[Footnote 86: How much more natural is this humane sentiment, than the
+horrid zeal of persecutors, always employed in tormenting the
+unbeliever, as if, to damn him in this life, they themselves were the
+fore-runners of devils? I shall ever continue to repeat it; a
+persecutor of others cannot be a believer himself.]
+
+[Footnote 87: There is here a long letter wanting, from Lord B---- to
+Eloisa. It is mentioned in the sequel; but, for particular reasons, I
+was obliged to suppress it.]
+
+[Footnote 88: Hunting indeed might be added. But this exercise is now
+made so commodious, that there is not half the fatigue or pleasure in
+it there used to be. But I shall not here treat of this subject, which
+would furnish too much matter to be inserted in a note: I may take
+occasion, perhaps, to speak of it elsewhere.]
+
+[Footnote 89: The vintage is very late in this country; because the
+principal crop is of white wines; to which the frost is of service.]
+
+[Footnote 90: This will be better understood by the following extract
+of a letter from Eloisa, not inserted in this collection. This, says
+Mr. Wolmar, taking me aside, is the second proof I intended to put him
+to, if he had not paid great respect to your father, I should have
+mistrusted him. But, said I, how shall we reconcile that respect to
+the antipathy that subsists between them? It subsists no longer,
+replied he. Your father’s prejudices have done St. Preux all the harm
+they could; he has no farther reason to fear them, he is not angry at
+your father, but pities him. The baron, on his side, is no longer
+jealous of St. Preux; he has a good heart; is sensible he has injured
+him, and is sorry for it. I see they will do very well together, and
+will for the future see each other with pleasure. From this moment
+therefore I shall put an entire confidence in him.]
+
+[Footnote 91: In Switzerland they drink a great deal of bitter wine;
+and in general, as the herbs of the Alps have more virtue than the
+plants of other countries, they make great use of infusions.]
+
+[Footnote 92: If hence arises a kind of equality not less agreeable to
+those who descend, than to those who are elevated, does it not follow,
+that all conditions of life are in themselves almost indifferent,
+since people are not always confined to them? Beggars are unhappy,
+because they are always beggars; kings are miserable, because they are
+always kings. People in a middling condition are the happiest, because
+they can easier vary their circumstances, to enjoy the pleasures of
+those above or those below them. They are also more intelligent,
+because they have an opportunity of knowing more of the prejudices of
+mankind and of comparing them with each other. This seems to me the
+principal reason why, generally speaking, people of a middling
+station in life are the most happy and are persons of the best sense.]
+
+[Footnote 93: For the better understanding this letter, the reader
+should have been made acquainted with the adventures of Lord B----,
+which at first I had indeed some notion of inserting in this
+collection. But, on second thought, I could not resolve to spoil the
+simplicity of this history of the two lovers, with the romance of his.
+It is better to leave something to the reader’s imagination.]
+
+[Footnote 94: By a letter not published in this collection, it appears
+that Lord B---- was of opinion, that the souls of the wicked are
+annihilated in death.]
+
+[Footnote 95: At present they do not take the trouble to seek the
+vices of foreigners: the latter are ready enough to bring them.]
+
+[Footnote 96: It is to be remembered that these letters were written
+some years ago, a circumstance, I am afraid, that will be often
+suggested to the reader.]
+
+[Footnote 97: Some men are continent without having any merit in it,
+others are so through virtue, and I doubt not there are many Romish
+priests in the latter situation: but to impose a state of celibacy on
+so numerous a body of men as the clergy of that church, it is not to
+bid them abstain from women, but to be content with the wives of other
+men. I am really surprized that in countries where morals are held in
+any esteem, the legislature should tolerate such scandalous
+engagements.]
+
+[Footnote 98: This is a direct contradiction to what he asserted
+before. The poor philosopher seems to be in a droll dilemma between
+two pretty women. One might be apt to think he chose to make love to
+neither, that he might the better love them both.]
+
+[Footnote 99: St. Preux supposes moral conscience to depend on
+sentiment not on judgment, which is contrary to the opinion of the
+philosophers. I am apt to think however that he is in the right.]
+
+[Footnote 100: This is not the matter in dispute. It is to know
+whether the will be determined without a cause, or what is the cause
+that determines the will.]
+
+[Footnote 101: Our gallant philosopher having imitated Abelard in his
+practice, seems desirous also of adopting his principles. Their notion
+of prayer being a good deal alike.]
+
+[Footnote 102: A sort of enthusiasts that take it into their heads to
+follow the gospel strictly according to the letter; in the manner of
+the Methodists in England the Moravians in Germany, and the Jansenists
+in France; excepting, however, that the latter want only to be masters
+to be more severe and persecuting than their enemies.]
+
+[Footnote 103: Hence it is that every sovereign who aspires to be
+despotic, aspires to the honour of being miserable. In every kingdom
+in the world, would you see the man who is the most unhappy of all his
+countrymen, go directly to the sovereign, particularly if he be an
+absolute monarch.]
+
+[Footnote 104: This is not quite exact. Suetonius tells us that
+Vespasian employed himself as usual, and gave audience on his
+deathbed: but perhaps he had done better to have risen to give
+audience, and to have gone to bed again to die. This I know, that
+Vespasian, if not a great man, was at least a great prince; but it is
+not a time to put on the comedian at the hour of death.]
+
+[Footnote 105: Plato says, that the souls of the just, who have
+contracted no uncleanness on earth, disengage themselves by death of
+all matter, and recover their original purity. But as to the souls of
+those who have indulged themselves in filthy and vicious passions,
+they do not soon recover that purity, but drag along with them certain
+terrestrial particles, that confine them, as it were, to hover about
+the receptacles of their bodies. Hence, says he, are seen those
+apparitions, which sometimes haunt burial places, etc. in expectation
+of new transmigrations,----It is a madness common to philosophers in
+all ages, to deny the existence of what is real, and to puzzle their
+brains to explain what is only imaginary.]
+
+[Footnote 106: This seems to me to be well expressed; for what can it
+be to meet the Deity face to face, but to be able to read the supreme
+intelligence.]
+
+[Footnote 107: It is easy to understand that, by the word _see_, is
+here meant purely an act of the intellect, such as that whereby we are
+said to see the Deity, and the Deity to see us. We cannot perceive the
+immediate communication of spirits: but we can conceive it very well;
+and better, in my opinion, than the communication of motion between
+bodies.]
+
+[Footnote 108: It is clearly to be seen that the dream of St. Preux,
+of which Mrs. Orbe’s imagination was constantly full, suggested the
+expedient of the veil. I conceive also that if we examine into matters
+of this kind strictly, we shall find the same relation between many
+predictions and their accomplishment. Events are not always predicted
+because they are to happen; but they happen because they were
+predicted.]
+
+[Footnote 109: The people of this country, though protestants, are
+extremely superstitious.]
+
+[Footnote 110: After having read these letters several times over, I
+think I have discovered the reason why the interest, which I imagine
+every well-disposed reader will take in them, though perhaps not very
+great, is yet agreeable: and this is, because, little as it may prove,
+it is not excited by villainies or crimes, nor mixed with the
+disagreeable sensations of hatred. I cannot conceive what pleasure it
+can give a writer, to imagine and describe the character of a villain;
+to put himself in his situation as often as he represents his actions,
+or to set them in the most flattering point of view. For my part, I
+greatly pity the authors of many of our tragedies, so full of
+wickedness and horror, who spend their lives in making characters act
+and speak, which one cannot see or hear without shuddering. It would
+be to me a terrible misfortune to be condemned to such labour; nor can
+I think but that those who do it for amusement must be violently
+zealous for the amusement of the public. I admire their genius and
+talents; but I thank God, that he has not bestowed such talents upon
+me.----]
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber’s Note
+
+
+This e-book is based on the text of the second London edition of
+William Kenrick’s translation of Rousseau’s novel. The second London
+edition was printed for R. Griffiths, T. Becket, and P.A. De Hondt in
+1761. I accessed this version of the text via Gale Cengage’s
+Eighteenth-Century Collections Online (ECCO) database. The document is
+used with their permission.
+
+When preparing this edition for e-publication, I retained original
+spellings and only intervened in particular circumstances. These
+include silently regularizing spellings that shifted over the course
+of the text (i.e. D’Etange replaced D’ Etange and d’Etange; Valaisian
+replaced Valaisan, Valiasan, entire replaced a combination of
+entire and intire, phrenzy replaced a combination of phrensy, phrenzy,
+and frenzy, farewell replaced a combination of farewel and farewell,
+etc). In all instances, I used the spelling that was more frequently
+featured in the text. I also silently corrected obvious printer's
+errors, including misnumbered letters (i.e. two letters in a row
+mislabeled as letter CVI).
+
+In accordance with Project Gutenberg policy, eighteenth-century verb
+conventions (exprest instead of expressed) and spelling (risque
+instead of risk) have been retained.
+
+In the original text, em dashes vary significantly in length as was
+usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders
+all em dashes as follows: ----
+
+In the original text, ellipses vary significantly in length as was
+usual in eighteenth-century literature. This digital edition renders
+all ellipses s follows: ...
+
+Rousseau frequently includes Italian and Latin quotes as well as
+occasional French turns of phrase. These are not translated in this
+edition. Stewart and Vaché’s modern translation of Rousseau’s original
+French text includes translations of most of these sources as well as
+excellent scholarly notes. See _Julie, or the New Heloise_, trans.
+Philip Stewart and Jean Vaché (University Press of New England, 1997).
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76639 ***