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.