Volume II

Letter LXXIV. From Lord B---- To Eloisa.

Now, charming Eloisa, we gain our point: a lucky mistake of our friend

hath brought him to reason. The shame of finding himself a moment in

the wrong has dissipated his phrenzy, and rendered him so tractable

that we may manage him for the future as we please. It is with

pleasure I see the fault with which he reproaches himself, attended

rather with contrition than anger; and I know how highly he esteems

me, from that humility and confusion he seems to feel when I am

present; but without affection or constraint. His sensibility of the

injury he has done me disarms my resentment. When the offender thus

acknowledges his crime, he reaps more honour by such a reparation of

his fault, than the offended in bestowing him a pardon. I have taken

the advantage of this change, and the effect it has produced, to enter

into some necessary measures with him before my departure, which I now

cannot defer much longer. As I purpose to return the approaching

summer, we have agreed that he shall go to wait for me at Paris, from

whence we shall proceed together to England.

London is the most extensive theatre in the world for the display of

great talents. [16] Those of our friend are in many respects of the

first rank; and I despair not of seeing him, with some little

assistance, soon strike out something in his way to fortune, worthy of

his merit. I will be more explicit as to my intentions when I see you;

in the mean time, you will readily conceive the importance of his

success may encourage him to surmount many difficulties, and that

there are various modes of distinction which may compensate for

inferiority of birth, even in the opinion of your father. This appears

to me the only expedient that remains to be tried, in order to effect

your mutual happiness, since prejudice and fortune have deprived you

of all others.

I have written for Regianino to come post hither, and to remain with

me during the eight or ten days I shall yet stay with our friend. He

is too deeply afflicted to admit of much conversation: music will

serve to fill up the vacant hours of silence, indulge his reveries,

and sooth his grief by degrees into a peaceful melancholy. I wait only

to see him in such a temper of mind to leave him to himself; and

before that, I dare not trust him. As for Regianino, I will leave him

with you as I pass by, and shall not take him from you again till I

return from Italy; by which time, I imagine, from the progress you

have both already made, his assistance will be unnecessary. Just at

present he is certainly useless to Eloisa, and I deprive her of

nothing by detaining him here for a few days.

Letter LXXV. To Clara.

Ah, why do I live to open my eyes on my own unworthiness! O that I had

for ever closed them, rather than thus to look on the disgrace into

which I am fallen; rather than to find myself the most abject, after

having been the most fortunate of men! generous and amiable friend, to

whose care I have been so often obliged, still let me pour my

complaints into your compassionate heart; still let me implore your

assistance, sensible and ashamed as I am of my own demerits: abandoned

by myself, it is to you I fly for consolation. Heavens! how can it be

that a man so contemptible should ever be beloved by her; or that a

passion for so divine an object should not have refined my soul: let

her now blush at her choice, she whose name I am no longer worthy to

repeat. Let her sigh to see her image profan’d by dwelling in a heart

so abject and mean. What hatred and disdain doth she not owe a wretch,

that, inspired by love, could be yet servile and base! you shall know,

my charming [17] cousin, the cause of my disgrace: you shall know my

crime and penitence. Be you my judge, and let me perish by your

sentence; or be my advocate, and let the adorable object on whom

depended the past, conduct my future fortune.

I will say nothing of the effect which so unexpected a separation had

on me: I will say nothing of the excess of my grief, or the

extravagance of my despair; you will judge of them too well from the

unaccountable behaviour into which they betrayed me. The more sensible

I grew of the misery of my situation, the less I conceived it possible

for me voluntarily to give up Eloisa; and the bitterness of this

reflection, joined to the amazing generosity of Lord B----, awaked

suspicions, on which I shall never reflect without horror, and which I

can never forget without ingratitude to the friend whose generosity

could forgive them.

Revolving in my phrenzy the several circumstances attending my

departure, I imagined I discovered it to be a premeditated scheme,

which I rashly attributed to the most virtuous of mortals. That

dreadful suspicion no sooner suggested itself than every circumstance

appeared to confirm it. My lord’s conversation with the Baron

D’Etange, and his peremptory manner, which I took to be affected, the

quarrel which ensued. Eloisa’s being forbid to see me, and their

resolution to send me away, the diligence and secrecy of the

preparations made for my departure, his lordship’s discourse with me

the preceding evening; in short, the rapidity with which I was rather

forced than conducted hither: all these circumstances seemed to prove

that my lord had formed a scheme to separate me from Eloisa; and

lastly, his intended return assured me that I had discovered his

designs. I resolved, however, to get more particular information

before I broke with him; and with this design set myself to examine

the matter with attention. But every thing conspired to increase my

ridiculous suspicions; all his generous and humane actions in my

favour, were converted by my jealousy into so many instances of his

perfidy. I knew that he wrote to Eloisa from Besançon, without

communicating to me the contents of his letter, or giving me the least

hint. I thought myself therefore sufficiently assured of the truth of

what I suspected, and waited only for his receiving answer to his

letter, which, I hoped, might be disagreeable, to come to the

explanation I meditated.

Last night we returned home pretty late, and I knew he had received a

packet from Switzerland, of which however he took no notice when we

retired. I let him have time to open it, and heard him from my

apartment reading in a low voice; I listened attentively and overheard

him thus exclaim to himself, in broken sentences, Alas, Eloisa! I

strove to render you happy----honoured your virtues,----but I

grieve at your delusion.----At these and other similar exclamations,

which I distinctly heard, I was no longer master of myself; I snatched

up my sword, and taking it under my arm, forced open the door, and

rushed like a madman into his chamber; but I will not soil my paper,

nor offend your delicacy with the injurious expressions my rage

dictated, to urge him to fight me on the spot.

Here, my dear cousin, I must confess to have seen the most

extraordinary instance of the influence of true wisdom, even over the

most susceptible mind, when we listen to her dictates. At first he

could not comprehend whence arose my disorder, and took it for a real

delirium. But the perfidy of which I accused him, the secret designs

with which I reproached him, Eloisa’s letter which he held in his

hand, and which I incessantly mentioned, at length discovered the

cause of my anger. He smiled, and said to me coldly, you are certainly

out of your senses; do you think me so void of discretion as to fight

with a madman? open your eyes, inconsiderate man, he said, with a

milder tone, is it me that you accuse of betraying you? Something, I

know not what, in his voice and manner of speaking, struck me

immediately with a sense of his innocence and my own folly. His

reproof sunk into my heart, and I had no sooner met his looks than my

suspicions vanished, and I began to think with horror on the

extravagance I had committed. He perceived immediately this change of

sentiment, and taking me by the hand, ’tis well, says he, but if you

had not recollected yourself before my justification, I would never

have seen you more. As it is, and you have recovered your reason, read

that letter, and know for once your friends. I would now have been

excused from reading it, but the ascendant, which so many advantages

had given him over me, made him insist on it with an air of authority;

and, though my suspicions were vanished, I secretly wished to see it.

Think what a situation I was in, on reading a letter that informed me

of the unparalleled obligations I was under, to a man I had so

unworthily treated. I threw myself immediately at his feet, struck

with admiration, affliction and shame: I embraced his knees with the

utmost humiliation and concern, but could not utter a word. He

received my penitence in the same manner as he did the outrage I had

committed; and exacted no other recompense for the pardon he granted,

than my promise that I would never more oppose his designs to serve

me. Yes, he shall act for the future as he pleases: his sublime

generosity is more than human, and it is as impossible to refuse his

favours as it is to withstand the benevolence of the deity.

He gave afterwards two letters out of the packet, addressed to me, and

which he would not deliver before he had read his own, that he might

be made acquainted with the resolution of your cousin. In perusing

them I found what a mistress and friend heaven had bestowed on me: I

saw how it had connected me with the most perfect patterns of

generosity and virtue, to render my remorse the more keen, and

meanness contemptible. Say, who is that matchless fair, whose beauty

is her least perfection; who, like the divinity, makes herself equally

adored for the dispensation of good and evil. It is Eloisa; she has

undone me; yet cruel as she is, I love and admire her but the more.

The more unhappy she makes me, the more perfect she appears; and every

pain she gives, is a new instance of her perfection. The sacrifice she

has made to _nature_ both afflicts and charms me; it enhances even the

value of that which she made to _love_. No, my Eloisa can make no

refusal that is not of equal value to what she bestows. And you, my

charming, my truly deserving cousin, the only perfect model of

friendship your sex can boast, an instance which minds, not formed

like yours, will never believe real: tell not me of philosophy, I

despise its vain parade of idle terms; I despise that phantom of

wisdom which teaches us to brave the passions at a distance, but

flies, and leaves us a prey to them the moment they approach. Abandon

me not, Clara, to a distracted mind; withdraw not your wonted kindness

from a wretch, who, though he deserves it no longer, desires it more

ardently, and stands more in need of it, than ever. Assist me to

recover my former self, and let your gentle counsel supply the

dictates of reason to my afflicted heart.

I will yet hope I am not fallen into irretrievable disgrace. I feel

that pure and sacred flame I once cherished, rekindle within me. The

sublime examples before me shall not be given in vain. The virtues

which I love and admire I will imitate. Yes, divine Eloisa! I will yet

do honour to thy choice; and, you, my friends, whose esteem I am

determined to regain, my awakened soul shall gather new strength and

life from yours. Chaste love and sacred friendship shall restore that

constancy of mind, of which a cowardly despair had deprived me; the

pure sensations of my heart shall supply the place of wisdom: you

shall make me every thing I ought to be, and I will compel you to

forget my fall, in consideration of my endeavours to rise. I know not,

neither do I desire to know, the future lot which providence assigns

me; be it what it will, I will render myself worthy of that which I

have already enjoyed. The image of Eloisa, never to be erazed from my

mind, shall be my shield, and render my soul invulnerable. I have

lived long enough for my own happiness, I will now live to her

honour. Oh, that I could but live so supremely virtuous, that the

admiring world should say, how could he do less who was loved by

Eloisa?

P. S. From ties abhorred _and perhaps inevitable!_ what is the meaning

of those words? they are in Eloisa’s letter. Clara, I am attentive to

every, the minutest circumstance; I am resigned to fortune: but those

words,----whatever may happen, I will never leave this place till I

have an explanation of those words.

Letter LXXVI. From Eloisa.

Can it be that my soul has not excluded all delight, and that a sense

of joy yet penetrates my heart? alas! I conceived it insensible to any

thing but sorrow: I thought I should do nothing but suffer, when you

left me, and that absence had no consolations; your letter to my

cousin has undeceived me; I have read and bath’d it with tears of

compassion. It has shed a sweet refreshing dew o’er a drooping heart,

dried up with vexation and sorrow. The peaceful serenity it has caused

in my soul convinces me of the ascendant you hold, whether present or

absent, over the affections of Eloisa. Oh! my friend, how much it

delights me to see you recover that strength of mind which becomes the

resolution of a man. I esteem you for it the more, and despise myself

the less, in that the dignity of a chaste affection is not totally

debased between us, and that our hearts are not both at once

corrupted. I will say more, as we can at present speak freely of our

affairs. That which most aggravated my despair, was to see that yours

deprived us of the only resource which was left us, the exertion of

your abilities, to improve them. You now know the worth of the

friendship with which heaven has blessed you, in that of my Lord

B----, whose generosity merits the services of your whole life, nor

can you ever sufficiently atone for the offence you have committed.

I hope you will need no other warning to make you guard for the

future against your impetuous passions. It is under the protection

of this honourable friend that you are going to enter on the stage

of the world; it is under the sanction of his credit, under the

guidance of his experience, that you go to revenge the cause of

injured merit, on the cruelty of fortune.

Do that for his sake which you did not for your own. Endeavour at

least to respect his goodness, by not rendering it useless to

yourself. Behold a pleasing prospect still before you: contemplate the

success you have reason to hope for in entering the lists where every

thing conspires to ensure the victory. Heaven has been lavish to you

of its bounties; your natural genius, cultivated by taste, has endowed

you with every necessary and agreeable qualification; at least, at

four-and-twenty you possess all the charms of youth, matured by the

reflections of age.

_Frutto simile in su’l gioveriel fiore._

Study has not impaired your vivacity, nor injured your person; insipid

gallantry has not contracted your genius, nor formality your

understanding: but love inspiring those sublime sentiments which are

its genuine offspring, has given you that elevation of mind and

justness of conception from which it is inseparable. [18] I have seen

thy mind expanded by its gentle warmth, display its brilliant

faculties, as a flower that unfolds itself to the rays of the sun; you

possess at once every talent that leads to fortune, and should set you

above it: you need only aspire to be considerable, to become so; and I

hope that object for whose take you should covet distinction, will

excite in you a greater zeal for those marks of the world’s esteem,

than of themselves they may deserve.

You are going, my friend, far from me----my best beloved is going to

fly from his Eloisa.----It must be so,----it is necessary that we

should part at present, if we ever mean to be happy; on the success of

your undertakings also depends our last hope of such an event----Oh,

may the anticipation of it animate and comfort you throughout our

cruel, perhaps long separation! may it inspire you with that zeal,

which surmounts every obstacle. The world and its affairs will indeed

continually engage your attention, and relieve you from the pangs of

absence. But I, alas! remain alone, abandoned to my own thoughts, or

subject to the persecution of others, that will oblige me incessantly

to lament thy absence. Happy, however, shall I be, in some measure, if

groundless alarms do not aggravate my real afflictions, and if the

evils I actually suffer be not augmented by those to which you may be

exposed----I shudder at the thoughts of the various dangers to which

your life and your innocence will be liable. I place in you all the

confidence a man can expect; but, since it is our lot to live asunder,

O, my friend, I could wish you were something more than man. Will you

not stand in need of frequent advice to regulate your conduct in a

world, to which you are so much a stranger? It does not belong to me,

young and unexperienced, and even less qualified by reflection and

study than yourself, to advise you here. That difficult task I leave

to Lord B----. I will content myself to recommend to you two things,

as these depend more on sentiment than experience; and, tho’ I know

but little of the world, I flatter myself I am not to be instructed in

the knowledge of your heart: _Be virtuous, and remember Eloisa._

I will not make use of any of those subtle arguments you have taught

me to despise; and which, though they fill so many volumes, never yet

made one man virtuous. Peace to those gloomy reasoners! to what

ravishing delights their hearts are strangers! leave, my friend, those

idle moralists, and consult your own breast. It is there you will

always find a spark of that sacred fire, which hath so often inflamed

us with love for the sublimest virtue. It is there you will trace the

lasting image of true beauty, the contemplation of which inspires us

with a sacred enthusiasm; an image which the passions may continually

defile, but never can efface. [19] Remember those tears of pleasure,

those palpitations of heart, those transports which raised us above

ourselves at the recital of heroic examples, which have done honour to

human nature. Would you know which is most truly desirable, riches or

virtue? reflect on that which the heart prefers in its unprejudiced

moments: think on that which interests us most in the perusal of

history. Did you never covet the riches of Croesus, the honours of

Caesar, nor the pleasures of Heliogabalus? If they were happy, why did

you not wish to be placed in the same situation? But they were not,

you were sensible they were not, happy; you were sensible they were

vile and contemptible; and that bad men, however fortunate, are not

objects of envy.

What characters did you then contemplate with the greatest pleasure?

what examples did you most admire? which did you desire most to

imitate? inexpressible are the charms of ever-blooming virtue: it was

the condemn’d Athenian, drinking hemlock; it was Brutus, dying for his

country: it was Regulus, in the midst of tortures: it was Cato,

plunging his dagger in his breast. These were the unfortunate heroes,

whose virtues excited your envy, while your own sensations bore

witness of that real felicity they enjoyed, under their apparent

misfortunes. Think not this sentiment peculiar to yourself; it is the

sentiment of all mankind, and that frequently in spite of themselves.

That divine image of virtue, imprinted universally on the mind,

displays irresistible charms even to the least virtuous. No sooner

doth passion permit us to contemplate its beauty, but we wish to

resemble it; and, if the most wicked of mankind could but change his

being, he would chuse to be virtuous.

Excuse this rhapsody, my dear friend, you know it is originally

derived from you, and it is due to the passion that inspired it. I do

not take upon me to instruct you, by repeating your own maxims, but

endeavour to enforce their application to yourself. Now is the time to

put in practice your own precepts, and to shew how well you can act

what you so well know to teach. Though it is not expected you should

be put to the trials of a Cato, or a Regulus, yet every man ought to

cherish a love for his country, resolution and integrity, and to keep

his promise inviolable, even at the expense of his life. Private

virtues are often the more sublime as they less aspire to public

approbation, but have their end in the testimony of a good conscience,

which gives the virtuous a more solid satisfaction, than the loudest

applauses of the multitude. Hence you may see true greatness is

confirmed to no one station of life, and that no man can be happy who

is not the object of his own esteem; for, if the height of self-

enjoyment consists in the contemplation of the truly beautiful, how

can the vicious man admire the beauty of virtue in others, and not be

forced to despise himself. I am not apprehensive of your being

corrupted by sensual pleasures; a heart so refined as yours will be in

little danger from the gross seductions of appetite. But there are

others more dangerous and sentimental. I dread the effects of the

maxims and lessons of the world; I dread the force of vicious

examples, so constantly present, and so generally extensive: I dread

those subtle sophisms by which vice is excused and defended: I dread,

in short, lest your heart should impose upon itself, and render you

less difficult about the means of acquiring importance than you would

be, if our union were not to be the consequence. I only caution you,

my friend, against the danger; your own discretion must do the rest: a

foresight of accidental evils, however, is no small step towards their

prevention. I will add but one reflection more, which, in my opinion,

disproves the false arguments of vice, exposes the mistaken conceits

of folly, and ought alone to direct a wise man to pursue his sovereign

good. This is, that the source of true happiness is not confined to

the desired object, nor to the heart which possesses it, but consists

in a certain relation between the one and the other: that every object

of our desires will not produce the happiness sought in its

possession, nor is the heart at all times in a disposition to receive

it. If the utmost refinement of intellectual pleasure is not

sufficient alone to constitute our felicity, surely all the voluptuous

pleasures on earth cannot make the depraved man happy. There is on

both sides a necessary preparative, a certain combination of causes,

from which results that delightful sensation so earnestly sought after

by every sensible being, and for ever unexperienced by the pretended

philosopher, who coldly nips his pleasures in the bud, for want of

knowing how to conduct them to lasting felicity. What helps it, then,

to obtain one advantage at the expense of another? to gain _without_

what we lose from _within_; to procure the means of happiness, and

lose the art of employing them. Is it not better also, if we can but

enjoy one of these advantages, to sacrifice what the power of fortune

may restore, to that which once lost can never be recovered? none

should know better than I, who have imbittered all the sweets of my

life, by thinking to increase them. Let the vicious and profligate

then, who display their good fortune but keep their hearts a secret,

let them advance what they will; be assured that if there be one

instance of happiness upon earth it must be found in the breast of the

virtuous. Heaven hath bestowed on you an happy inclination for what is

virtuous and good: listen then only to your own desires, follow only

your own inclinations, and think above all on the growth of our infant

affections. So long as the remembrance of those delightful moments of

innocence shall remain, it will be impossible that you should cease to

love that which rendered them so endearing; it will be impossible the

charms of moral excellence should ever be effaced from your mind, or

that you should wish to obtain Eloisa by means unworthy of yourself.

Can anyone enjoy a pleasure for which he has lost the taste? no, to be

able to possess that which one loves, it is necessary the heart that

loved it should be still the same.

I come now to my second point: you see I have not forgot my logic; it

is possible, my friend, without love to have the sublime sentiments of

a great mind; but a love like ours supplies its flame, which being

once extinguished, the soul becomes languid; and a heart once

exhausted is good for nothing. Tell me, what should we be if we ceased

to love? is it not better to lose our existence than our sensibility?

or could you resolve to endure the life of an ordinary being, after

having tasted every delight that can ravish the heart of man? you are

going to visit populous cities, where your age and figure, rather than

your merit, will lay a thousand snares for your fidelity. Insinuating

coquetry will affect the language of tenderness, and please without

deceiving you. You will not seek love, but enjoyment; you will taste

it without love, and not know it for the same pleasure. I know not

whether you will find in another the heart of Eloisa; but of this I am

certain, you will never experience with another those ecstasies you

have tasted with her. The vacancy of your exhausted mind will forebode

the destiny I predict. Sadness and care will overwhelm you in the

midst of frivolous amusements. The remembrance of our first transports

will pursue you in spite of yourself; my image, an hundred times more

beautiful than I ever was, will overtake you. In a moment the veil of

disgust will be thrown over all your delights, and a thousand bitter

reflections rush into your mind. My best beloved, my amiable friend,

Oh, should you ever forget me----Alas! I can but die; but you, you,

shall live base and unhappy, and my death will be but too severely

revenged.

Forget not then that Eloisa, who lived for you, and whose heart can

never be another’s. I can say nothing more regarding that dependence

in which Providence hath placed me: but, after having recommended

fidelity to you, it is but just to give you the only pledge of mine

that is in my power. I have consulted, not my duty, my distracted mind

knows that no longer, but I have examined my heart, the last guide of

those who can follow no other; and behold the result of its

examination: I am determined never to be your wife without the consent

of my father, but I will never marry another without your consent; of

this I give you my word, which, whatever happens, I will keep sacred,

nor is there a power on earth can make me break my promise. Be not,

therefore, disquieted at what may befall me in your absence. Go, my

dear friend, pursue, under the auspices of the most tender love, a

destiny worthy to crown your merit: mine is in your hands, as much as

it is in my power to commit it, and never shall it be altered but with

your consent.

Letter LXXVII. To Eloisa.

_O qual fiamma di gloria d’onore,

Scorrer sento per tutte le sene,

Alma grande parlando conto!_

O Eloisa, let me breathe a moment,----you make me shudder, my blood

boils, my heart pants; your letter glows with that sacred love of

virtue that fires your breast, and communicates its celestial flame to

the inmost recesses of mine. But why so many exhortations, where you

should have laid on me your commands? do you think I can so far forget

myself as to want arguments to excite me to act justly? at least, can

I want to have them urged by you, whose injunctions alone I should fly

to obey. Can you be ignorant that I ever will be what you please to

have me? and that I could even act unjustly before I could disobey

you? yes, I could set another capitol in flames if you enjoined me,

for nothing can be so dear to me as you are. But, do you know, my

incomparable Eloisa, why you are thus dear? it is because you can

desire nothing but what is virtuous, and that my admiration of your

virtues exceeds even the love inspired by your charms. I go,

encouraged by the engagement into which you have entered, the latter

part of which, however, you might have omitted; for to promise not to

be another’s without my consent, is it not to promise to be none but

mine? for my own part, I speak more freely, and pledge with you the

faith of a man of honour, ever to remain sacred and inviolable: I am

ignorant to what destiny fortune will lead me in the career I am

going, for your satisfaction, to enter upon; but never shall the ties

of love or marriage unite me to any other than Eloisa D’Etange. I

live, I exist, but for her, and shall either die married to her, or

not married at all. Adieu! I am pressed for time, and am going to

depart this instant.

Letter LXXVIII. To Eloisa.

I arrived last night at Paris, and he, who once could not live two

streets length removed from you, is now at the distance of more than

an hundred leagues. Pity, Eloisa, pity your unhappy friend: had the

blood gushing from my veins, dy’d with its streams, my long, long

route, my spirits could not have failed me more; I could not have

found myself more languid than at present. O that I knew as well when

we shall meet again, as I know the distance that divides us! the

progress of time should then compensate for the length of space. I

would count every day, every hour of my life, my steps, towards

Eloisa. But that dismal career is hid in the gloom of futurity; its

bounds are concealed from my feeble sight. How painful, how terrible

is suspense! my restless heart is ever seeking, but finds you not. The

sun rises, but gives me no hopes of seeing you; it sets without

granting me that blessing. My days are void of pleasure, and pass away

as one long continued night. In vain I endeavour to rekindle my

extinguished hopes, they offer me nothing but uncertainty and

groundless consolations. Alas, my gentle friend! what evils have I not

to expect if they are to be a counterpoise to my past happiness!

But, I conjure you, let not my complaints alarm you; they are only the

cursory effects of solitude, and the disagreeable reflections of my

journey. Fear not the return of my former weakness; my heart is in

your hands, Eloisa, and while you are its support it cannot debase

itself. One of the comfortable fruits of your last letter is, that

since I find myself sustained by a double share of spirits; and though

love should annihilate what is properly mine, I should still be a

gainer; the resolution with which you have inspired me being able to

support me better than I could otherwise have supported myself. I am

convinced it is not good for man to be alone. Human minds must be

united to exert their greatest strength, and the united force of

friendly souls, like that of the collateral bars of an artificial

magnet, is incomparably greater than the sum of their separate forces.

This is thy triumph, celestial friendship! but what is even friendship

itself, compared to that perfect union of souls, which connects the

most perfect, the most harmonious amity, with ties an hundred times

more sacred? where are the men whose ideas, gross as their appetites,

represent the passion of love only as a fever in the blood, the effect

of brutal instinct? let them come to me, let them observe, let them

feel, what passes in my breast; let them view an unhappy lover

separated from his beloved object, doubtful whether ever he shall see

her more, and hopeless of retrieving his lost happiness; animated,

however, by the never dying flame, which, kindled by your beauties,

has been nourished by your mental charms, they will see him ready to

brave the rigours of adversity; to be deprived even of your lovely

self, and to cherish all those virtues that you have inspired, and

which embellish that adorable image that shall never be erazed from my

soul. O, my Eloisa, what should I be without you? informed indeed by

dispassionate reason, a cold admirer of virtue, I might have respected

it in any one. I shall now do more, I shall now be enabled to put it

zealously in practice, and, penetrated by your example, shall excite

those who have known us to exclaim:----“what happy creatures should

we be, if all the women in the world were Eloisa’s, and all the men

had hearts susceptible of their charms!”

As I was meditating during my journey, on your last letter, I formed a

resolution of collecting together all those you have written to me; as

I no longer can attend to your delightful counsel from your own mouth.

For, though there is not one which I have not learnt by heart, I love

to read them continually, and to contemplate the characters of that

lovely hand, which alone can make me happy: but the paper wears out by

degrees, and therefore, before they fall quite in pieces, I design to

copy each letter in a book, which I have already prepared for that

purpose. It is pretty large, but I provide for the time to come, and

even hope to live long enough to fill more than one volume. I set

apart my evenings for the delightful employment, and proceed but

slowly, in order to prolong so agreeable a task. This inestimable