Volume III

Letter CXX. From Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

How tedious is your stay! This going backward and forward is very

disagreeable. How many hours are lost before you return to the place

where you ought to remain for ever, and therefore, how much worse is

it in you ever to go away! The idea of seeing you for so short a time,

takes from the pleasure of your company. Do not you perceive that by

residing at your own house and mine alternately, you are in fact at

home in neither, and cannot you contrive some means by which you may

make your abode in both at once?

What are we doing, my dear cousin? How many precious moments we lose,

when we have none to waste! Years steal upon us; youth begins to

vanish; life slides away imperceptibly; its momentary bliss is in our

possession, and we refuse to enjoy it! Do you recollect the time when

we were yet girls, those early days so agreeable and delightful, which

no other time of life affords, and which the mind with so much

difficulty forgets? How often, when we were obliged to part for a few

days, or even for a few hours, have we sadly embraced each other, and

vowed that when we were our own mistresses, we would never be asunder?

We are now our own mistresses, and yet we pass one half of the year at

a distance from each other. Is then our affection weaker? My dear and

tender friend, we are both sensible how much time, habit, and your

kindness have rendered our attachment more strong and indissoluble. As

to myself, your absence daily becomes more insupportable, and I can no

longer live a minute without you. The progress of our friendship is

more natural than it appears to be; it is founded not only on a

similarity of character, but of condition. As we advance in years, our

affections begin to centre in one point. We every day lose something

that was dear to us, which we can never replace. Thus we perish by

degrees, till at length, being wholly devoted to self-love, we lose

life and sensibility, even before our existence ceases. But a

susceptible mind arms itself with all its force against this

anticipated death; when a chillness begins to seize the extremities,

it collects all the genial warmth of nature round its own centre;

the more connections it loses, the closer it cleaves to those which

remain, and all its former ties are combined to attach it to the

last object.

This is what I seem to experience, young as I am. Ah! my dear, my poor

heart has been too susceptible of tender impressions! It was so early

exhausted, that it grew old before its time, and so many different

affections have absorbed it to that degree, that it has no room for

any new attachments. You have known me in the successive capacities of

a daughter, a friend, a mistress, a wife, and a mother. You know how

every character has been dear to me! Some of these connections are

utterly destroyed, others are weakened. My mother, my affectionate

mother is no more; tears are the only tribute I can pay to her memory,

and I do but half enjoy the most agreeable sensations of nature. As to

love, it is wholly extinguished, it is dead for ever, and has left a

vacancy in my heart, which will never be filled up again. We have lost

your good and worthy husband, whom I loved as the dear part of

yourself, and who was so well deserving of your friendship and

tenderness. If my boys were grown up, maternal affection might supply

these vacancies; but that affection, like all others, has need of

participation, and what return can a mother expect from a child, only

four or five years old? Our children are dear to us, long before they

are sensible of our love, or capable of returning it; and yet, how

much we want to express the extravagance of our fondness, to some one

who can enter into our affection. My husband loves them; but not with

that degree of sensibility I could wish; he is not intoxicated with

fondness as I am; his tenderness for them is too rational; I would

have it to be more lively, and more like my own. In short, I want a

friend, a mother, who can be as extravagantly fond of my children, and

her own, as myself. In a word, the fondness of a mother makes the

company of a friend more necessary to me, that I may enjoy the

pleasure of talking continually about my children, without being

troublesome. I feel double the pleasure in the caress of my little

Marcellinus, when I see that you share it with me. When I embrace your

daughter, I fancy that I press you to my bosom. We have observed a

hundred times, on seeing our little cherubs at play together, that the

union of our affections has so united them, that we have not been able

to distinguish to which of us they severally belonged.

This is not all: I have powerful reasons for desiring to have you

always near me, and your absence is painful to me in more respects

than one. Think on my aversion to all hypocrisy, and reflect on the

continual reserve in which I have lived upwards of six years with the

man whom I love above all others in the world. My odious secret

oppresses me more and more, and my duty to reveal it seems every day

more indispensable. The more I am prompted by honour to disclose it,

the more I am obliged by prudence to conceal it. Consider what a

horrid state it is for a wife to carry mistrust, falsehood and fear,

even to her husband’s arms; to be afraid of opening her heart to him

who is master of it, and to conceal one half of my life to ensure the

peace of the other? Good God! from whom do I conceal my secret

thoughts, and hide the recesses of a soul with which he has so much

reason to be satisfied? From my Wolmar, my husband, and the most

worthy husband with which heaven ever rewarded the virtue of unsullied

chastity. Having deceived him once, I am obliged to continue the

deceit, and bear the mortification of finding myself unworthy of all

the kindness he expresses. My heart is afraid to receive any testimony

of his esteem, his most tender caresses make me blush, and my

conscience interprets all his marks of respect and attention, into

symptoms of reproach and disdain. It is a cruel pain constantly to

harbour this remorse, which tells me, that he mistakes the object of

his esteem. Ah! if he but knew me, he would not use me thus tenderly!

No, I cannot endure this horrid state; I am never alone with that

worthy man, but I am ready to fall on my knees before him, to confess

my fault, and to expire at his feet with grief and shame.

Nevertheless, the reasons which at first restrained me, acquire fresh

strength every day, and every motive which might induce me to make the

declaration, conspires to enjoin me silence. When I consider the

peaceable and tranquil state of the family, I cannot reflect without

horror, what an irreparable disturbance might be occasioned by a

single word. After six years passed in perfect union, shall I venture

to disturb the peace of so good and discreet a husband, who has no

other will than that of his happy wife, no other pleasure than to see

order and tranquility throughout his family? Shall I afflict with

domestic broils, an aged father who appears to be so contented, and so

delighted with the happiness of his daughter and his friend? Shall I

expose my dear children, those lovely and promising infants, to have

their education neglected and shamefully slighted, to become the

melancholy victims of family discord, between a father inflamed with

just indignation, tortured with jealousy, and an unfortunate and

guilty mother, always bathed in tears? I know what Mr. Wolmar is, how

he esteems his wife; but how do I know what he will be when he no

longer regards her? Perhaps he seems calm and moderate, because his

predominant passion has had no room to display itself. Perhaps he

would be as violent in the impetuosity of his anger, as he is gentle

and composed now he has nothing to provoke him.

If I owe such regard to every one about me, is not something likewise

due to myself? Does not a virtuous and regular course of life for six

years obliterate, in some measure, the errors of youth, and am I still

obliged to undergo the punishment of a failing which I have so long

lamented? I confess, my dear cousin, that I look backwards with

reluctance; the reflection humbles me to that degree that it dispirits

me, and I am too susceptible of shame, to endure the idea, without

falling into a kind of despair. I must reflect on the time which has

passed since my marriage, in order to recover myself. My present

situation inspires me with a confidence of which those disagreeable

reflections would deprive me. I love to nourish in my breast these

returning sentiments of honour. The rank of a wife and mother exalts

my soul, and supports me against the remorse of my former condition.

When I view my children and their father about me, I fancy that every

thing breathes an air of virtue, and they banish from my mind the

disagreeable remembrance of my former frailties. Their innocence is

the security of mine; they become dearer to me, by being the

instruments of my reformation; and I think on the violation of honour

with such horror, that I can scarce believe myself the same perfect

who formerly was capable of forgetting its precepts. I perceive myself

so different from what I was, so confirmed in my present state, that I

am almost induced to consider what I have to declare, as a confession

which does not concern me, and which I am not obliged to make.

Such is the state of anxiety and uncertainty in which I am continually

fluctuating in your absence. Do you know what may be the consequence

of this one day or other? My father is soon to set out for Bern, and

is determined not to return till he has put an end to a tedious

lawsuit, not being willing to leave us the trouble of concluding it,

and perhaps doubting our zeal in the prosecution of it. In the

interim, between his departure and his return, I shall be alone with

my husband, and I perceive that it will then be impossible for me to

keep the fatal secret any longer. When we have company, you know Mr.

Wolmar often chuses to retire and take a solitary walk; he chats

with the peasants; he enquires into their situation; he examines the

condition of their grounds; and assists them, if they require it, both

with his purse and his advice. But when we are alone, he never walks

without me; he seldom leaves his wife and children, and he enters into

their little amusements with such an amiable simplicity, that on these

occasions I always feel a more than common tenderness for him. In

these tender moments, my reserve is in so much more danger, as he

himself frequently gives me opportunities of throwing it aside, and

has a hundred times held conversation with me which seemed to excite

me to confidence. I perceive, that sooner or later, I must disclose my

mind to him; but since you would have the confession concerted between

us, and made with all the precaution which discretion requires, return

to me immediately, or I can answer for nothing.

My dear friend, I must conclude, and yet what I have to add, is of

such importance, that you must allow me a few words more. You are not

only of service to me when I am with my children and my husband, but

above all when I am alone with poor Eloisa: solitude is more

dangerous, because it grows agreeable to me, and I court it without

intending it. It is not, as you are sensible, that my heart still

smarts with the pain of its former wounds; no, they are cured, I

perceive that they are, I am very certain, I dare believe myself

virtuous. I am under no apprehensions about the present, it is the

time past which torments me. There are some reflections as dreadful,

as the original sensation; the recollection moves us; we are ashamed

to find that we shed tears, and we do but weep the more. They are

tears of compassion, regret, and repentance; love has no share in

them; I no longer harbour the least spark of love; but I lament the

mischiefs it has occasioned; I bewail the fate of a worthy man who has

been bereft of peace and perhaps of life, by gratifying an indiscreet

passion. Alas! he has undoubtedly perished in this long and dangerous

voyage which he undertook out of despair. If he was living, he would

send us tidings from the farthest part of the world; near four years

have elapsed since his departure. They say the squadron on which he is

aboard, has suffered a thousand disasters, that they have lost three

fourths of their crew, that several ships have gone to the bottom, and

that no one can tell what is become of the rest. He is no more, he is

no more! A secret foreboding tells me so. The unfortunate wretch has

not been spared, any more than so many others. The distresses of his

voyage, and melancholy, still more fatal than all, have shortened his

days. Thus vanishes every thing which glitters for a while on earth.

The reproach of having occasioned the death of a worthy man, was all

that was wanting to compleat the torments of my conscience. With what

a soul was he endued! how susceptible of the tenderest love! He

deserved to live!

I try in vain to dissipate these melancholy ideas; but they return

every minute in spite of me. Your friend requires your assistance, to

enable her to banish them, or to moderate them; and since I cannot

forget this unfortunate man, I had rather talk of him with you, than

think of him by myself.

You see how many reasons concur to make your company continually

necessary to me. If you, who have been more discreet and fortunate,

are not moved by the same reasons, yet does not your inclination

persuade you of the same necessity? If it is true that you will never

marry again, having so little satisfaction in your family, what house

can be more convenient for you than mine? For my part, I am in pain,

as I know what you endure in your own; for notwithstanding your

dissimulation, I am no stranger to your manner of living, and I am not

to be duped by those gay airs which you affected to display at

Clarens. You have often reproached me with my failings; and I have a

very great one to reproach you with in your turn; which is, that your

grief is too solitary and confined. You get into a corner to indulge

your affliction, as if you were ashamed to weep before your friend.

Clara, I do not like this. I am not ungenerous like you; I do not

condemn your tears, I would not have you cease at the end of two or

ten years, or while you live, to honour the memory of so tender a

husband; but I blame you that after having passed the best of your

days in weeping with your Eloisa, you rob her of the pleasure of

weeping in her turn with you, and of washing away, by more honourable

tears, the scandal of those which she shed in your bosom. If you are

ashamed of your grief, you are a stranger to real affliction! If you

find a kind of pleasure in it, why will you not let me partake of it?

Are you ignorant that a participation of affections communicates a

soft and affecting quality to melancholy, which content never feels?

And was not friendship particularly designed to alleviate the evils of

the wretched, and lessen their pains?

Such, my dear, are the reflections you ought to indulge; to which I

must add, that when I propose your coming to live with me, I make the

proposal no less in my husband’s name than in my own. He has often

expressed his surprize, and even been offended, that two such

intimates as we, should live asunder: he assures me that he has told

you so, and he is not a man who talks inadvertently. I do not know

what solution you will take with respect to these proposals; I have

reason to hope, that it will be such as I could wish. However it be,

mine is fixed and unalterable. I have not forgotten the time when you

would have followed me to England. My incomparable friend! it is now

my turn. You know my dislike of the town, my taste for the country,

for rural occupations, and how strongly a residence of three years has

attached me to my house at Clarens. You are no stranger likewise to

the trouble of removing a whole family, and you are sensible that it

would be abusing my father’s good nature to oblige him to move so

often. Therefore if you will not leave your family and come to govern

mine, I am determined to take a house at Lausanne, where we will all

live with you. Prepare yourself therefore; every thing requires it; my

inclination, my duty, my happiness. The security of my honour, the

recovery of my reason, my condition, my husband, my children, myself,

I owe all to you; I am indebted to you for all the blessings I enjoy,

I see nothing but what reminds me of your goodness, and without you I

am nothing. Come then, my much loved friend, my guardian angel; come

and enjoy the work of your own hands; come and gather the fruits of

your benevolence. Let us have but one family, as we have but one soul

to cherish it; you shall superintend the education of my sons, and I

will take care of your daughters; we will share the maternal duties

between us, and make our pleasure double. We will raise our minds

together to the contemplation of that Being, who purified mine by

means of your endeavours and having nothing more to hope for in this

life, we will quietly wait for the next, in the bosom of innocence and

friendship.

Letter CXXI. Answer.

Good heaven! my dear cousin, how I am delighted with your letter! Thou

lovely preacher! ... Lovely indeed: but in the preaching strain

nevertheless. What a charming peroration! A perfect model of ancient

oratory. The Athenian architect! ... That florid speaker! ... You

remember him... In your old Plutarch... Pompous descriptions, superb

temple! ... When he had finished his harangue, comes another; a plain

man; with a grave, sober, and unaffected air...who answered, as your

cousin Clara might do...with a low, hollow, and deep tone..._All

that, he has said, I will do_. Here he ended, and the assembly rang

with applause! Peace to the man of words. My dear, we may be

considered in the light of these two architects; and the temple in

question, is that of friendship.

But let us recapitulate all the fine things you have said to me.

First, that we loved each other; secondly, that my company was

necessary to you; thirdly, that yours was necessary to me likewise;

and lastly, that as it was in our power to live together the rest of

our days, we ought to do it. And you have really discovered all this

without a guide! In truth, thou art a woman of vast eloquence! Well,

but let me tell how I was employed on my part, while you was composing

this sublime epistle. After that, I will leave you to judge, whether

what you say, or what I do, is most to the purpose.

I had no sooner lost my husband, than you supplied the vacancy he had

left in my heart. While he was living, he shared my affections with

you; when he was gone, I was yours entirely, and as you observe with

respect to the conformity of friendship and maternal affection, my

daughter was an additional tie to unite us. I not only determined,

from that time, to pass my days with you, but I formed a more enlarged

plan. The more effectually to blend our two families into one, I

proposed, on a supposition that all circumstances prove agreeable, to

marry my daughter some day or other to your eldest son, and the name

of husband assumed in jest, seemed to be a lucky omen of his taking it

one day in earnest.

With this view, I endeavoured immediately to put an end to the trouble

of a contested inheritance, and finding that my circumstances enabled

me to sacrifice some part of my claim in order to settle the rest, I

thought of nothing but placing my daughter’s fortune in some sure

funds, where it might be secure from any apprehensions of a law suit.

You know that I am whimsical in most things; my whim in this was to

surprize you. I intended to come into your room one morning early,

with my child in one hand, and the parchment in the other; and to have

presented them both to you, with a fine compliment on committing to

your care the mother, the daughter, and their effects, that is to say,

my child’s fortune. Govern her, I proposed to have said, as best suits

the interest of your son; for from henceforwards it is your concern

and his; for my own part, I shall trouble myself about her no longer.

Full of this pleasing idea, it was necessary for me to open my mind to

somebody who might assist me to execute my project. Guess now whom I

chose for a confident? One Mr. Wolmar: Should not you know him? “My

husband, cousin?” Yes, your husband, cousin. The very man from whom

you make such a difficulty of concealing a secret, which it is of

consequence to him never to know, is he who has kept a secret from

you, the discovery of which would have given you so much pleasure.

This was the true subject of all that mysterious conversation between

us, about which you used to banter us with so much humour. You see

what hypocrites these husbands are. Is it not very droll in them to

accuse us of dissimulation? But I required much more of your husband.

I perceived that you had the same plan which I had in view, but you

kept it more to yourself, as one who did not care to communicate her

thoughts, till she was led to the discovery. With an intent therefore

to make your surprize more agreeable, I would have had him, when you

proposed our living together, to have seemed as if he disapproved of

your eagerness, and to have given his consent with reluctance. To this

he made me an answer, which I well remember, and which you ought never

to forget; for since the first existence of husbands, I doubt whether

any one of them ever made such an answer before. It was as follows.

“My dear little cousin, I know Eloisa...I know her well...better

than she imagines perhaps...her generosity of heart is so great, that

what she desires ought not to be refused, and her sensibility is too

strong to bear a denial, without being afflicted. During these five

years that we have married, I do not know that I have given her the

least uneasiness; and I hope to die without ever being the cause of

her feeling a moment’s inquietude.” Cousin, reflect on this: This is

the husband whose peace of mind you are incessantly meditating to

disturb.

For my part I had less delicacy, or more gentleness of disposition,

and I so naturally diverted the conversation to which your affection

so frequently led you, that as you could not tax me with coldness or

indifference towards you, you took it into your head that I had a

second marriage in view, and that I loved you better than any thing,

except a husband. You see, my dear child, your most inmost thoughts do

not escape me. I guess your meaning, I penetrate your designs; I enter

into the bottom of your soul, and for that reason I have always adored

you. This suspicion, which so opportunely led you into a mistake,

appeared to me well worth encouraging. I took upon me to play the part

of the coquettish widow, which I acted so well as to deceive even you.

It is a part for which I have more talents than inclination. I

skilfully employed that piquant air which I know how to put on, and

with which I have entertained myself in making a jest of more than one

young coxcomb. You have been absolutely the dupe of my affectation,

and you thought me in haste to supply the place of a man, to whom of

all others it would be most difficult to a fit successor. But I am too

ingenuous to play the counterfeit long, and your apprehensions were

soon removed. But to confirm you the more, I will explain to you my

real sentiments on that head.

I have told you an hundred times when I was a maid, that I was never

designed for a wife. Had my determination depended on myself alone, I

should never have married. But our sex cannot purchase liberty but by

slavery; and before we can become our own mistresses, we must begin by

being servants. Though my father did not confine me, I was not without

uneasiness in my family. To free myself from that vexation, therefore,

I married Mr. Orbe. He was such a worthy man, and loved me with such

tenderness, that I most sincerely loved him in my turn. Experience

gave me a more advantageous opinion of marriage than I had conceived

of it, and effaced those impressions I had received from Chaillot. Mr.

Orbe made me happy, and did not repent his endeavours. I should have

discharged my duty with any other, but I should have vexed him, and I

am sensible that nothing but so good a husband could have made me a

tolerable wife. Would you think that even this afforded me matter of

complaint? My dear, we loved each other too affectionately; we were

never gay. A slighter friendship would have been more sprightly; I

should even have preferred it, and I think I should have chosen to

have lived with less content, if I could have laughed oftener.

Add to this, that the particular circumstances of your situation, gave

me uneasiness. I need not remind you of the dangers to which an unruly

passion exposed you. I reflect on them with horror. If you had only

hazarded your life, perhaps I might have retained some remains of

gaiety: but terror and grief pierced my soul, and till I saw you

married, I did not enjoy one moment of real pleasure. You are no

stranger to my affliction at that time, you felt it. It had great

influence over your good disposition, and I shall always bless those

fortunate tears, which were probably the occasion of your return to

virtue.

In this manner I passed all the time that I lived with my husband.

Since it has pleased the Almighty to take him from me, judge whether I

can hope to find another so much to my mind, and whether I have any

temptation to make the experiment? No, cousin, matrimony is too

serious a state for me; its gravity does not suit with my humour; it

makes me dull, and sits awkwardly upon me; not to mention that all

constraint whatever is intolerable to me. Consider, you who know me,

what charms can an attachment have in my eyes, during which, for seven

years together, I have not laughed seven times heartily! I do not

propose, like you, to turn matron at eight and twenty. I find myself a

smart little widow, likely to get a husband still, and I think that if

I was a man, I should have no objection to such a one as myself. But

to marry again, cousin! hear me; I sincerely lament my poor husband, I

would have given up one half of my days, to have passed the other half

with him; and nevertheless, could he return to life, I should take him

again for no other reason, than because I had taken him before.

I have declared to you my real intentions. If I have not been able to

put them in execution, notwithstanding Mr. Wolmar’s kind endeavours,

it is because difficulties seem to increase, as my zeal to surmount

them strengthens. But my zeal will always gain the ascendency, and

before the summer is over, I hope to return to you for the remainder

of my days.

I must now vindicate myself from the reproach of concealing my

uneasiness, and choosing to weep alone; I do not deny it, and this is

the way I spend the most agreeable time I pass here. I never enter my

house, but I perceive some traces which remind me of him, who made it

agreeable to me. I cannot take a step, I cannot view a single object,

without perceiving some signs of his tenderness and goodness of heart;

and would you have my mind to be unaffected? When I am here, I am

sensible of nothing but the loss I have sustained. When I am near you,

I view all the comfort I have left. Can you make your influence over

my disposition, a crime in me? If I weep in your absence, and laugh in

your company, whence proceeds the difference? Ungrateful woman! it is

because you alleviate all my afflictions, and I cannot grieve while I

enjoy your society.

You have said a great deal in favour of our long friendship; but I

cannot pardon you for omitting a circumstance that does me most

honour; which is, that I love you, though you eclipse me! Eloisa, you

were born to rule. Your empire is more despotic than any in the world.

It extends even over the will, and I am sensible of it more than any

one. How happens it, my Eloisa? We are both in love with virtue;

honour is equally dear to us; our talents are the same; I have very

near as much spirit as you; and am not a bit less handsome. I am

sensible of all this, and yet notwithstanding all, you prescribe to

me, you overcome me, you cast me down, your genius crushes mine, and I

am nothing before you. Even while you were engaged in an attachment

with which you reproached yourself, and that I, who had not copied

your failing, might have taken the lead in my turn, yet the ascendency

still remained in you. The frailty I condemned in you, appeared to me

almost in the light of a virtue; I could scarce forbear admiring in

you, what I should have censured in another. In short, even at that

time, I never accosted you without a sensible emotion of involuntary

respect; and it is certain that nothing but your gentleness and

affability of manners could entitle me to the rank of your friend: by

nature, I ought to be your servant. Explain this mystery if you can;

for my part, I am at a loss how to solve it.

But after all, I do in some measure conceive the reason, and I believe

that I have explained it before now. The reason is, that your

disposition enlivens every one round you, and gives them a kind of new

existence, for which they are bound to adore you, since they derive it

entirely from you. It is true, I have done you some signal services;

you have so often acknowledged them, that it is impossible for me to

forget them. I cannot deny but that, without my assistance, you had

been utterly undone. But what did I do, more than return the

obligation I owed you? Is it possible to have a long acquaintance with

you without finding one’s mind impressed with the charms of virtue,

and the delights of friendship? Do not you know that you have power to

arm in your defence everyone who approaches you, and that I have no

advantage whatever over others, but that of being, like the guards of

Serositis, of the same age and sex, and of having been brought up with

you. However it be, it is some comfort to Clara, that, though she is

of less estimation than Eloisa, yet without Eloisa she would be of

less value still; and in short, to tell you the truth, I think that we

stood in great need of each other, and that we should both have been

losers if fate had parted us.

I am chiefly concerned lest, while my affairs detain me here, you

should discover your secret, which you are every minute ready to

disclose. Consider, I intreat you, that there are solid and powerful

reasons for concealing it, and that nothing but a mistaken principle

can tempt you to reveal it. Besides, our suspicion that it is no

longer a secret to him who is most interested in the discovery, is an

additional argument against making any declaration without the

greatest circumspection. Perhaps your husband’s reserve may serve as

an example and a lesson to us: for in such cases there is very often a

great difference between pretending to be ignorant of a thing, and

being obliged to know it. Stay therefore, I beseech you, till we

consult once more on this affair. If your apprehensions were well

grounded, and your lamented friend was no more, the best resolution

you could take, would be to let your history and his misfortunes be

buried together. If he is alive, as I hope he is, the case may be

different; but let us wait till we are sure of the event. In every

state of the case, do not you think that you ought to pay some regard

to the last advice of an unfortunate wretch, whose evils all spring

from you?

With respect to the danger of solitude, I conceive and cannot condemn

your fears, though I am persuaded that they are ill founded. Your past

terrors have made you fearful; but I presage better of the time

present, and you would be less apprehensive, if you had more reason to

be so. But I cannot approve of your anxiety with regard to the fate of

our poor friend. Now your affections have taken a different turn,

believe me he is as dear to me as to yourself. Nevertheless I have

forebodings quite contrary to yours, and more agreeable to reason.

Lord B---- has heard from him twice, and wrote to me on the receipt of

the last letter, to acquaint me that he was in the South seas, and had

already escaped all the dangers you apprehend. You know all this as

well as I, and yet you are as uneasy as if you were a stranger to

these particulars. But there is a circumstance you are ignorant of,

and of which I must inform you; it is, that the ship on which he is on

board, was seen two months ago off the Canaries, making sail for

Europe. This is the account my father received from Holland, which he

did not fail to transmit to me; for it is his custom to be more

punctual in informing me concerning public affairs, than in

acquainting me with his own private concerns. My heart tells me that

it will not be long before we hear news of our philosopher, and that

your tears will be dried up, unless after having lamented him as dead,

you weep to find him alive, But, thank God, you are no longer in

danger from your weakness.

_Deh! fosse or qui quel miser puer un poco,

Ch’ e giá di piangere e di viver lasso!_

This is the sum of my answer. Your affectionate friend proposes, and

shares with you the agreeable expectation of a lasting re-union. You

find that you are neither the first, nor the only author of this

project; and that the execution of it is more forward than you

imagined. Have patience therefore, my dear friend, for this summer: It

is better to delay our meeting for same time, than to be under the

necessity of parting again.

Well, good Madam, have not I been as good as my word, and is not my

triumph compleat? Come, fall on your knees, kiss this letter with

respect, and humbly acknowledge that, once in her life at least,

Eloisa Wolmar has been outdone in friendship.

Letter CXXII. To Mrs. Orbe.

My dear cousin, my benefactress, my friend! I come from the

extremities of the earth, and bring a heart full of affection for you.

I have crossed the line four times; I have traversed the two

hemispheres; I have seen the four quarters of the globe; its diameter

has been between us; I have been quite round it, and yet could not

escape from you one moment. It is in vain to fly from the object of

our adoration: the image, more fleet than the winds, pursues us from

the end of the world, and wherever we transport ourselves, we bear

with us the idea by which we are animated. I have endured a great

deal; I have seen others suffer more. How many unhappy wretches have

I seen perish! Alas! They rated life at a high price! And yet I

survived them... Perhaps my condition was less to be pitied; the

miseries of my companions affected me more than my own. I am wretched

here, said I to myself, but there is a corner of the globe where I am

happy and tranquil; and the prospect of felicity on the side of the

lake at Geneva, made me amends for what I suffered on the ocean. I

have the pleasure on my return to find my hopes confirmed: Lord B----

informs me that you both enjoy health and peace; and that if you, in

particular, have lost the agreeable distinction of a wife, you

nevertheless retain the title of a friend and mother, which may

contribute to your happiness.

I am at present too much in haste to send you a detail of my voyage

in this letter. I dare hope that I shall soon have a more convenient

opportunity; meantime I must be content to give you a slight sketch,

rather to excite than gratify your curiosity. I have been near four

years in making this immense tour, and I returned in the same ship in

which I set sail, the only one of the whole squadron which we have

brought back to England.

I have seen South-America, that vast continent which for want of arms

has been obliged to submit to the Europeans, who have made it a

desert, in order to secure their dominion. I have seen the coasts of

Brazil, from whence Lisbon and London draw their treasures, and where

the miserable natives tread upon gold and diamonds, without daring to

lay hands on them for their own life. I crossed, in mild weather,

those stormy seas under the Antarctic circle, and I met with the most

horrible tempests in the Pacific ocean.

_E in mar dubbioso sotto ignoto polo

Provai l’onde fallaci, e’l vento in fido._

I have seen, at a distance, the abode of those supposed giants, who

are no otherwise greater than the rest of their species, than as they

are more courageous, and who maintain their dependence more by a life

of simplicity and frugality, than by their extraordinary stature. I

made a residence of three months in a desert and delightful island,

which afforded an agreeable and lively representation of the primitive

beauty of nature, and which seems to be fixed at the extremity of the

world to serve as an asylum to innocence and persecuted love; but the

greedy European indulges his brutal disposition in preventing the

peaceful Indian from residing there, and does justice on himself, by

not making it his own abode.

I have seen, in the rivers of Mexico and Peru, the same scenes as at

Brazil; I have seen the few wretched inhabitants, the sad remains of

two powerful nations, loaded with irons, ignominy and misery, weeping

in the midst of their precious metals, and reproaching heaven for

having lavished such treasures among them. I have seen the dreadful

conflagration of a whole city, which perished in the flames without

having made any resistance or defence. Such is the right of war among

the intelligent, humane, and refined Europeans! They are not satisfied

with doing the enemy all the mischief from whence they can reap any

advantage, but they reckon as clear gain, all the destruction they can

make among his possessions. I have coasted along almost the whole

western part of America, not without being struck with admiration on

beholding fifteen hundred leagues of coast, and the greatest sea in

the world, under the dominion of a single potentate, who may be said

to keep the keys of one hemisphere.

After having crossed this vast sea, I beheld a new scene on the other

continent, I have seen the most numerous and most illustrious nation

in the world, in subjection to a handful of Banditti; I have had close

intercourse with this famous people, and I do not wonder that they are

slaves. As often conquered as attacked, they have always been a prey

to the first invader, and will be so to the end of the world. They are

well suited to their servile state, since they have not the courage

even to complain. They are learned, lazy, hypocritical, and deceitful:

they talk a great deal without saying anything; they are full of

spirit, without any genius; they abound in signs, but are barren in

ideas; they are polite, full of compliments, dextrous, crafty, and

knavish; they comprise all the duties of life in trifles, all morality

in grimace, and have no other idea of humanity, than what consists in

bows and salutations. I landed upon a second desert island, more

unknown, more delightful still than the first, and where the most

cruel accident had like to have confined us for ever. I was the only

one perhaps, whom so agreeable an exile did not terrify; am I not

doomed to be an exile every where? In this place of terror and

delight, I saw the attempts of human industry to disengage a civilized

being from a solitude where he wants nothing; and plunge him into an

abyss of new necessities.

On the vast ocean, where one would imagine men would be glad to meet

with their own species, I have seen two great ships sail up to each

other, join, attack, and fight together with fury, as if that immense

space was too little for either of them. I have seen them discharge

flames and bullets against each other. In a sight which was not of

long duration, I have seen the picture of hell. I have heard the

triumphant shouts of the conquerors, drown the cries of the wounded,

and the groans of the dying. I blushed to receive my share of an

immense plunder; but I received it in the nature of a trust, and as it

was taken from the wretched, to the wretched it shall be restored.

I have seen Europe transported to the extremities of Africa, by the

labours of that avaricious, patient, and industrious people, who by

time and perseverance have surmounted difficulties which all the

heroism of other nations could never overcome. I have seen those

immense and miserable countries, which seem destined to no other

purpose than to cover the earth with herds of slaves. At their vile

appearance, I turned away my eyes, out of disdain, horror and pity;

and on beholding one fourth part of my fellow creatures transformed

into beast for the service of the rest, I could not forbear lamenting

that I was a man.

Lastly, I beheld, in my fellow travellers, a bold and intrepid people,

whose freedom and example retrieved, in my opinion, the honour of the

species; a people, who despised pain and death, and who dreaded

nothing but hunger and disquiet. In their commander, I beheld a

captain, a soldier, a pilot, a prudent and great man, and to say still

more perhaps, a friend worthy of Lord B----. But throughout the whole

world, I have never met with any resemblance of Clara Orbe, or Eloisa

Etange, or found one who could recompense a heart truly sensible of

their worth, for the loss of their society.

How shall I speak of my cure? It is from you that I must learn how far

it is perfect. Do I return more free, and more discreet than I

departed? I dare believe that I do, and yet I cannot affirm it. The

same image has constant possession of my heart; you know how

impossible it is for me ever to efface it; but her dominion over me is

more worthy of her, and if I do not deceive myself, she holds the same

empire in my heart, as in your own. Yes, my dear cousin, her virtue

has subdued me; I am now, with regard to her, nothing more than a most

sincere and tender friend, my adoration of her is of the same nature

with yours; or rather, my affections do not seem to be weakened, but

rectified, and however nicely I examine, I find them to be as pure as

the object which inspires them. What can I say more, till I am put to

the proof, by which I may be able to form a right judgment of myself?

I am honest and sincere; I will be what I ought to be; but how shall I

answer for my affections, when I have so much reason to mistrust them?

Have I power over the past? How can I avoid recollecting a thousand

passions which have formerly distracted me? How shall my imagination

distinguish what is, from what has been? And how shall I consider her

as a friend, whom I never yet saw but as a mistress? Whatever you may

think of the secret motive of my eagerness, it is honest and rational,

and merits your approbation. I will answer beforehand, at least for my

intentions. Permit me to see you, and examine me yourself, or allow me

to see Eloisa, and I shall then know my own heart.

I am to attend Lord B---- into Italy. Shall I pass close by your

house, and not see you? Do you think this possible? Ah! if you are so

cruel to require it, you ought not to be obeyed! But why should you

desire it? Are you not the same Clara, as kind and compassionate as

you are virtuous and discreet, who condescended from her infancy to

love me, and who ought to love me still more, now that I am indebted

to her for every thing. [51] No, my dear and lovely friend, such a

cruel denial will not become you, nor will it be just to me; it shall

not put the finishing stroke to my misery. Once more, once more in my

life, I will lay my heart at your feet. I will see you, you shall

consent to an interview. I will see Eloisa likewise, and she too shall

give her consent. You are both of you too sensible of my regard for

her. Can you believe me capable of making this request, if I found

myself unworthy to appear in her presence? She has long since bewailed

the effects of her charms, ah! let her for once behold the fruits of

her virtue!

P. S. Lord B----’s affairs detain him here for some time; if I may be

allowed to see you, why should not I get the start of him, to be with

you the sooner?

Letter CXXIII. From Mr. Wolmar.

Though we are not yet acquainted, I am commanded to write to you. The

most discreet and most beloved wife, has lately disclosed her heart to

her happy husband. He thinks you worthy to have been the object of her

affections, and he makes you an offer of his house. Peace and

innocence reign in this mansion; you will meet with friendship,

hospitality, esteem and confidence. Examine your heart, and if you

find nothing there to deter you, come without any apprehensions. You

will not depart from him, without leaving behind you at least one

friend, by name.

WOLMAR.

P. S. Come, my friend, we expect you with eagerness. I hope I need not

fear a denial.

ELOISA.

Letter CXXIV. From Mrs. Orbe.

_In which the preceding Letter was inclosed._

Welcome, welcome a thousand times, dear St. Preux! for I intend that

you shall retain that name, at least among us. I suppose it will be

sufficient to tell you, that you will not be excluded, unless you mean

to exclude yourself. When you find, by the inclosed letter, that I

have done more than you required of me, you will learn to put more

confidence in our friends, and not to reproach them on account of

those inquietudes which they participate when, compelled by reason,

they are under a necessity of making you uneasy. Mr. Wolmar has a

desire to see you, he makes you an offer of his house, his friendship,

and his advice; this is more than requisite to quiet my apprehensions

with regard to your journey, and I should injure myself, if I

mistrusted you one moment. Mr. Wolmar goes farther, he pretends to

accomplish your cure, and he says that neither Eloisa, you, nor I, can

be perfectly happy till it is compleat. Though I have great confidence

in his wisdom, and more in your virtue, yet I cannot answer for the

success of this undertaking. This I know, that considering the

disposition of his wife, the pains he proposes to take, is out of pure

generosity to you.

Come then, my worthy friend, in all the security of an honest heart,

and satisfy the eagerness with which we all long to embrace you, and

to see you easy and contented: come to your native land, and in the

midst of your friends, rest yourself after all your travels, and

forget all the hardships you have undergone. The last time you saw me,

I was a grave matron, and my friend was on the brink of the grave; but

now that she is well, and I am once more single, you will find me as

gay, and almost as handsome as ever. One thing however is very

certain, that I am not altered with respect to you, and you may travel

many times round the world, and not find one who has so sincere a

regard for you as your, &c.

Letter CXXV. To Lord B----.

Just risen from my bed: ’tis yet the dead of night. I cannot rest a

moment. My heart is so transported, that I can scarce confine it

within me. You, my Lord, who have so often rescued me from despair,

shall be the worthy confident of the first pleasure I have tasted for

many a year.

I have seen her, my Lord! My eyes have beheld her! I heard her voice.

I have prest her hand with my lips. She recollected me; she received

me with joy; she called me her friend, her dear friend; she admitted

me into her house: I am happier than ever I was in my life. I lodge

under the same roof with her, and while I am writing to you, we are

scarce thirty paces asunder.

My ideas are too rapid to be exprest; they crowd upon me all at once,

and naturally impede each other. I must pause a while to digest my

narrative into some kind of method.

After so long an absence, I had scarce given way to the first

transports of my heart, while I embraced you as my friend, my

deliverer, and my father, before you thought of taking a journey to

Italy. You made me wish for it, in hopes of relief from the burthen of

being useless to you. As you could not immediately dispatch the

affairs which detained you in London, you proposed my going first,

that I might have more time to wait for you here. I begged leave to

come hither; I obtained it, I set out, and though Eloisa made the

first advances towards an interview, yet the pleasing reflection that

I was going to meet her, was checked by the regret of leaving you. My

Lord, we are now even, this single sentiment has cancelled my

obligations to you.

I need not tell you that my thoughts were all the way taken up with

the object of my journey; but I must observe one thing, that I began

to consider that same object, which had never quitted my imagination,

quite in another point of view. till then I used to recall Eloisa to

my mind, sparkling, as formerly, with all the charms of youth. I had

always beheld her lovely eyes, enlivened by that passion with which

she inspired me. Every feature which I admired, seemed, in my opinion,

to be a surety of my happiness. My affection was so interwoven with

the idea of her person, that I could not separate them. Now I was

going to see Eloisa married, Eloisa a Mother, Eloisa indifferent! I

was disturbed, when I reflected how much an interval of eight years

might have impaired her beauty. She had had the small-pox; she was

altered; how great might that alteration be? My imagination

obstinately refused to allow any blemish in that lovely face. I

reflected likewise on the expected interview between us, and what kind

of reception I might expect. This first meeting presented itself to my

mind under a thousand different appearances, and this momentary idea

came athwart my imagination a thousand times a day.

When I perceived the top of the hills, my heart beat violently, and

told me, There she is! I was affected in the same manner at sea, on

viewing the coast of Europe. I felt the same emotions at Meillerie,

when I discovered the house of the Baron D’Etange. The world, in my

imagination, is divided only into two regions, _that_ where she is,

and _that_ where she is not. The former dilates as I remove from her,

and contracts when I approach her, as a spot where I am destined never

to arrive. It is at present confined to the walls of her chamber.

Alas! that place alone is inhabited; all the rest of the universe is

an empty space.

The nearer I drew to Switzerland, the more I was agitated. That

instant in which I discovered the lake of Geneva from the heights of

Jura, was a moment of rapture and extasy. The light of my country,

that beloved country, where a deluge of pleasures had overflowed my

heart; the pure and wholesome air of the Alps; the gentle breeze of

the country, more sweet than the perfumes of the East; that rich and

fertile spot, that unrivalled landskip, the most beautiful that ever

struck the eye of man; that delightful abode, to which I found nothing

comparable in the vast tour of the globe; the aspect of a free and

happy people; the mildness of the season, the serenity of the climate;

a thousand pleasing recollections, which recalled to my mind the

pleasures I had enjoyed: all these circumstances together threw me

into a kind of transport which I cannot describe, and seemed to

collect the enjoyment of my whole life into one happy moment. Having

crossed the lake, I felt a new impression, of which I had no idea. It

was a certain emotion of fear, which checked my heart, and disturbed

me in spite of all my endeavours. This dread, of which I could not

discover the cause, increased as I drew nearer to the town; it abated

my eagerness to get thither, and rose to such a degree, that my

expedition gave me as much uneasiness as my delay had occasioned me

before. When I came to Vevey, I felt a sensation which was very far

from being agreeable. I was seized with a violent palpitation, which

stopped my breath, and I spoke with a trembling and broken accent. I

could scarce make myself understood when I enquired for Mr. Wolmar;

for I durst not mention his wife. They told me he lived at Clarens.

This information eased my breast from a pressure equal to five hundred

weight, and considering the two leagues I had to travel farther as a

kind of respite, I was rejoiced at a circumstance which at any other

time would have made me uneasy; but I learnt with concern that Mrs.

Orbe was at Lausanne. I went into an inn to recruit my strength, but I

could not swallow a morsel: when I attempted to drink I was almost

suffocated, and could not empty a glass but at several sips. When I

saw the horses put to, my apprehensions were doubled. I believe I

should have given any thing in the world to have had one of the wheels

broken by the way. I no longer saw Eloisa; my disturbed imagination

presented nothing but confused objects before me; my soul was in a

general tumult. I had experienced grief and despair, and should have

preferred them to that horrible state. In a few words, I can assure

you, that I never in my life underwent such cruel agitation as I

suffered in this little way, and I am persuaded that I could not have

supported it a whole day.

When I arrived, I ordered the chaise to stop at the gate, and finding

that I was not in a condition to walk, I sent the postillion to

acquaint Mr. Wolmar that a stranger wanted to speak with him. He was

taking a walk with his wife. They were acquainted with the message,

and came round another way, while I kept my eyes fixed on the avenue,

and waited, in a kind of trance, in expectation of seeing somebody

come from thence.

Eloisa had no sooner perceived me than she recollected me. In an

instant, she saw me, she shrieked, she ran, she leaped into my arms.

At the sound of her voice I started, I revived, I saw her, I felt her.

O my Lord! O my friend!... I cannot speak... Her look, her shriek, her

manner inspired me with confidence, courage, and strength, in an

instant. In her arms I felt warmth, and breathed new life. A sacred

transport kept us for some time closely embraced in deep silence; and

it was not till after we recovered from this agreeable delirium, that

our voices broke forth in confused murmurs, and our eyes intermingled

tears. Mr. Wolmar was present; I knew he was, I saw him: but what was

I capable of seeing? No, though the whole universe had been united

against me; though a thousand torments had surrounded me, I would not

have detached my heart from the least of those caresses, those tender

offerings of a pure and sacred friendship, which we will bear with us

to heaven!

When the violent impetuosity of our first meeting began to abate, Mrs.

Wolmar took me by the hand, and turning towards her husband, she said

to him, with a certain air of candor and innocence which instantly

affected me, Tho’ he is my old acquaintance, I do not present him to

you, but I receive him from you, and he will hereafter enjoy my

friendship no longer than he is honoured with yours----If new

friends, said Mr. Wolmar, embracing me, express less natural ardor

than those of long standing, yet they will grow old in their turn, and

will not yield to any in affection. I received his embraces; but my

heart had quite exhausted itself, and I was entirely passive.

After this short scene was over, I observed, by a side-glance, that

they had put up my chaise, and taken off my trunk. Eloisa held by my

arm, and I went with them towards the house, almost overwhelmed with

pleasure, to find they were determined I should remain their guest.

It was then that, upon a more calm contemplation of that lovely face,

which I imagined might have grown homely, I saw with an agreeable, yet

sad surprize, that she was really more beautiful and sparkling than

ever. Her charming features are now more regular; she is grown rather

fatter, which is an addition to the resplendent fairness of her

complexion. The small-pox has left some slight marks on her cheeks

scarce perceptible. Instead of that mortifying bashfulness which

formerly used to make her cast her eyes downwards, you may perceive in

her chaste looks, the security of virtue allied with gentleness and

sensibility; her countenance, tho’ not less modest, is less timid; an

air of greater freedom, and more liberal grace, has succeeded that

constrained carriage which was compounded of shame and tenderness; and

if a sense of her failing rendered her then more bewitching, a

consciousness of her purity now renders her more celestial.

We had scarce entered the parlour, when she disappeared, and returned

in a minute. She did not come alone. Who do you think she brought with

her? Her children! Those two lovely little ones, more beauteous than

the day; in whose infant faces you might trace all the charms and

features of their mother. How was I agitated at this sight? It is

neither to be described nor conceived. A thousand different emotions

seized me at once. A thousand cruel and delightful reflections divided

my heart. What a lovely sight! What bitter regrets! I found myself

distracted with grief, and transported with joy. I saw, if I may be

allowed the expression, the dear object of my affections multiplied

before me. Alas! I perceived at the same time too convincing a proof

that I had no longer any interest in her, and my losses seemed to be

multiplied with her increase.

She led them towards me. Behold, said she, with an affecting tone that

pierced my soul, behold the children of your friend: they will

hereafter be your friends. Henceforward I hope you will be theirs. And

immediately the two little creatures ran eagerly to me, took me by the

hand, and so overwhelmed me with their innocent caresses, that every

emotion of my soul centered in tenderness. I took them both in my

arms, and pressing them against my throbbing breast, Dear and lovely

little souls, said I, with a sigh, you have an arduous task to

perform. May you resemble the authors of your being; may you imitate

their virtues; and by your own hereafter, administer comfort to their

unfortunate friends. Mrs. Wolmar, in rapture threw herself round my

neck a second time, and seemed disposed to repay me, by _her_

embraces, those caresses which _I_ had bestowed on her two sons. But

how different was this from our first embrace! I perceived the

difference with astonishment. It was the mother of a family whom I now

embraced; I saw her surrounded by her husband and children: and the

scene struck me with awe. I discovered an air of dignity in her

countenance, which had not affected me till now: I found myself

obliged to pay her a different kind of respect; her familiarity was

almost uneasy to me; lovely as she appeared to me, I could have kissed

the hem of her garment, with a better grace than I saluted her cheek.

In a word, from that moment, I perceived that either she or I were no

longer the same, and I began in earnest to have a good opinion of

myself.

Mr. Wolmar at length took me by the hand, and conducted me to the

apartment which had been prepared for me. This, said he, as he

entered, is your apartment: it is not destined to the use of a

stranger; it shall never belong to another, and hereafter, if you do

not occupy it, it shall remain empty. You may judge whether such a

compliment was not agreeable to me; but as I had not yet deserved it,

I could not hear it without confusion. Mr. Wolmar, however, spared me

the trouble of an answer. He invited me to take a turn in the garden.

His behaviour there was such as made me less reserved, and assuming

the air of a man who was well acquainted with my former indiscretions,

but who entirely confided in my integrity, he conversed with me as a

father would speak to his child; and by conciliating my esteem, made

it impossible for me ever to deceive him. No, my Lord, he is not

mistaken in me; I shall never forget that it is incumbent on me to

justify his and your good opinion. But why should my heart reject his

favours? Why should the man whom I am bound to love be the husband of

Eloisa?

That day seemed defined to put me to every kind of proof which I could

possibly undergo. After we had joined Mrs. Wolmar, her husband was

called away to give some necessary orders, and I was left alone with

her.

I then found myself involved in fresh perplexity, more painful and

more unexpected than any which I had yet experienced. What should I

say to her? How could I address her? Should I presume to remind her of

our former connections, and of those times which were so recent in my

memory? Should I suffer her to conclude that I had forgot them, or

that I no longer regarded them? Think what a punishment it must be to

treat the object nearest your heart as a stranger! What infamy, on the

other hand, to abuse hospitality so far as to entertain her with

discourse to which she could not now listen with decency? Under these

various perplexities I could not keep my countenance; my colour went

and came; I durst not speak, nor lift up my eyes, nor make the least

motion; and I believe that I should have remained in this uneasy

situation till her husband’s return, if she had not relieved me. For

her part, this _tete a tete_ did not seem to embarrass her in the

least. She preserved the same manner and deportment as before, and

continued to talk to me with the same freedom; the only, as I

imagined, endeavoured to affect more ease and gaiety, tempered with a

look, not timid or tender, but soft and affectionate, as if she meant

to encourage me to recover my spirits, and lay aside a reserve which

she could not but perceive.

She talked to me of my long voyages; she enquired into particulars;

into those especially which related to the dangers I had escaped, and

the hardships I had endured: for she was sensible, she said, that she

was bound in friendship to make me some reparation. Ah, Eloisa! said

I, in a plaintive accent, I have enjoyed your company but for a

moment; would you send me back to the Indies already? No, she

answered, with a smile, but I would go thither in my turn.

I told her that I had given you a detail of my voyage, of which I had

brought her a copy for her perusal. She then enquired after you with

great eagerness. I gave her an account of you, which I could not do

without recounting the troubles I had undergone, and the uneasiness I

had occasioned you. She was affected; she began to enter into her own

justification in a more serious tone, and to convince me that it was

her duty to act as she had done. Mr. Wolmar joined us in the middle of

her discourse, and what confounded me was, that she proceeded in the

same manner as if he had not been there. He could not forbear smiling,

on discovering my astonishment. After she concluded, You see, said he,

an instance of the sincerity which reigns in this house. If you mean

to be virtuous, learn to copy it: it is the only request I have to

make, and the only lesson I would teach you. The first step towards

vice, is to make a mystery of actions innocent in themselves, and

whoever is fond of disguise, will sooner or later have reason to

conceal himself. One moral precept may supply the place of all the

rest, which is this: neither to say or do any thing, which you would

not have all the world see and hear. For my part, I have always

esteemed that Roman, above all other men, who wished that his house

was built in such manner, that the world might see all his

transactions.

I have two proposals, he continued, to make to you. chuse freely that

which you like best; but accept either one or the other. Then taking

his wife’s hand and mine, and closing them together, he said, Our

friendship commences from this moment; this forms the dear connection,

and may it be indissoluble. Embrace her as your sister and your

friend; treat her as such constantly; the more familiar you are with

her, the better I shall esteem you: but behave, when _tete a tete_, as

if I was present; or in my presence, as if I was absent. This is all I

desire. If you prefer the latter, you may chuse it without any

inconvenience; for as I reserve to myself the right of intimating to

you any thing which displeases me, so long as I am silent in that

respect, you may be certain that I am not offended.

I should have been greatly embarrassed by this discourse two hours

before, but Mr. Wolmar began to gain such an ascendancy over me, that

his authority already grew somewhat familiar to me. We all three

entered once more into indifferent conversation, and every time I

spoke to Eloisa, I did not fail to address her by the stile of

_Madam_. Tell me sincerely, said her husband at last, interrupting me,

in your _tete a tete_ party just now, did you call her _Madam?_ No,

answered I, somewhat disconcerted, but politeness... Such politeness,

he replied, is nothing but the mask of vice; where virtue maintains

its empire, it is unnecessary; and I discard it. Call my wife _Eloisa_

in my presence, or _Madam_ when you are alone; it is indifferent to

me. I began to know what kind of man I had to deal with, and I

resolved always to keep my mind in such a state as to bear his

examination.

My body drooping with fatigue, stood in need of refreshment, and my

spirits required rest; I found both one and the other at table. After

so many years absence and vexation, after such tedious voyages, I said

to myself, in a kind of rapture, I am in company with Eloisa, I see

her, I talk with her; I sit at table with her, she views me without

inquietude, and entertains me without apprehensions. Nothing

interrupts our mutual satisfaction. Gentle and precious innocence, I

never before relished thy charms, and to-day, for the first time, my

existence ceases to be painful.

At night, when I retired to rest, I passed by their chamber; I saw

them go in together; I proceeded to my own in a melancholy mood, and

this moment was the least agreeable to me of any I that day

experienced.

Such, my Lord, were the occurrences of this first interview, so

passionately wished for, and so dreadfully apprehended. I have

endeavoured to collect myself since I have been alone; I have

compelled myself to self-examination; but as I am not yet recovered

from the agitation of the preceding day, it is impossible for me to

judge of the true state of my mind. All that I know for certain, is,

that if the nature of my affection for her is not changed, at least

the mode of it is altered, for I am always anxious to have a third

person between us, and I now dread being alone with her, as much as I

longed for it formerly.

I intend to go to Lausanne in two or three days. I have seen Eloisa

but half, not having seen her cousin; that dear and amiable friend, to

whom I am so much indebted, and who will always share my friendship,

my services, my gratitude, and all the affections of my soul. On my

return I will take the first opportunity to give you a farther

account. I have need of your advice, and I shall keep a strict eye

over my conduct. I know my duty, and will discharge it. However

agreeable it may be to fix my residence in this house, I am

determined, I have sworn, that when I grow too fond of my abode, I

will quit it immediately.

Letter CXXVI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

If you had been kind enough to have staid with us as long as we

desired, you would have had the pleasure of embracing your friend

before your departure. He came hither the day before yesterday, and

wanted to visit you to day; but the fatigue of his journey confines

him to his room, and this morning he was let blood. Besides, I was

fully determined, in order to punish you, not to let him go so soon;

and unless you will come hither, I promise you that it will be a long

time before you shall see him. You know it would be very improper to

let him see the _inseparables_ asunder.

In truth, Clara, I cannot tell what idle apprehensions bewitched my

mind with respect to his coming hither, and I am ashamed to have

opposed it with such obstinacy. As much as I dreaded the sight of him,

I should now be sorry not to have seen him, for his presence has

banished those fears which yet disturbed me, and which, by fixing my

attention constantly on him, might at length have given me just cause

of uneasiness. I am so far from being apprehensive of the affection I

feel for him, that I believe I should mistrust myself more was he less

dear to me; but I love him as tenderly as ever, though my love is of a

different nature. It is by comparing my present sensations with those

which his presence formerly occasioned, that I derive my security, and

the difference of such opposite sentiments is perceived in proportion

to their vivacity.

With regard to him, though I knew him at the first glance, he

nevertheless appeared to be greatly altered; and what I should

formerly have thought impossible, he seems, in many respects, to be

changed for the better. On the first day, he discovered many symptoms

of perplexity, and it was with great difficulty that I concealed mine

from him. But it was not long before he recovered that free deportment

and openness of manner which becomes his character. I had always seen

him timid and bashful; the fear of offending me, and perhaps the

secret shame of acting a part unbecoming a man of honour, gave him an

air of meanness and servility before me, which you have more than once

very justly ridiculed. Instead of the submission of a slave, at

present he has the respectful behaviour of a friend, who knows how to

honour the object of his esteem. He now communicates his sentiments

with freedom and honesty; he is not afraid lest his severe maxims of

virtue should clash with his interest; he is not apprehensive of

injuring himself or affecting me, by praising what is commendable in

itself, and one may perceive in all that he says the confidence of an

honest man, who can depend upon himself, and who derives that

approbation from his own conscience, which he formerly sought for only

in my looks. I find also that experience has cured him of that

dogmatical and peremptory air which men are apt to contract in their

closets; that he is less forward to judge of mankind, since he has

observed them more; that he is less ready to establish general

propositions, since he has seen so many exceptions; and that in

general, the love of truth has banished the spirit of system: so that

he is become less brilliant, but more rational; and one receives much

more information from him, now that he does not affect to be so wise.

His figure likewise is altered, but nevertheless not for the worse;

his countenance is more open; his deportment more stately; he has

contracted a kind of martial air in his travels, which becomes him the

better, as the lively and spirited gesture he used to express when he

was in earnest, is now turned into a more grave and sober demeanour.

He is a seaman, whose appearance is cold and phlegmatic, but whose

discourse is fiery and impetuous. Though he is turned of thirty, he

has the look of a young man, and joins all the spirit of youth to the

dignity of manhood. His complexion is entirely altered; he is as black

as a Negro, and very much marked with the small-pox. My dear, I must

own the truth; I am uneasy whenever I view those marks, and I catch

myself looking at them very often in spite of me.

I think I can discover that if I am curious in examining him, he is

not less attentive in viewing me. After so long an absence, it is

natural to contemplate each other with a kind of curiosity; but if

this curiosity may be thought to retain any thing of our former

eagerness, yet what difference is there in the manner as well as the

motive of it! If our looks do not meet so often, we nevertheless view

each other with more freedom. We seem to examine each other

alternately by a kind of tacit agreement. Each perceives, as it were,

when it is the other’s turn, and looks a different way to give the

other an opportunity. Though free from the emotions I formerly felt,

yet how is it possible to behold with indifference one who inspired

the tenderest passion, and who, to this hour, is the object of the

purest affection? Who knows whether self-love does not endeavour to

justify past errors? Who knows whether, though no longer blinded by

passion, we do not both flatter ourselves by secretly approving our

former choice? Be it as it may, I repeat it without a blush, that I

feel a most tender affection for him, which will endure to the end of

my life. I am so far from reproaching myself for harbouring these

sentiments, that I think they deserve applause; I should blush not to

perceive them, and consider it as a defect in my character, and the

symptom of a bad disposition. With respect to him, I dare believe,

that next to virtue, he loves me beyond any thing in the world. I

perceive that he thinks himself honoured by my esteem; I in my turn

will regard his in the same light, and will merit its continuance. Ah!

if you saw with what tenderness he caresses my children; if you knew

what pleasure he takes in talking of you, you would find, Clara, that

I am still dear to him.

What increases my confidence in the opinion we both entertain of him,

is that Mr. Wolmar joins with us, and since he has seen him, believes,

from his own observation, all that we have reported to his advantage.

He has talked of him much these two evenings past, congratulating

himself on account of the measures he has taken, and rallying me for

my opposition. No, said he yesterday, we will not suffer so worthy a

man to mistrust himself; we will teach him to have more confidence in

his own virtue, and perhaps we may one day or other reap the fruits of

our present endeavours with more advantage than you imagine. For the

present, I must tell you that I am pleased with his character, and

that I esteem him particularly for one circumstance which he little

suspects, that is, the reserve with which he behaves towards me. The

less friendship he expresses for me, the more he makes me his friend;

I cannot tell you how much I dreaded lest he should load me with

caresses. This was the first trial I prepared for him, there is yet

another by which I intend to prove him; and after that I shall cease

all farther examination. As to the circumstance you mentioned, said I,

it only proves the frankness of his disposition; for he would never

resolve to put on a pliant and submissive air before my father, though

it was so much his interest, and I so often intreated him to do it. I

saw with concern that his behaviour deprived him of the only resource,

and yet could not dislike him for not being able to play the hypocrite

on any occasion. The case is very different, replied my husband: there

is a natural antipathy between your father and him, founded on the

opposition of their sentiments. With regard to myself, who have no

symptoms or prejudices, I am certain that he can have no natural

aversion to me. No one can hate me; a man without passions cannot

inspire any one with an aversion towards him: but I deprived him of

the object of his wishes, which he will not readily forgive. He will

however conceive the stronger affection for me, when he is perfectly

convinced that the injury I have done him does not prevent me from

looking upon him with an eye of kindness. If he caressed me now, he

would be a hypocrite; if he never caresses me, he will be a monster.

Such, my dear Clara, is the situation we are in, and I begin to think

that heaven will bless the integrity of our hearts, and the kind

intentions of my husband. But I am too kind to you in entering into

all these details; you do not deserve that I should take such pleasure

in conversing with you; but I am determined to tell you no more, and

if you desire farther information, you must come hitherto receive it.

P. S. I must acquaint you nevertheless with what has passed with

respect to the subject of this letter. You know with what indulgence

Mr. Wolmar received the late confession which our friend’s unexpected

return obliged me to make. You saw with what tenderness he endeavoured

to dry up my tears, and dispel my shame. Whether, as you reasonably

conjectured, I told him nothing new, or whether he was really affected

by a proceeding which nothing but sincere repentance could dictate, he

has not only continued to live with me as before, but he even seems to

have increased his attention, his confidence, and esteem, as if he

meant, by his kindness, to repay the confusion which my confession

cost me. My dear Clara, you know my heart; judge then what an

impression such a conduct must make!

As soon as I found that he was determined to let our old friend come

hither, I resolved on my part, to take the best precautions I could

contrive against myself: which was to chuse my husband himself for my

confident; to hold no particular conversation, which I did not

communicate to him, and to write no letter which I did not shew to

him. I even made it a part of my duty to write every letter as if it

was not intended for his inspection, and afterwards to shew it to him.

You will find an article in this which was penned on this principle;

if while I was writing, I could not forbear thinking that he might

read it, yet my conscience bears witness that I did not alter a single

word on that account; but when I shewed him my letter, he bantered me,

and had not the civility to read it.

I confess that I was somewhat piqued at his refusal; as if he had

doubted my honour. My emotion did not escape his notice, and this most

open and generous man soon removed my apprehensions. Confess, said he,

that you have said less concerning me than usual in that letter. I

owned it; was it decent to say much of him, when I intended to shew

him what I had written? Well, he replied with a smile, I had rather

that you would talk of me more, and not know what you say of me.

Afterwards, he continued, in a more serious tone; Marriage, said he,

is too grave and solemn a state to admit of that free communication

which tender friendship allows. The latter connection often happily

contributes to moderate the rigour of the former; and it may be

reasonable in some cases for a virtuous and discreet woman to seek for

that comfort, intelligence, and advice from a faithful confident,

which it might not be proper for her to desire of her husband. Though

nothing passes between you but what you would chuse to communicate,

yet take care not to make it a duty, lest that duty should become a

restraint upon you, and your correspondence grow less agreeable by

being more diffusive. Believe me, the open-hearted sincerity of

friendship is restrained by the presence of a witness, whoever it be.

There are a thousand secrets of which three friends ought to

participate; but which cannot be communicated but between two. You may

impart the same things to your friend and to your husband, but you do

not relate them in the same manner; and if you will confound these

distinctions, the consequence will be, that your letters will be

addressed more to me than to her, and that you will not be free from

restraint either with one or the other. It is as much for my own

interest as for yours, that I urge these reasons. Do not you perceive

that you are already, with good reason, apprehensive of the indelicacy

of praising me to my face? Why will you deprive yourself of the

pleasure of acquainting your friend how tenderly you love your

husband, and me of the satisfaction of supposing that in your most

private intercourses, you take delight in speaking well of me? Eloisa!

Eloisa! he added, pressing my hand, and looking at me with tenderness,

why will you demean yourself by taking precautions so unworthy of you,

and will you never learn to make a true estimate of your own worth?

My dear friend, it is impossible to tell you how this incomparable man

behaves to me: I no longer blush in his presence. Spite of my frailty,

he lifts me above myself, and by dint of reposing confidence in me, he

teaches me to deserve it.

Letter CXXVII. Answer.

Impossible! our traveller returned, and have I not yet seen him at my

feet, loaded with the spoils of America? But it is not him, I assure

you, whom I accuse of this delay; for I am sensible it is as grievous

to him as to me: but I find that he has not so thoroughly forgotten

his former state of servility as you pretend, and I complain less of

his neglect, than of your tyranny. It is very droll in you indeed, to

desire such a prude as I am, to make the first advances, and run to

salute a swarthy pockfretten face, which has passed four times under

the line. But you make me smile to see you in such haste to scold, for

fear I should begin first. I should be glad to know what pretence you

have to make such an attempt? Quarrelling is my talent. I take

pleasure in it, I acquit myself to a miracle, and it becomes me well;

but you, my dear cousin, are a mere novice at this work. If you did

but know how graceful you appear in the act of confession, how lovely

you look with a supplicating eye, and an air of confusion, instead of

scolding you would spend your days in asking pardon, were it only out

of coquetry.

For the present, you must ask my pardon in every respect. A fine

project truly, to chuse a husband for a confident, and a most

obliging precaution indeed for a friendship so sacred as ours! Thou

faithless friend, and pusillanimous woman! On whom can you depend, if

you mistrust yourself and me? Can you, without offence to both,

considering the sacred tie under which you live, suspect your own

inclinations and my indulgence? I am amazed that the very idea of

admitting a third person into the tittle tattle secrets of two women,

did not disgust you! As for my part, I love to prattle with you at my

ease, but if I thought that the eye of man ever pried into my letters,

I should no longer have any pleasure in corresponding with you; such a

reserve would insensibly introduce a coldness between us, and we

should have no more regard for each other than two indifferent women.

To what inconveniences your silly distrust would have exposed us, if

your husband had not been wiser than you!

He acted very discreetly in not reading your letter. Perhaps he would

have been less satisfied with it than you imagine, and less than I am

myself, who am better capable of judging of your present condition, by

the fate in which I have seen you formerly. All those contemplative

sages who have passed their lives in the study of the human heart, are

less acquainted with the real symptoms of love, than the most shallow

woman, if she has any sensibility. Mr. Wolmar would immediately have

observed that our friend was the subject of your whole letter, and he

would not have seen the postscript, in which you do not once mention

him. If you had written this postscript ten years ago, my dear, I

cannot tell how you would have managed, but your friend would

certainly have been crowded into some corner, especially as there was

no husband to overlook it.

Mr. Wolmar would have observed farther with what attention you

examined his guest, and the pleasure you take in describing his

person; but he might devour Plato and Aristotle, before he would know

that we _look at_ a lover, but do not _examine_ him. All examination

requires a degree of indifference, which we never feel when we behold

the object of our passion.

In short, he would imagine that all the alterations you remark might

have escaped another, and I on the contrary was afraid of finding that

they had escaped you. However your guest may be altered from what he

was, he would appear the same, if your affections were not altered.

You turn away your eyes whenever he looks at you; this is a very good

symptom. You _turn them away_, cousin? You do not now _cast them

down_? Surely you have not mistaken one word for another. Do you think

that our philosopher would have perceived this distinction?

There is another circumstance very likely to disturb a husband; it is

a kind of tenderness and affection which still remains in your stile,

when you speak of the object who was once so dear to you. One who

reads your letters, or hears you speak, ought to be well acquainted

with you, not to be mistaken with regard to your sentiments; he ought

to know that it is only a friend to whom you are speaking, or that,

you speak in the same manner of all your friends; but as to that, it

is the natural effect of your disposition, with which your husband is

too well acquainted to be alarmed. How is it possible but that, in a

mind of such tenderness, pure friendship will bear some resemblance to

love? Pray observe, my dear cousin, that all I say to you on this head

ought to inspire you with fresh courage: your conduct is discreet, and

that is a great deal; I used to trust only to your virtue, but I

begin now to rely on your reason; I consider your cure at present,

though not perfect, yet as easily accomplished, and you have now made

a sufficient progress, to render you inexcusable if you do not

compleat it.

Before I came to your postscript, I remarked the passage which you had

the sincerity not to suppress or alter, though conscious that it would

be open to your husband’s inspection. I am certain, that if he had

read it, it would, if possible, have doubled his esteem for you;

nevertheless it would have given him no great pleasure. Upon the

whole, your letter was very well calculated to make him place an

entire confidence in your conduct, but at the same time it tended to

give him uneasiness with respect to your inclinations. I own those

marks of the small-pox, which you view so much, give me some

apprehensions; love never yet contrived a more dangerous disguise. I

know that this would be of no consequence to any other; but always

remember, Eloisa, that she who was not to be reduced by the youth and

fine figure of her lover, was lost when she reflected on the

sufferings he had endured for her. Providence no doubt intended that

he should retain the marks of that distemper, to exercise your virtue,

and that you should be free from them, in order to put his to the

proof.

I come now to the principal subject of your letter; you know that on

the receipt of our friend’s, I flew to you immediately; it was a

matter of importance. But at present, if you knew in what difficulties

that short absence has involved me, and how many things I have to do

at once, you would be sensible how impossible it is for me to leave my

house again, without exposing myself to fresh inconveniencies, and

putting myself under a necessity of passing the winter here again,

which is neither for your interest or mine. Is it not better to

deprive ourselves of the pleasure of a hasty interview of two or three

days, that we may be together for six months. I imagine likewise that

it would not be improper for me to have a little particular and

private conversation with our philosopher: partly to found his

inclinations and confirm his mind; partly to give him some useful

advice with regard to the conduct he should observe towards your

husband, and even towards you; for I do not suppose that you can talk

to him with freedom on that subject, and I can perceive, even from

your letter, that he has need of council. We have been so long used to

govern him, that we are in conscience responsible for his behaviour;

and till he has regained the free use of his reason, we must supply

the deficiency. For my own part, it is a charge I shall always

undertake with pleasure; for he has paid such deference to my advice

as I shall never forget, and since my husband is no more, there is not

a man in the world whom I esteem and love so much as himself. I have

likewise reserved for him the pleasure of doing me some little

services here. I have a great many papers in confusion, which he will

help me to regulate, and I have some troublesome affairs in hand in

which I shall have occasion for his diligence and understanding. As to

the rest, I do not propose to detain him above five or six days at

most, and perhaps I may send him to you the next day. For I have too

much vanity to wait till he is seized with impatience to return, and I

have too much discernment to be deceived in that case.

Do not fail therefore as soon as he is recovered, to send him to me;

that is, to let him come, or I shall give over all raillery. You know

very well that if I laugh whilst I cry, and yet am not the less in

affliction, so I laugh likewise at the same time that I scold, and yet

am not the less in a passion. If you are discreet, and do things with

a good grace, I promise you that I will send him back to you with a

pretty little present, which will give you pleasure, and a great deal

of pleasure; but if you suffer me to languish with impatience, I

assure you that you shall have nothing.

P.S. A propos; tell me, does our seaman smoak? does he swear? does he

drink brandy? Does he wear a great cutlass? has he the look of a

Buccaneer? O how I long to see what sort of an air a man has who comes

from the Antipodes!

Letter CXXVIII. Clara to Eloisa.

Here, take back your slave, my dear cousin. He has been mine for these

eight days past, and he bears his chains with so good a grace, that he

seems formed for captivity. Return me thanks that I did not keep him

still eight days longer; for without offence to you, if I had kept him

till he began to grow tired of me, I should not have sent him back so

soon. I therefore detained him without any scruple; but I was so

scrupulous however, that I durst not let him lodge in my house. I have

sometimes perceived in myself that haughtiness of soul, which disdains

servile ceremonies, and which is so confident with virtue. In this

instance however, I have been more reserved than usual, without

knowing why: and all that I know for certain is, that I am more

disposed to censure, than to applaud my reserve.

But can you guess what induced our friend to stay here so patiently?

First, he had the pleasure of my company, and I presume that

circumstance alone was sufficient to make him patient. Then he saved

me a great deal of confusion, and was of service to me in my business;

a friend is never tired of such offices. A third reason which you have

probably conjectured, though you pretend not to know it, is that he

talked to me about you; and if we subtract the time employed in this

conversation from the whole time which he has passed here, you will

find that there is very little remaining to be placed to my account.

But what an odd whim, to leave you, in order to have the pleasure of

talking of you! Not so odd as may be imagined. He is under constraint

in your company; he must be continually upon his guard; the least

indiscretion would become a crime, and in those dangerous moments,

minds endued with sentiments of honour, never fail to recollect their

duty; but when we are remote from the object of our affections, we may

indulge ourselves with feasting our imaginations. If we stifle an idea

when it becomes criminal, why should we reproach ourselves for having

entertained it when it was not so? Can the pleasing recollection of

innocent pleasures, ever be a crime? This, I imagine, is a way of

reasoning, which you will not acquiesce in, but which nevertheless may

be admitted. He began, as I may say, to run over the whole course of

his former affections. The days of his youth passed over a second time

in our conversation. He renewed all his confidence in me; he recalled

the happy time, in which he was permitted to love you; he painted to

my imagination, all the charms of an innocent passion----Without

doubt, he embellished them!

He said little of his present condition with regard to you, and what

he mentioned rather denoted respect and admiration, than love; so that

I have the pleasure to think that he will return, much more confident

as to the nature of his affections, than when he came hither. Not but

that, when you are the subject, one may perceive at the bottom of that

susceptible mind, a certain tenderness, which friendship alone, though

not less affecting, still expresses in a different manner; but I have

long observed that it is impossible to see you, or to think of you

with indifference; and if to that general affection which the sight of

you inspires, we add the more tender impression which an indelible

recollection must have left upon his mind, we shall find that it is

difficult and almost impossible that, with the most rigid virtue, he

should be otherwise than he is. I have fully interrogated him,

carefully observed him, and watched him narrowly; I have examined him

with the utmost attention. I cannot read his inmost thoughts, nor do I

believe them more intelligible to himself: but I can answer, at least,

that he is struck with a sense of his duty and of yours, and that the

idea of Eloisa abandoned and contemptible, would be more horrible than

his own annihilation. My dear cousin, I have but one piece of advice

to give you, and I desire you to attend to it; avoid any detail

concerning what is passed, and I will take upon me to answer for the

future.

With regard to the restitution which you mentioned, you must think no

more of it. After having exhausted all the reasons I could suggest, I

intreated him, pressed him, conjured him, but in vain. I pouted, I

even kissed him, I took hold of both his hands, and would have fallen

on my knees to him if he would have suffered me; but he would not so

much as hear me. He carried the obstinacy of his humour so far, as to

swear that he would sooner consent never to see you again, than part

with your picture. At last, in a fit of passion, he made me feel it.

It was next his heart. There, said he, with a sigh which almost

stopped his breath, there is the picture, the only comfort I have

left, and of which nevertheless you would deprive me; be assured that

it shall never be torn from me, but at the expense of my life. Believe

me, Eloisa, we had better be discreet, and suffer him to keep the

picture. Afterall, where is the importance? His obstinacy will be his

punishment.

After he had thoroughly unburthened and eased his mind, he appeared so

composed that I ventured to talk to him about his situation. I found

that neither time nor reason had made any alteration in his system,

and that he confined his whole ambition to the passing his life in the

service of Lord B----. I could not but approve such honourable

intentions, so consistent with his character, and so becoming that

gratitude, which is due to such unexhausted kindness. He told me that

you were of the same opinion; but that Mr. Wolmar was silent. A sudden

thought strikes me. From your husband’s singular conduct, and other

symptoms, I suspect that he has some secret design upon our friend,

which he does not disclose. Let us leave him to himself, and trust to

his discretion. The manner in which he behaves, sufficiently proves

that, if my conjecture is right, he meditates nothing but what will be

for the advantage of the person, about whom he has taken such uncommon

pains.

You gave a very just description of his figure and of his manners,

which proves that you have observed him more attentively than I should

have imagined. But don’t you find that his continued anxieties have

rendered his countenance more expressive than it used to be?

Notwithstanding the account you gave me, I was afraid to find him

tinctured with that affected politeness, those apish manners which

people seldom fail to contract at Paris, and which, in the round of

trifles which employ an indolent day, are vainly displayed under

different modes. Whether it be that some minds are not susceptible of

this polish, or whether the sea air entirely effaced it, I could not

discover in him the least marks of affectation; and all the zeal he

expressed for me, seemed to flow entirely from the dictates of his

heart. He talked to me about my poor husband; but instead of

comforting me, he chose to join with me in bewailing him, and never

once attempted to make any fine speeches on the subject. He caressed

my daughter, but instead of admiring her as I do, he reproached me

with her failings, and, like you, complained that I spoiled her; he

entered into my concerns with great zeal, and was seldom of my opinion

in any respect. Moreover, the wind might have blown my eyes out,

before he would have thought of drawing a curtain; I might have been

fatigued to death in going from one room to another, before he would

have had gallantry enough to have stretched out his hand, covered with

the skirt of his coat, to support me: my fan lay upon the ground

yesterday for more than a second, and he did not fly from the bottom

of the room, as if he was going to snatch it out of the fire. In the

morning, before he came to visit me, he never once sent to inquire how

I did. When we are walking together, he does not affect to have his

hat nailed upon his head, to shew that he knows the pink of the mode.

[52] At table, I frequently asked him for his snuff-box, which he

always gave me in his hand, and never presented it upon a plate, like

a _fine gentleman_; or rather like a footman. He did not fail to drink

my health twice at least at dinner, and I will lay a wager that if he

stays with us this winter, we shall see him sit round the fire with

us, and warm himself like an old cit. You laugh, cousin; but shew me

one of our gallants newly arrived from Paris, who preserves the same

manly deportment. As to the rest, I think you must allow that our

philosopher is altered for the worse in one respect, which is, that he

takes rather more notice of people who speak to him, which he cannot

do but to your prejudice; nevertheless, I hope that I shall be able to

reconcile him to Madam Belon. For my part, I think him altered for the

better, because he is more serious than ever. My dear, take great care

of him till my arrival. He is just the man I could wish to have the

pleasure of plaguing all day long.

Admire my discretion; I have taken no notice yet of the present I send

you, and which is an earnest of another to come. But you have received

it before you opened my letter, and you know how much, and with what

reason I idolize it; you, whose avarice is so anxious about this

present, you must acknowledge that I have performed more than I

promised. Ah! the dear little creature! While you are reading this,

she is already in your arms; she is happier than her mother; but in

two months time I shall be happier than she, for I shall be more

sensible of my felicity. Alas! dear cousin, do not you possess me

wholly already? Where you and my daughter are, what part of me is

wanting? There she is, the dear little infant; take her as your own; I

give her up; I put her into your hands: I consign all maternal

authority over to you; correct my failings; take that charge upon

yourself, of which I acquitted myself so little to your liking:

henceforward be as a mother to her, who is one day to be your

daughter-in-law, and to render her dearer to me still, make another

Eloisa of her if possible. She is like you in the face already; as to

her temper, I guess that she will be grave and thoughtful; when you

have corrected those little caprices which I have been accused of

encouraging you will find that my daughter will give herself the airs

of my cousin; but she will be happier than Eloisa in having less tears

to shed, and less struggles to encounter. Do you know that she can’t

be any longer without her little M----, and that it is partly for that

reason I send her back? I had a conversation with her yesterday, which

made our friends ready to die with laughing. First, she leaves me

without the least regret, I, who am her humble servant all day long,

and can deny her nothing she asks for; and you, of whom she is afraid,

and who answer her, _No_, twenty times a day; you, by way of

excellence, are her little mamma, whom she visits with pleasure, and

whose denials she likes better than all my fine presents: when I told

her that I was going to send her to you, she was transported as you

may imagine; but to perplex her, I told her that you, in return was to

send me little M---- in her stead, and that was not agreeable to her.

She was quite at a non-plus, and asked what I would do with him. I

told her that I would take him to myself: she began to pout. Harriot,

said I, won’t you give up your little M---- to me? No, said she,

somewhat coldly. No? But if I won’t give him up neither, who shall

settle it between us? Mamma, my little mamma shall settle it. Then I

shall have the preference, for you know she will do whatever I desire.

Oh, but mamma will do nothing but what’s right! And do you think I

should desire what’s wrong? The sly little jade began to smile. But

after all, I continued, for what reason should she refuse to give me

little M----? Because he is not fit for you. And why is he not fit for

me? Another arch smile as full of meaning as the former. Tell me

honestly, is it not because you think me too old for him? No, mamma,

but he is too young for you... This from a child but seven years old

...

I amused myself with piquing her still farther. My dear Henriette,

said I, assuming a serious air, I assure you that he is not fit for

you neither. Why so? she cried, as if she had been suddenly alarmed.

Because he is too giddy for you. Oh, mamma, is that all? I will make

him wise. But if unfortunately he should make you foolish? Then,

mamma, I should be like you. Like me, impertinence? Yes, mamma, you

are saying all day that you are foolishly fond of me. Well then, I

will be foolishly fond of him, that’s all.

I know you don’t approve of this pretty prattle, and that you will

soon know how to check it. Neither will I justify it, though I own it

delights me; but I only mention it to convince you, that my daughter

is already in love with her little M----, and that if he is two years

younger than her, she is not unworthy of that authority, which she may

claim by right of seniority. I perceive likewise, by opposing your

example and my own to that of your poor mother’s, that where the woman

governs, the house is not the worse managed. Farewell, my dear friend;

farewell, my constant companion! The time is approaching, and the

vintage shall not be gathered without me.

Letter CXXIX. To Lord B----.

What pleasures, too late enjoy’d, (alas, enjoy’d too late) have I

tasted these three weeks past! How delightful to pass one day in the

bosom of calm friendship, secure from the tempests of impetuous

passion! What a pleasing and affecting scene, my Lord, is a plain and

well-regulated family, where order, peace, and innocence reign

throughout; where, without pomp or retinue, everything is assembled,

which can contribute to the real felicity of mankind! The country, the

retirement, the season, the vast body of water which opens to my view,

the wild prospect of the mountains, everything conspires to recall to

my mind the delightful island of Tinian. I flatter myself that the

earnest prayers, which I there so often repeated, are now

accomplished. I live here agreeably to my taste, and enjoy society

suitable to my liking. I only want the company of two persons to

compleat my happiness, and I hope to see them here soon.

In the mean time, till you and Mrs. Orbe come to perfect those

charming and innocent pleasures, which I begin to relish here, I will

endeavour, by way of detail, to give you an idea of that domestic

economy, which proclaims the happiness of the master and mistress, and

communicates their felicity to every one under their roof. I hope that

my reflections may one day be of use to you, with respect to the

project you have in view, and this hope encourages me to pursue them.

I need not give you a description of Clarens house. You know it. You

can tell how delightful it is, what interesting recollections it

presents to my mind; you can judge how dear it must be to me, both on

account of the present scenes it exhibits, and of those which it

recalls to my mind. Mrs. Wolmar, with good reason, prefers this abode

to that of Etange, a superb and magnificent castle, but old,

inconvenient, and gloomy, its situation being far inferior to the

country round Clarens.

Since Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have fixed their residence here, they have

converted to use every thing which served only for ornament: it is no

longer a house for shew, but for convenience. They have shut up a long

sweep of rooms, to alter the inconvenient situation of the doors; they

have cut off some over-sized rooms, that the apartments might be

better distributed. Instead of rich and antique furniture, they have

substituted what is neat and convenient. Every thing here is pleasant

and agreeable; every thing breathes an air of plenty and propriety,

without any appearance of pomp and luxury. There is not a single room,

in which you do not immediately recollect that you are in the country,

but in which, nevertheless, you will find all the conveniences you

meet with in town. The same alterations are observable without doors.

The yard has been enlarged at the expense of the coach-houses. Instead

of an old tattered billiard-table, they have made a fine press, and

the spot which used to be filled with screaming peacocks, which they

have parted with, is converted into a dairy. The kitchen-garden was

too small for the kitchen; they have made another out of a flower

garden, but so convenient and so well laid out, that the spot, thus

transformed, looks more agreeable to the eye than before. Instead of

the mournful yews which covered the wall, they have planted good

fruit-trees. In the room of the useless Indian _black-berry_, fine

young mulberry-trees now begin to shade the yard, and they have

planted two rows of walnut-trees quite to the road, in the place of

some old linden trees which bordered the avenue. They have throughout

substituted the useful in the room of the agreeable, and yet the

agreeable has gained by the alteration. For my own part, at least, I

think that the noise of the yard, the crowing of the cocks, the lowing

of the cattle, the harness of the carts, the rural repasts, the return

of the husband-men, and all the train of rustic economy, give the

house a more rural, more lively, animated and gay appearance, than it

had in its former state of mournful dignity.

Their estate is not out upon lease, but they are their own farmers,

and the cultivation of it employs a great deal of their time, and

makes a great part both of their pleasure and profit. The manor of

Etange is nothing but meadow, pasture and wood: but the produce of

Clarens consists of vineyards, which are considerable objects, and in

which, the difference of culture produces more sensible effects than

in corn; which is a farther reason why, in point of economy, they

should prefer the latter as a place of residence. Nevertheless, they

generally go to Etange every year at harvest time, and Mr. Wolmar

visits it frequently. It is a maxim with them, to cultivate their

lands to the utmost they will produce, not for the sake of

extraordinary profit, but as a means of employing more hands. Mr.

Wolmar maintains that the produce of the earth is in proportion to the

number of hands employed; the better it is tilled, the more it yields;

and the surplus of its produce furnishes the means of cultivating it

still farther; the more it is stocked with men and cattle, the greater

abundance it yields for their support. No one can tell, says he, where

this continual and reciprocal increase of produce and of labour may

end. On the contrary, land neglected loses its fertility; the less men

a country produces, the less provisions it furnishes. The scarcity of

inhabitants is the reason why it is insufficient to maintain the few

it has, and in every country which tends to depopulation, the people

will sooner or later die of famine.

Therefore having a great deal of land, which they cultivate with the

utmost industry, they require, besides the servants in the yard, a

great number of day labourers, which procures them the pleasure of

maintaining a great number of people without any inconvenience to

themselves. In the choice of their labourers, they always prefer

neighbours and those of the same place, to strangers and foreigners.

Though by this means they may sometimes be losers in not choosing the

most robust, yet this loss is soon made up by the affection which this

preference inspires in those whom they chuse, by the advantage

likewise of having them always about them, and of being able to depend

on them at all times, though they keep them in pay but part of the

year.

They always make two prices with these labourers. One is a strict

payment of right, the current price of the country, which they engage

to pay them when they hire them. The other, which is more liberal, is

a payment of generosity; it is bestowed only as they are found to

deserve it, and it seldom happens that they do not earn the surplus:

for Mr. Wolmar is just and strict, and never suffers institutions of

grace and favour to degenerate into custom and abuse. Over these

labourers there are overseers, who watch and encourage them. These

overseers work along with the rest; and are interested in their

labour, by a little augmentation which is made to their wages, for

every advantage that is reaped from their industry. Besides, Mr.

Wolmar visits them almost every day himself, sometimes often in a day,

and his wife loves to take these walks with him. In times of

extraordinary business, Eloisa every week bestows some little

gratifications to such of the labourers, or other servants, as, in the

judgment of their master, shall have been most industrious for eight

days past. All these means of promoting emulation, though seemingly

expensive, when used with justice and discretion, insensibly make

people laborious and diligent, and in the end bring in more than is

disbursed; but as they turn to no profit, but by time and

perseverance, few people know any thing of them, or are willing to

make use of them.

But the most effectual method of all, which is peculiar to Mrs.

Wolmar, and which they who are bent on economy seldom think of, is

that of gaining the hearts of those good people, by making them the

objects of her affection. She does not think it sufficient to reward

their industry, by giving them money, but she thinks herself bound to

do farther services to those who have contributed to hers. Labourers,

domestics, all who serve her, if it be but for a day, become her

children; she takes part in their pleasures, their cares, and their

fortune; she inquires into their affairs, and makes their interests

her own; she engages in a thousand concerns for them, she gives them

her advice, she composes their differences, and does not shew the

affability of her disposition in smooth and fruitless speeches, but in

real services, and continual acts of benevolence. They, on their

parts, leave everything to serve her, on the least motion. They fly

when she speaks to them; her look alone animates their zeal; in her

presence they are contented; in her absence they talk of her, and are

eager to be employed. Her charms, and her manner of conversing do a

great deal, but her gentleness and her virtues do more. Ah! my Lord,

what a powerful and adorable empire is that of benevolent beauty!

With respect to their personal attendants, they have within doors

eight servants, three women and five men, without reckoning the

baron’s valet de chambre, or the servants in the out-houses. It seldom

happens that people, who have but few domestics, are ill served; but,

from the uncommon zeal of these servants, one would conclude that

each thought himself charged with the business of the other seven, and

from the harmony among them, one would imagine that the whole business

was done by one man. You never see them in the out-houses idle and

unemployed, or playing in the court-yard, but always about some useful

employment; they help in the yard, in the cellar, and in the kitchen;

The gardener has nobody under him but them, and what is most

agreeable, you see them do all this chearfully and with pleasure.

They take them young, in order to form them to their minds. They do

not follow the maxim here, which prevails at Paris and London, of

choosing domestics ready formed, that is to say, compleat rascals,

runners of quality, who in every family they go through, catch the

failings both of master and man, and make a trade of serving every

body, without being attached to any one. There can be neither honesty,

fidelity, or zeal among such fellows, and this collection of rabble

serves to ruin the masters and corrupt the children in all wealthy

families. Here, the choice of domestics is considered as an article of

importance. They do not regard them merely as mercenaries, from whom

they only require a stipulated service, but as members of a family,

which, should they be ill chosen, might be ruined by that means. The

first thing they require of them is to be honest, the next is to love

their master, and the third to serve him to his liking; but where a

master is reasonable, and servant intelligent, the third is the

consequence of the two first. Therefore they do not take them from

town, but from the country. This is the first place they live in, and

it will assuredly be the last if they are good for any thing. They

take them out of some numerous family overstocked with children, whose

parents come to offer them of their own accord. They chuse them

young, well made, healthy, and of a pleasant countenance. Mr. Wolmar

interrogates and examines them, and then presents them to his wife. If

they prove agreeable to both, they are received at first upon trial,

afterwards they are admitted among the number of servants, or more

properly the children of the family, and they employ some days in

teaching their duty with a great deal of care and patience. The

service is so simple, so equal and uniform, the master and mistress

are so little subject to whims and caprice, and the servants so soon

conceive an affection for them, that their business is soon learned.

Their condition is agreeable; they find conveniences which they had

not at home; but they are not suffered to be enervated by idleness,

the parent of all vice. They do not allow them to become gentlemen,

and to grow proud in their service. They continue to work as they did

with their own family; in fact, they do but change their father and

mother, and get more wealthy parents. They do not therefore hold their

old rustic employments in contempt. Whenever they leave this place,

there is not one of them who had not rather turn peasant, than take

any other employment. In short, I never saw a family, where every one

acquits himself so well in his service, and thinks so little of the

trouble of servitude.

Thus by training up their servants themselves, in this discreet

manner, they guard against the objection which is so very trifling,

and so frequently made, viz. “I shall only bring them up for the

service of others.” Train them properly, one might answer, and they

will never serve any one else. If in bringing them up, you solely

regard your own benefit, they have a right to consult their own

interest in quitting you; but if you seem to consider their advantage,

they will remain constantly attached to you. It is the intention alone

which constitutes the obligation, and he who is indirectly benefited

by an act of kindness, wherein I meant to serve my self only, owes me

no obligation whatever.

As a double preventive against this inconvenience, Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar

take another method, which appears to me extremely prudent. At the

first establishment of their houshold, they calculated what number of

servants their fortune would allow them to keep, and they found it to

amount to fifteen or sixteen; in order to be better served they made a

reduction of half that number; so that with less retinue, their

service is more exactly attended. To be more effectually served still,

they have made it the interest of their servants to continue with them

a long time. When a domestic first enters into their service, he

receives the common wages; but those wages are augmented every year by

a twentieth part: so that at the end of twenty years, they will be

more than doubled, and the charge of keeping these servants will be

nearly the same, in proportion to the master’s circumstances. But

there is no need of being a deep algebraist to discover that the

expense of this augmentation is more in appearance than reality, that

there will be but few to whom double wages will be paid, and that if

they were paid to all the servants, yet the benefit of having been

well served for twenty years past, would more than compensate the

extraordinary expense. You perceive, my Lord, that this is a certain

expedient of making servants grow continually more and more careful,

and of attaching them to you, by attaching yourself to them. There is

not only prudence, but justice in such a provision. Is it reasonable

that a new-comer, who has no affection for you, and who is perhaps an

unworthy object, should receive the same salary, at his first entrance

into the family, as an old servant, whose zeal and fidelity have been

tried in a long course of services, and who besides, being grown in

years, draws near the time when he will be incapable of providing for

himself? The latter reason, however, must not be brought into the

account, and you may easily imagine that such a benevolent master and

mistress do not fail to discharge that duty, which many, who are

devoid of charity, fulfill out of ostentation; and you may suppose

that they do not abandon those whose infirmities or old age render

them incapable of service.

I can give you a very striking instance of their attention to this

duty. The Baron D’Etange being desirous to recompense the long

services of his valet de chambre, by procuring him an honourable

retreat, had the interest to obtain for him the L.S.E.E. an easy

and lucrative post. Eloisa has just now received a most affecting

letter from this old servant, in which he intreats her to get him

excused from accepting this employment. “I am in years, says he, I

have lost all my family; I have no relations but my master and his

family; all my hope is to end my days quietly in the house where I

have passed the greatest part, of them. Often, dear madam, as I have

held you in my arms when but an infant, I prayed to heaven that I

might one day hold your little ones in the same manner. My prayers

have been heard; do not deny me the happiness of seeing them grow and

prosper like you. I who have been accustomed to a quiet family, where

shall I find such another place of rest in my old age? Be so kind to

write to the Baron in my behalf. If he is dissatisfied with me, let

him turn me off, and give me no employment; but if I have served him

faithfully for these forty years past, let him allow me to end my days

in his service and yours; he cannot reward me better.” It is needless

to enquire whether Eloisa wrote to the Baron or not. I perceive that

she would be as unwilling to part with this good man, as he would be

to leave her. Am I wrong, my Lord, when I compare a master and

mistress, thus beloved, to good parents, and their servants to

obedient children? You find that they consider themselves in this

light.

There is not a single instance in this family of a servant’s giving

warning. It is even very seldom that they are threatened with a

dismission. A menace of this kind alarms them in proportion as their

service is pleasant and agreeable. The best subjects are always the

soonest alarmed, and there is never any occasion to come to

extremities but with such as are not worth regretting. They have

likewise a rule in this respect. When Mr. Wolmar says, I discharge

you, they may then implore Mrs. Wolmar to intercede for them, and

through her intercession may be restored; but if she gives them

warning, it is irrevocable, and they have no favour to expect. This

agreement between them is very well calculated both to moderate the

extreme confidence which her gentleness might beget in them, and the

violent apprehensions they might conceive from his inflexibility. Such

a warning nevertheless is excessively dreaded from a just and

dispassionate master; for besides that they are not certain of

obtaining favour, and that the same person is never pardoned twice,

they forfeit the right which they acquire from their long service, by

having had warning given, and when they are restored, they begin a new

service as it were. This prevents the old servants from growing

insolent, and makes them more circumspect, in proportion as they have

more to lose.

The three maid-servants are, the chamber-maid, the governess, and the

cook. The latter is a country girl, very proper and well qualified for

the place, whom Mrs. Wolmar has instructed in cookery: for in this

country, which is as yet in some measure in a state of simplicity,

young ladies learn to do that business themselves, that when they keep

house, they may be able to direct their servants; and consequently are

less liable to be imposed upon by them. B---- is no longer the

chambermaid; they have sent her back to Etange, where she was born;

they have again entrusted her with the care of the castle, and the

superintendence of the receipts, which makes her in some degree

comptroller of the houshold. Mr. Wolmar intreated his wife to make

this regulation; but it was a long time before she could resolve to

part with an old servant of her mother’s, though she had more than one

reason to be displeased with her. But after their last conference, she

gave her consent, and B---- is gone. This girl is handy and honest,

but babbling and indiscreet. I suspect that she has, more than once,

betrayed the secrets of her mistress, that Mr. Wolmar is sensible of

it, and to prevent her being guilty of the same indiscretion with

respect to a stranger, he has prudently taken this method to avail

himself of her good qualities, without running any hazard from her

imperfections. She who is taken in her room, is that same Fanny, of

whom you have often heard me speak with so much pleasure.

Notwithstanding Eloisa’s prediction, her favours, her father’s

kindness and yours, this deserving and discreet woman has not been

happy in her connection. Claud Anet, who endured adversity so

bravely, could not support a more prosperous state. When he found

himself at ease, he neglected his business, and his affairs being

quite embarrassed, he fled the country, leaving his wife with an

infant whom she has since lost. Eloisa having taken her home,

instructed her in the business of a chamber-maid, and I was never more

agreeably surprized than to find her settled in her employment, the

first day of my arrival. Mr. Wolmar pays great regard to her, and they

have both entrusted her with the charge of superintending their

children, and of having an eye likewise over their governess, who is a

simple credulous country lass, but attentive, patient, and tractable;

so that in short, they have omitted no precaution to prevent the vices

of the town from creeping into a family, where the master and mistress

are strangers to them, and will not suffer them under their roof.

Though there is but one table among all the servants, yet there is but

little communication between the men and women, and this they consider

as a point of great importance. Mr. Wolmar is not of the same opinion

with those masters, who are indifferent to every thing which does not

immediately concern their interests, and who only desire to be well

served, without troubling themselves about what their servants do

beside. He thinks, on the contrary, that they who regard nothing but

their own service, cannot be well served. Too close a connection

between the two sexes, frequently occasions mischief. The disorders of

most families arise from the rendezvous which are held in the chamber-

maid’s apartment. If there is one whom the steward happens to be fond

of, he does not fail to seduce her at the expense of his master. A

good understanding among the men, or among the women, is not alone

sufficiently firm to produce any material consequences. But it is

always between the men and the women that those secret monopolies are

established, which in the end ruin the most wealthy families. They pay

a particular attention therefore to the discretion and modesty of the

women, not only from principles of honesty and morality, but from

well-judged motives of interest. For whatever some may pretend, no one

who does not love his duty, can discharge it as he ought; and none

ever loved their duty, who were devoid of honour.

They do not, to prevent any dangerous intimacy between the two sexes,

restrain them by positive rules which they might be tempted to violate

in secret, but without any seeming intention, they establish good

customs, which are more powerful than authority itself. They do not

forbid any intercourse between them, but ’tis contrived in such a

manner that they have no occasion or inclination to see each other.

This is effectuated by making their business, their habits, their

tastes, and their pleasures entirely different. To maintain the

admirable order which they have established, they are sensible that in

a well-regulated family there should be as little correspondence as

possible between the two sexes. They, who would accuse their master of

caprice, was he to enforce such a rule by way of injunction, submit,

without regret, to a manner of life which is not positively prescribed

to them, but which they themselves conceive to be the best and most

natural. Eloisa insists that it must be so in fact; she maintains that

neither love nor conjugal union is the result of a continual commerce

between the sexes. In her opinion, husband and wife were designed to

live together, but not to live in the same manner. They ought to act

in concert, but not to do the same things. The kind of life, says she,

which would delight the one, would be insupportable to the other; the

inclinations which nature has given them, are as different as the

occupations she has assigned them: they differ in their amusements as

much as in their duties. In a word, each contributes to the common

good by different ways, and the proper distribution of their several

cares and employments, is the strongest tie that cements their union.

For my own part, I confess that my observations are much in favour of

this maxim. In fact, is it not the general practice, except among the

French, and those who imitate them, for the men and women to live

separately? If they see each other, it is rather by short interviews,

and as it were by stealth, as the Spartans visited their wives, than

by an indiscreet and constant intercourse, sufficient to confound and

destroy the wisest bounds of distinction which nature has set between

them. We do not, even among the savages, see men and women intermingle

indiscriminately. In the evening, the family meet together; every one

passes the night with his wife; when the day begins, they separate

again, and the two sexes enjoy nothing in common, but their meals at

most. This is the order, which, from its universality, appears to be

most natural, and even in those countries where it is perverted, we

may perceive some vestiges of it remaining. In France, where the men

have submitted to live after the fashion of the women, and to be

continually shut up in a room with them, you may perceive from their

involuntary motions that they are under confinement. While the ladies,

sit quietly, or loll upon their couch, you may perceive the men get

up, go, come, and sit down again, perpetually restless, as if a kind

of mechanical instinct continually counteracted the restraint they

suffered, and prompted them, in their own respite, to that active and

laborious life for which nature intended them. They are the only

people in the world where the men _stand_ at the theatre, as if they

went into the pit to relieve themselves of the fatigue of having been

sitting all day in a dining room. In short, they are to sensible of

the irksomeness of this effeminate and sedentary indolence, that in

order to checquer it with some degree of activity at least, they yield

their places at home to strangers, and go to other mens’ wives in

order to alleviate their disgust!

The example of Mrs. Wolmar’s family contributes greatly to support the

maxim she establishes. Every one, as it were, being confined to their

proper sex, the women there live in a great measure apart from the

men. In order to prevent any suspicious connections between them, her

great secret is to keep both one and the other constantly employed;

for their occupations are so different, that nothing but idleness can

bring them together. In the morning, each apply to their proper

business, and no one is at leisure to interrupt the other. After

dinner, the men are employed in the garden, the yard, or in some other

rural occupation: the women are busy in the nursery till the hour

comes at which they take a walk with the children, and sometimes

indeed with the mistress, which is very agreeable to them, as it is

the only time in which they take the air. The men, being sufficiently

tired with their day’s work, have seldom any inclination to walk, and

therefore rest themselves within doors.

Every Sunday, after evening service, the women meet again in the

nursery, with some friend or relation whom they invite in their turns

by Mrs. Wolmar’s consent. There, they have a little collation prepared

for them by Eloisa’s direction; and she permits them to chat, sing,

run or play at some little game of skill, fit to please children, and

such as they may bear a part in themselves. The entertainment is

composed of syllabubs, cream, and different kinds of cakes, with such

other little viands as suit the taste of women and children. Wine is

almost excluded, and the men, who are rarely admitted of this little

female party, never are present at this collation, which Eloisa seldom

misses. I am the only man who has obtained this privilege. Last

Sunday, with great importunity, I got leave to attend her there. She

took great pains to make me consider it as a very singular favour. She

told me aloud that she granted it for that once only, and that she had

even refused Mr. Wolmar himself. You may imagine whether this

difficulty of admission does not flatter female vanity a little, and

whether a footman would be a welcome visitor, where his master was

excluded.

I made a most delicious repast with them. Where will you find such

cream-cakes as we have here? Imagine what they must be, made in a

dairy where Eloisa presides, and eaten in her company. Fanny presented

me with some cream, some seed cake, and other little comfits. All was

gone in an instant. Eloisa smiled at my appetite. I find, said she,

giving me another plate of cream, that your appetite does you credit

every where, and that you make as good a figure among a club of

females, as you do among the Valaisians. But I do not, answered I,

make the repast with more impunity; the one may be attended with

intoxication as well as the other; and reason may be as much

distracted in a nursery, as in a wine cellar. She cast her eyes down

without making any reply, blushed, and began to play with her

children. This was enough to sting me with remorse. This, my Lord, was

my first indiscretion, and I hope it will be the last.

There was a certain air of primitive simplicity in this assembly,

which affected me very sensibly. I perceived the same chearfulness in

every countenance, and perhaps more openness than if there had been

men in company. The familiarity which was observable between the

mistress and her servants, being founded on sincere attachment and

confidence, only served to establish respect and authority; and the

services rendered and received, appeared like so many testimonies of

reciprocal friendship. There was nothing, even to the very choice of

the collation, but what contributed to make this assembly engaging.

Milk and sugar are naturally adapted to the taste of the fair sex, and

may be deemed the symbols of innocence and sweetness, which are their

most becoming ornaments. Men, on the contrary, are fond of high

flavours, and strong liquors; a kind of nourishment more suitable to

the active and laborious life for which nature has designed them; and

when these different tastes come to be blended, it is an infallible

sign that the distinction between the two sexes is inordinately

confounded. In fact, I have observed that in France, where the women

constantly intermix with the men, they have entirely lost their relish

for milk meats, and the men have in some measure lost their taste for

wine; and in England, where the two sexes are better distinguished,

the proper taste of each is better preserved. In general, I am of

opinion, that you may very often form some judgment of people’s

disposition, from their choice of food. The Italians, who live a great

deal on vegetables, are soft and effeminate. You Englishmen, who are

great eaters of meat, have something harsh in your rigid virtue, and

which favours of barbarism. The Swiss, who is naturally of a calm,

gentle and cold constitution, but hot and violent when in a passion,

is fond both of one and the other, and drinks milk and wine

indiscriminately. The Frenchman, who is pliant and changeable, lives

upon all kinds of food, and conforms himself to every taste. Eloisa

herself may serve as an instance: for though she makes her meals with

a keen appetite, yet she does not love meat, ragouts, or salt, and

never yet tasted wine by itself. Some excellent roots, eggs, cream and

fruit, compose her ordinary diet, and was it not for fish, of which

she is likewise very fond, she would be a thorough Pythagorean.

To keep the women in order would signify nothing, if the men were not

likewise under proper regulations; and this branch of domestic

economy, which is not of less importance, is still more difficult; for

the attack is generally more lively than the defence: the guardian of

human nature intended it so. In the common wealth, citizens are kept

in order by principles of morality and virtue; but how are we to keep

servants and mercenaries under proper regulations, otherwise than by

force and restraint? The art of a master consists in disguising this

restraint under the veil of pleasure and interest, that what they are

obliged to do, may seem the result of their own inclination. Sunday

being a day of idleness, and servants having a right of going where

they please, when business does not require their duty at home, that

one day often destroys all the good examples and lessons of the other

six. The habit of frequenting public houses, the converse and maxims

of their comrades, the company of loose women, soon render them

unserviceable to their masters, and unprofitable to themselves; and by

teaching them a thousand vices, make them unfit for servitude, and

unworthy of liberty.

To remedy this inconvenience, they endeavour to keep them at home by

the same motives which induce them to go abroad. Why do they go

abroad? To drink and play at a public house. They drink and play at

home. All the difference is, that the wine costs them nothing, that

they do not get drunk, and that there are some winners at play,

without any losers. The following is the method taken for this

purpose.

Behind the house is a shady walk, where they have fixed the lifts.

There, in the summertime, the livery servants and the men in the yard

meet every Sunday after sermon time, to play in little detached

parties, not for money, for it is not allowed, nor for wine, which is

given them; but for a prize furnished by their master’s generosity:

which is generally some piece of goods or apparel fit for their use.

The number of games is in proportion to the value of the prize, so

that when the prize is somewhat considerable, as a pair of silver

buckles, a neckcloth, a pair of silk stockings, a fine hat, or any

thing of that kind, they have generally several bouts to decide it.

They are not confined to one particular game, but they change them,

that one man, who happens to excel in a particular game, may not carry

off all the prizes, and that they may grow stronger and more dextrous

by a variety of exercises. At one time, the contest is who shall first

reach a mark at the other end of the walk; at another time it is who

shall throw the same stone farthest; then again it is who shall carry

the same weight longest. Sometimes they contend for a prize by

shooting at a mark. Most of these games are attended with some little

preparations, which serve to prolong them; and render them

entertaining. Their master and mistress often honour them with their

presence; they sometimes take their children with them; nay even

strangers resort thither, excited by curiosity, and they desire

nothing better than to bear a share in the sport; but none are ever

admitted without Mr. Wolmar’s approbation and the consent of the

players, who would not find their account in granting it readily. This

custom has imperceptibly become a kind of shew, in which the actors,

being animated by the presence of the spectators, prefer the glory of

applause to the lucre of the prize. As these exercises make them more

active and vigorous, they set a greater value on themselves, and being

accustomed to estimate their importance from their own intrinsic

worth, rather than from their possessions, they prize honour,

notwithstanding they are footmen, beyond money.

It would be tedious to enumerate all the advantages which they derive

from a practice so trifling in appearance, and which is always

despised by little minds; but it is the prerogative of true genius to

produce great effects by inconsiderable means. Mr. Wolmar has assured

me that these little institutions which his wife first suggested,

scares stood him in fifty crowns a year. But, said he, how often do

you think I am repaid this sum in my housekeeping and my affairs in

general, by the vigilance and attention with which I am served by

these faithful servants, who derive all their pleasures from their

master; by the interest they take in a family which they consider as

their own; by the advantage I reap, in their labours, from the vigour

they acquire at their exercises; by the benefit of keeping them always

in health, in preserving them from those exercises which are common to

men in their station, and from those disorders which frequently attend

such excesses; by securing them from any propensity to knavery, which

is an infallible consequence of irregularity, and by confirming them

in the practice of honesty; in short, by the pleasure of having such

agreeable recreations within ourselves at such a trifling expense? If

there are any among them, either man or woman, who do not care to

conform to our regulations, but prefer the liberty of going where they

please on various pretences, we never refuse to give them leave; but

we consider this licentious turn as a very suspicious symptom, and we

are always ready to mistrust such dispositions. Thus these little

amusements which furnish us with good servants, serve also as a

direction to us in the choice of them.----I must confess my Lord,

that, except in this family, I never saw the same men made good

domestics for personal service, good husbandmen for tilling the

ground, good soldiers for the defence of their country, and honest

fellows in any station into which fortune may chance to throw them.

In the winter, their pleasures vary as well as their labours. On a

Sunday, all the servants in the family and even the neighbours, men

and women indiscriminately, meet after service-time in a hall where

there is a good fire, some wine, fruits, cakes, and a fiddle to which

they dance. Mrs. Wolmar never fails to be present for some time at

least, in order to preserve decorum and modesty by her presence, and

it is not uncommon for her to dance herself, though among her own

people. When I was first made acquainted with this custom, it appeared

to me not quite conformable to the strictness of Protestant morals. I

told Eloisa so; and she answered me to the following effect.

Pure morality is charged with so many severe duties, that if it is

over burthened with forms which are in themselves indifferent they

will always be of prejudice to what is really essential. This is said

to be the case with the monks in general, who being slaves to rules

totally immaterial, are utter strangers to the meaning of honour and

virtue. This defeat is less observable among us, though we are not

wholly exempt from it. Our churchmen, who are as much superior to

other priests in knowledge, as our religion is superior to all others

in purity, do nevertheless maintain some maxims, which seem to be

rather founded on prejudice than reason. Of this kind, is that which

condemns dancing and assemblies, as if there were more harm in dancing

than singing, as if each of these amusements were not equally a

propensity of nature, and as if it were a crime to divert ourselves

publicly with an innocent and harmless recreation. For my own part, I

think, on the contrary, that every time there is a concourse of the

two sexes, every public diversion becomes innocent, by being public;

whereas the most laudable employment becomes suspicious in a _tete a

tete_ party. [53] Man and woman were formed for each other, their union

by marriage is the end of nature. All false religion is at war with

nature, ours which conforms to and rectifies natural propensity,

proclaims a divine institution which is most suitable to mankind.

Religion ought not to increase the embarrassment which civil

regulations throw in the way of matrimony, by difficulties which the

gospel does not create, and which are contrary to the true spirit of

Christianity. Let any one tell me which young people can have an

opportunity of conceiving a mutual liking, and of seeing each other

with more decorum and circumspection, than in an assembly where the

eyes of the spectators being constantly upon them, oblige them to

behave with peculiar caution? How can we offend God by an agreeable

and wholesome exercise, suitable to the vivacity of youth, an exercise

which consists in the art of presenting ourselves to each other with

grace and elegance, and wherein the presence of the spectator imposes

a decorum, which no one dares to violate? Can we conceive a more

effectual method to avoid imposition with respect to person at least,

by displaying ourselves with all our natural graces and defects before

those whose interest it is to know us thoroughly, ere they oblige

themselves to love us? Is not the obligation of reciprocal affection

greater than that of self-love, and is it not an attention worthy of a

pious and virtuous pair who propose to marry, thus to prepare their

hearts for that mutual love, which heaven prompts.

What is the consequence, in those places where people are under a

continual restraint, where the most innocent gaiety is punished as

criminal, where the young people of different sexes dare not meet in

public, and where the indiscreet severity of the pastor preaches

nothing, in the name of God, but servile constraint, sadness and

melancholy? They find means to elude an insufferable tyranny, which

nature and reason disavow. When gay and sprightly youth are debarred

from lawful pleasures, they substitute others more dangerous in their

stead. _Tete a tete_ parties artfully concerted, supply the place of

public assemblies. By being obliged to concealment as if they were

criminal, they at length become so in fact. Harmless joy loves to

display itself in the face of the world, but vice is a friend to

darkness; and innocence and secrecy never subsist long together. My

dear friend, said she, grasping my hand, as if she meant to convey her

repentance, and communicate the purity of her own heart to mine; who

can be more sensible of the importance of this truth than ourselves?

What sorrow and troubles, what tears and remorse we might have

prevented for so many years past, if we could, but have foreseen how

dangerous a _tete a tete_ intercourse was to that virtue which we

always loved!

Besides, said Mrs. Wolmar, in a softer tone, it is not in a numerous

assembly, where we are seen and heard by all the world, but in private

parties, where secrecy and freedom is indulged, that our morals are in

danger. It is from this principle, that whenever my domestics meet, I

am glad to see them all together. I even approve of their inviting

such young people in the neighbourhood whose company will not corrupt

them; and I hear with pleasure, that, when they mean to commend the

morals of any of our young neighbours, they say----He is admitted at

Mr. Wolmar’s. We have a farther view in this. Our men servants are all

very young, and, among the women, the governess is yet single; it is

not reasonable that the retired life they lead with us, should debar

them of an opportunity of forming an honest connection. We endeavour

therefore, in these little meetings, to give them this opportunity,

under our inspection, that we may assist them in their choice; and

thus by endeavouring to make happy families, we increase the felicity

of our own.

I ought now to justify myself for dancing with these good people; but

I rather chuse to pass sentence on myself in this respect, and I

frankly confess that my chief motive is the pleasure I take in the

exercise. You know that I always resembled my cousin in her passion

for dancing; but after the death of my mother, I bade adieu to the

ball and all public assemblies; I kept my resolution, even to the day

of my marriage, and will keep it still, without thinking it any

violation to dance now and then in my own house with my guests and my

domestics. It is an exercise very good for my health during the

sedentary life which we are obliged to live here in winter. I find it

an innocent amusement; for after a good dance, my conscience does not

reproach me. It amuses Mr. Wolmar likewise, and all my coquetry in

this particular is only to please him. I am the occasion of his coming

into the ball room; the good people are best satisfied when they are

honoured with their master’s presence; and they express a satisfaction

when they see me amongst them. In short, I find that such occasional

familiarity forms an agreeable connection and attachment between us,

which approaches nearer the natural condition of mankind, by

moderating the meanness of servitude, and the rigour of authority.

Such, my Lord, are the sentiments of Eloisa, with respect to dancing,

and I have often wondered how so much affability could consist with

such a degree of subordination, and how she and her husband could so

often stoop to level themselves with their servants, and yet the

latter never be tempted to assume equality in their turn. I question

if any Asiatic monarchs are attended in their palaces with more

respect, than Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar are served in their own house. I

never knew any commands less imperious than theirs, or more readily

executed: if they ask for any thing, their servants fly; if they

excuse their failings, they themselves are nevertheless sensible of

their faults. I was never better convinced how much the force of what

is said, depends on the mode of expression.

This has led me into a reflection on the affected gravity of masters;

which is, that it is rather to be imputed to their own failings, than

to the effects of their familiarity, that they are despised in their

families, and that the insolence of servants is rather an indication

of a vicious than of a weak master: for nothing gives them such

assurance, as the knowledge of his vices, and they consider all

discoveries of that kind as so many dispensations, which free them

from their obedience to a man whom they can no longer respect.

Servants imitate their masters, and by copying them awkwardly, they

render those defects more conspicuous in themselves, which the polish

of education, in some measure, disguised in the others. At Paris, I

used to judge of the ladies of my acquaintance, by the air and manners

of their waiting-women, and this rule never deceived me. Besides that

the lady’s woman, when she becomes the confident of her mistress’s

secrets, makes her buy her discretion at a dear rate, she likewise

frames her conduct according to her lady’s sentiments, and discloses

all her maxims, by an awkward imitation. In every instance, the

master’s example is more efficacious than his authority; it is not

natural to suppose that their servants will be honester than

themselves. It is to no purpose to make a noise, to swear, to abuse

them, to turn them off, to get a new set; all this avails nothing

towards making good servants. When they, who do not trouble themselves

about being hated and despised by their domestics, nevertheless

imagine that they are well served, the reason of their mistake is,

that they are contented with what they see, and satisfied with an

appearance of diligence, without observing the thousand secret

prejudices they suffer continually, and of which they cannot discover

the source. But where is the man so devoid of honour, as to be able to

endure the contempt of everyone round him? Where is the woman so

abandoned as not to be susceptible of insults? How many ladies, both

at Paris and in London, who think themselves greatly respected, would

burst into tears if they heard what was said of them in their anti-

chambers? Happily for their peace, they comfort themselves by taking

these Arguses for weak creatures, and by flattering themselves that

they are blind to those practices which they do not even deign to hide

from them. They likewise in their turn discover, by their sullen

obedience, the contempt they have for their mistresses. Masters and

servants become mutually sensible, that it is not worth their while to

conciliate each other’s esteem.

The behaviour of servants seems to me to be the most certain and nice

proof of the master’s virtue; and I remember, my Lord, to have formed

a good opinion of yours at Valais without knowing you, purely because,

though you spoke somewhat harshly to your attendants, they were not

the less attached to you, and that they expressed as much respect for

you in your absence, as if you had been within hearing. It has been

said that no man is a hero in the eyes of his Valet de Chambre;

perhaps not; but every worthy man will enjoy his servant’s esteem;

which sufficiently proves that heroism is only a vain phantom, and

that nothing is solid but virtue. The power of its empire is

particularly observable here in the lowest commendations of the

servants. Commendations the less to be suspected, as they do not

consist of vain eulogiums, but of an artless expression of their

feelings. As they cannot suppose, from any thing which they see, that

other masters are not like theirs, they therefore do not commend them

on account of those virtues which they conceive to be common to

masters in general, but, in the simplicity of their hearts, they thank

God for having sent the rich to make those under them happy, and to be

a comfort to the poor.

Servitude is a state so unnatural to mankind, that it cannot subsist

without some degree of discontent. Nevertheless they respect their

master, and say nothing. If any murmurings escape them against their

mistress, they are more to her honour than encomiums would be. No one

complains that she is wanting in kindness to them, but that she pays

so much regard to others; no one can endure that his zeal should be

put in competition with that of his comrades, and as every one

imagines himself foremost in attachment, he would be first in favour.

This is their only complaint, and their greatest injustice.

There is not only a proper subordination among those of inferior

station, but a perfect harmony among those of equal rank; and this is

not the least difficult part of domestic economy. Amidst the clashings

of jealousy and self-interest, which makes continual divisions in

families not more numerous than this, we seldom find servants united

but at the expense of their masters. If they agree, it is to rob in

concert; if they are honest, every one shews his importance at the

expense of the rest; they must either be enemies or accomplices, and

it is very difficult to find a way of guarding at the same time both

against their knavery and their dissentions. The masters of families

in general know no other method but that of choosing the alternative

between these two inconveniencies. Some, preferring interest to

honour, foment a quarrelsome disposition among their servants by means

of private reports, and think it a masterpiece of prudence to make

them superintendents and spies over each other. Others, of a more

indolent nature, rather chuse that their servants should rob them,

and live peaceably among themselves; they pique themselves upon

discountenancing any information which a faithful servant may give

them out of pure zeal. Both are equally to blame. The first, by

exciting continual disturbances in their families, which are

incompatible with good order and regularity, get together a heap of

knaves and informers, who are busy in betraying their fellow servants,

that they may hereafter perhaps betray their masters. The second, by

refusing all information with regard to what passes in their families,

countenance combinations against themselves, encourage the wicked,

dishearten the good, and only maintain a pack of arrogant and idle

rascals at a great expense, who, agreeing together at their master’s

cost, look upon their service as a matter of favour, and their thefts

as perquisites. [54]

It is a capital error in domestic as well as in civil economy, to

oppose one vice to another, or to attempt an equilibrium between them,

as if that which undermines the foundations of all order, could ever

tend to establish regularity. This mistaken policy only serves to

unite every inconvenience. When particular vices are tolerated in a

family, they do not reign alone. Let one take root, a thousand will

soon spring up. They presently ruin the servants who harbour them,

undo the master who tolerates them, and corrupt or injure the children

who remark them with attention. What father can be so unworthy as to

put any advantage whatever in competition with this last

inconvenience? What honest man would chuse to be master of a family,

if it was impossible for him to maintain peace and fidelity in his

house at the same time, and if he must be obliged to purchase the

attachment of his servants; at the expense of their mutual good

understanding?

Who does not see, that in this family, they have not even an idea of

any such difficulty? So much does the union among the several members

proceed from their attachment to the head. It is here we may perceive

a striking instance, how impossible it is to have a sincere affection

for a master without loving every thing that belongs to him; a truth

which is the real foundation of Christian charity. Is it not very

natural, that the children of the same father should live together

like brethren? This is what they tell us every day at church, without

making us feel the sentiment; and this is what the domestics in this

family feel, without being told it.

This disposition to good fellowship is owing to a choice of proper

subjects. Mr. Wolmar, when he hires his servants, does not examine

whether they suit his wife and himself, but whether they suit each

other, and if they were to discover a settled antipathy between two of

the best servants, it would be sufficient for them to discharge one:

for, says Eloisa, in so small a family, a family where they never go

abroad, but are constantly before each other, they ought to agree

perfectly among themselves. They ought to consider it as their

father’s house, where all are of the same family. One, who happens to

be disagreeable to the rest, is enough to make them hate the place;

and that disagreeable object being constantly before their eyes, they

would neither be easy themselves, nor suffer us to be quiet.

After having made the best assortment in their power, they unite them

as it were by the services which they oblige each to render the other,

and they contrive that it shall be the real interest of every one to

be beloved by his fellow servants. No one is so well received who

solicits a favour for himself, as when he asks it for another; so that

whoever has any thing to request, endeavours to engage another to

intercede for him; and this they do with greater readiness, since,

whether their master grants or refuses the favour requested, he never

fails to acknowledge the merit of the person interceding. On the

contrary, both he and Mrs. Wolmar always reject the solicitations of

those who only regard themselves. Why, say they, should I grant, what

is desired in your favour, who have never made me any request in

favour of another? Is it reasonable, that you should be more favoured

than your companions, because they are more obliging than you? They do

more; they engage them to serve each other in private, without any

ostentation, and without assuming any merit. This is the more easily

accomplished, as they know that their master, who is witness of their

discretion, will esteem them the more, thus self-interest is a gainer,

and self-love no loser. They are so convinced of this general

disposition to oblige, and they have such confidence in each other,

that when they have any favour to ask, they frequently mention it at

table by way of conversation; very often, without farther trouble,

they find that the thing has been requested and granted, and as they

do not know whom to thank, their obligation is to all.

It is by this, and such like methods, that they beget an attachment

among them, resulting from, and subordinate to, the zeal they have for

their master. Thus, far from leaguing together to his prejudice, they

are only united for his service. However it may be their interest to

love each other, they have still stronger motives for pleasing him;

their zeal for his service gets the better of their mutual good will,

and each considering himself as injured by losses which may make their

master less able to recompense a faithful servant, they are all

equally incapable of suffering any individual to do him wrong

unnoticed. This principle of policy which is established in this

family, seems to have somewhat sublime in it; and I cannot

sufficiently admire how Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar have been able to

transform the vile function of an informer into an office of zeal,

integrity, and courage, as noble, or at least as praise-worthy, as it

was among the Romans.

They began by subverting, or rather by preventing, in a plain and

perspicuous manner, and by affecting instances, that servile and

criminal practice, that mutual toleration at the master’s cost, which

a worthless servant never fails to inculcate to a good one, under the

mask of a charitable maxim. They made them understand, that the

precept which enjoins us to hide our neighbour’s faults, relates to

those only which do injury to no one; that if they are witness to any

injustice which injures a third person, and do not discover it, they

are guilty of it themselves; and that as nothing can oblige us to

conceal such faults in others, but a consciousness of our own defects,

therefore no one would chuse to countenance knaves, if he was not a

knave himself. Upon these principles, which are just in general, as

between man and man, but more strictly so with respect to the close

connection between master and servant, they hold it here as an

incontestable truth, that whoever sees their master wronged, without

making a discovery, is more guilty than he who did the wrong; for he

suffers himself to be misled by the prospect of advantage, but the

other in cool blood and without any view of interest, can be induced

to secrecy by no other motive than a thorough disregard of justice, an

indifference towards the welfare of the family he serves, and a hidden

desire of copying the example he conceals. Therefore even where the

fault is considerable, the guilty party may nevertheless sometimes

hope for pardon, but the witness who conceals the fact, is infallibly

dismissed as a man of a bad disposition.

In return, they receive no accusation which may be suspected to

proceed from injustice and calumny; that is to say, they admit of none

in the absence of the accused. If any one comes to make a report

against his fellow servant, or to prefer a personal complaint against

him, they ask him whether he is sufficiently informed, that is to say,

whether he has entered into any previous inquiry with the person whom

he is going to accuse. If he answers in the negative, they ask him how

he can judge of an action, when he is not acquainted with the motives

to it? The fact, say they, may depend on some circumstance to which

you are a stranger; there may be some particulars which may serve to

justify or excuse it, and which you know nothing of. How can you

presume to condemn any one’s conduct, before you know by what motives

it is directed? One word of explanation would probably have rendered

it justifiable in your eyes. Why then do you run the risk of

condemning an action wrongfully, and of exposing me to participate of

your injustice? If he assures them, that he has entered into a

previous explanation with the accused; why then, say they, do you come

without him, as if you was afraid that he would falsify what you are

going to relate? By what right do you neglect taking the same

precaution with respect to me, which you think proper to use with

regard to yourself? Is it reasonable to desire me to judge of a fact

from your report, of which you refuse to judge yourself by the

testimony of your own eyes; and would not you be answerable for the

partial judgment I might form, if I was to remain satisfied with your

bare deposition? In the end, they direct them to summon the party

accused; if they consent, the matter is soon decided; if they refuse,

they dismiss them with a severe reprimand, but they keep the secret,

and watch them both so narrowly, that they are not long at a loss to

know which is in fault.

This rule is so well known and so well established, that you never

hear a servant in this family speak ill of his absent comrade, for

they are all sensible that it is the way to pass for a liar and a

coward. When any one of them accuses another, it is openly, frankly,

and not only to his face, but in the presence of all his fellow

servants, that they who are witnesses to their accusation, may be

vouchers of their integrity. In case of any personal disputes among

them, the difference is generally made up by mediators without

troubling Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar; but when the interest of the master is

at stake, the matter cannot remain a secret; the guilty party must

either accuse himself or be accused. These little pleadings happen

very seldom, and never but at table, in the rounds which Eloisa makes

every day while her people are at dinner or supper, which Mr. Wolmar

pleasantly calls her general sessions. After having patiently attended

to the accusation and the defence, if the affair regards her interest,

she thanks the accuser for his zeal. I am sensible, says she, that you

have a regard for your fellow servant, you have always spoken well of

him, and I commend you because the love of your duty and of justice

has prevailed over your private affections; it is thus that a faithful

servant and an honest man ought to behave. If the party accused is not

in fault, she always subjoins some compliment to her justification of

his innocence. But if he is really guilty, she in some measure spares

his shame before the rest. She supposes that he has something to

communicate in his defence, which he does not chuse to declare in

public; she appoints an hour to hear him in private, and it is then

that she or her husband talk to him as they think proper. What is very

remarkable is, that the most severe of the two is not most dreaded,

and that they are less afraid of Mr. Wolmar’s solemn reprimand, than

of Eloisa’s affecting reproaches. The former, speaking the language of

truth and justice, humbles and confounds the guilty; the latter

strikes them with the most cruel remorse, by convincing them with what

regret she is forced to withdraw her kindness from them. She sometimes

extorts tears of grief and shame from them, and it is not uncommon for

her to be moved herself when she sees them repent, in hopes that she

may not be obliged to abide by her word.

They who judge of these concerns by what passes in their own families,

or among their neighbours, would probably deem them frivolous or

tiresome. But you, my Lord, who have such high notions of the duties

and enjoyments of a master of a family, and who are sensible what an

ascendency natural disposition and virtue have over the human heart,

you perceive the importance of these minutiae, and know on what

circumstances their success depends. Riches do not make a man rich, as

is well observed in some romance. The wealth of a man is not in his

coffers, but in the use he makes of what he draws out of them; for our

possessions do not become our own, but by the uses to which we allot

them, and abuses are always more inexhaustible than riches; whence it

happens that our enjoyments are not in proportion to our expenses, but

depend on the just regulation of them. An idiot may toss ingots of

gold into the sea, and say he has enjoyed them: but what comparison is

there between such an extravagant enjoyment, and that which a wise man

would have derived from the least part of their value? Order and

regularity, which multiply and perpetuate the use of riches, are alone

capable of converting the enjoyment of them into felicity. But if real

property arises from the relation which our possessions bear to us, if

it is rather the use than the acquisition of riches which confers it,

what can be more proper subjects of attention for a master of a family

than domestic economy, and the prudent regulation of his houshold, in

which the most perfect correspondences more immediately concern him,

and where the happiness of every individual is an addition to the

felicity of the head?

Are the most wealthy the most happy? No: how then does wealth

contribute to felicity? But every well regulated family is emblematic

of the master’s mind. Gilded ceilings, luxury and magnificence, only

serve to shew the vanity of those who display such parade; whereas,

whenever you see order without melancholy, peace without slavery,

plenty without profusion, you may say with confidence, the master of

this house is a happy being.

For my own part, I think the most certain sign of true content is a

domestic and retired life, and that they who are continually resorting

to others in quest of happiness, do not enjoy it at home. A father of

a family who amuses himself at home, is rewarded for his continual

attention to domestic concerns, by the constant enjoyment of the most

agreeable sensations of nature. He is the only one who can be properly

said to be master of his own happiness, because, like heaven itself,

he is happy in desiring nothing more than he enjoys. Like the Supreme

Being, he does not wish to enlarge his possessions, but to make them

really his own, under proper directions, and by using them conformably

to the just relations of things: if he does not enrich himself by new

acquisitions, he enriches himself by the true enjoyment of what he

possesses. He once only enjoyed the income of his lands, he now enjoys

the lands themselves, by over-looking their culture, and surveying

them from time to time. His servant was a stranger to him: he is now

part of his enjoyment; his child; he makes him his own. Formerly, he

had only power over his servant’s actions, now he has authority over

his inclinations. He was his master only by paying him wages, now he

rules by the sacred dominion of benevolence and esteem. Though fortune

spoils him of his wealth, she can never rob him of those affections

which are attached to him; she cannot deprive a father of his

children; all the difference is, that he maintained them yesterday,

and that they will support him tomorrow. It is thus that we may learn

the true enjoyment of our riches, of our family, and of ourselves; it

is thus that the minutiae of a family become agreeable to a worthy man

who knows the value of them; it is thus that, far from considering

these little duties as troublesome, he makes them a part of his

happiness, and derives the glory and pleasure of human nature from

these noble and affecting offices.

If these precious advantages are despised or little known, and if the

few who endeavour to acquire them seldom obtain them, the reason, in

both cases, is the same. There are many simple and sublime duties,

which few people can relish and fulfil. Such are those of the master

of a family, for which the air and bustle of the world gives him a

disgust, and which he never discharges properly when he is only

inflamed by motives of avarice and interest. Some think themselves

excellent masters, and are only careful economists; their income may

thrive, and their family nevertheless be in a bad condition. They

ought to have more enlarged views to direct an administration of such

importance, so as to give it a happy issue. The first thing to be

attended to in the due regulation of a family, is to admit none but

honest people, who will not have any secret intention to disturb that

regularity. But are honesty and servitude so compatible, that we may

hope to find servants who are honest men? No, my Lord, if we would

have them, we must not inquire for them, but we must make them; and

none who are not men of integrity themselves are capable of making

others honest. It is to no purpose for a hypocrite to affect an air of

virtue, he will never inspire any one with an affection for it; and if

he knew how to make virtue amiable, he would be in love with it

himself. What do formal lessons avail, when daily example contradicts

them, unless to make us suspect that the moralist means to sport with

our credulity? What an absurdity are they guilty of who exhort us to

do as they say, and not as they act themselves! He who does not act up

to what he says, never speaks to any effect; for the language of the

heart is wanting, which alone is persuasive and affecting. I have

sometimes heard conversations of this kind held, in a gross manner,

before servants, in order to read them lectures, as they do to

children sometimes, in an indirect way. Far from having any reason to

imagine that they were the dupes of such artifice, I have always

observed them smile in secret at their master’s folly, who must have

taken them for blockheads, by making an awkward display of sentiments

before them, which they knew were none of his own.

All these idle subtleties are unknown in this family, and the grand

art by which the master and mistress make their servants what they

would desire them to be, is to appear themselves before them what

they really are. Their behaviour is always frank and open, because

they are not in any fear lest their actions should bely their

processions. As they themselves do not entertain principles of

morality different from those which they inculcate to others, they

have no occasion for any extraordinary circumspection in their

discourse; a word blundered out unseasonably does not overthrow the

principles they have laboured to establish. They do not indiscreetly

tell all their affairs, but they openly proclaim all their maxims.

Whether at table, or abroad, _tete a tete_, or in public, their

sentiments are still the same; they ingenuously deliver their opinions

on every subject, and without their having any individual in view,

every one is instructed by their conversation. As their servants never

see them do any thing but what is just, reasonable and equitable, they

do not consider justice as a tax on the poor, as a yoke on the

unhappy, and as one of the evils of their condition. The care they

take never to let the labourers come in vain, and lose their day’s

work in seeking after their wages, teaches their servants to set a

just value on time. When they see their master so careful of other

men’s time, each concludes that his own time must be of consequence,

and therefore deems idleness the greatest crime he can be guilty of.

The confidence which their servants have in their integrity, gives

that force to their regulations which makes them observed, and

prevents abuses. They are not afraid, when they come to receive their

weekly gratuities, that their mistress should partially determine the

youngest and most active to have been the most diligent. An old

servant is not apprehensive lest they should start some quibble, to

save the promised augmentation to their wages. They can never hope to

take advantage of any division between their master and mistress, in

order to make themselves of consequence, and to obtain from one what

the other has refused. They who are unmarried, are not afraid lest

they should oppose their settlement, in order to detain them longer;

and by that means make their service a prejudice to them. If a strange

servant was to tell the domestics of this family, that master and

servants are in a state of war with each other, that when the latter

do the former all the injury they can, they only make lawful

reprisals, that masters being usurpers, liars and knaves, there can

consequently be no harm in using them as they use their prince, the

people, or individuals, and in returning those injuries with

dexterity, which they offer openly----one who should talk in this

manner would not be attended to; they would not give themselves the

trouble to controvert or obviate such sentiments; they who give rise

to them, are the only persons whose business it is to refute them.

You never perceive any sullenness or mutiny in the discharge of their

duty, because there is never any haughtiness or capriciousness in the

orders they receive; nothing is required of them but what is

reasonable and expedient, and their master and mistress have too much

respect for the dignity of human nature, even in a state of servitude,

to put them upon any employment which may debase them. Moreover,

nothing here is reckoned mean but vice, and whatever is reasonable and

necessary, is deemed honourable and becoming.

They do not allow of any intrigues abroad, neither has any one any

inclinations of that kind. They are sensible that their fortune is

most firmly attached to their masters, and that they shall never want

any thing while his family prospers. Therefore in serving him, they

take care of their own patrimony, and increase it by making their

service agreeable; this above all things is their interest. But this

word is somewhat misapplied here, for I never knew any system of

policy by which self-interest was so skilfully directed, and where at

the same time it had less influence than in this family. They all act

from a principle of attachment, and one would think that venal souls

were purified as soon as they entered into this dwelling of wisdom and

union. He would imagine that part of the master’s intelligence, and of

the mistress’s sensibility, was conveyed to each of their servants;

they seem so judicious, benevolent, honest, and so much above their

station. Their greatest ambition is to do well, to be valued and

esteemed; and they consider an obliging expression from their master

or mistress, in the light of a present.

These, my Lord, are the most material observations I have made on that

part of the economy of this family, which regards the servants and

labourers. As to Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s manner of living, and the

education of their children, each of these articles very well deserves

a separate letter. You know with what view I began these remarks; but

in truth the whole forms such an agreeable representation, that we

need only meditate upon it to advance it, and we require no other

inducement, than the pleasure it affords us.

Letter CXXX. To Lord B----.

No, my Lord, I do not retract what I have said; in this family, the

useful and agreeable are united throughout; but occupations of use are

not confined to those pursuits which yield profit: they comprehend

farther every innocent and harmless amusement which may serve to

improve a relish for retirement, labour, and temperance, which may

contribute to preserve the mind in a vigorous state, and to keep the

heart free from the agitation of tumultuous passions. If inactive

indolence begets nothing but melancholy and irksomeness, the delights

of an agreeable leisure are the fruits of a laborious life. We only

work to enjoy ourselves; this alternative of labour and recreation is

our natural state. The repose which serves to refresh us after past

labours, and encourage us to renew them, is not less necessary for us

than labour itself.

After having admired the good consequences attending the vigilance and

attention of the prudent Eloisa in the conduct of her family, I was

witness of the good effects of the recreation she uses in a retired

place, where she takes her favourite walk, and which she calls her

elysium.

I had often heard them talk of this elysium, of which they made a

mystery before me. Yesterday however the excessive heat being almost

equally intolerable both within doors and without, Mr. Wolmar proposed

to his wife to make holiday that afternoon, and instead of going into

the nursery towards evening as usual, to come and breathe the fresh

air with us in the orchard; she consented, and thither we went.

This place, though just close to the house, is hidden in such a manner

by a shady walk which parts it from the house, that it is not visible

from any point. The thick foliage with which it is environed renders

it impervious to the eye, and it is always carefully locked up. I was

scarce got within-side, but, the door being covered with alder and

hazel trees, I could not find out which way I came in, when I turned

back, and seeing no door, it seemed as if I had dropped from the

clouds.

On my entrance into this disguised orchard, I was seized with an

agreeable sensation; the freshness of the thick foliage, the beautiful

and lively verdure, the flowers scattered on each side, the murmuring

of the purling stream, and the warbling of a thousand birds, struck my

imagination as powerfully as my senses; but at the same time I thought

myself in the most wild and solitary place in nature, and I appeared

as if I had been the first mortal who had ever penetrated into this

desert spot. Being seized with astonishment, and transported at so

unexpected a sight, I remained motionless for some time, and cried

out, in an involuntary fit of enthusiasm, O Tinian! O Juan Fernandez!

[55] Eloisa, the world’s end is at your threshold! Many people, said

she, with a smile, think in the same manner; but twenty paces at most

presently brings them back to Clarens: let us see whether the charm

will work longer upon you. This is the same orchard where you have

walked formerly, and where you have played at romps with my cousin.

You may remember that the grass was almost burned up, the trees thinly

planted, affording very little umbrage, and that there was no water.

You find that now it is fresh, verdant, cultivated, embellished with

flowers, and well watered; what do you imagine it may have cost me to

put it in the condition you see? For you must know that I am the

superintendent, and that my husband leaves the entire management of it

to me. In truth, said I, it has cost you nothing but inattention. It

is indeed a delightful spot, but wild and rustic; and I can discover

no marks of human industry. You have concealed the door; the water

springs I know not whence; nature alone has done all the rest, and

even you could not have mended her work. It is true, said she, that

nature has done every thing, but under my direction, and you see

nothing but what has been done under my orders. Guess once more.

First, I replied, I cannot conceive how labour and expense can be made

to supply the effects of time. The trees... As to them, said Mr.

Wolmar, you may observe that there are none very large, and they were

here before. Besides, Eloisa began this work a long while before her

marriage, and presently after her mother’s death, when she used to

come here with her father in quest of solitude. Well, said I, since

you will have these large and massy bowers, these sloping tufts, these

umbrageous thickets to be the growth of seven or eight years, and to

be partly the work of art, I think you have been a good economist if

you have done all within this vast circumference for two thousand

crowns. You have only guessed two thousand crowns too much, says she,

for it cost me nothing. How, nothing? No, nothing; unless you place a

dozen days work in the year to my gardener’s account, as many to two

or three of my people, and some to Mr. Wolmar, who has sometimes

condescended to officiate, in my service, as a gardener. I could not

comprehend this riddle; but Eloisa, who had hitherto held me, said to

me, letting me loose, Go, and you will understand it. Farewell Tinian,

farewell Juan Fernandez, farewell all enchantment! In a few minutes

you will find your way back from the end of the world.

I began to wander over the orchard thus metamorphosed with a kind of

extasy; and if I found no exotic plants, nor any of the products of

the Indies, I found all those which were natural to the soil disposed

and blended in such a manner, as to produce the most chearful and

lively effect. The verdant turf, thick but short and close, was

intermixed with wild thyme, balm, sweet marjoram, and other fragrant

herbs. You might perceive a thousand wild flowers dazzle your eyes,

among which you would be surprized to discover some garden flowers,

which seemed to grow natural with the rest. I now and then met with

shady tufts as impervious to the rays of the sun, as if they had been

in a thick forest. These tufts were composed of trees of a very

flexible nature, the branches of which they bend, till they hang on

the ground, and take root, as I have seen some trees naturally do in

America. In the more open spots, I saw here and there bushes of roses,

raspberries, and gooseberries, little plantations of lilac, hazel

trees, alders, feringa, broom, and trifolium, dispersed without any

order or symmetry, and which embellished the ground, at the same time

that it gave it the appearance of being overgrown with weeds. I

followed the track through irregular and serpentine walks, bordered by

these flowery thickets, and covered with a thousand garlands composed

of vines, hops, rose-weed, snake-weed, and other plants of that kind,

with which honey-suckles and jessamine deigned to inter-twine. These

garlands seemed as if they were scattered carefully from one tree to

another, and formed a kind of drapery over our heads which sheltered

us from the sun; while under foot we had smooth, agreeable, and dry

walking upon a fine moss, without sand or grass or any rugged shoots.

Then it was I first discovered, not without astonishment, that this

verdant and bushy umbrage, which had deceived me so much at a

distance, was composed of these luxuriant and creeping plants, which

running all along the trees, formed a thick foliage over head, and

afforded shade and freshness underfoot. I observed likewise, that by

means of common industry, they had made several of these plants take

root in the trunks of the trees, so that they spread more, being

nearer the top. You will readily conceive that the fruit is not the

better for these additions; but this is the only spot where they have

sacrificed the useful to the agreeable, and in the rest of their

grounds they have taken such care of the trees that, without the

orchard, the return of fruit is greater than it was formerly. If you

do but consider how delightful it is to meet with wild fruit in the

midst of a wood, and to refresh one’s self with it, you will easily

conceive what a pleasure it must be to meet with excellent and ripe

fruit in this artificial desert, though it grows but here and there,

and has not the best appearance; which gives one the pleasure of

searching and selecting the best.

All these little walks were bordered and crossed by a clear and limpid

rivulet, which one while winded through the grass and flowers in

streams scarce perceptible; at another, rushed in more copious floods

upon a clear and speckled gravel, which rendered the water more

transparent. You might perceive the springs rise and bubble out of the

earth, and sometimes you might observe deep canals, in which the calm

and gentle fluid served as a mirror to reflect the objects around.

Now, said I to Eloisa, I comprehend all the rest: but these waters

which I see on every side?... They come from thence she replied,

pointing to that side where the terrass lies. It is the same stream

which, at a vast expense, supplied the fountain, in the flower garden,

for which nobody cares. Mr. Wolmar will not destroy it, out of respect

to my father who had it made; but with what pleasure we come here

everyday to see this water run through the orchard, which we never

look at in the garden! The fountain plays for the entertainment of

strangers; this little rivulet flows for our amusement. It is true

that I have likewise brought hither the water from the public

fountain, which emptied itself into the lake, through the highway, to

the detriment of passengers, besides its running to waste without

profit to any one. It formed an elbow at the foot of the orchard

between two rows of willows; I have taken them within my inclosure,

and I bring the same water hither through different channels.

I perceived then that all the contrivance consisted in managing these

streams, so as to make them flow in meanders, by separating and

uniting them at proper places, by making them run as little upon the

slope as possible, in order to lengthen their course, and make the

most of a few little murmuring cascades. A lay of earth, covered with

some gravel from the lake, and strewed over with shells, forms a bed

for these waters. The same streams running at proper distances under

some large tiles covered with earth and turf, on a level with the

ground, forms a kind of artificial springs where they issue forth.

Some small streams spout through pipes on some rugged places, and

bubble as they fall. The ground thus refreshed and watered,

continually yields fresh flowers, and keeps the grass always verdant

and beautiful.

The more I wandered over this delightful asylum, the more I found the

agreeable sensation improve which I experienced at my first entrance:

nevertheless my curiosity kept me in exercise; I was more eager to

view the objects around me, than to inquire into the cause of the

impressions they made on me, and I chose to resign myself to that

delightful contemplation, without taking the trouble of reflection;

but Mrs. Wolmar drew me out of my reverie, by taking me under the arm;

All that you see, said she, is nothing but vegetable and inanimate

nature, which in spite of us, always leaves behind it a melancholy

idea of solitude. Come and view nature animated and more affecting.

There you will discover some new charm every minute in the day. You

anticipate me, said I, I hear a confused chirping noise, and I see but

few birds; I suppose you have an aviary. True, said she, let us go to

it. I durst not as yet declare what I thought of this aviary; but

there was something in the idea of it which disgusted me, and did not

seem to correspond with the rest.

We went down, through a thousand turnings, to the bottom of the

orchard, where I found all the water collected in a fine rivulet,

flowing gently between two rows of old willows, which had been

frequently lopped. Their tops being hollow and half bare, formed a

kind of vessel, from whence, by the contrivance I just now mentioned,

grew several tufts of honey-suckles, of which one part intertwined

among the branches, and the other dropped carelessly along the side of

the rivulet. Near the extremity of the inclosure, was a little bason,

bordered with grass, bulrushes, and weeds, which served as a watering

place to the aviary, and was the last use made of this water, so

precious and so well husbanded.

Somewhat beyond this bason was a platform, which was terminated, in an

angle of the inclosure, by a hillock planted with a number of little

trees of all kinds; the smallest stood towards the summit, and their

size increased, in proportion as the ground grew lower, which made

their tops appear to be horizontal, or at least shewed that they were

one day intended to be so. In the front stood a dozen of trees, which

were young as yet, but of a nature to grow very large, such as the

beech, the elm, the ash, and the acacia. The groves on this side,

served as an asylum to that vast number of birds which I had heard

chirping at a distance, and it was under the shade of this foliage, as

under a large umbrella, that you might see them hop about, run, frisk,

provoke each other, and fight, as if they had not perceived us. They

were so far from flying at our approach, that, according to the notion

with which I was prepossessed, I imagined them to have been inclosed

within a wire; but when we came to the border of the bason, I saw

several of them alight, and come towards us through a short walk which

parted the platform in two, and made a communication between the bason

and the aviary. Mr. Wolmar then going round the bason, scattered two

or three handfuls of mixed grain, which he had in his pocket, along

the walk, and when he retired, the birds flocked together and began to

seed like so many chickens, with such an air of familiarity, that I

plainly perceived they had been trained up to it. This is charming,

said I: your using the word aviary, surprized me at first, but I now

see what it is; I perceive that you invite them as your guests,

instead of confining them as your prisoners. What do you mean by our

guests? replied Eloisa; it is we who are theirs. They are masters

here, and we pay them for being admitted some times. Very well, said

I, but how did these masters get possession of this spot? How did you

collect together so many voluntary inhabitants? I never heard of any

attempt of this kind, and I could not have believed that such a design

could have succeeded, if I had not evidence of it before my eyes.

Time and patience, said Mr. Wolmar, have worked this miracle. These

are expedients which the rich scarce ever think of in their pleasures.

Always in haste for enjoyment, force and money are the only

instruments they know how to employ; they have birds in cage, and

friends at so much a mouth. If the servants ever came near this place,

you would soon see the birds disappear, and if you perceive vast

numbers of them at present, the reason is that this spot has always,

in some degree, been a refuge for them. There is no bringing them

together where there are none to invite them, but where there are some

already, it is easy to increase their numbers by anticipating all

their wants, by not frightening them, by suffering them to hatch with

security, and by never disturbing the young ones in their nest; for by

these means, such as are there, abide there, and those which come

after them continue. This grove was already in being, though it was

divided from the orchard; Eloisa has only inclosed it by a quick-set

hedge, removed that which parted it, and enlarged and adorned it with

new designs. You see to the right and left of the walk which leads to

it, two spaces filled with a confused mixture of grass, straw, and all

sorts of plants. She orders them every year to be sown with corn,

millet, turnsol, hemp-seed, vetch; and in general all sorts of grain

which birds are fond of, and nothing is ever reaped. Besides this,

almost every day she or I bring them something to eat, and when we

neglect, Fanny supplies our place. They are supplied with water, as

you see, very easily. Mrs. Wolmar carries her attention so far as to

provide for them, every spring, little heaps of hair straw, wool,

moss, and other materials proper to build their nests. Thus by their

having materials at hand, provisions in abundance, and by the great

care we take to secure them from their enemies, [56] the uninterrupted

tranquility they enjoy induces them to lay their eggs in this

convenient place, where they want for nothing, and where nobody

disturbs them. Thus the habitation of the fathers becomes the abode of

the children, and the colony thrives and multiplies.

Ah! said Eloisa, do you see nothing more? No one thinks beyond

himself; but the affection of a constant pair, the zeal of their

domestic concerns, paternal and maternal fondness, all this is lost

upon you. Had you been here two months ago, you might have feasted

your eyes with the most lovely sight, and have gratified your feelings

with the most tender sensations in nature. Madam, said I, somewhat

gravely, you are a wife and a mother; there are pleasures of which it

becomes you to be susceptible. Mr. Wolmar then taking me cordially by

the hand, said, You have friends, and those friends have children; how

can you be a stranger to paternal affection? I looked at him, I looked

at Eloisa, they looked at each other, and cast such an affecting eye

upon me, that embracing them alternately, I said with tender emotion,

They are as dear to me as to yourself. I do not know by what strange

effect a single word can make such an alteration in our minds, but

since that moment, Mr. Wolmar appears to me quite another man, and I

consider him less in the light of a husband to her whom I have so long

adored, as in that of the father of two children for whom I would lay

down my life.

I was going to walk round the bason, in order to draw nearer to this

delightful asylum, and its little inhabitants, but Mrs. Wolmar checked

me. Nobody, says she, goes to disturb them in their dwelling, and you

are the first of our guests whom I ever brought so far. There are four

keys to this orchard, of which my father and we have each of us one:

Fanny has the fourth, as superintendent, and to bring the children

here now and then; the value of which favour is greatly enhanced by

the extreme circumspection which is required of them while they are

here. Even Gustin never comes hither without one of the four: when the

two spring months are over in which his labours are useful, he scarce

ever comes hither afterwards, and all the rest we do ourselves. Thus,

said I, for fear of making our birds slaves to you, you make

yourselves slaves to your birds. This, she replied, is exactly the

sentiment of a tyrant, who never thinks that he enjoys liberty, but

while he is disturbing the freedom of others.

As we were coming back, Mr. Wolmar threw a handful of barley into the

bason, and on looking into it, I perceived some little fish. Ah, ah,

said I immediately, here are some prisoners nevertheless. Yes, said

he, they are prisoners of war, who have had their lives spared.

Without doubt, added his wife. Some time since Fanny stole two perch

out of the kitchen, and brought them hither without my knowledge. I

leave them here, for fear of offending her if I sent them to the lake;

for it is better to confine the fish in too narrow a compass, than to

disoblige a worthy creature. You are in the right, said I, and the

fish are not much to be pitied for having escaped from the frying-pan

into the water.

Well, how does it appear to you? said she, as we were coming back; are

you got to the end of the world yet? No, I replied, I am quite out of

the world, and you have in truth transported me into elysium. The

pompous name she has given this orchard, said Mr. Wolmar, very well

deserves that raillery. Be modest in your commendation of childish

amusements, and be assured that they have never intrenched on the

concerns of the mistress of a family. I know it, I am sure of it, I

replied, and childish amusements please me more in this way than the

labours of men.

Still there is one thing here, I continued, which I cannot conceive:

which is, that though a place: so different from what it was, can

never have been altered to its present state; but by great care and

culture; yet I can no where discover the least trace of cultivation.

Every thing is verdant, fresh, and vigorous, and the hand of the

gardener is no where to be discerned: nothing contradicts the idea of

a desert island, which struck me at the first entrance, and I cannot

perceive any footsteps of men. Oh, said Mr. Wolmar, it is because they

have taken great pains to efface them. I have frequently been witness

to, and sometimes an accomplice in this roguery. They sow all the

cultivated spots with grass, which presently hides all appearance of

culture. In the winter, they cover all the dry and barren spots with

some lays of manure, the manure eats up the moss, revives the grass

and the plants; the trees themselves do not fare the worse, and in the

summer there is nothing of it to be seen. With regard to the moss

which covers some of the walks, Lord B---- sent us the secret of

making it grow from England. These two sides, he continued, were

inclosed with walls; the walls have been covered not with hedges, but

with thick trees, which make the boundaries of the place appear like

the beginning of a wood. The two other sides are secured by strong

thickset hedges well stocked with maple, hawthorn, holy-oak, privet,

and other small trees, which destroy the appearance of the hedges, and

make them look more like coppice-woods. You see nothing here in an

exact row, nothing level; the line never entered this place; nature

plants nothing by the line; the affective irregularity of the winding

walks are managed with art, in order to prolong the walk, to hide the

boundaries of the island, and to enlarge its extent in appearance,

without making inconvenient and too frequent turnings. [57]

Upon considering the whole, I thought it somewhat extraordinary that

they should take so much pains to conceal the labour they had been at;

would it not have been better to have taken no such pains?

Notwithstanding all we have told you, replied Eloisa, you judge of the

labour from its effect, and you deceive yourself. All that you see are

wild and vigorous plants which need only to be put into the earth, and

which afterwards spring up of themselves. Besides, nature seems

desirous of hiding her real charms from the sight of men, because they

are too little sensible of them, and disfigure them when they are

within their reach; she flies from public places; it is on the tops of

mountains, in the midst of forests, in desert islands, that she

displays her most affecting charms. They who are in love with her and

cannot go so far in pursuit of her, are forced to do her violence, by

obliging her, in some measure, to come and dwell with them, and all

this cannot be effected without some degree of illusion.

At these words, I was struck with an idea which made them laugh. I am

supposing to myself, said I, some rich man to be master of this house,

and to bring an architect who is paid an extravagant price for

spoiling nature. With what disdain would he enter this plain and

simple spot! With what contempt would he order these ragged plants to

be torn up! What fine lines he would draw! What fine walks he would

cut! What fine geese-feet, what fine trees in the shape of umbrellas

and fans he would make! What fine arbor work----nicely cut out! What

beautiful grass-plats of fine English turf, round, square, sloping,

oval! What fine yew-trees cut in the shape of dragons, pagods,

marmosets, and all sorts of monsters! With what fine vases of brass,

with what fine fruit in stone he would decorate his garden! [58] ...

When he had done all this, said Mr. Wolmar, he would have made a very

fine place, which would scarce ever be frequented, and from whence one

should always go with eagerness to enjoy the country; a dismal place

where nobody would walk, but only use it as a thoroughfare when they

were setting out to walk; whereas in my rural rambles, I often make

haste to return that I may walk here.

I see nothing in those extensive grounds so lavishly ornamented, but

the vanity of the proprietor and of the artist, who being eager to

display, one his riches and the other his talents, only contribute, at

a vast expense, to tire those who would enjoy their works. A false

taste of grandeur, which was never designed for man, poisons all his

pleasures. An air of greatness has always something melancholy in it;

it leads us to consider the wretchedness of those who affect it. In

the midst of these grass-plats and fine walks, the little individual

does not grow greater; a tree twenty feet high will shelter him as

well as one of sixty, [59] he never occupies a space of more than

three feet, and in the midst of his immense possessions he is lost

like a poor worm.

There is another taste directly opposite to this, and still more

ridiculous, because it does not allow us the pleasure of walking, for

which gardens were intended. I understand you, said I; you allude to

those petty virtuosi, who die away at the sight of a ranunculus, and

fall prostrate before a tulip. Hereupon, my Lord, I gave them an

account of what happened to me formerly at London in the flower-garden

into which we were introduced with so much ceremony, and where we saw

all the treasures of Holland displayed with so much lustre upon four

beds of dung. I did not forget the ceremony of the umbrella and the

little rod with which they honoured me, unworthy as I was, as well as

the rest of the spectators. I modestly acknowledged how, by

endeavouring to appear a virtuoso in my turn, and venturing to fall in

ecstasies at the sight of a tulip which seemed to be of a fine shape

and of a lively colour, I was mocked, hooted at, and hissed by all the

connoisseurs, and how the florist who despised the flower despised its

panegyrist likewise to that degree, that he did not even deign to look

at me all the time we were together. I added, that I supposed he

highly regretted having prostituted his rod and umbrello on one so

unworthy.

This taste, said Mr. Wolmar, when it degenerates into a passion, has

something idle and little in it, which renders it puerile and

ridiculously expensive. The other, at least, is noble, grand, and has

something real in it. But what is the value of a curious root which an

insect gnaws or spoils perhaps as soon as it is purchased, or of a

flower which is beautiful at noon day, and fades before sun-set; what

signifies a conventional beauty, which is only obvious to the eyes of

virtuosi, and which is a beauty only because they will have it to be

so? The time will come when they will require different kinds of

beauty in flowers, from that which they seek after at present, and

with as good reason; then you will be the connoisseur in your turn,

and your virtuoso will appear ignorant. All these trifling attentions,

which degenerate into a kind of study, are unbecoming a rational

being, who, would keep his body in moderate exercise, or relieve his

mind by amusing himself in a walk with his friends. Flowers were made

to delight our eyes as we pass along, and not to be so curiously

anatomized. [60] See the queen of them shine in every part of the

orchard. It perfumes the air; it ravishes the eyes, and costs neither

care nor culture. It is for this reason that florists despise it;

nature has made it so lovely, that they cannot add to it any borrowed

beauty, and as they cannot plague themselves with cultivating it, they

find nothing in it which flatters their fancy. The mistake of your

pretenders to taste is, that they are desirous of introducing art in

every thing, and are never satisfied unless the art appears; whereas

true taste consists in concealing it, especially when it concerns any

of the works of nature. To what purpose are those strait gravelled

walks which we meet with continually; and those stars which are so far

from making a park appear more extensive to the view, as is commonly

supposed, that they only contribute awkwardly to discover its

boundaries? Do you ever see fine gravel in woods, or is that kind of

gravel softer to the feet than moss or down? Does nature constantly

make use of the square or rule? Are they afraid lest she be visible in

some spot notwithstanding all their care to disfigure her? Upon the

whole, it is droll enough to see them affect to walk in a strait line

that they may sooner reach the end, as if they were tired of walking,

before they have well begun? Would not one imagine, by their taking

the shortest cut, that they were going a journey instead of a walk,

and that they were in a hurry to get out as soon they come in?

How will a man of taste act, who lives to relish life, who knows how

to enjoy himself, who pursues real and simple pleasures, and who is

inclined to make a walk before his house? He will make it so

convenient and agreeable that he may enjoy it every hour of the day,

and yet so natural and simple, that it will seem as if he had done

nothing. He will introduce water, and will make the walk verdant,

cool, and shady; for nature herself unites these properties. He will

bestow no attention on symmetry, which is the bane of nature and

variety, and the walks of gardens in general are so like each other,

that we always fancy ourselves in the same. He will make the ground

smooth, in order to walk more conveniently; but the two sides of his

walks will not be exactly parallel; their direction will not always be

recti-lineal, they will be somewhat irregular like the steps of an

indolent man, who saunters in his walk: he will not be anxious about

opening distant perspectives. The taste for perspective and distant

views proceeds from the disposition of men in general, who are never

satisfied with the place where they are. They are always desirous of

what is distant from them, and the artist who cannot make them

contented with the objects around them, flies to this resource to

amuse them; but such a man as I speak of, is under no such

inquietudes, and when he is agreeably fixed, he does not desire to be

elsewhere. Here, for example, we have no prospect, and we are very

well satisfied without any. We are willing to think that all the

charms of nature are inclosed here, and I should be very much afraid

lest a distant view should take off a good deal of the beauty from

this walk. [61] Certainly he who would not chuse to pass his days in

this simple and pleasant place, is not master of true taste or of a

vigorous mind. I confess that one ought not to make a parade of

bringing strangers hither; but then we can enjoy it ourselves, without

shewing it to any one.

Sir, said I, these rich people who have such fine gardens, have very

good reasons for not choosing to walk alone, or to be in company with

themselves only; therefore they are in the right to lay them out for

the pleasure of others. Besides, I have seen gardens in China, made

after your taste, and laid out with so much art that the art was not

seen, but in such a costly manner, and kept up at such a vast expense,

that that single idea destroyed all the pleasure I had in viewing

them. There were rocks, grottos, and artificial cascades in level and

sandy places, where there was nothing but spring-water; there were

flowers and curious plants of all the climates in China and Tartary,

collected and cultivated in the same soil. It is true, there were no

fine walks or regular compartments; but you might see curiosities

heaped together with profusion, which in nature are only to be found

separate and scattered. Nature was there represented under a thousand

various forms, and yet the whole taken together was not natural. Here

neither earth nor stones are transplanted, you have neither pumps nor

reservoirs, you have no occasion for green-houses or stoves, of bell

glasses or straw-beds. A plain spot of ground has been improved by a

few simple ornaments. A few common herbs and trees, and a few purling

streams which flow without pomp or constraint, have contributed to

embellish it. It is an amusement, which has cost little trouble, and

the simplicity of it is an additional pleasure to the beholder. I can

conceive that this place might be made still more agreeable, and yet

be infinitely less pleasing to me. Such, for example, is Lord Cobham’s

celebrated park at Stow. It consists of places extremely beautiful and

picturesque, modelled after the fashion of different countries, and in

which every thing appears natural except their conjunction, as in the

gardens of China, which I just now mentioned. The proprietor who made

this stately solitude, has even erected ruins, temples, old buildings,

and different ages as well as different places are collected with more

than mortal magnificence. This is the very thing I dislike. I would

have the amusements of mankind carry an air of ease with them which

does not put one in mind of their weakness, and that while we admire

these curiosities our imagination may not be disturbed by reflecting

on the vast sums of money and labour they have cost. Are we not

destined to trouble enough, without making our amusements a fatigue?

I have but one objection, I added, looking at Eloisa, to make to your

elysium, but which you will probably think of some weight, which is,

that it is a superfluous amusement. To what purpose was it to make a

new walk, when you have such beautiful groves on the other side of the

house which you neglect? That’s true, said she, somewhat disconcerted,

but I like this better. If you had thoroughly reflected on the

propriety of your question before you had made it, said Mr. Wolmar,

interrupting us, it might be imputed to you as more than an

indiscretion. My wife has never set her foot in those groves since she

has been married. I know the reason though she has always kept it a

secret from me. You who are no stranger to it, learn to respect the

spot where you are; it has been planted by the hands of virtue.

I had scarce received this just reprimand, but the little family led

by Fanny, came in as we were going out. These three lovely children

threw themselves round Mr. and Mrs. Wolmar’s necks. I likewise shared

their little caresses. Eloisa and I returned into elysium to take a

little turn with them; afterwards we went to join Mr. Wolmar who was

talking to some workmen. In our way, she told me, that she no sooner

became a mother, than an idea struck into her mind, with respect to

that walk, which increased her zeal for embellishing it. I had an eye,

said she, to the health and amusement of my children as they grew

older. It requires more care than labour to keep up this place; it is

more essential to give a certain turn to the branches of the plants,

than to dig and cultivate the ground; I intend one day to make

gardeners of my little ones: they shall have sufficient exercise to

strengthen their constitution, and not enough to enfeeble it. Besides,

what is too much for their age, shall be done by others, and they

shall confine themselves to such little works as may amuse them. I

cannot describe, she added, what pleasure I enjoy in imagining my

infants busy in returning those little attentions which I now bestow

on them with such satisfaction, and the joy of which their tender

hearts will be susceptible, when they see their mother walking with

delight under the shades, which have been formed by their own hands.

In truth, my friend, said she, with an affecting tone, time thus spent

is an emblem of the felicity of the next world, and it was not without

reason that, reflecting on these scenes, I christened this place

before hand by the name of elysium. My Lord, this incomparable woman

is as amiable in the character of a mother as in that of a wife, a

friend, a daughter, and to the eternal punishment of my soul, she was

thus lovely when my mistress.

Transported with this delightful place, I intreated them in the

evening to consent that, during my stay, Fanny should entrust me with

her key, and consign to me the office of feeding the birds. Eloisa

immediately sent a sack of grain to my chamber, and gave me her own

key. I cannot tell for what reason, but I accepted it with a kind of

concern, and it seemed as if Mr. Wolmar’s would have been more

acceptable to me.

In the morning I rose early, and with all the eagerness of a child,

went to lock myself in the desert island. What agreeable ideas did I

hope to carry with me into that solitary place, where the mild aspect

of nature alone was sufficient to banish from my remembrance, all that

new-coin’d system which had made me so miserable! All the objects

around me will be the work of her whom I adored. In every thing about

me, I shall behold her image; I shall see nothing which her hand has

not touched; I shall kiss the flowers which have been her carpet; I

shall inhale, with the morning dew, the air which she has breathed;

the taste she has displayed in her amusements, will bring all her

charms present to my imagination, and in every thing she will appear

the Eloisa of my soul.

As I entered elysium with this temper of mind, I suddenly recollected

the last word which Mr. Wolmar said to me yesterday very near the same

spot. The recollection of that single word, instantly changed my whole

frame of mind. I thought that I beheld the image of virtue, where I

expected to find that of pleasure. That image intruded on my

imagination with the charms of Mrs. Wolmar, and for the first time

since my return, I saw Eloisa in her absence; not such as she appeared

to me formerly and as I still love to represent her, but such as she

appears to my eyes every day. My Lord, I imagined that I beheld that

amiable, that chaste, that virtuous woman, in the midst of the train

which surrounded her yesterday. I saw those three lovely children,

those honourable and precious pledges of conjugal union and tender

friendship, play about her, and give and receive a thousand affecting

embraces. At her side I beheld the grave Wolmar, that husband so

beloved, so happy, and so worthy of felicity. I imagined that I could

perceive his judicious and penetrating eye pierce to the very bottom

of my soul, and make me blush again; I fancied that I heard him utter

reproaches which I too well deserved, and repeat lectures to which I

had attended in vain. Last in her train I saw Fanny Regnard, a lively

instance of the triumph of virtue and humanity over the most ardent

passion. Ah! what guilty thought could reach so far as her, through

such an impervious guard? With what indignation I suppressed the

shameful transports of a criminal and scarce extinguished passion, and

how I should have despised myself had I contaminated such a ravishing

scene of honour and innocence, with a single sigh. I recalled

to mind the reflections she made as we were going out, then my

imagination attending her into that futurity on which she delights to

contemplate, I saw that affectionate mother wipe the sweat from her

children’s foreheads, kiss their ruddy cheeks, and devote that heart,

which was formed for love, to the most tender sentiments of nature.

There was nothing, even to the very name of elysium, but what

contributed to rectify my rambling imagination, and to inspire my soul

with a calm far preferable to the agitation of the most seductive

passions. The word elysium seemed to me an emblem of the purity of her

mind who adopted it; and I concluded that she would never have made

choice of that name, had she been tormented with a troubled

conscience. Peace, said I, reigns in the utmost recesses of her soul,

as in this asylum which she has named.

I proposed to myself an agreeable reverie, and my reflections there

were more agreeable, even than I expected. I passed two hours in

elysium, which were not inferior to any time I ever spent. In

observing with what rapidity and delight they passed away, I perceived

that there was a kind of felicity in meditating on honest reflections,

which the wicked never know, and which consists in being pleased with

one’s-self. If we were to reflect on this without prejudice, I don’t

know any other pleasure which can equal it. I perceive, at least, that

one who loves solitude as I do, ought to be extremely cautious not to

do any thing which may make it tormenting. Perhaps these principles

may lead us to discover the spring of those false judgments of mankind

with regard to vice and virtue; for the enjoyment of virtue is all

internal, and is only perceived by him who feels it: but all the

advantages of vice strike the imagination of others, and only he who

has purchased them, knows what they cost.

_Se a ciascun l’interno affanno

Si legesse in fronte scritto

Quanti mai, che Invidia fanno

Ci farebbero pieta?_ [62]

As it grew late before I perceived it, Mr. Wolmar came to join me, and

acquaint me that Eloisa and the tea waited for me. It is you

yourselves, said I, making an apology, who pre-vented my coming

sooner: I was so delighted with the evening I spent yesterday, that I

went thither again to enjoy this morning; luckily there is no mischief

done, and as you have waited for me, my morning is not lost. That’s

true, said Mr. Wolmar; it would be better to wait till noon, than lose

the pleasure of breakfasting together. Strangers are never admitted

into my room in the morning, but breakfast in their own. Breakfast is

the repast of intimates, servants are excluded, and impertinents never

appear at that time; we then declare all we think, we reveal all our

secrets, we disguise none of our sentiments; we can then enjoy the

delights of intimacy and confidence, without indiscretion. It is the

only time almost in which we are allowed to appear what we really are;

why can’t it last the day through! Ah, Eloisa! I was ready to say;

this is an interesting wish! but I was silent. The first thing I

learned to suppress with my love, was flattery. To praise people to

their face, is but to tax them with vanity. You know, my Lord, whether

Mrs. Wolmar deserves this reproach. No, no; I respect her too much,

not to respect her in silence. Is it not a sufficient commendation of

her, to listen to her, and observe her conduct?

Letter CXXXI. Mrs. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

It is decreed, my dear friend, that you are on all occasions to be my

protectress against myself, and that after having delivered me from

the snares which my affections laid for me, you are yet to rescue me

from those which reason spreads to entrap me. After so many cruel

instances, I have learned to guard against mistakes, as much as

against my passions, which are frequently the cause of them. Why had

I not the same precaution always! If in time past, I had relied less

on the light of my own understanding, I should have had less reason to

blush at my sentiments.

Do not be alarmed at this preamble. I should be unworthy your

friendship, if I was still under a necessity of consulting you upon

dismal subjects. Guilt was always a stranger to my heart, and I dare

believe it to be more distant from me now than ever. Therefore, Clara,

attend to me patiently, and believe that I shall never need your

advice in difficulties which honour alone can resolve.

During these six years which I have lived with Mr. Wolmar in the most

perfect union which can subsist between a married couple, you know

that he never talked to me either about his family or himself, and

that having received him from a father as solicitous for his

daughter’s happiness as jealous of the honour of his family, I never

expressed any eagerness to know more of his concerns, than he thought

proper to communicate. Satisfied with being indebted to him for my

honour, my repose, my reason, my children, and all that can render me

estimable in my own eyes, besides the life of him who gave me being, I

was convinced that the particulars concerning him, to which I was a

stranger, would not falsify what I knew of him, and there was no

occasion for my knowing more, in order to love, esteem, and honour him

as much as possible.

This morning at breakfast he proposed our taking a little walk before

the heat came on; then under a pretence of not going through the

country in morning dishabille, as he said, he led us into the woods,

and exactly into that wood, where all the misfortunes of my life

commenced. As I approached that fatal spot, I felt a violent

palpitation of heart, and should have refused to have gone in, if

shame had not checked me, and if the recollection of a word which

dropped the other day in elysium, had not made me dread the

interpretations which might have been passed on such a refusal. I do

not know whether the philosopher was more composed; but some time

after having cast my eyes upon him by chance, I found his countenance

pale and altered, and I cannot express to you the uneasiness it gave

me.

On entering into the wood I perceived my husband cast a glance towards

me and smile. He sat down between us, and after a moment’s pause,

taking us both by the hand, my dear children, said he, I begin to

perceive that my schemes will not be fruitless, and that we three may

be connected by a lasting attachment, capable of promoting our common

good, and procuring me some comfort to alleviate the troubles of

approaching old age: but I am better acquainted with you two, than you

are with me; it is but just to make every thing equal among us, and

though I have nothing very interesting to impart, yet as you have no

secrets hidden from me, I will have none concealed from you.

He then revealed to us the mystery of his birth, which had hitherto

been known to no one but my father. When you are acquainted with it,

you will imagine what great temper and moderation a man must be master

of, who was able to conceal such a secret from his wife during six

years; but it is no pain to him to keep such a secret, and he thinks

too slightly of it, to be obliged to exert any vast efforts to conceal

it.

I will not detain you, said he, with relating the occurrences of my

life. It is of less importance to you to be acquainted with my

adventures than with my character. The former are simple in their

nature like the latter, and when you know what I am, you will easily

imagine what I was capable of doing. My mind is naturally calm, and my

affections temperate. I am one of those men, whom people think they

reproach when they call them insensible; that is, when they upbraid

them with having no passion, which may impel them to swerve from the

true direction of human nature. Being but little susceptible of

pleasure or grief, I receive but faint impressions from those

interesting sentiments of humanity, which make the affections of

others our own. If I feel uneasiness when I see the worthy in

distress, it is not without reason that my compassion is moved, for

when I see the wicked suffer, I have no pity for them. My only active

principle is a natural love of order, and the concurrence of the

accidents of fortune with the conduct of mankind well combined

together, pleases me exactly like beautiful symmetry in a picture, or

like a piece well represented on the stage. If I have any ruling

passion, it is that of observation: I love to read the hearts of

mankind. As my own seldom misleads me, as I make my observations with

a disinterested and dispassionate temper, and as I have acquired some

sagacity by long experience, I am seldom deceived in my judgments;

this advantage therefore is the only recompense which self-love

receives from my constant studies: for I am not fond of acting a part,

but only of observing others play theirs. Society is agreeable to me

for the sake of contemplation, and not as a member of it. If I could

alter the nature of my being and become a living eye, I would

willingly make the exchange. Therefore my indifference about mankind

does not make me independent of them; without being solicitous to be

seen, I want to see them, and though they are not dear, they are

necessary, to me.

The two first characters in society which I had an opportunity of

observing were courtiers and valets; two orders of men who differ more

in appearance than fact, but so little worthy of being attended to,

and so easily read, that I was tired of them at first sight. By

quitting the court, where every thing is presently seen, I secured

myself, without knowing it, from the danger which threatened me, and

which I should not have escaped. I changed my name, and having a

desire to be acquainted with military men, I solicited admission into

the service of a foreign prince; it was there that I had the happiness

of being useful to your father, who was impelled by despair for having

killed his friend, to expose himself rashly and contrary to his duty.

The grateful and susceptible heart of a brave officer began then to

give me a better opinion of human nature. He attached himself to me

with that zealous friendship which it was impossible for me not to

return, and from that time we formed connections which have every day

grown stronger. I discovered, in this new state of my mind, that

interest is not always, as I had supposed, the sole motive which

influences human conduct, and that among the crowd of prejudices which

are opposite to virtue, there are some likewise which are favourable

to her. I found that the general character of mankind was founded on a

kind of self-love indifferent in itself, and either good or bad

according to the accidents which modify it, and which depend on

customs, laws, rank, fortune, and every circumstance relative to human

policy. I therefore indulged my inclination, and despising the vain

notions of worldly condition, I successively threw myself into all the

different situations in life, which might enable me to compare them

together, and know one by the other. I perceived, as you have observed

in one of your letters, said he to St. Preux, that we see nothing if

we rest satisfied with looking on, that we ought to act ourselves in

order to judge of men’s actions, and I made myself an actor to qualify

myself for a spectator. We can always lower ourselves with ease; and I

stooped to a variety of situations, which no man of my station ever

condescended to. I even became a peasant, and when Eloisa made me her

gardener, she did not find me such a novice in the business, as she

might have expected.

Besides gaining a thorough knowledge of mankind, which indolent

philosophy only attains in appearance, I found another advantage which

I never expected. This was, the opportunity it afforded me of

improving, by an active life, that love of order I derived from

nature, and of acquiring a new relish for virtue by the pleasure of

contributing towards it. This sentiment made me less speculative,

attached me somewhat more to myself, and from a natural consequence of

this progress, I perceived that I was alone. Solitude, which was

always tiresome to me, became hideous, and I could not hope to escape

it long. Though I did not grow less dispassionate, I found the want of

some connection; the idea of decay, without any one to comfort me,

afflicted me by anticipation, and for the first time in my life, I

experienced melancholy and uneasiness. I communicated my troubles to

the Baron D’Etange. You must not, said he, grow an old bachelor. I

myself, after having lived independent as it were in a state of

matrimony, find that I have a desire of returning to the duties of a

husband and a father, and I am going to repose myself in the midst of

my family. It depends on yourself to make my family your own, and to

supply the place of the son whom I have lost. I have an only daughter

to marry: she is not destitute of merit; she has a sensibility of

mind, and the love of her duty makes her love every thing relative to

it. She is neither a beauty, nor a prodigy of understanding; but come

and see her, and believe me that if she does not affect you, no woman

will ever make an impression on you. I came, I saw you, Eloisa, and I

found that your father had reported modestly of you. Your transports,

the tears of joy you shed when you embraced him, gave me the first, or

rather the only emotion I ever experienced in my life. If the

impression was slight, it was the only one I felt, and our sensations

are strong only in proportion to those which oppose them. Three years

absence made no change in my inclinations. I was no stranger to the

state of yours in my return, and on this occasion I must make you a

return for the confession which has cost you so dear.” Judge, my dear

Clara, with what extraordinary surprize, I learnt that all my secrets

had been discovered to him before our marriage and that he had wedded

me, knowing me to be the property of another.

This conduct, continued Mr. Wolmar, was unpardonable. I offended

against delicacy; I sinned against prudence; I exposed your honour and

my own; I should have been apprehensive of plunging you and myself

into irretrievable calamities; but I loved you, and I loved nothing

but you. Every thing else was indifferent to me. How is it possible to

restrain a passion, be it ever so weak, when it has no counterpoise.

This is the inconvenience of calm and dispassionate tempers. Every

thing goes right while their insensibility secures them from

temptations; but if one happens to touch them, they are conquered as

soon as they are attacked, and reason, which governs while she sways

alone, has no power to resist the slightest effort. I was tempted but

once, and I gave way to it. If the intoxication of any other passion

had rendered me wavering, I should have fallen, every false step I

took; none but spirited souls are able to struggle and conquer. All

great efforts, all sublime actions are their province; cool reason

never achieved any thing illustrious, and we can only triumph over our

passions by opposing one against another. When virtue gains the

ascendancy, she reigns alone, and keeps all in due poise; this forms

the true philosopher, who is as much exposed to the assaults of

passion as another, but who alone is capable of subduing them by their

own force, as a pilot steers through adverse winds.

You find that I do not attempt to extenuate my fault; had it been one,

I should infallibly have committed it; but I knew you, Eloisa, and was

guilty of none when I married you. I perceived that all my prospect

of happiness depended on you alone, and that if any one was capable of

making you happy, it was myself. I knew that peace and innocence were

essential to your mind, that the affection with which it was pre-

engaged could not afford them, and that nothing could banish love but

the horror of guilt. I saw that your soul laboured under an oppression

which it could not shake off but by some new struggle, and that to

make you sensible how valuable you still were, was the only way to

render you truly estimable.

Your heart was formed for love; I therefore slighted the disproportion

of age, which excluded me from a right of pretending to the affection,

which he who was the object of it could not enjoy, and which it was

impossible to obtain for any other. On the contrary, finding my life

half spent, and that I had been susceptible but of a single

impression, I concluded that it would be lasting, and I pleased myself

with the thoughts of preserving it the rest of my days. In all my

tedious searches, I found nothing so estimable as yourself, I thought

that what you could not effect, no one in the world could accomplish;

I ventured to rely on your virtue, and I married you. The secrecy you

observed did not surprize me; I knew the reason, and from your prudent

conduct, I guessed how long it would last. From a regard to you, I

copied your reserve, and I would not deprive you of the honour of one

day making me a confession, which, I plainly perceived, was at your

tongue’s end every minute. I have not been deceived in any particular;

you have fully answered all I expected from you. When I made choice of

a wife, I desired to find in her an amiable, discreet and happy

companion. The first two requisites have been obtained. I hope, my

dear, that we shall not be disappointed of the third.

At these words, in spite of all my endeavours not to interrupt him but

by my tears, I could not forbear throwing myself round his neck, and

crying out; O my dear husband! O thou best and most amiable of men!

Tell me what is wanting to compleat my happiness, but to promote your

felicity, and to be more deserving... You are as happy as you can be,

said he, interrupting me; you deserve to be so; but it is time to

enjoy that felicity in peace, which has hitherto cost you such vast

pains. If your fidelity had been all I required, that would have been

ensured the moment you made me the promise; I wanted moreover to make

it easy and agreeable to you, and we have both laboured to this end in

concert, without communicating our views to each other. Eloisa, we

have succeeded; better than you imagine perhaps. The only fault I find

in you is, that you do not resume that confidence which you have a

right to repose in yourself, and that you undervalue your own worth.

Extreme diffidence is as dangerous as excessive confidence. As that

rashness which prompts us to attempts beyond our strength renders our

power ineffectual, so that timidity which prevents us from relying on

ourselves, renders it useless. True prudence consists in being

thoroughly acquainted with the measure of our own power, and acting up

to it. You have acquired an increase of strength by changing your

condition. You are no longer that unfortunate girl who bewailed the

weakness she indulged; you are the most virtuous of women, you are

bound by no laws but those of honour and duty, and the only fault that

can now be imputed to you, is that you retain too lively a sense of

your former indiscretion. Instead of taking reproachful precautions

against yourself, learn to depend upon your self, and your confidence

will increase your strength. Banish that injurious diffidence, and

think yourself happy in having made choice of an honest man at an age

which is liable to imposition, and in having entertained a lover

formerly, whom you may now enjoy as a friend, even under your

husband’s eye. I was no sooner made acquainted with your connections,

than I judged of you by each other. I perceived what enthusiastic

delusion led you astray; it never operates but on susceptible minds;

it sometimes ruins them, but it is by a charm which has power to

seduce them alone. I judged that the same turn of mind which formed

your attachment would break it as soon as it became criminal, and that

vice might find an entrance, but never take root in such hearts as

yours.

I conceived moreover that the connection between you ought not to be

broken; that there were so many laudable circumstances attending your

mutual attachment, that it ought rather to be rectified than

destroyed; and that neither of the two could forget the other, without

diminishing their own worth. I knew that great struggles only served

to inflame strong passions, and that if violent efforts exercised the

mind, they occasioned such torments as by their continuance might

subdue it. I took advantage of Eloisa’s gentleness, to moderate the

severity of her reflections. I nourished her friendship for you, said

he to St. Preux; I banished all immoderate passion, and I believe that

I have preserved you a greater share of her affections, than she would

have left you, had I abandoned her entirely to herself.

My success encouraged me, and I determined to attempt your cure as I

had accomplished hers; for I had an esteem for you, and

notwithstanding the prejudices of vice, I have always observed that

every good end is to be obtained from susceptible minds by means of

confidence and sincerity. I saw you, you did not deceive me; you will

not deceive me; and though you are not yet what you ought to be, I

find you more improved than you imagine, and I am better satisfied

with you than you are with yourself. I know that my conduct has an

extravagant appearance, and is repugnant to the common received

principles. But maxims become less general, in proportion as we are

better acquainted with the human heart: and Eloisa’s husband ought not

to act like men in common. My dear children, said he, with a tone the

more affecting as it came from a dispassionate man; remain what you

are, and we shall all be happy. Danger consists chiefly in opinion; be

not afraid of yourselves, and you will have nothing to apprehend; only

think on the present, and I will answer for the future. I cannot

communicate any thing farther to day, but if my schemes succeed, and

my hopes do not betray me, our destiny will be better fulfilled, and

you two will be much happier than if you had enjoyed each other.

As we rose, he embraced us, and would have us likewise embrace each

other, on that spot. On that very spot where formerly... Clara, O my

dear Clara, how dearly have you ever loved me! I made no resistance.

Alas! How indiscreet would it have been to have made any! This kiss

was nothing like that which rendered the grove terrible to me. I

silently congratulated myself, and I found that my heart was more

changed than I had hitherto ventured to imagine.

As we were walking towards home, my husband, taking me by the hand,

stopt me, and shewing me the wood we had just left, he said to me

smiling; Eloisa, be no longer afraid of this asylum; it has not been

lately profaned. You will not believe me, cousin, but I swear that he

has some supernatural gift of reading one’s inmost thoughts: may

heaven continue it to him! Having such reason to despise myself, it is

certainly to this art that I am indebted for his indulgence.

You do not see yet any occasion I have for your advice; patience, my

angel! I am coming to that point; but the conversation which I have

related, was necessary to clear up what follows.

On our return, my husband, who has long been expected at Etange, told

me that he proposed going thither to-morrow, that he should see you in

his way, and that he should stay there five or six days. Without

saying all I thought concerning such an ill-timed journey, I told him

that I imagined the necessity was not so indispensable as to oblige

Mr. Wolmar to leave his guest, whom he had himself invited to his

house. Would you have me, he replied, use ceremony with him to remind

him that he is not at home? I am like the Valaisians for hospitality.

I hope he will find their sincerity here, and allow us to use their

freedom. Perceiving that he would not understand me, I took another

method, and endeavoured to persuade our guest to take the journey with

him. You will find a spot, said I, which has its beauties, and such as

you are fond of; you will visit my patrimony and that of my ancestors;

the interest you take in every thing which concerns me, will not allow

me to suppose that such a sight can be indifferent to you. My mouth

was open to add that the castle was like that of Lord B----, who...

but luckily I had time to bite my tongue. He answered me coolly that I

was in the right, and that he would do as I pleased. But Mr. Wolmar,

who seemed determined to drive me to an extremity, replied that he

should do what was most agreeable to himself. Which do you like best,

to go or to stay? To stay, said he, without hesitating. Well, stay

then, rejoined my husband, taking him by the hand: you are a sincere

and honest man, and I am well pleased with that declaration. There was

no room for much altercation between my husband and me, in the hearing

of this third person. I was silent, but could not conceal my

uneasiness so well, but my husband perceived it. What! said he, with

an air of discontent, St. Preux being at a little distance from us,

shall I have pleaded your cause against yourself in vain, and will

Mrs. Wolmar remain satisfied with a virtue which depends on

opportunity? For my part, I am more nice; I will be indebted for the

fidelity of my wife, to her affection, not to chance; and it is not

enough that she is constant, it wounds my delicacy to think that she

should doubt her constancy.

At length, he took us into his closet, where I was extremely surprized

to see him take from a drawer, along with the copies of some of our

friend’s correspondences which I delivered to him, the very original

letters which I thought I had seen burned by B---- in my mother’s

room. Here, said he to me, shewing them to us, are the pledges of my

security; if they deceive me, it would be a folly to depend on any

thing which concerns human nature. I consign my wife and my honour in

charge to her, who, when single and seduced, preferred an act of

benevolence, to a secure and private rendezvous. I trust Eloisa, now

that she is a wife and a mother, to him who, when he had it in his

power to gratify his desires, yet knew how to respect Eloisa when

single and a fond girl. If either of you think so meanly of

yourselves, as to suppose that I am in the wrong, say so, and I

retract this instant. Cousin, do you think that one could easily

venture to make answer to such a speech?

I nevertheless sought an opportunity in the afternoon of speaking with

my husband in private, and without entering into reasons which I was

not at liberty to urge, I only intreated him to put off his journey

for two days. My request was granted immediately; and I employ the

time, in sending you this express and waiting for your answer, to know

how I am to act.

I know that I need but desire my husband not to go at all, and he who

never denied me any thing, will not refuse me so slight a favour. But

I perceive, my dear, that he takes a pleasure in the confidence he

reposes in me, and I am afraid of forfeiting some share of his esteem,

if he should suppose that I have occasion for more reserve than he

allows me. I know likewise, that I need but speak a word to St. Preux,

and that he will accompany my husband without hesitation; but what

will my husband think of the change, and can I take such a step

without preserving an air of authority over St. Preux, which might

seem to entitle him to some privileges in his turn? Besides, I am

afraid, lest he should conclude from this precaution that I find it

absolutely necessary, and this step which at first sight appears most

easy, is the most dangerous perhaps at the bottom. Upon the whole

however I am not ignorant that no consideration should be put in

competition with a real danger, but does this danger exist in fact?

This is the very doubt which you must resolve for me.

The more I examine the present state of my mind, the more I find to

encourage me. My heart is spotless, my conscience calm, I have no

symptoms of fear or uneasiness and with respect to every thing which

passes within me, my sincerity before my husband costs me no trouble.

Not but that certain involuntary recollections sometimes occasion

tender emotions from which I had rather be exempt; but these

recollections are so far from being produced by the sight of him who

was the original cause of them, that they seem to be less frequent

since his return, and however agreeable it is to me to see him, yet,

I know not from what strange humour, it is more agreeable to me to

think of him. In a word, I find that I do not even require the aid of

virtue in order to be composed in his presence, and, exclusive of the

horror of guilt, it would be very difficult to revive those sentiments

which virtue has extinguished.

But is it sufficient, my dear, that my heart encourages me, when

reason ought to alarm me? I have forfeited the right of depending on

my own strength. Who will answer that my confidence, even now, is not

an illusion of vice? How shall I rely on those sentiments which have

so often deceived me? Does not guilt always spring from that pride

which prompts us to despise temptation; and when we defy those dangers

which have occasioned our fall, does it not shew a disposition to

yield again to temptation?

Weigh all these circumstances, my dear Clara, you will find that

though they may be trifling in themselves, they are of sufficient

importance to merit attention, when you consider the object they

concern. Deliver me from the uncertainty into which they have thrown

me. Shew me how I must behave in this critical conjuncture; for my

past errors have affected my judgment, and rendered me diffident in

deciding upon any thing. Whatever you may think of yourself, your

mind, I am certain, is tranquil and composed; objects present

themselves to you such as they are; but in mine, which is agitated

like a troubled sea, they are confounded and disfigured. I no longer

dare to depend upon any thing I see, or any thing I feel, and

notwithstanding so many years repentance, I perceive, with concern,

that the weight of past failings is a burthen we must bear to the end

of our lives.

Letter CXXXII. Answer.

Poor Eloisa! With so much reason to live at ease, what torments you

continually create! All thy misfortunes come from thyself, O Israel!

If you adhered to your own maxims; if, in point of sentiment, you only

hearkened to the voice within you, and your heart did but silence your

reason, you would then without scruple trust to that security it

inspires, and you would not constrain yourself against the testimony

of your own heart, to dread a danger which can arise only from thence.

I understand you, I perfectly understand you, Eloisa; being more

secure in yourself than you pretend to be, you have a mind to humble

yourself on account of your past failings, under a pretence of

preventing new ones; and your scruples are not so much precautions

against the future, as a penance you impose upon yourself to atone for

the indiscretion which ruined you formerly. You compare the times; do

you consider? Compare situations likewise, and remember that I then

reproved you for your confidence, as I now reprove you for your

diffidence.

You are mistaken, my dear; but nature does not alter so soon. If we

can forget our situation for want of reflection, we see it in its true

light when we take pains to consider of it, and we can no more conceal

our virtues than our vices from ourselves. Your gentleness and

devotion have given you a turn for humility. Mistrust that dangerous

virtue which only excites self-love by making it centre in one point,

and be assured that the noble sincerity of an upright mind, is greatly

preferable to the pride of humility. If moderation is necessary in

wisdom, it is requisite likewise in those precautions it suggests,

lest a solicitude which is reproachful to virtue should debase the

mind, and, by keeping us in constant alarm, render a chimerical danger

a real one. Don’t you perceive that after we have had a fall, we

should hold ourselves upright, and that by leaning too much towards

the side opposite to that on which we fell, we are in danger of

falling again? Cousin, you loved like Eloisa. Now, like her, you are

an extravagant devotee; he even said that you may be more successful

in the latter than you were in the former! In truth, if I was less

acquainted with your natural timidity, your apprehensions would be

sufficient to terrify me in my turn, and if I was so scrupulous, I

might, from being alarmed for you, begin to tremble for myself.

Consider farther, my dear friend; you whose system of morality is as

easy and natural as it is pure and honest, do not make constructions

which are harsh and foreign to your character, with respect to your

maxims concerning the separation of the sexes. I agree with you that

they ought not to live together, nor after the same manner; but

consider whether this important rule does not admit of many

distinctions in point of practice; examine whether it ought to be

applied indiscriminately, and without exception to married as well as

to single women, to society in general as well as to particular

connections, to business as well as to amusements, and whether that

honour and decency which inspire these maxims, ought not sometimes to

regulate them? In well governed countries, where the natural relations

of things are attended to in matrimony, you would admit of assemblies

where young persons of both sexes, might see, be acquainted, and

associate with each other; but you prohibit them, with good reason,

from holding any private intercourse. But is not the case quite

different with regard to married women and the mothers of families,

who can have no interest, that is justifiable, in exhibiting

themselves in public; who are confined within doors by their domestic

concerns, and who should not be refused to do any thing at home which

is becoming the mistress of a family? I should not like to see you in

the cellars presenting the wine for the merchants to taste, nor to see

you leave your children to settle accounts with a banker; but if an

honest man should come to visit your husband, or to transact some

business with him, will you refuse to entertain his guest in his

absence; and to do him the honours of the house for fear of being left

_tete a tete_ with him? Trace this principle to its source, and it

will explain all your maxims. Why do we suppose that women ought to

live retired and apart from the men? Shall we do such injustice to our

sex as to account for it upon principles drawn from our weakness, and

that it is only to avoid the danger of temptations? No, my dear, these

unworthy apprehensions do not become an honest woman, and the mother

of a family who is continually surrounded with objects which nourish

in her the sentiments of honour, and who is devoted to the most

respectable duties of human nature. It is nature herself that divides

us from the men, by prescribing to us different occupations; it is

that amiable and timorous modesty, which, without being immediately

attentive to chastity, is nevertheless its surest guardian; it is that

cautious and affecting reserve, which at one and the same time

cherishing both desire and respect in the hearts of men, serves as a

kind of coquetry to virtue. This is the reason why even husbands

themselves are not excepted out of this rule. This is the reason why

the most discreet women generally maintain the greatest ascendancy

over their husbands; because, by the help of this prudent and discreet

reserve, without shewing any caprice or non-compliance, they know,

even in the embraces of the most tender union, how to keep them at a

distance, and prevent their being cloyed with them. You will agree

with me that your maxims are too general not to admit of exceptions,

and that not being founded on any rigorous duty, the same principle

of decorum which established them, may sometimes justify our

dispensing with them.

The circumspection which you ground on your past failings, is

injurious to your present condition; I will never pardon this

unnecessary caution which your heart dictates, and I can scarce

forgive it in your reason. How was it possible that the rampart which

protects your person, could not secure you from such an ignominious

apprehension? How could my cousin, my sister, my friend, my Eloisa,

confound the indiscretions of a girl of too much sensibility, with the

infidelity of a guilty wife? Look around you, you will see nothing but

what contributes to raise and support your mind. Your husband who has

such confidence in you, and whose esteem it becomes you to justify;

your children whom you would train to virtue, and who will one day

deem it an honour that you was their mother; your venerable father who

is so dear to you, who enjoys your felicity, and who derives more

lustre from you than from his ancestors; your friend whose fate

depends on yours, and to whom you must be accountable for a

reformation to which she has contributed; her daughter, to whom you

ought to set an example of those virtues which you would excite in

her; your philosopher, who is a hundred times fonder of your virtues,

than of your person, and who respects you still more than you

apprehend; lastly, yourself, who are sensible what painful efforts

your discretion has cost you, and who will surely never forfeit the

fruit of so much trouble in a single moment; how many motives capable

of inspiring you with courage, conspire to make you ashamed of having

ventured to mistrust yourself! But in order to answer for my Eloisa,

what occasion have I to consider what she is? It is enough that I know

what she was, during the indiscretions which she bewails. Ah! if your

heart had ever been capable of infidelity, I would allow you to be

continually apprehensive: but at the very time when you imagined that

you viewed it at a distance, you may conceive the horror its real

existence would have occasioned you, by what you felt at that time,

when but to imagine it, had been to have committed it.

I recollect with what astonishment we learnt that there was a nation

where the wellness of a fond maid is considered as an inexpiable

crime, though the adultery of a married woman is there softened by the

gentle term of gallantry, and where married women publicly make

themselves amends for the short-lived restraint they undergo while

single. I know what maxims, in this respect, prevail in high life,

where virtue passes for nothing, where every thing is empty

appearance, where crimes are effaced by the difficulty of proving

them, or where the proof itself becomes ridiculous against custom. But

you, Eloisa, you who glowed with a pure and constant passion, who was

guilty only in the eyes of men, and between heaven and earth was open

to no reproach! You, who made yourself respected in the midst of your

indiscretions; you, who being abandoned to fruitless regret, obliged

us even to adore those virtues which you had forfeited; you, who

disdained to endure self-contempt, when every thing seemed to plead in

your excuse, can you be apprehensive of guilt, after having paid so

dearly for your weakness? Will you dare to be afraid that you have

less power now, than you had in those days which cost you so many

tears? No, my dear, so far from being alarmed at your former

indiscretions, they ought to inspire you with courage; so severe a

repentance does not lead to remorse, and whoever is so susceptible of

shame, will never bid defiance to infamy.

If ever a weak mind had supports against its weakness, they are such

as uphold you; if ever a vigorous mind was capable of supporting

itself, what prop can yours require? Tell me, what reasonable grounds

there can be for your apprehensions? All your life has been a

continual struggle, in which, even after your defeat, honour and duty

never ceased opposition, and at length came off victorious. Ah!

Eloisa! shall I believe that, after so much pain and torment, after

twelve years passed in tears, and six spent gloriously, that you still

dread a trial of eight days? In few words, deal sincerely with

yourself; if there really is any danger, save your person, and blush

at the condition of your heart; if there is no danger, it is an

offence to your reason, it is a dishonour to your virtue to be

apprehensive of perils which can never affect it. Do you not know that

there are some scandalous temptations which never approach noble

minds; that it is even shameful to be under a necessity of subduing

them, and that to take precautions against them, is not so much to

humble, as to debase ourselves?

I do not presume to give you my arguments as unanswerable, but only to

convince you that yours may be controverted, and that is sufficient to

warrant my advice. Do not depend on yourself, for you do not know how

to do yourself justice, nor on me; who even in your indiscretions

never considered any thing but your heart and always adored you; but

refer to your husband who sees you such as you are, and judges of you,

exactly according to your real worth. Being, like all people of

sensibility, ready to judge ill of those who appear insensible, I

mistrusted his power of penetration into the secrets of susceptible

minds, but since the arrival of our traveller, I find by his letters

that he reads yours perfectly well, and that there is not a single

emotion which escapes his observation. I find his remarks so just and

acute, that I have almost changed my opinion to the other extreme; and

I shall readily believe that your dispassionate people, who consult

their eyes more than their hearts, judge better of other men’s

passions, than your impetuous lively and vain persons like myself, who

always begin by supposing themselves in another’s place, and can never

see any thing but what they feel. However it be, Mr. Wolmar is

thoroughly acquainted with you, he esteems you, he loves you, and his

destiny is blended with yours. What does he require, but that you

would leave to him the entire direction of your conduct, with which

you are afraid to trust yourself? Perhaps finding old age coming on,

he is desirous, by some trials on which he may depend, to prevent

those uneasy jealousies, which an old husband generally feels who is

married to a young wife; perhaps the design he has in view requires

that you should live in a state of familiarity with your friend,

without alarming either your husband or yourself; perhaps he only

means to give you a testimony of confidence and esteem, worthy of that

which he entertains for you. You should never oppose such sentiments,

as if the weight of them was too much for you to endure; and for my

part, I think, that you cannot act more agreeably to the dictates of

prudence and modesty, than by relying entirely on his tenderness and

understanding.

Could you, without offending Mr. Wolmar, punish yourself for a vanity

you never had, and prevent a danger which no longer exists? Remain

alone with the philosopher, use all the superfluous precautions

against him, which would formerly have been of such service to you;

maintain the same reserve as if you still mistrusted your own heart

and his, as well as your own virtue. Avoid all pathetic conversation,

all tender recollection of time past; break off or prevent long _tete

a tete_ interviews; be constantly surrounded by your children; do not

stay long with him in a room, in elysium, or in the grove notwithstanding

the profanation. Above all things, use these precautions in so

natural a manner, that they may seem to be the effect of chance, and

that he may never once suspect that you are afraid of him. You love to

go upon the water; but you deprive yourself of the pleasure on account

of your husband who is afraid of that element, and of your children

whom you do not chuse to venture there. Take the advantage of this

absence, to entertain yourself with this recreation, and leave your

children to the care of Fanny. By this means you may securely devote

yourself to the sweet familiarity of friendship, and quietly enjoy a

long _tete a tete_ under the protection of the watermen, who see

without understanding, and from whom we cannot go far without thinking

what we are about.

A thought strikes me which many people would laugh at, but which will

be agreeable to you, I am sure; that is to keep an exact journal in

your husband’s absence, to shew him on his return, and to think on

this journal, with regard to every circumstance which is to be set

down in it. In truth, I do not believe that such an expedient would be

of service to many women; but a sincere mind, incapable of deceit, has

many resources against vice, which others stand in need of. We ought

to despise nothing which tends to preserve a purity of manners, and it

is by means of trifling precautions, that great virtues are secured.

Upon the whole, as your husband is to see me in his way, he will tell

me, I hope, the true reasons of his journey, and if I do not find them

substantial, I will persuade him from proceeding any farther, or at

all events, I will do what he has refused to do: upon this you may

depend. In the mean time, I think I have said enough to fortify you

against a trial of eight days. Go, Eloisa, I know you too well not to

answer for you as much, nay more than I could for myself. You will

always be what you ought to be, and what you desire to be. If you do

but rely on the integrity of your own mind, you will run no risk

whatever; for I have no faith in these unforeseen defects; it is in

vain to disguise voluntary failings by the idle appellation of

weaknesses; no woman was ever yet overcome who had not an inclination

to surrender; and if I thought that such a fate could attend you,

believe me, trust to the tenderness of my friendship, rely on all the

sentiments which would arise in the heart of your poor Clara, I should

be too sensibly interested in your protection, to abandon you entirely

to yourself.

As to what Mr. Wolmar declared to you concerning the intelligence he

received before your marriage, I am not much surprized at it; you know

I always suspected it; and I will tell you, moreover, that my

suspicions are not confined to the indiscretions of B----. I could

never suppose that a man of truth and integrity like your father, and

who had some suspicions at least himself, would resolve to impose upon

his son-in-law and his friend. If he engaged you so strictly to

secrecy, it was because the mode of discovery would come from him in a

very different manner to what it would have proceeded from you, and

because he was willing no doubt to give it a turn less likely to

disgust Mr. Wolmar, than that which he very well knew you would not

fail to give it yourself. But I must dismiss your messenger, we will

chat about there matters more at our leisure about a month hence.

Farewell, my dearest cousin, I have preached long enough to the

preacher; resume your old occupation.----I find myself quite uneasy

that I cannot be with you yet. I disorder all my affairs, by hurrying

to dispatch them, and I scarce know what to do. Ah Chaillot,

Chaillot... If I was less giddy...but I always hope that I shall----

P. S. A propos; I forgot to make my compliments to your highness. Tell

me, I beseech you, is the gentleman your husband Atteman, Knes, or

Boyard? [63] O poor child! You, who have so often lamented being born

a gentlewoman, are in high luck to become the wife of a prince!

Between ourselves nevertheless you discover apprehensions which are

somewhat vulgar for a woman of such high quality. Do not you know,

that little scruples belong to mean people; and that a child of a good

family, who should pretend to be his father’s son, would be laughed

at.

Letter CXXXIII. Mr. Wolmar to Mrs. Orbe.

I am going to Etange, my sweet cousin, and I proposed to call upon you

in my way; but a delay of which you are the cause obliges me to make

more haste, and I had rather lie at Lausanne as I come back, that I

may pass a few hours the more with you. Besides I want to consult you

with regard to many particulars, which it is proper to communicate

before hand that you may have time to consider of them before you give

me your opinion.

I would not explain my scheme to you in relation to the young man,

till his presence had confirmed the good opinion I had conceived of

him. I think I may now depend upon him sufficiently to acquaint you,

between ourselves, that my design is to entrust him with the education

of my children. I am not ignorant that those important concerns are

the principal duty of a parent; but when it will be time to exert

them, I shall be too old to discharge them, and being naturally calm

and speculative by constitution, I should never have been sufficiently

active to govern the spirit of youth. Besides for a reason you know,

[64] Eloisa would be concerned to see me assume an office, in which I

should never acquit myself to her liking. I have a thousand reasons

besides; your sex is not equal to these duties; their mother shall

confine herself to the education of her Henrietta; to your share I

allot the management of the houshold upon the plan already

established, and of which you approve; and it shall be my business to

behold three worthy people concurring to promote the happiness of the

family, and to enjoy that repose in my old age, for which I shall be

indebted to their labours.

I have always found, that my wife was extremely averse from trusting

her children to the care of mercenaries, and I could not discommend

her scruples. The respectable capacity of a preceptor requires so many

talents which are not to be paid for, so many virtues which have no

piece set upon them, that it is in vain to think of procuring one by

means of money. It is from a man of genius only that we can expect the

talents of a preceptor; it is from the heart of an affectionate friend

alone that we can hope to meet with the zeal of a parent; and genius

is not to be sold any more than attachment.

All the requisite qualities seem to be united in your friend; and if I

am well acquainted with his disposition, I do not think he would

desire greater happiness, than to make those beloved children

contribute to their mother’s felicity. The only obstacle I can foresee

is his affection for Lord B----, which will not allow him to disengage

himself from so dear a friend, to whom he has such great obligations,

at least if his Lordship does not require it himself. We expect to see

this extraordinary man very soon; and as you have a great ascendancy

over him, if he answers the idea you have given me of him, I may

commit the business, so far as it relates to him, to your management.

You have now, my dear cousin, the clue of my whole conduct, which,

without this explanation, must have appeared very extraordinary, and

which, I hope, will hereafter meet with Eloisa’s approbation and

yours. The advantage of having such a wife as I have, made me try many

expedients which would have been impracticable with another. Though I

leave her, in full confidence, with her old lover, under no other

guard than her own virtue, it would be madness to establish that lover

in my family, before I was certain that he ceased to be such; and how

could I be assured of it, if I had a wife on whom I had less

dependence?

I have often observed you smile at my remarks on love; but now I

think I can mortify you. I have made a discovery which neither you nor

any other woman, with all the subtlety they attribute to your sex,

would ever have made; the proof of which you will nevertheless

perceive at first sight, and you will allow it to be equal to

demonstration, when I explain to you the principles on which I ground

it. Was I to tell you that my young couple are more fond than ever,

this undoubtedly would not appear wonderful to you. Was I to assure

you on the contrary, that they are perfectly cured; you know the power

of reason and virtue, and therefore you would not look upon that

neither as a vast miracle: but if I tell you, that both these

opposites are true at the same time; that they love each other with

more ardor than ever, and that nothing subsists between them but a

virtuous, attachment; that they are always lovers, and yet never more

than friends: this, I imagine is what you would least expect, what

you will have more difficulty to conceive, and what nevertheless

precisely corresponds with truth.

This is the riddle, which makes those frequent contradictions, which

you must have observed in them, both in their conversation and in

their letters. What you wrote to Eloisa concerning the picture, has

served more than any thing to explain the mystery, and I find that

they are always sincere, even in contradicting themselves continually.

When I say they, I speak particularly of the young man; for as to your

friend, one can only speak of her by conjecture. A veil of wisdom and

honour makes so many folds about her heart, that it is impenetrable to

human eyes, even to her own. The only circumstance which leads me to

imagine that she has still some distrust to overcome is, that she is

continually considering with herself what she should do if she was

perfectly cured; and she examines herself with so much accuracy, that

if she was really cured, she would not do it so well.

As to your friend, who, though virtuously inclined, is less

apprehensive of his present feelings, I find that he still retains all

the affections of his youth; but I perceive them without having any

reason to be offended at them. It is not Eloisa Wolmar he is fond of,

but Eloisa Etange; he does not hate me as the possessor of the object

I love, but as the ravisher of her whom he doated on. His friend’s

wife is not his mistress, the mother of two children is not her who

was formerly his scholar. It is true she is very like that person, and

often puts him in mind of her. He loves her in the time past. This is

the true explanation of the riddle. Deprive him of his memory, and you

destroy his love.

This is not an idle subtlety, my pretty cousin, but a solid

observation, which, if extended to other affections, may admit of a

more general application, than one would imagine. I even think that,

it would not be difficult to explain it by your own ideas. The time,

when you parted the two lovers, was when their passion was at the

highest degree of impetuosity. Perhaps, if they had continued much

longer together, they would gradually have grown cool; but their

imagination, being strongly affected, constantly presented each to the

other in the light in which they appeared at the time of their

separation. The young man, not perceiving those alterations which the

progress of time made in his mistress, loved her such as he had seen

her formerly, not such as she was then. [65] To compleat his

happiness, it would not have been enough to have given him possession

of her, unless she could have been given to him at the same age; and

under the same circumstances she was in, when their loves commenced.

The least alteration in these particulars would have lessened so much

of the felicity he proposed to himself; she is grown handsomer, but

she is altered, her improvement, in that sense, turns to her

prejudice; for it is of his former mistress, not of any other, that he

is enamoured.

What deceives him, is, that he confounds the times, and often

reproaches himself on account of a passion which he thinks present,

and which in fact is nothing more than the effect of too tender a

recollection; but I do not know, whether it will not be better to

accomplish his cure, than to undeceive him. Perhaps, in this respect,

we may reap more advantage from his mistake, than from his better

judgment. To discover to him the true state of his affections, would

be to apprize him of the death of the object he loved; this might be

an affliction dangerous to him, inasmuch as a state of melancholy is

always favourable to love.

Freed from the scruples which restrain him, he would probably be more

inclined to indulge recollections which he ought to stifle; he would

converse with less reserve, and the traces of Eloisa are not so

effaced in Mrs. Wolmar, but upon examination he might find them again.

I have thought, that instead of undeceiving him with respect to his

opinion of the progress he has made, and which encourages him to

pursue it to the end, we should rather endeavour to banish the

remembrance of those times which he ought to forget, by skilfully

substituting other ideas in the room of those he is so fond of. You,

who contributed to give them birth, may contribute more than any one

to efface them: but I shall wait till we are all together, that I may

tell you in your ear what you shall do for this purpose; a charge,

which if I am not mistaken, will not be very burthensome to me. In the

mean time, I endeavour to make the objects of his dread familiar to

him, by presenting them to him in such a manner, that he may no longer

think them dangerous. He is impetuous, but tractable and easily

managed. I avail myself of this advantage to give a turn to his

imagination. In the room of his mistress, I compel him always to look

at the wife of his friend, and the mother of my children; I efface one

picture by another, and hide the past with the present. We always ride

a startish horse up to the object which frights him, that he may not

be frightened at it again. We should act in the same manner with

those young people, whose imaginations are on fire even after their

affections are grown cold, and whose fancy presents monsters at a

distance, which disappear as they draw nearer.

I think I am well acquainted with the strength of both, and I do not

expose them to a trial which they cannot support: for wisdom does not

consist in using all kinds of precautions indiscriminately, but in

choosing those which are really useful, and in neglecting such as are

superfluous. The eight days, during which I leave them together, will

perhaps be sufficient for them to discover the true state of their

minds, and to know in what relation they really stand to each other.

The oftener they perceive themselves in private with each other, the

sooner they will find out their mistake, by comparing their present

sensations with those they felt formerly, when they were in the same

situation. Besides, it is of importance that they should use

themselves to endure, without danger, that state of familiarity, in

which they must necessarily live together, if my schemes take place. I

find by Eloisa’s conduct, that you have given her advice, which she

could not refuse taking, without wronging herself. What pleasure I

should take in giving her this proof that I am sensible of her real

worth, if she was a woman with whom a husband might make a merit of

such confidence! But if she gains nothing over her affections, her

virtue will still be the same; it will cost her dearer, and she will

not triumph the less. Whereas if she is still in danger of feeling any

inward uneasiness, it can arise only from some moving conversation,

which she must be too sensible before hand will awaken recollection,

and which she will therefore always avoid. Thus, you see, you must not

in this instance judge of my conduct by common maxims, but from the

motives which actuate me, and from the singular disposition of her

towards whom I shall regulate my behaviour.

Farewell, my dear cousin, till my return. Though I have not entered

into these explanations with Eloisa, I do not desire you to keep them

secret from her. It is a maxim with me, never to make secrets among my

friends; therefore I commit these to your discretion; make that use of

them which your prudence and friendship will direct. I know you will

do nothing, but what is best and most proper.

Letter CXXIV. To Lord B----.

Mr. Wolmar set out yesterday for Etange, and you can scarce conceive

in what a melancholy state his departure has left me. I think the

absence of his wife would not have affected me so much as his. I find

myself under greater restraint, than even when he is present; a

mournful silence takes possession of my heart; its murmurs are stifled

by a secret dread; and, being less tormented with desires than

apprehensions, I experience all the horrors of guilt, without being

exposed to the temptations of it.

Can you imagine, my Lord, where my mind gains confidence, and loses

these unworthy dreads? In the presence of Mrs. Wolmar. As soon as I

approach her, the sight of her pacifies my inquietude; her looks

purify my heart. Such is the ascendency of hers, that it always seems

to inspire others with a sense of her innocence, and to confer that

composure which is the effect of it. Unluckily for me, her system of

life does not allow her to devote the whole day to the society of her

friends; and in those moments which I am obliged to pass out of her

company, I should suffer less, if I was farther distant from her.

What contributes to feed the melancholy which oppresses me, is a

reflection which she made yesterday after her husband’s departure.

Though till that moment she kept up her spirits tolerably, yet for a

long time her eyes followed him with an air of tenderness, which I

then imagined was only occasioned by the departure of that happy

husband; but I found by her conversation, that the emotion was to be

imputed to another cause, which was a secret to me. You see, said she,

in what manner we live together, and you may judge whether he is dear

to me. Do not imagine; however, that the sentiment which attaches me

to him, though as tender and as powerful as that of love, is likewise

susceptible of its weakness. If an interruption of the agreeable habit

of living together is painful to us, we are consoled by the firm hope

of resuming the same habit again. A fate of such permanence admits few

vicissitudes which we have reason to dread; and in an absence of a few

days, the pain of so short an interval does not affect me so strongly,

as the pleasure of seeing an end to it. The affliction, which you read

in my eyes, proceeds from a more weighty cause, and though it is

relative to Mr. Wolmar, it is not occasioned by his departure.

My dear friend, she continued, with an affecting tone, there is no

true happiness on earth. My husband is one of the most worthy and

affectionate of men; the duty which incites us is cemented by mutual

inclination; he has no desires but mine; I have children which give,

and promise pleasure hereafter to their mother; there cannot be a more

affectionate, virtuous, and amiable friend, than her whom my heart

doats on, and with whom I shall pass my days; you yourself contribute

to my felicity, by having so well justified my esteem and affection

for you; a long and expensive law-suit, which is nearly finished, will

soon bring the best of fathers to my arms; every thing prospers with

us; peace and order reign throughout the family; our servants are

zealous and faithful; our neighbours express every kind of attachment

to us; we enjoy the good will of the public. Blest with every thing

which heaven, fortune, and men can bestow, all things conspire to my

happiness. A secret uneasiness, one trouble only, poisons all, and I

am not happy. She uttered these last words with a sigh, which pierced

my soul, and which I had no share in raising. She is not happy, said

I, sighing in my turn, and I am no longer an obstacle to her felicity!

That melancholy thought disordered my ideas in a moment, and disturbed

the repose which I began to taste. Unable to endure the intolerable

state of doubt into which her conversation had thrown me, I importuned

her so eagerly to disclose her whole mind to me, that at length she

deposited the fatal secret with me, and allows me to communicate it to

you. But this is the hour of recreation, Mrs. Wolmar is come out of

the nursery to walk with her children, she has just told me as much. I

attend her, my Lord; I leave you for the present; and I shall resume,

in my next, the subject I am now obliged to quit.

Letter CXXXV. Mrs. Wolmar to her Husband.

I expect you next Tuesday according to your appointment, and you will

find every thing disposed agreeable to your desire. Call on Mrs. Orbe

in your way back; she will tell you what has passed during your

absence; I had rather you should learn it from her than from me.

I thought, Mr. Wolmar, I had deserved your esteem; but your conduct is

not the more prudent, and you sport most cruelly with your wife’s

virtue.

Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.

I must give you an account, my Lord, of a danger we have incurred

within these few days, and from whence we are happily delivered at the

expense of a little terror and fatigue. This relation very well

deserves a letter by itself; when you read it, you will perceive the

motives which engage me to write.

You know that Mrs. Wolmar’s house is not far from the lake, and that

she is fond of the water. It is three days since her husband’s absence

has left us without employment; and the pleasantness of the evening

made us form a scheme for one of these parties the next day. Soon as

the sun was up, we went to the river’s side; we took a boat with nets

for fishing, three rowers, and a servant, and we embarked with some

provisions for dinner. I took a fowling-piece to knock down some

besolets, [66] but was ashamed to kill birds out of wantonness, and

only for the pleasure of doing mischief. I amused myself therefore in

observing the siflets, the crenets, [67] and I fired but once at a

grebe, at a great distance, which I missed.

We passed an hour or two in fishing within 500 paces of the shore. We

had good success, but Eloisa had them all thrown into the water again,

except a trout which had received a blow from the oar. The animals,

said she, are in pain; let us deliver them; let us enjoy the pleasure

they will feel on escaping from danger. This operation, however, was

performed slowly, and against the grain, not without some

representations against it; and I found that our gentry would have had

a much better relish for the fish they had catched, than for the moral

which saved their lives.

We then launched farther into the lake; soon after, with all the

vivacity of a young man, which it is time for me to check, undertaking

to manage the master oar, I rowed the boat into the middle of the

lake, so that we were soon above a league from shore. Then I explained

to Eloisa every part of that superb horizon which environed us. I

shewed her at a distance the mouth of the Rhone, whose impetuous

current stops on a sudden within a quarter of a league, as if it was

afraid to sully the chrystal azure of the lake with its muddy waters.

I made her observe the redans of the mountains, whose correspondent

angles, running parallel, formed a bed in the space between, fit to

receive the river which occupied it. As we got farther from shore, I

had great pleasure in making her take notice of the rich and

delightful banks of the _Pays de Vaud_, where the vast number of

towns, the prodigious throng of people, with the beautiful and verdant

hills all around, formed a most ravishing landscape: where every spot

of ground, being cultivated and equally fertile, supplies the

husbandman, the shepherd, and the vinedresser with the certain fruits

of their labours, which are not devoured by the greedy publican.

Afterwards I pointed out _Chablais_, a country not less favoured by

nature, and which nevertheless affords nothing but a spectacle of

wretchedness; I made her perceive the manifest distinction between the

different effects of the two governments, with respect to the riches,

number and happiness, of the inhabitants. It is thus, said I, that the

earth expands her fruitful bosom, and lavishes treasures among those

happy people who cultivate it for themselves. She seems to smile and

be enlivened, at the sweet aspect of liberty; she loves to nourish

mankind. On the contrary, the mournful ruins, the heath and brambles

which cover a half desert country, proclaim from afar that it is under

the dominion of an absent proprietor, and that it yields with

reluctance a scanty produce to slaves who reap no advantage from it.

While we were agreeably amusing ourselves with viewing the

neighbouring coasts, a gale arising, which drove us aslant towards the

opposite shore, began to blow very high, and when we thought to tack

about, the resistance was so strong that it was impossible for our

slight boat to overcome it. The waves soon began to grow dreadful; we

endeavoured to make for the coast of Savoy, and tried to land at the

village of Meillerie which was over against us, and the only place

almost where the shore affords a convenient landing. But the wind,

changing and blowing stronger, rendered all the endeavours of the

watermen ineffectual, and discovered to us a range of steep rocks

somewhat lower, where there was no shelter.

We all tugged at our oars, and at that instant I had the mortification

to perceive Eloisa grow sick, and see her weak and fainting at the

bottom of the boat. Happily she had been used to the water, and her

sickness did not last long. In the mean time, our efforts increased

with our danger; the heat of the sun, the fatigue, and profuse

sweating, took away our breaths, and made us excessively faint. Then

summoning all her courage, Eloisa revived our spirits by her

compassionate kindness; she wiped the sweat from off each of our

faces; and mixing some wine and water, for fear of intoxication, she

presented it alternately to those who were most exhausted. No, your

lovely friend never appeared with such lustre as at that moment, when

the heat and the agitation of her spirits gave an additional glow to

her complexion; and what greatly improved her charms, was that you

might plainly perceive, by the tenderness of her behaviour, that her

solicitude proceeded less from apprehensions for herself than

compassion for us. At one time, two planks having started by a shock

which dipt us all, she concluded that the boat was split, and in the

exclamation of that affectionate mother, I heard these words

distinctly: O my children, must I never see you more! As for my self,

whose imagination always exceeds the danger, though I knew the utmost

of our perilous condition, yet I expected every minute to see the boat

swallowed up, that delicate beauty struggling in the midst of the

waves, and the roses upon her cheeks chilled by the cold hand of

death.

At length, by dint of labour, we reached Meillerie; and after having

struggled above an hour within ten paces of the shore, we at last

compassed our landing. When we had landed, all our fatigues were

forgotten. Eloisa took upon herself to recompense the trouble which

every one had taken; and as in the height of danger her concern was

for us, she seemed now on shore to imagine that we had saved nobody

but her.

We dined with that appetite, which is the gift of hard labour. The

trout was served up: Eloisa, who was extremely fond of it, eat but

little; and I perceived, that to make the watermen amends for the

regret which the late sacrifice cost them, she did not chuse that I

should eat much myself. My Lord, you have observed a thousand times

that her amiable disposition is to be seen in trifles as well as in

matters of consequence.

After dinner, the water being still rough, and the boat wanting to be

refitted, I proposed taking a walk. Eloisa objected to the wind and

sun, and took notice of my being fatigued. I had my views, and I

obviated all her objections. I have been accustomed, said I, to

violent exercise from my infancy: far from hurting my health, they

strengthen my constitution; and my late voyage has still made me more

robust. As to the sun and wind, you have your straw hat, and we will

get under the wind and in the woods; we need only climb among the

rocks, and you who are not fond of a flat, will willingly bear the

fatigue. She consented, and we set out while our people were at

dinner.

You know, that when I was banished from Valais, I came, about ten

years ago, to Meillerie, to wait for leave to return. It was there I

passed those melancholy but pleasing days, solely intent upon her; and

it was from thence I wrote her that letter, with which she was so

strongly affected. I always wished to re-visit that lovely retreat,

which served me as an asylum in the midst of ice, and where my heart

loved to converse, in idea, with the object of all others most dear to

its affections. An opportunity of visiting this beloved spot in a more

agreeable season, and in company with her whose image formerly dwelt

there with me, was the secret motive of my walk. I took a pleasure in

pointing out to her those old memorials of such a constant and

unfortunate passion.

We got thither after an hour’s walk through cool and winding paths,

which ascending insensibly, between the trees and the rocks, were no

otherwise inconvenient than by being tedious. As we drew near, and I

recollected former tokens, I found myself a little disordered; but I

overcame it, I concealed my uneasiness, and we reached the place. This

solitary spot formed a wild and desert nook, but full of those sorts

of beauties, which are only agreeable to susceptible minds, and appear

horrible to others. A torrent, occasioned by the melting of the snow,

rolled in a muddy stream within twenty paces of us, and carried dirt,

sand, and stones along with it, not without considerable noise. Behind

us, a chain of inaccessible rocks divided the place where we stood

from that part of the Alps which they call the Ice-houses, because

from the beginning of the world, they have been covered with vast

mountains of ice, which are continually increasing. [68] Forests of

gloomy fir-trees afforded us a melancholy shade on the right. On the

left was a large wood of oak beyond which the torrent issued, and

beneath that vast body of water, which the lake forms in the bay of

the Alps, parted us from the rich coast of the _Pays de Vaud_,

crowning the whole landscape with the top of the majestic Jura.

In the midst of these noble and superb objects, the little spot where

we were, displayed all the charms of an agreeable and rural retreat;

small floods of water filtered through the rocks, and flowed along the

verdure in chrystal streams. Some wild fruit trees leaned their heads

over ours; the cool and moist earth was covered with grass and

flowers. Comparing this agreeable retreat with the objects which

surrounded us, one would have thought that this desert spot was

designed as an asylum for two lovers, who alone had escaped the

general wreck of nature.

When we had reached this corner, and I had attentively examined it for

some time, Now, said I to Eloisa, looking at her with eyes swimming in

tears, is your heart perfectly still in this place, and do you feel no

secret emotion at the sight of a spot which is full of you?

Immediately, without waiting for her answer, I led her towards the

rock, and shewed her where her cypher was engraved in a thousand

places, with several verses in Petrarch and Tasso relative to the

state I was in when I engraved them. On seeing them again at such a

distance of time, I found how powerfully the review of these objects

renewed my former violent sensations. I addressed her with some degree

of impetuosity: O Eloisa, the everlasting delight of my soul! This is

the spot, where the most constant lover in the world formerly sighed

for thee. This is the retreat, where thy beloved image made all the

scene of his felicity, and prepared him for that happiness which you

yourself afterwards dispensed. No fruit or shade were then to be found

here: these compartments were not then furnished with verdure or

flowers; the course of these streams did not then make these

separations, these birds did not chirp then, the voracious sparhawk,

the dismal crow, and the dreadful eagle alone made these caverns echo

with their cries; huge lumps of ice hung from these rocks; festoons of

snow were all the ornaments which bedecked these trees; every thing

here bore marks of the rigour of winter and hoary frost; the ardor of

my affection alone made this place supportable, and I spent whole days

here wrapt in thought of thee. Here is the stone where I used to sit,

to reflect on your happy abode at a distance; on this I penned that

letter which moved your heart; these sharp flints served me as graving

tools to cut out your name; here I crossed that frozen torrent to

regain one of your letters which the wind carried off; there I came to

review and give a thousand kisses to the last you ever wrote to me;

this is the brink where, with a gloomy and greedy eye, I measured the

depth of this abyss: in short, it was here that, before my sad

departure, I came to bewail you as dead, and swore never to survive

you. O thou lovely fair one, too constantly adored, thou for whom

alone I was born! Must I revisit this spot with you by my side, and

must I regret the time I spent here in bewailing your absence?... I was

proceeding further; but Eloisa perceiving me draw near the brink, was

affrighted, and seizing my hand pressed it without speaking, a word,

looked tenderly upon me, and could scarce suppress a rising sigh; soon

after turning from me and taking me by the arm, Let us be gone, my

friend, said she, with a tone of emotion, the air of this place is not

good for me. I went with her sighing, but without making her any

answer; and I quitted that melancholy spot for ever, with as much

regret, as I would have taken leave of Eloisa herself.

We came back gently to the harbour after some few deviations, and

parted. She chose to be alone, and I continued walking without knowing

whither I went. At my return, the boat not being yet ready, nor the

water smooth, we made a melancholy supper, with down-cast eyes; and

pensive looks, eating little and talking still less. After supper, we

sat on the strand, waiting an opportunity to go off. The moon shone on

a sudden, the water became smoother, and Eloisa proposed our

departure. I handed her into the boat, and when I sat down by her, I

never thought of quitting her hand. We kept a profound silence. The

equal and measured sound of the oars threw me into a reverie. The

lively chirping of the snipes, [69] recalling to my mind the pleasures

of a past period, made me dull. By degrees I found the melancholy

which oppressed me increase. A serene sky, the mild reflection of the

moon, the silver froth of the water which sparkled around us, the

concurrence of agreeable sensations; even the presence of the beloved

object herself, could not banish bitter reflections from my mind.

I began with recollecting a walk of the same kind which we took

together, during the rapture of our early loves. All the pleasing

sensations which then affected me, were present to my mind, to torment

me the more; all the adventures of our youth, our studies, our

entertainments, our letters, our assignations, our pleasures,

_E tanta fede, e si dolci memorie,

E si lungo costume!_

This croud of little objects, which recalled the image of my past

happiness, all pressed upon me and rushed into my memory, to increase

my present wretchedness. It is past, said I to myself, those times,

those happy times will be no more; they are gone for ever! Alas! they

will never return; and yet we live, and we are together, and our

hearts are still united! I seemed as if I could have endured her death

or her absence with more patience; and thought that I had suffered

less all the time I was parted from her. When I bewailed her at a

distance, the hope of seeing her again was comfort to my soul; I

flattered myself that the sight of her would banish all my sorrows in

an instant, at least I could conceive it possible to be in a more

cruel situation than my own. But to be by her side; to see her, to

touch her, to talk to her, to love her, to adore her, and, whilst I

almost enjoyed her again, to find her lost to me for ever; this is

what threw me into such fits of fury and rage, as by degrees agitated

me even to despair. My mind soon began to conceive deadly projects,

and in a transport, which I yet tremble to think of, I was violently

tempted to throw her with myself into the waves, and to end my days

and tedious torments in her arms. This horrid temptation grew so

strong at last, that I was obliged suddenly to quit her hand and walk

to the other end of the boat.

There my lively emotions began to take another turn; a more gentle

sensation by degrees stole upon my mind, and tenderness overcame

despair; I began to shed floods of tears, and that condition, compared

to the state I had just been in, was not unattended with pleasure. I

wept heartily for a long time, and found myself easier. When I was

tolerably composed, I returned to Eloisa, and took her by the hand

again. She held her handkerchief in her hand, which I found wet. Ah!

said I to her softly, I find that our hearts have not ceased to

sympathize! True, said she, in a broken accent, but may it be the last

time they ever correspond in this manner! We then began to talk about

indifferent matters, and after an hour’s rowing, we arrived without

any other accident. When we came in, I perceived that her eyes were

red and much swelled; and she must have discovered that mine were not

in a better condition. After the fatigue of this day, she stood in

great need of rest: she withdrew, and I went to bed.

Such, my friend, is the journal of the day, in which, without

exception, I experienced the most lively emotions I ever felt. I hope

they will prove a crisis, which will entirely restore me to myself.

Moreover I must tell you that this adventure has convinced me more

than all the power of argument, of the free-will of man, and the merit

of virtue. How many people yield to weak temptations? As for Eloisa,

my eyes beheld, and my heart felt her emotions: she underwent the most

violent struggle that day that ever human nature sustained;

nevertheless she conquered. O my Lord, when, seduced by your mistress,

you had power at once to triumph over her desires and your own, was

you not more than man? But for your example I had, perhaps, been lost.

The recollection of your virtue, renewed my own a hundred times in

that perilous day.

Letter CXXXV. [70] From Lord B----.

Awake, my friend, and emerge from childhood. Let not your reason

slumber to the end of your life. The hours glide imperceptibly away,

and ’tis now high time for you to grow wise. At thirty years of age

surely a man should begin to reflect. Reflect, therefore, and be a

man, at least once before you die.

Your heart, my dear friend, has long imposed on your understanding.

You strove to philosophize before you were capable of it, mistaking

your feelings for reason, and judging of things by the impressions

they made on you, which has always kept you ignorant of their real

state. A good heart, I will own, is indispensably necessary to the

knowledge of truth: he who feels nothing can learn nothing; he may

float from error to error in a sea of scepticism, but his discoveries

will be vain, and his information fruitless, being ignorant of the

relation of things to man, on which all true science depends. It were

to stop half-way, however, in our pursuits after knowledge, not to

enquire also into the relation of things to each other, in order to be

better able to judge of their connection with ourselves. To know the

nature and operation of our passions is to know little, if we know

not, at the same time, how to judge of and estimate their objects.

This latter knowledge is to be acquired only in the tranquility of

studious retirement. The youth of the philosopher is the time for

experiment, his passions being the instrument of his inquiries; but

after having applied himself long enough to the perception of external

objects, he retires within himself to consider, to compare, to know

them. To this task you ought to apply yourself sooner than any other

person in the world. All the pleasures and pains, of which a

susceptible mind is capable, you have felt; all that a man can see,

you have seen. In the space of twelve years you have exhausted all

those sensations, which might have served you during a long life, and

have acquired even in youth the extensive experience of age. The first

observations you were led to make, were on simple, unpolished

villagers, on persons almost such as they came out of the hand of

nature; just as if they had been presented to you for the ground-work

of your piece, or as proper objects by which to compare every other.

Banished next to the metropolis of one of the most celebrated people

in the universe, you leaped, as one may say, from one extremity to the

other, your genius supplying all the intermediate degrees. Then

visiting the only nation of men, which remains among the various herds

that are scattered over the face of the earth, you had an opportunity

of seeing a well governed society, or at least a society under a good

government; you had there an opportunity of observing how far the

public voice is the foundation of liberty. You have travelled thro’

all climates, and have visited all countries beneath the sun. Add to

this a sight still more worthy admiration, that which you enjoy in the

presence of a sublime and refined soul, triumphant over its passion,

and ruling over itself. The first object of your affections is that

which is now daily before you, your admiration of which is but the

better founded for your having seen and contemplated so many others.

There is now nothing more worth your attention or concern. The only

object of your future contemplation should be yourself, that of your

future enjoyment the fruits of your knowledge. You have lived enough

for this life; think now of living for that which is to come, and

which will last for ever.

Your passions, by which you were so long enslaved, did not deprive you

of your virtue. This is all your boast, and doubtless you have reason

to glory in it; yet be not too proud. Your very fortitude is the

effect of your weakness. Do you know how it came that you grew

enamoured of virtue? It was because virtue always appeared to your

imagination in the amiable form of that lovely woman, by whom she is

so truly represented, and whose image you will always adore. But will

you never love her for her own sake? Will you never, like Eloisa,

court virtue of your own accord? Vain and indolent enthusiast! Will

you content yourself with barely admiring her virtues, without

attempting to imitate them? You speak, in rapture, of the manner in

which she discharges the important duties of wife and mother; but when

will you discharge those of a man and a friend, by her example? Shall

a woman be able to triumph over herself, and a philosopher find it so

difficult to conquer his passions? Will you continue to be always a

mere prater, like the rest of them, and be content to write good

books, instead of doing good actions? [71] Take care, my friend; I

still perceive an air of softness and effeminacy in your writing,

which displeases me, as I think it rather the effect of an

unextinguished passion than peculiar to your character. I hate

imbecility in any one, and cannot bear the thoughts of it in my

friend. There is no such thing as virtue without fortitude, for

pusillanimity is the certain attendant on vice. How dare you rely on

your own strength, who have no courage? Believe me, were Eloisa as

weak as you, the very first opportunity would debase you into an

infamous adulterer. While you remain alone with her, therefore, learn

to know her worth, and blush at your own demerit.

I hope soon to be able to see you at Clarens: you know the motives of

my desiring to see Italy again. Twelve years of mistakes and troubles

have rendered me suspicious of myself; to resist my inclinations,

however, my own abilities might suffice; but to give the preference of

one to the other, to know which I should indulge, requires the

assistance of a friend: nor shall I take less pleasure in being

obliged to him on this occasion, than I have done in obliging him in

others. Between friends, their obligations, as well as their

affections, should be reciprocal. Do not deceive yourself, however;

before I put any confidence in you, I shall enquire whether you are

worthy of it, and if you deserve to return me the services you have

formerly received. Your heart I know, and am satisfied with its

integrity; but this is not all: it is your judgment I shall have

occasion for, to direct me in making a choice which should be governed

entirely by reason, and in which mine may be partial. I am not

apprehensive of danger from those passions, which, making open war

upon us, give us warning to put ourselves upon our defence; and,

whatever be their effect, leave us still conscious of our errors. We

cannot so properly be said to be overcome by these, as to give way to

them. I am more fearful of delusion than constraint, and of being

involuntarily induced to do what my reason condemns. We have no need

of foreign assistance to suppress our inclinations; but the assistance

of a friend may be necessary to point out which it is most prudent to

indulge: in this case it is that the friendship of a wise man may be

useful, by his viewing, in a different light, those objects with which

it is our interest to be intimately acquainted. Examine yourself,

therefore, and tell me whether, vainly repining at your fate, you will

continue for ever useless to yourself and others, or if, resuming the

command over yourself, you will at last become capable of advising and

assisting your friend.

My affairs will not detain me in London more than a fortnight longer,

when I shall set out for our army in Flanders, where I intend to stay

about the same time; so that you must not expect to see me before the

end of next month or the beginning of October. In the mean time, write

no more to me at London, but direct your letters to the army,

agreeable to the inclosed address. When you write, proceed also in

your descriptions; for, notwithstanding the censure I pass on your

letters, they both affect and instruct me; giving me, at the same

time, the most flattering ideas of a life of peace and retirement,

agreeable to my temper and age. In particular, I charge you to ease my

mind of the disquietude you have excited concerning Mrs. Wolmar. If

she be dissatisfied, who on earth can hope for happiness? After the

relation you have given me, I cannot conceive what can be wanting to

compleat her felicity.

Letter CXXXVI. To Lord B----.

Yes, my Lord, I can with transport assure you, the affair of Meillerie

was the crisis of my folly and misfortunes. My conversation with Mr.

Wolmar, made me perfectly acquainted with the true state of my heart.

That heart, too weak I confess, is nevertheless cured of its passion

as much as it possibly can be; and I prefer my present state of silent

regret to that of being perpetually fearful of falling into guilt.

Since the return of this worthy friend, I no longer hesitate to give

him that title which you have rendered so valuable. It is the least I

can bestow on every one who assists me in returning to the paths of

virtue. My heart is now become as peaceful as the mansion I inhabit. I

begin to be at ease in my residence; to live as if I was at home; and,

if I do not take upon me altogether the tone and authority of master,

I feel yet a greater pleasure in supposing myself a brother of the

family. There is something so delightful in the simplicity and

equality, which reign in this retirement, that I cannot help being

affected with tenderness and respect. Thus I spend my days in

tranquillity, amidst practical philosophy and susceptible virtue. In

company with this happy couple, their situation insensibly affects me,

and raises my heart by degrees into unison with theirs.

What a delightful retreat! What a charming habitation! A continuance

in this place renders it even yet more delightful; and though it

appear not very striking at first sight, it is impossible not to be

pleased with it, when it is once known. The pleasure Mrs. Wolmar takes

in discharging the noblest duties, in making all who approach her

virtuous and happy, communicates itself to all those who are the

objects of her care, to her husband, her children, her guests, her

domestics. No tumultuous scenes of noisy mirth, no loud peals of

laughter, are heard in this peaceful mansion; but, in their stead, you

always meet with contented hearts and chearful countenances. If at any

time you see a tear, it is the tear of susceptibility and joy.

Troubles, cares and sorrow intrude not here, any more than vice and

remorse, of which they are the fruits.

As to Eloisa, it is certain that, excepting the secret cause of

uneasiness, with which I acquainted you in my last, [72] every thing

conspires to make her happy. And yet, with so many reasons to be so, a

thousand other women would think themselves miserable in the same

situation. Her uniform and retired manner of living would be to them

insupportable; they would think the noise of children insufferable;

they would be fatigued to death with the care of their family; they

would not be able to bear the country; the esteem and prudence of a

husband, not over tender, would hardly recompense them for his

indifference and age; his presence, and even his regard for them,

would be burthensome. They would either find means to send him abroad,

that they might live more at their liberty; or would leave him to

himself; despising the peaceful pleasures of their situation, and

seeking more dangerous ones elsewhere, they would never be at ease in

their own house, unless when they came as visitors. It requires a

sound mind to be able to enjoy the pleasures of retirement; the

virtuous only being capable of amusing themselves with their family

concerns, and of voluntarily secluding themselves from the world: if

there be on earth any such thing as happiness, they undoubtedly enjoy

it in such a state. But the means of happiness are nothing to those

who know not how to make use of them; and we never know in what true

happiness consists, till we have acquired a taste for its enjoyment.

If I were desired to speak with precision, as to the reason why the

inhabitants of this place are happy, I should think I could not answer

with greater propriety than to say, it is because _they here know how

to live;_ not in the sense in which these words would be taken in

France, where it would be understood that they had adopted certain

customs and manners in vogue: No; but they have adopted such manners

as are most agreeable to human life, and the purposes for which man

came into the world; to that life you mention, of which you have set

me an example, which extends beyond itself, and is not given up for

lost even in the hour of death.

Eloisa has a father who is anxious for the honour and interests of his

family: she has children for whose subsistence it is necessary to

provide. This ought to be the chief care of man in a state of society;

and was therefore the first in which Eloisa and her husband united.

When they began house-keeping, they examined into the state of their

fortunes; not considering so much whether they were proportioned to

their rank, as to their wants; and seeing they were sufficient for the

provision of an honourable family, they had not so bad an opinion of

their children, as to be fearful, lest the patrimony they had to leave

would not content them. They applied themselves therefore rather to

improve their present, than acquire a larger fortune: they placed

their money rather safely than profitably; and, instead of purchasing

new estates, set about increasing the value of that which they already

had; leaving their own example in this point, as the only treasure by

which they would desire to see the inheritance of their offspring

increased.

It is true, that an estate which is not augmented, is liable to many

accidents by which it will naturally diminish: but if this were a

sufficient motive to begin increasing, when would it cease to be a

pretext for a constant augmentation? Must it be divided among several

children? Be it so; must they be all idle? Will not the industry of

each be a supplement to his share? and ought it not to be considered

in the partition? It is thus that insatiable avarice makes its way

under the mask of prudence, and leads to vice under the cloak of its

own security. It is in vain, says Mr. Wolmar, to attempt to give to

human affairs that stability, which is not in their nature. Prudence

itself requires that we should leave many things to chance; and, if

our lives and fortunes depend so much on accident, what a folly is it

to make ourselves really unhappy, in order to prevent doubtful evils,

or avoid inevitable dangers? The only precaution he took was, to live

one whole year on his principal, in order to have so much before hand

to receive of the interest, so that he had always the yearly product

of his estate at command. He chose rather to diminish his capital than

to be perpetually under the necessity of dunning for his rents; the

consequence of which has been in the end advantageous to him, as it

prevented him from borrowing and other ruinous expedients, to which

many people are obliged to have recourse on every unforeseen accident.

Thus good management supplies the place of parsimony, and he is in

fact a gainer by what he has spent.

The master of this house possesses but a moderate fortune, according

to the estimation of the world; but in reality I hardly know any body

more opulent. There is indeed no such thing as absolute wealth: that

term signifying only the relation between the wants and possessions of

those who are rich. One man is rich, though possessing only an acre of

land; another is a beggar in the midst of heaps of gold. Luxury and

caprice have no bounds, and make more persons poor than real wants.

But the proportion, between their wants and their abilities of

supplying them, is here established on a sure foundation, namely, the

perfect harmony subsisting between the husband and wife: the former

taking upon him the charge of collecting the rents and profits of his

estate, and the latter, that of regulating their expenses; and on this

harmony depends their wealth.

I was at first struck with a peculiarity in the economy of this house,

where there appeared so much ease, freedom and gaiety, in the midst of

order and diligence; the great fault of well regulated houses being

that they always wear an air of gloominess and restraint. The extreme

solicitude also of the heads of the family looks too much like

avarice. Every thing about them seems constrained, and there appears

something servile in their punctuality, which renders it intolerable.

The domestics do their duty indeed, but then they do it with an air of

discontent and mistrust The guests, it is true, are well-received; but

they dare not make use of a freedom cautiously bestowed, and are

always afraid of doing something that will be reckoned a breach of

regularity. Such slavish fathers of families cannot be said to live

for themselves, but for their children; without considering that they

are not only fathers but men, and that they ought to set their

children an example how to live prudent and happy. More judicious

maxims are adopted here. Mr. Wolmar thinks one of the principal duties

of a father of a family is to make his house, in the first place,

agreeable, that his children may delight in their home, and that

seeing their father happy, they may be tempted to tread in his

footsteps. Another of his maxims, and which he often repeats, is that

the gloomy and sordid lives of fathers and mothers are almost always

the first cause of the ill-conduct of children.

As to Eloisa, who never had any other guide, and who needed no better,

than her own heart, she obeys, without scruple, its dictates; being

then certain of doing right. Can a mind so susceptible as hers be

insensible to pleasure? On the contrary she delights in every

amusement, nor refuses to join in any diversion that promises to be

agreeable; but her pleasures are the pleasures of Eloisa. She neglects

neither her own convenience nor the satisfaction of those who are dear

to her. She esteems nothing superfluous that may contribute to the

happiness of a sensible mind; but censures every thing as such that

serves only to make a figure in the eyes of others; so that you will

find in this house all the gratifications which luxury and pleasure

can bestow, without refinement or effeminacy. With respect to

magnificence and pomp, you will see no more of it than she was obliged

to submit to, in order to please her father; her own taste, however,

prevails even here, which consists in giving to every thing less

brilliancy and shew, than grace and elegance. When I talk to her of

the methods which are daily invented at Paris and London, to hang the

coaches easier; she does not disapprove of that; but, when I tell her

of the great expense they are at in the varnishing of them, she can

hardly believe or comprehend me; she asks me, if such fine varnish

makes the coaches more commodious. Indeed she scruples not to say,

that I exaggerate a good deal on the scandalous paintings with which

they now adorn their equipages, instead of the coats of arms formerly

used; as if it were more eligible to be known to the world for a man

of licentious manners, than as a man of family. But she was

particularly shocked when I told her that the ladies had introduced,

and kept up, this custom, and that their chariots were distinguishable

from those of the gentlemen only, by paintings more lascivious and

immodest. I was obliged to recount to her an expression of your noble

friend’s, on this subject, which she could hardly digest. I was with

him one day to look at a vis-a-vis, which happened to be in this

taste. But he no sooner cast his eye on the panels than he turned away

from it, telling the owner that he should offer carriages of that kind

to wanton women of quality; for that no modest man could make use of

them.

As the first step to virtue is to forbear doing ill, so the first step

to happiness is to be free from pain. These two maxims, which, well

understood, would render precepts of morality in a great degree

useless, are favourite ones with Mrs. Wolmar. She is extremely

affected by the misfortunes of others; and it would be as difficult

for her to be happy with wretched objects about her, as it would be

for an innocent man to preserve his virtue and live in the midst of

vice. She has none of that barbarous pity, which is satisfied with

turning away its eye from the miserable objects it might relieve. On

the contrary, she makes it her business to seek out such objects: it

is the existence, and not the presence, of the unhappy which gives her

affliction. It is not sufficient for her to be ignorant that there are

any such; it is necessary to her quiet that she should be assured

there are none miserable; at least within her sphere of charity: for

it would be unreasonable to extend her concern beyond her own

neighbourhood, and to make her happiness depend upon the welfare of

all mankind. She takes care to inform herself of the necessities of

all that live near her, and interests herself in their relief as if

their wants were her own. She knows every one personally, includes

them all, as it were, in her family, and spares no pains to banish,

or alleviate, those misfortunes and afflictions to which human life is

subject.

I am desirous, my Lord, of profiting by your instructions; but you

must forgive me a piece of enthusiasm, of which I am no longer

ashamed, and with which you yourself are affected. There will never be

another Eloisa in the world. Providence takes a particular interest in

every thing that regards her, nor leaves any thing to the consequence

of accident. Heaven seems to have sent her upon earth, to serve at

once as an example of that excellence of which human nature is

capable, and of that happiness it may enjoy in the obscurity of

private life, without having recourse either to those public virtues

which sometimes raise humanity above itself, or to those honours with

which the breath of popular applause rewards them. Her fault, if love

be a fault, has served only to display her fortitude and virtue. Her

relations, her friends, her servants, all happily situated, were

formed to respect her and be respected by her. Her country is the only

one upon earth where she ought to have been born; to be happy herself,

it was necessary for her to live among a happy people. If, to her

misfortune, she had been born among those unhappy wretches, who groan

beneath the load of oppression, and struggle in vain against the iron

hand of cruelty, every complaint of the oppressed had poisoned the

sweets of her life; the common ruin had been hers, and her benevolent

heart had made her feel incessantly those evils she could not have

redressed.

Instead of that, every thing here animates and supports the native

goodness of her disposition. She has no public calamities to afflict

her. She sees not around her the frightful pictures of indigence and

despair. The villagers in easy circumstances, have more need of her

advice than her bounty. [73] But, if there be found among them an

orphan, too young to earn his subsistence; an obscure widow who pines

in secret indigence; a childless father, whose arms, enfeebled by age,

cannot supply him with the means of life; she is not afraid that her

bounty will increase the public charge, by encouraging idleness or

knavery. The happiness she herself feels, multiplies and extends

itself all around her. Every house she enters soon becomes a copy of

her own: nor are convenience and order only copied from her example,

but harmony and goodness become equally the objects of domestic

management. When she goes abroad, she sees none but agreeable objects

about her; and when she returns home she is saluted by others still

more engaging. Her heart is delighted by every prospect that meets her

eyes; and little susceptible as it is of self-love, it is led to love

itself in the effects of its own benevolence. No, my Lord, I repeat it

again; nothing that regards Eloisa can be indifferent to the cause of

virtue. Her charms, her talents, her taste, her errors, her

afflictions, her abode, her friends, her family, her pains, her

pleasures, every thing, in short, that compleats her destiny, compose

a life without example; such as few women would chuse to imitate, and

yet such as all, in spite of themselves, must admire.

What pleases me most, in the solicitude which prevails here regarding

the happiness of others is, that their benevolence is always exerted

with prudence, and is never abused. We do not always succeed in our

benevolent intentions; but, on the contrary, some people imagine they

are doing great services, who are, in reality, doing great injuries;

and, with a view to a little manifest good, are guilty of much

unforeseen evil. Mrs. Wolmar indeed possesses, in an eminent degree, a

qualification very rare, even among women of the best character; I

mean an exquisite discernment in the distribution of her favours, and

that as well in the choice of means to render them really useful, as

of the persons on whom they are bestowed. For her conduct in this

point, she has laid down certain rules to which she invariably

adheres. She knows how to grant, or refuse, every thing that is asked

of her, without betraying the least weakness in her compliance, or

caprice in her denial. Whoever hath committed one infamous or wicked

action, hath nothing to hope for from her but justice, and her pardon,

if he has offended her; but never that favour and protection, which

she can bestow on a worthier object. I heard her once refuse a favour,

which depended on herself only, to a man of this stamp. “I wish you

happy,” said she to him coldly, “but I shall not contribute any thing

to make you so, lest I should put it in your power to injure others.

There are too many honest people in the world, who require relief, for

me to think of assisting you.” It is true this piece of just severity

cost her dear, and it is but seldom she has occasion to exercise it.

Her maxim is, to look upon all those as deserving people, of whose

demerits she is not fully convinced; and there are few persons weak

and wicked enough not to evade the full proofs of their guilt. She has

none of that indolent charity of the wealthy, who give money to the

miserable, to be excused from attending to their distress; and know

how to answer their petitions only by giving alms. Her purse is not

inexhaustible, and since she is become the mother of a family, she

regulates it with more economy. Of all the kinds of relief we may

afford to the unhappy, the giving alms is certainly that which costs

us least trouble; but it is also the most transitory and least

serviceable to the object relieved: Eloisa does not seek to get rid of

such objects, but to be useful to them.

Neither does she grant her recommendation, or exert her good offices,

without first knowing whether the use intended to be made of her

interest be just and reasonable. Her protection is never refused to

any one, who really stands in need of, and deserves to obtain it: but

for those who desire to raise themselves through fickleness or

ambition only, she can very seldom be prevailed upon to give herself

any trouble. The natural business of man is to cultivate the earth,

and subsist on its produce. The peaceful inhabitant of the country

needs only to know in what happiness consists, to be happy. All the

real pleasures of humanity are within his reach; he feels only those

pains which are inseparable from it, those pains which whoever seeks

to remove will only change for others more severe. [74] His situation

is the only necessary, the only useful one in life. He is never

unhappy, but when others tyrannize over him, or seduce him by their

vices. In agriculture and husbandry consists the real prosperity of a

country, the greatness and strength which a people derive from

themselves, that which depends, not on other nations, which is not

obliged to attack others for its own preservation, but is productive

of the surest means of its own defence. In making an estimate of the

strength of a nation, a superficial observer would visit the court,

the prince, his posts, his troops, his magazines and his fortified

towns; but the true politician would take a survey of the country, and

visit the cottages of the husbandmen. The former would only see what

is already executed, but the latter what was capable of being put into

execution.

On this principle they proceed here, and yet more so at Etange: they

contribute as much as possible to make the peasants happy in their

condition, without ever assisting them to change it. The better, as

well as the poorer, sort of people are equally desirous of sending

their children to the cities, the one that they may study and become

gentlemen, the others that they may find employment, and so ease their

parents of the charge of maintaining them. The young people, on their

part, have curiosity, and are generally fond of roving: the girls

aspire to the dress and finery of the citizens; and the boys, most of

them go into foreign service, thinking it better to return with the

haughty and mean air of mercenaries, and a ridiculous contempt of

their former condition, than with that love for their country and

liberty which honourably distinguished their progenitors. It is the

care of this benevolent family to remonstrate against these mistaken

prejudices, to represent to the peasants the danger of their

children’s principles; the ill consequences of sending them from home,

and the continual risks they run of losing their life, fortune and

morals, where a thousand are ruined for one who does well. If after

all they continue obstinate, they are left at their own indiscretion,

to run into vice and misery; and the care, which was thrown away on

them is turned upon those who have listened to reason. This is exerted

in teaching them to honour their native condition, by seeming to

honour it ourselves: we do not converse with peasants, indeed, in the

stile of courts; but we treat them with a grave and distant

familiarity, which, without raising any one out of his station,

teaches them to respect ours. There is not one honest labourer in the

village, who does not rise greatly in his own estimation, when an

opportunity offers of our shewing the difference of our behaviour to

him, and to such petty visitants, who come home to make a figure, for

a day or two, and to obscure their relations. Mr. Wolmar and the

Baron, when he is here, seldom fail of being present at the exercises

and reviews of the militia of the village and parts adjacent: their

presence has a great effect on the youth of the country, who are

naturally of a martial and spirited temper, and are extremely

delighted to see themselves honoured with the presence of veteran

officers. They are still prouder of their own merit, when they see

soldiers retired from foreign service less expert than themselves: yet

this they often do; for, do what you will, five pence a day, and the

fear of being caned, will never produce that emulation which may be

excited in a free man under arms, by the presence of his relations,

his neighbours, his friends, his mistress, and the honour of his

country.

Mrs. Wolmar’s great maxim is, therefore, never to encourage any one to

change his condition, but to contribute all in her power to make every

one happy in his present station; being particularly solicitous to

present the happiest of all situations, that of a peasant in a free

state, from being despised in favour of other employments.

I remember, I one day made an objection on this subject founded on the

different talents which nature seems to have bestowed on mankind, in

order to fit them for different occupations, without any regard to

their birth. This she obviated, however, by observing that there were

two more material things to be consulted, before talents: these were

virtue and happiness. Man, said she, is too noble a being to be made a

mere tool of for the use of others: he ought not to be employed in

what he is fit for, without consulting how far such employment is fit

for him; for we are not made for our stations, but our stations for

us. In the right distribution of things therefore, we should not adapt

men to circumstances, but circumstances to men; we should not seek

that employment for which a man is best adapted, but that which is

best adapted to make him virtuous and happy. For it can never be right

to destroy one human soul for the temporal advantage of others, nor to

make any man a villain for the use of honest people. Now, out of a

thousand persons, who leave their native villages, there are not ten

of them but what are spoiled by going to town, and become even more

profligate than those who initiate them into vice. Those, who succeed

and make their fortunes, frequently compass it by base and dishonest

means; while the unsuccessful, instead of returning to their former

occupation, rather chuse to turn beggars and thieves. But, supposing

that one out of the thousand resist the contagion of example, and

perseveres in the sentiments of honesty, do you think that upon the

whole, his life is as happy as it might have been in the tranquil

obscurity of his first condition.

It is no easy matter to discover the talents with which nature hath

severally endowed us. On the contrary, it is very difficult to

distinguish those of young persons the best educated and most

attentively observed: how then shall a peasant, meanly bred, presume

to judge of his own? There is nothing so equivocal as the genius

frequently attributed to youth; the spirit of imitation has often a

greater share in it than natural ability, and very often it depends

more on accident than a determined inclination; nor does even

inclination itself always determine the capacity. Real talents, or

true genius, are attended with a certain simplicity of disposition,

which makes it less restless and enterprising, less ready to thrust

itself forward than a superficial and false one; which is nevertheless

generally mistaken for the true, and consists only in a vain desire of

making a figure without talents to support it. One of these geniuses

hears the drum beat, and is immediately in idea a general; another

sees a palace building, and directly commences architect. Thus Gustin,

my gardener, from seeing some of my works, must needs learn to draw. I

sent him to Lausanne to a master, and he imagines himself already a

fine painter. The opportunity, and the desire of preferment, generally

determine mens’ profession. But it is not enough to be sensible of the

bent of our genius, unless we are willing to pursue it. Will a prince

turn coachman, because he is expert at driving a set of horses? Will a

duke turn cook, because he is ingenious at inventing ragouts? Our

talents all tend to preferment; no one pretends to those which would

fit him for an inferior station: do you think this is agreeable to the

order of nature? Suppose every one sensible of his own talents, and as

willing to employ them, how is it possible? How could they surmount so

many obstacles? How could they overcome so many unworthy competitors?

He, who finds in himself the want of abilities, would call in subtilty

and intrigue to his aid; and thereby frequently becomes an overmatch

for others of greater capacity and sincerity. Have you not told me

yourself a hundred times, that the many establishments in favour of

the arts have only been of prejudice to them? In multiplying

indiscreetly the number of professors and academicians, true merit is

lost in the crowd; and the honours, due to the most ingenious, are

always bestowed on the most intriguing. Did there exist, indeed, a

society, wherein the rank and employment of its respective members

were exactly calculated to their talents and personal merit, every one

might there aspire to the place he should be most fit for; but it is

necessary to conduct ourselves by other rules, and give up that of

abilities, in societies where the vilest of all talents is the only

one that leads to fortune.

I will add further, continued she, that I cannot be persuaded of the

utility of having so many different talents displayed. It seems

necessary, the number of persons so qualified should be exactly

proportioned to the wants of society; now if those only were appointed

to cultivate the earth, who should have eminent talents for

agriculture; or if all those were taken from that employment, who

might be found more proper for some other, there would not remain a

sufficient number of labourers to furnish the common necessaries of

life. I am apt to think, therefore, that great talents in men are like

great virtues in drugs, which nature has provided to cure our

maladies, though its intention certainly was that we should never

stand in need of them. In the vegetable creation there are plants

which are poisonous: in the brutal animals that would tear us to

pieces; and among mankind there are those who possess talents no less

destructive to their species. Besides, if every thing were to be put

to that use for which its qualities seem best adapted, it might be

productive of more harm than good in the world. There are thousands

of simple honest people, who have no occasion for a diversity of great

talents; supporting themselves better by their simplicity, than others

with all their ingenuity. But, in proportion as their morals are

corrupted, their talents are displayed, as if to serve as a supplement

to the virtues they have lost, and to oblige the vicious to be useful,

in spite of themselves.

Another subject, on which we differed, was the relieving of beggars.

As we live near a public road, great numbers are constantly passing

by; and it is the custom of the house to give to every one that asks.

I represented to her, that this practice was not only throwing that

money away, which might be charitably bestowed on persons in real

want; but that it tended to multiply beggars and vagabonds, who take

pleasure in that idle life, and, by rendering themselves a burthen to

society, deprive it of their labour.

I see very well, says she, you have imbibed prejudices, by living in

great cities, and some of those maxims by which your complaisant

reasoners love to flatter the hard-heartedness of the wealthy: you

make use of their very expressions. Do you think to degrade a poor

wretch below a human being, by giving him the contemptuous name of

beggar? Compassionate as you really are, how could you prevail on

yourself to make use of it? Repeat it no more, my friend, it does not

come well from your lips: believe me, it is more dishonourable for the

cruel man by whom it is used, than for the unhappy wretch who bears

it. I will not pretend to decide whether those, who thus inveigh

against the giving alms, are right or wrong; but this I know, that Mr.

Wolmar, whose good sense is not inferior to that of your philosophers,

and who has frequently told me of the arguments they use to suppress

their natural compassion and sensibility, has always appeared to

despise them, and has never disapproved of my conduct. His own

argument is simple. We permit, says he, and even support at a great

expense, a multitude of useless professions; many of which serve only

to spoil and corrupt our manners. Now, to look upon the profession of

a beggar as a trade, so far are we from having any reason to fear the

like corruption of manners from the exercise of it, that, on the

contrary, it serves to excite in us those sentiments of humanity,

which ought to unite all mankind. Again, if we look upon begging as a

talent, why should I not reward the eloquence of a beggar, who has art

enough to excite my compassion, and induce me to relieve him, as well

as I do a comedian, who on the stage makes me shed a few fruitless

tears? If the one makes me admire the good actions of others, the

other induces me to do a good action myself: all, that we feel at the

representation of a tragedy, goes off as soon as we come out of the

playhouse; but the remembrance of the unhappy object we have relieved

gives continual pleasure. A great number of beggars may be burthensome

to a state: but of how many professions, which are tolerated and

encouraged, may we not say the same? It belongs to the legislature and

administration to take care there should be no beggars; but, in order

to make them lay down their trade, [75] is it necessary to make all

other ranks of people inhuman and unnatural? For my part, continued

Eloisa, without knowing what the poor may be to the state, I know they

are all my brethren, and that I cannot, without thinking myself

inexcusable, refuse them the small relief they ask of me. The greater

part of them, I own, are vagabonds; but I know too much of life, to be

ignorant how many misfortunes may reduce an honest man to such a

situation; and how can I be sure, that an unhappy stranger, who comes,

in the name of God, to implore my assistance, and to beg a poor morsel

of bread, is not such an honest man, ready to perish for want, and

whom my refusal may drive to despair? The alms I distribute at the

door are of no great value. A half-penny and a piece of bread are

refused to nobody; and twice the proportion is always given to such as

are maimed or otherwise evidently incapable of labour. Should they

meet with the same relief at every house, which can afford it, it

would be sufficient to support them on their journey; and that is all

a needy traveller has a right to expect. But, supposing this was not

enough to yield them any real help, it is at least a proof that we

take some part in their distress; a sort of salutation that softens

the rigour of refusing them more. A half-penny and a morsel of bread

cost little more, and are a more civil answer, than a mere _God help

you_; which is too often the only thing bestowed, as if the gifts of

providence were not placed in the hands of men, or that heaven had any

other store on earth than what is laid up in the coffers of the rich.

In short, whatever we ought to think of such unfortunate wretches, and

though nothing should in justice be given to common beggars, we ought

at least, out of respect to ourselves, to take some notice of

suffering humanity, and not harden our hearts at the sight of the

miserable.

This is my behaviour to those, who, without any other subterfuge or

pretext, come openly a begging. With respect to such as pretend to be

workmen, and complain for want of employment, we have here tools of

almost every kind for them, and we set them to work. By this means we

assist them and put their industry to the proof; a circumstance which

is now so well known that the lazy cheat never comes again to the

gate.

It is thus, my Lord, this angelic creature always deduces something

from her own virtues, to combat those vain subtilties, by which people

of cruel dispositions palliate their vices. The solicitude and pains

she takes to relieve the poor, are also ranked among her amusements,

and take up great part of the time she can spare from her most

important duties. After having performed her duty to others, she then

thinks of herself; and the means she takes to render life agreeable

may be reckoned among her virtues: so commendable are her constant

motives of action, that moderation and good sense are always mixed

with her pleasures! She is ambitious to please her husband, who

always delights in seeing her chearful and gay: she is desirous of

instilling into her children a taste for innocent pleasures, wherein

moderation order and simplicity prevail, and secure the heart from the

violence of impetuous passions. She amuses herself, therefore, to

divert them, as the dove softens the grain to nourish the young ones.

Eloisa’s mind and body are equally sensible. The same delicacy

prevails as well in her senses as her sentiments. She was formed to

know and taste every pleasure. Virtue having been long esteemed by her

as the most refined of all delights, in the peaceful enjoyment of that

supreme pleasure, she debars herself of none that are consistent with

it; but then her method of enjoyment resembles the austerity of self-

denial: not indeed of that afflicting and painful self-denial, which

is hurtful to nature, and which its author rejects as ridiculous

homage; but of that slight and moderate restraint, by which the empire

of reason is preserved; and which serves as a whet to pleasure by

preventing disgust. She will have it, that every thing which pleases

the sense, and is not necessary to life, changes its nature, whenever

it becomes habitual; that it ceases to be pleasant in becoming

needful; that we thus by habit lay ourselves at once under a needless

restraint and deprive ourselves of a real pleasure; and that the art

of satisfying our desires lies not in indulging, but in suppressing,

them. The method she takes to enhance the pleasures of the least

amusement, is to deny herself the use of it twenty times for once that

she enjoys it. Thus her mind preserves its first vigour; her taste is

not spoiled by use; she has no need to excite it by excess; and I have

often seen her take exquisite delight in a childish diversion, which

would have been insipid to any other person on earth.

A still nobler object, which she proposes to herself from the exercise

of this virtue, is that of remaining always mistress of herself, and

thereby to accustom her passions to obedience, and to subject her

inclinations to rule. This is a new way to be happy; for it is certain

that we enjoy nothing with so little inquietude, as what we can part

from without pain; and if the philosopher be happy, it is because he

is the man from whom fortune can take the least.

But what appears to me the most singular in her moderation, is that

she pursues it for the very same reasons which hurry the voluptuous

into excess. Life is indeed short, says she, which is a reason for

enjoying it to the end, and managing its duration in such a manner as

to make the most of it. If one day’s indulgence and satiety deprives

us of a whole year’s taste for enjoyment, it is bad philosophy to

pursue our desires so far as they may be ready to lead us, without

considering whether we may not out-live our faculties, and our hearts

be exhausted before our time. I see that your common epicures, in

order to let slip no opportunity of enjoyment, lose all; and,

perpetually anxious in the midst of pleasures, can find no enjoyment

in any. They lavish away the time of which they think they are

economists, and ruin themselves, like misers, by not knowing how to

give any thing away. For my part, I hold the opposite maxim; and

should prefer, in this case, rather too much severity than relaxation.

It sometimes happens that I break up a party of pleasure, for no other

reason than that it is too agreeable; and, by repeating it another

time, have the satisfaction of enjoying it twice.

Upon such principles are the sweets of life, and the pleasures of mere

amusement, regulated here. Amidst her various application to the

several branches of her domestic employment, Eloisa takes particular

care that the kitchen is not neglected. Her table is spread with

abundance; but it is not the destructive abundance of fantastic

luxury: all the viands are common, but excellent, in their kind; the

cookery is simple, but exquisite. All that consists in appearance

only, whose nicety depends on the fashion, all your delicate and far-

fetched dishes, whose scarcity is their only value, are banished from

the table of Eloisa. Among the most delicious also of those which are

admitted, they daily abstain from some; which they reserve in order to

give an air of festivity to those meals for which they were intended,

and which are thereby rendered more agreeable, without being more

costly. But of what kind, think you, are these dishes which are so

carefully husbanded? Choice game? Sea-fish? Foreign produce? No.

Something better than all that. They are perhaps a particular choice

salad of the country; fine greens of our own gardens; fish of the

lake, dressed in a peculiar manner; cheese from the mountains; a

German party, or game caught by some of the domestics. The table is

served in a modest and rural but agreeable manner, chearfulness and

gratitude crowning the whole. Your gilt covers, round which the guests

sit starving with hunger; your pompous glasses, stuck out with flowers

for the desert, are never introduced here, to take up the place

intended for victuals; we are entirely ignorant of the art of

satisfying hunger by the eye. But then no where do they so well know

how to add welcome to good chear, to eat a good deal without eating

too much, to drink chearfully without intoxication, to sit so long at

table without being tired, and to rise from it without disgust. On the

first floor there is a little dining room, different from that in

which we usually dine, which is on the ground floor. This room is

built in the corner of the house, and has windows in two aspects:

those on one side over-look the garden, beyond which we have a

prospect of the lake between the trees: on the other side, we have a

fine view of a spacious vineyard, that begins to display the golden

harvest which we shall reap in about two months. This room is small,

but ornamented with every thing that can render it pleasant and

agreeable. It is here Eloisa gives her little entertainments to her

father, to her husband, to her cousin, to me, to herself, and

sometimes to her children. When she orders the table to be spread

there, we know immediately the design; and Mr. Wolmar has given it the

name of the Saloon of Apollo: but this Saloon differs no less from

that of Lucullus, in the choice of the persons entertained, than in

that of the entertainment. Common guests are not admitted into it; we

never dine there, when there are any strangers: it is the inviolable

asylum of mutual confidence, friendship and liberty. The society of

hearts is there joined to the social bond of the table; the entrance

into it is a kind of initiation into the mysteries of a cordial

intimacy; nor do any persons ever meet there but such as wish never to

be separated. We wait impatiently for you, my Lord, who are to dine

the very first day in the Apollo.

For my part, I was not at first admitted to that honour, which was

reserved for me till after my return from Mrs. Orbe’s. Not that I

imagined they could add any thing to the obliging reception I met with

on my arrival; but the supper, made for me there, gave me other ideas.

It is impossible to describe the delightful mixture of familiarity,

chearfulness, and social ease, which I then experienced, and had never

before tasted in my whole life. I found myself more at liberty without

being told to assume it, and we seemed even to understand one another

much better than before. The absence of the domestics, who were

dismissed from their attendance, removed that reserve which I still

felt at heart; and it was then that I first, at the instance of

Eloisa, resumed the custom I had laid aside for many years, of

drinking wine after meals.

I was enraptured at this repast, and wished that all our meals might

have been made in the same manner. I knew nothing of this delightful

room, said I to Mrs. Wolmar; why don’t you always eat here? See,

replied she, how pretty it is! Would it not be a pity to spoil it?

This answer seemed too much out of character for me not to suspect she

had some farther meaning. But why, added I, have you not the same

conveniences below, that the servants might be sent away, and leave us

to talk more at liberty? That, replied she, would be too agreeable,

and the trouble of being always at ease is the greatest in the world.

I immediately comprehended her system by this, and concluded that her

art of managing her pleasures consisted in being sparing of them.

I think she dresses herself with more care than formerly; the only

piece of vanity I ever reproached her for, being that of neglecting

her dress. The haughty fair one had her reasons, and left me no

pretext to disown her power. But, do all she could, my enchantment was

too strong for me to think it natural; I was too obstinate in

attributing her negligence to art. Not that the power of her charms is

diminished; but she now disdains to exert it; and I should be apt to

say, she affected a greater neatness in her dress that she might

appear only a pretty woman, had I not discovered the reason for her

present solicitude in this point. During the first two or three days I

was mistaken; for, not reflecting that she was dressed in the same

manner at my arrival, which was unexpected, I thought she had done it

out of respect to me. I was undeceived, however, in the absence of Mr.

Wolmar. For the next day she was not attired with that elegance, which

so eminently distinguished her the preceding evening, nor with that

affecting and voluptuous simplicity which formerly enchanted me; but

with a certain modesty that speaks through the eyes to the heart, that

inspires respect only, and to which beauty itself but gives additional

authority. The dignity of wife and mother appeared in all her charms;

the timid and affectionate looks she cast on me, were now mixed with

an air of gravity and grandeur, which seemed to cast a veil over her

features. In the mean time, she betrayed not the least alteration in

her behaviour; her equality of temper, her candor knew nothing of

affectation. She practiced only a talent natural to her sex, to change

sometimes our sentiments and ideas of them, by a different dress, by

a cap of this form, or a gown of that colour. The day on which she

expected her husband’s return, she again found the art of adorning her

natural charms without hiding them; she came from her toilet indeed a

dazzling beauty, and I saw she was not less capable to outshine the

most splendid dress, than to adorn the most simple. I could not help

being vexed, when I reflected on the cause of her preparation.

This taste for ornament extends itself, from the mistress of the

house, through all the family. The master, the children, the servants,

the equipage, the building, the garden, the furniture, are all set off

and kept in such order as shews what they are capable of, though

magnificence is despised:----I do not mean true magnificence, and

which consists less in the expense, than in the good order and noble

disposition of things. [76]

For my own part, I must confess it appears to me a more grand and

noble sight, to see a small number of people happy in themselves and

in each other, in a plain modest family, than to see the most splendid

palace filled with tumult and discord, and every one of its

inhabitants taking advantage of the general disorder, and building up

their own fortunes and happiness on the ruin of another. A well-

governed private family forms a single object, agreeable and

delightful to contemplate; whereas, in a riotous palace, we see only a

confused assemblage of various objects, whose connection and

dependence are merely apparent. At first sight, indeed, they seem

operating to one end; but in examining them nearer, we are soon

undeceived.

To consult only our most natural impressions, it should seem that, to

despise luxury and parade, we need less of moderation than of taste.

Symmetry and regularity are pleasing to every one. The picture of ease

and happiness must affect every heart; but a vain pomp, which relates

neither to regularity nor happiness, and has only the desire of making

a figure in the eyes of others for its object, however favourable an

idea it may excite in us of the person who displays it, can give

little pleasure to the spectator. But what is taste? Does not a

hundred times more taste appear in the order and construction of plain

and simple things, than in those which are over-loaded with finery?

What is convenience? Is any thing in the world more inconvenient than

pomp and pageantry? [77] What is grandeur? It is precisely the

contrary. When I see the intention of an architect to build a large

palace, I immediately ask myself why it is not larger? Why does not

the man, who keeps fifty servants, if he aims at grandeur, keep an

hundred? That fine silver plate, why is it not gold? The man who gilds

his chariot, why does he not also gild the ceiling of his apartment?

If his ceilings are gilt, why does not gild the roof too? He, who was

desirous of building an high tower, was right in his intention to

raise it up to heaven; otherwise it was to no purpose to build, as the

point where he might at last stop, would only serve to shew, at the

greater distance, his want of ability. O man! vain and feeble

creature! Shew me thy power, and I will shew thee thy misery!

A regularity in the disposal of things, every one of which is of real

use, and all confined to the necessaries of life, not only presents an

agreeable prospect but as it pleases the eye, at the same time gives

content to the heart. For a man views them always in a pleasing light,

as relating to and sufficient for himself. The picture of his own

wants or weakness does not appear, nor does the chearful prospect

affect him with sorrowful reflections. I defy any sensible man to

contemplate, for an hour, the palace of a prince, and the pomp which

reigns there, without falling into melancholy reflections, and

bemoaning the lot of humanity. On the contrary, the prospect of this

house, with the uniform and simple life of its inhabitants, diffuse

over the mind of the spectator a secret pleasure, which is perpetually

increasing. A small number of good-natured people, united by their

mutual wants and reciprocal benevolence, concur by their different

employments in promoting the same end; every one, finding in his

situation all that is requisite to contentment, and not desiring to

change it, applies himself as if he thought to stay here all his life;

the only ambition among them being that of properly discharging their

respective duties. There is so much moderation in those who command,

and so much zeal in those who obey, that equals might agree to

distribute the same employments among them, without any one having

reason to complain of his lot. No one envies that of another; no one

thinks of augmenting his fortune, but by adding to the common good:

the master and mistress estimating their own happiness by that of

their domestics and the people about them. One finds here nothing to

add or diminish, because here is nothing, but what is useful, and that

indeed is all that is to be found; insomuch that nothing is wanted

which may not be had, and of that there is always a sufficiency.

Suppose, now, to all this were added, lace, pictures, lustres,

gilding; in a moment you would impoverish the scene. In seeing so much

abundance in things necessary, and no mark of superfluity, one is now

apt to think, that if those things were the objects of choice, which

are not here, they would be had in the same abundance. In seeing also

so plentiful a provision made for the poor, one is led to say, This

house cannot contain its wealth. This seems to me to be true

magnificence.

Such marks of opulence, however, surprized me, when I first heard what

fortune must support it. You are ruining yourselves, said I to Mr. and

Mrs. Wolmar; it is impossible so moderate a revenue can supply so much

expense. They laughed at me, and soon convinced me, that, without

retrenching any of their family expenses, they could, if they pleased,

lay up money and increase their estate, instead of diminishing it. Our

grand secret, to grow rich, said they, is to have as little to do with

money as possible, and to avoid, as much as may be, those intermediate

exchanges, which are made between the harvest and the consumption.

None of those exchanges are made without some loss; and such losses,

if multiplied, would reduce a very good estate to little or nothing,

as by means of brokerage a valuable gold box may fetch in a sale the

price only of a trifling toy. The expense of transporting our produce

is avoided, by making use of some part on the spot, and that of

exchange, by using others in their natural state. And as for the

indispensable necessity of converting those in which we abound for

such as we want, instead of making pecuniary bargains, we endeavour to

make real exchanges, in which the convenience of both parties supplies

the place of profit.

I conceive, answered I, the advantages of this method; but it does not

appear to me without inconvenience. For, besides the trouble to which

it must subject you, the profit must be rather apparent than real, and

what you lose in the management of your own estate, probably over-

balances the profits the farmers would make of you. The peasants are

better economists, both in the expenses of cultivation, and in

gathering their produce, than you can be. That, replied, Mr. Wolmar,

is a mistake; the peasant thinks less of augmenting the produce than

of sparing his expenses, because the cost is more difficult for him to

raise than the profits are useful. The tenant’s view is not so much to

increase the value of the land, as to lay out but little on it; and if

he depends on any certain gain, it is less by improving the soil, than

exhausting it. The best that can happen, is, that instead of

exhausting, he quite neglects it. Thus, for the sake of a little ready

money, gathered in with ease, an indolent proprietor prepares for

himself, or his children, great losses, much trouble, and sometimes

the ruin of his patrimony.

I do not deny, continued Mr. Wolmar, that I am at a much greater

expense in the cultivation of my land, than a farmer would be; but

then I myself reap the profit of his labour, and the culture being

much better than his, my crop is proportionably larger: so that,

though I am at a greater expense, I am still, upon the whole, a

gainer. Besides, this excess of expense is only apparent, and is, in

reality, productive of great economy; for, were we to let out our

lands for others to cultivate, we should be ourselves idle: we must

live in town, where the necessaries of life are dear; we must have

amusements, that would cost us much more than those we take here. The

business, which you call a trouble, is at once our duty and our

delight; and, thanks to the regulation it is under, is never

troublesome: on the contrary, it serves to employ us, instead of those

destructive schemes of pleasure, which people in town run into, and

which a country life prevents, whilst that which contributes to our

happiness becomes our amusement.

Look round you, continued he, and you will see nothing but what is

useful; yet all these things cost little, and save a world of

unnecessary expense. Our table is furnished with nothing but viands of

our own growth; our dress and furniture are almost all composed of the

manufactures of the country: nothing is despised with us because it is

common, nor held in esteem because it is scarce. As every thing, that

comes from abroad, is liable to be disguised and adulterated, we

confine ourselves, as well through nicety as moderation, to the choice

of the best home commodities, the quality of which is less dubious.

Our viands are plain, but choice; and nothing is wanting to make ours

a sumptuous table, but the transporting it a hundred leagues off; in

which case every thing would be delicate, every thing would be rare,

and even our trouts of the lake would be thought infinitely better,

were they to be eaten at Paris.

We observe the same rule in the choice of our apparel, which you see

is not neglected; but its elegance is the only thing we study, and not

its cost, and much less its fashion. There is a wide difference

between the price of opinion and real value. The latter, however, is

all that Eloisa regards; in choosing a gown, she enquires not so much

whether the pattern be old or new, as whether the stuff be good and

becoming. The novelty of it is even sometimes the cause of her

rejecting it, especially when it enhances the price, by giving it an

imaginary value.

You should further consider, that the effect of every thing here

arises less from itself than from its use, and its dependencies;

insomuch that out of parts of little value, Eloisa has compounded a

whole of great value. Taste delights in creating and stamping upon

things a value of its own: as the laws of fashion are inconstant and

destructive, hers is economical and lasting.

What true taste once approves must be always good, and though it be

seldom in the mode, it is, on the other hand, never improper. Thus, in

her modest simplicity, she deduces, from the use and fitness of

things, such sure and unalterable rules, as will stand their ground

when the vanity of fashions is no more. The abundance of mere

necessaries can never degenerate into abuse; for what is necessary has

its natural bounds, and our real wants know no excess. One may lay out

the price of twenty suits of cloaths in buying one, and eat up at a

meal the income of a whole year; but we cannot wear two suits at one

time, nor dine twice the same day. Thus the caprice of opinion is

boundless, whereas nature confines us on all sides; and he, who, with

a moderate fortune, contents himself with living well, will run no

risk of ruin.

Hence, you see, continued the prudent Wolmar, in what manner a little

economy and industry may lift us out of the reach of fortune. It

depends only on ourselves to increase ours, without changing our

manner of living; for we advance nothing but with a view of profit,

and whatever we expend puts us soon in a condition to expend much

more.

And yet, my Lord, nothing of all this appears at first sight: the

general air of affluence, and profusion, hides that order and

regularity to which it is owing. One must be here some time to

perceive those sumptuary laws, which are productive of so much ease

and pleasure; and it is with difficulty that one at first comprehends

how they enjoy what they spare. On reflection, however, one’s

satisfaction increases, because it is plain that the source is

inexhaustible, and that the art of enjoying life serves at the same

time to prolong it. How can any one be weary of a state so conformable

to that of nature? How can he waste his inheritance by improving it

every day? How ruin his fortune, by spending only his income? When one

year provides for the next, what can disturb the peace of the present?

The fruits of their past labour support their present abundance, and

those of their present labour provide a future plenty: they enjoy at

once what is expended and what is received, and both past and future

times unite in the security of the present.

I have looked into all the particulars of domestic management, and

find the same spirit extend itself throughout the whole. All their

lace and embroidery are worked in the house; all their cloth is spun

at home, or by poor women supported by their charity. Their wool is

sent to the manufactories of the country, from whence they receive

cloth, in exchange, for cloathing the servants. Their wine, oil, and

bread, are all made at home; and they have woods, of which they cut

down regularly what is necessary for firing. The butcher is paid in

cattle, the grocer in corn, for the nourishment of his family; the

wages of the workmen and the servants are paid out of the produce of

the lands they cultivate; the rent of their houses in town serves to

furnish those they inhabit in the country; the interest of their money

in the public funds furnishes a subsistence for the masters, and also

the little plate they have occasion for. The sale of the corn and

wine, which remain, furnishes a fund for extraordinary expenses; a

fund which Eloisa’s prudence will never permit to be exhausted, and

which her charity will not suffer to increase. She allows for matters

of mere amusement the profits, only, of the labour done in the house,

of the grubbing up uncultivated land, of planting trees, &c. Thus the

produce and the labour always compensating each other, the balance

cannot be disturbed; and it is impossible, from the nature of things,

it should be destroyed.

Add to this, that the abstinence, which Eloisa imposes on herself,

through that voluptuous temperance I have mentioned, is at once

productive of new means of pleasure, and new resources of economy. For

example, she is very fond of coffee, and, when her mother was living,

drank it every day. But she has left off that practice, in order to

heighten her taste for it, now drinking it only when she has company,

or in her favourite dining room, in order to give her entertainments

the air of a treat. This is a little indulgence which is the more

agreeable, as it costs her little, and at the same time restrains and

regulates her appetite. On the contrary, she studies to discover and

gratify the taste of her father and husband with an unwearied

attention; a charming prodigality which makes them like every thing so

much the more, for the pleasure they see she takes in providing it.

They both love to sit a little after meals, in the manner of the

Swiss; on which occasions, particularly after supper, she never fails

to treat them with a bottle of wine more old and delicate than common.

I was at first deceived by the fine names she gave to her wines,

which, in sac, I found to be extremely good; and, drinking them as

wines of the growth of the countries whose names they bore, I took

Eloisa to task for so manifest a breach of her own maxims; but she

laughed at me and put me in mind of a passage in Plutarch, where

Flaminius compares the Asiatic troops of Antiochus, distinguished by a

thousand barbarous names, to the several ragouts under which a friend

of his had disguised one and the same kind of meat. It is just so,

said she, with these foreign wines. The Lisbon, the Sherry, the

Malaga, the Champagne, the Syracuse, which you have drank here with so

much pleasure, are all, in fact, no other than wines of this country,

and you see from hence the vineyard that produced them. If they are

inferior in quality to the celebrated wines, whose names they bear,

they are also without their inconveniences; and as one is certain of

the materials of which they are composed, they may be drank with less

danger. I have reason to believe, continued she, that my father and

husband like them as well as more scarce and costly wines. Eloisa’s

wines, indeed, says Mr. Wolmar to me, have a taste which pleases us

better than any others, and that arises from the pleasure she takes in

preparing them. Ah! returned she, then they will be always exquisite.

You will judge whether, amidst such a variety of business, that

indolence and want of employment, which make company, visitings, and

such formal society necessary, can find any place here. We visit our

neighbours, indeed, just enough to keep up an agreeable acquaintance,

but too little to be slaves to each other’s company. Our guests are

always welcome, but are never invited or intreated. The rule here is

to see just so much company as to prevent the losing a taste for

retirement; rural occupation supplying the place of amusements: and to

him, who finds an agreeable and peaceful society in his own family,

all other company is insipid. The manner, however, in which we pass

our time, is too simple and uniform to tempt many people, but it is

the disposition of those, who have adopted it, that makes it

delightful. How can persons of a sound mind be wearied with

discharging the most endearing and pleasing duties of humanity, and

with rendering each other’s lives mutually happy? Satisfied every

night with the transactions of the day, Eloisa wishes for nothing

different on the morrow. Her constant morning prayer is, that the

present day may prove like the past. She is engaged perpetually in the

same round of business, because no alteration would give her more

pleasure. Thus, without doubt, she enjoys all the happiness of which

human life is capable: for is not our being pleased with the

continuation of our lot a certain sign that we are happy? One seldom

sees in this place those knots of idle people, which are usually

called good company; but then one beholds those who interest our

affections infinitely more, such as peaceable peasants, without art,

and without politeness; but honest, simple, and contented in their

station: old officers retired from the service; merchants wearied with

application to business, and tired of growing rich; prudent mothers of

families, who bring their children to the school of modesty and good

manners: such is the company Eloisa assembles about her. To these her

husband sometimes adds some of those adventurers, reformed by age and

experience, who, having purchased wisdom at their own cost, return,

without reluctance, to cultivate their paternal soil, which they wish

they had never left. When any one relates at table the occurrences of

their lives, they consist not of the marvellous adventures of the

wealthy Sindbad, recounting, in the midst of eastern pomp and

effeminacy, how he acquired his vast wealth. Their tales are the

simple narratives of men of sense, who, from the caprice of fortune,

and the injustice of mankind, are disgusted with the vain pursuit of

imaginary happiness, and have acquired a taste for the objects of true

felicity.

Would you believe that even the conversation of peasants hath its

charms for these elevated minds, of whom the philosopher himself might

be glad to profit in wisdom? The judicious Wolmar discovers in their

rural simplicity more characteristical distinction, more men that

think for themselves, than under the uniform mask worn in great

cities, where every one appears what other people are, rather than

what he is himself. The affectionate Eloisa finds their hearts

susceptible of the smallest offers of kindness, and that they esteem

themselves happy in the interest she takes in their happiness. Neither

their hearts nor understandings are formed by art; they have not

learned to model themselves after the fashion, and are less the

creatures of men than those of nature.

Mr. Wolmar often picks up, in his rounds, some honest old peasant,

whose experience and understanding give him great pleasure. He brings

him home to Eloisa, by whom he is received in a manner which denotes,

not her politeness, or the dignity of her station, but the benevolence

and humanity of her character. The good man is kept to dinner; Eloisa

placing him next herself, obligingly helping him, and asking kindly

after his family and affairs. She smiles not at his embarrassment, nor

takes notice of the rusticity of his manners; but by the ease of her

own behaviour frees him from all restraint, maintaining throughout

that tender and affectionate respect, which is due to an infirm old

age, honoured by an irreproachable life. The venerable old man is

enraptured, and, in the fullness of heart, seems to experience again

the vivacity of youth. In drinking healths to a young and beautiful

lady, his half-frozen blood grows warm; and he begins to talk of

former times, the days of his youth, his amours, the campaigns he has

made, the battles he has been in, of the magnanimity and feats of his

fellow soldiers, of his return to his native country, of his wife, his

children, his rural employments, the inconveniencies he has remarked,

and the remedies he thinks may be applied to remove them: during which

long detail, he often lets fall some excellent, moral, or useful

lesson in agriculture, the dictates of age and experience; but be

there even nothing in what he says, so long as he takes a pleasure in

saying it, Eloisa would take pleasure in hearing.

After dinner she retires into her own apartment, to fetch some little

present for the wife or daughter of the good old man. This is

presented to him by the children, who in return receive some trifle of

him, with which she had secretly provided him for that purpose. Thus

she initiates them betimes, to that intimate and pleasing benevolence,

which knits the bond of society between persons of different

conditions. The children are accordingly accustomed to respect old

age, to esteem simplicity of manners, and to distinguish merit in all

ranks of people. The young peasants, on the other hand, seeing their

fathers thus entertained at a gentleman’s house, and admitted to the

master’s table, take no offence at being themselves excluded; they

think such exclusion not owing to their rank, but their age; they

don’t say, We are too poor, but, we are too young to be thus treated.

Thus the honour done to their aged parents, and their hope of one day

enjoying the same distinction, make them amends for being debarred

from it at present, and excite them to become worthy of it. At his

return home to his cottage, their delighted guest impatiently produces

the presents he has brought his wife and children, who are over-joyed

at the honour done them; the good old man, at the same time, eagerly

relating to them the reception he met with, the dainties he has eaten,

the wines he has tasted, the obliging discourse and conversation, the

affability of the gentlefolks, and the assiduity of the servants; in

the recital of all which, he enjoys it a second time, and the whole

family partake of the honour done to their head. They join in concert

to bless that illustrious house, which affords at once an example to

the rich and an asylum for the poor, and whose generous inhabitants

disdain not the indigent, but do honour to grey hairs. Such is the

incense that is pleasing to benevolent minds; and, if there be any

prayers to which heaven lends a gracious ear, they are certainly, not

those which are offered up by meanness and flattery, in the hearing of

the person prayed for, but such as the grateful and simple heart

dictates in secret, beneath its own roof.

It is thus, that agreeable and affectionate sentiments give charms to

a life, insipid to indifferent minds: it is thus, that business,

labour, and retirement, become amusing by the art of managing them. A

sound mind knows how to take delight in vulgar employments, as a

healthful body relishes the most simple aliments. All those indolent

people, who are diverted with so much difficulty, owe their disgust to

their vices, and lose their taste for pleasure only with that of their

duty. As to Eloisa, it is directly contrary; the employment, which a

certain languor of mind made her formerly neglect, becomes now

interesting from the motive that excites to it: One must be totally

insensible to be always without vivacity. She formerly sought solitude

and retirement, in order to indulge her reflections on the object of

her passion; at present she has acquired new activity, by having

formed new and different connections. She is not one of those indolent

mothers of a family, who are contented to study their duty when they

should discharge it, and lose their time in inquiring after the

business of others, which they should employ in dispatching their own.

Eloisa practises at present what she learnt long ago. Her time for

reading and study has given place to that of action. As she rises an

hour later than her husband, so she goes an hour later to bed. This

hour is the only time she employs in study; for the day is not too

long for the various business in which she is engaged.

This, my Lord, is what I had to say to you concerning the economy of

this house and of the retired life of those who govern it. Contented

in their station, they peaceably enjoy its conveniences; satisfied

with their fortune, they seek not to augment it for their children;

but to leave them, with the inheritance they themselves received, an

estate in good condition, affectionate servants, a taste for

employment, order, moderation, and for every thing that can render

delightful and agreeable to men of sense the enjoyment of a moderate

fortune, as prudently preserved as honestly acquired.

Letter CXXXVII. To Lord B----.

We have had visitors for some days past. They left us yesterday, and

we renewed that agreeable society subsisting between us three, which

is by so much the more delightful, as there is nothing, even in the

bottom of our hearts, that we desire to hide from each other. What a

pleasure do I take, in resuming a new being, which renders me worthy

of your confidence. At every mark of esteem which I receive from

Eloisa and her husband, I say to myself, with an air of self-

sufficiency, At length I may venture to appear before Lord B----. It

is with your assistance, it is under your eyes, that I hope to do

honour to my present situation by my past follies. If an extinguished

passion casts the mind into a state of dejection, a passion subdued

adds to the consciousness of victory, a new elevation of sentiment, a

more lively attachment to all that is sublime and beautiful. Shall I

lose the fruit of a sacrifice, which hath cost me so dear? No, my

Lord; I feel that, animated by your example, my heart is going to

profit by all those arduous sentiments it has conquered. I feel, that

it was necessary for me to be what I was, in order for me to become

what I am.

After having thrown away six days, in frivolous conversation with

persons indifferent to us, we passed yesterday morning, after the

manner of the English, in company and silence; tasting at once the

pleasure of being together and the sweetness of self-recollection. How

small a part of mankind know any thing of the pleasures of this

situation! I never saw a person in France who had the least idea of

it. The conversation of friends, say they, can never be exhausted. It

is true, the tongue may easily find words for common attachments: but

friendship, my Lord, friendship! thou animating celestial sentiment!

what language is worthy of thee? What tongue presumes to be thy

interpreter? Can any thing spoken to a friend equal what is felt in

his company? Good God I how many things are conveyed by a squeeze of

the hand, by an animating look, by an eager embrace, by a sigh that

rises from the bottom of the heart! And how cold in comparison is the

first word which is spoken after that! I shall never forget the

evenings I passed at Besancon, those delightful moments sacred to

silence and friendship. Never, Oh B----! Thou noblest of men!

sublimest of friends! No, never have I undervalued what you then did

for me; never have my lips presumed to mention it. It is certain, that

this state of contemplation affords the greatest delight to

susceptible minds. But I have always observed, that impertinent

visitors prevent one from enjoying it, and that friends ought to be by

themselves, to be at liberty to say nothing. At such a time one should

be, if one may use the expression, collected in each other; the least

avocation is destructive, the least constraint is insupportable. It is

then so sweet to pronounce the dictates of the heart without

restraint. It seems as if one dared to think freely only of what one

can as freely speak; it seems as if the presence of a stranger

restrained the sentiment, and compressed those hearts, which could so

fully dictate themselves alone.

Two hours passed away in this silent extasy, more delightful, a

thousand times, than the frigid repose of the deities of Epicurus.

After breakfast, the children came, as usual, into the apartment of

Eloisa; who, instead of retiring and shutting herself up with them in

the work-room, according to custom, kept them with her, as if to make

them some amends for the time they had lost without seeing us:----and

we none of us parted till dinner. Harriot, who begins to know how to

handle her needle, sat at work before Fanny, who was weaving lace, and

rested her cushion on the back of her little chair. The two boys were

busy at a table turning over the leaves of a book of prints, the

subject of which the eldest explained to the younger; Harriot, who

knew the whole by heart, being attentive to, and correcting him when

wrong: and sometimes, pretending to be ignorant what figures they were

at, she made it a pretence to rise, and go backwards and forwards from

the chair to the table. During these little lessons, which were given

and taken with little pains and less restraint, the younger boy was

playing with some counters which he had secreted under the book. Mrs.

Wolmar was at work on some embroidery near the window opposite the

children, and her husband and I were still sitting at the tea-table,

reading the Gazette, to which she gave but little attention. But when

we came to the article, which mentions the illness of the king of

France, and the singular attachment of his people, unequalled by any

thing but that of the Romans for Germanicus, she made some reflections

on the disposition of that affectionate and benevolent nation, whom

all the world hate, whilst they have no hatred to any one; adding,

that she envied only a sovereign the power of making himself beloved.

To this her husband replied, You have no need to envy a sovereign, who

have so long had us all for your subjects. On which she turned her

head, and cast a look on him so affecting and tender, that it struck

me prodigiously. She said nothing indeed; for what could she say equal

to such a look? Our eyes met: and I could perceive, by the manner in

which her husband pressed my hand, that the same emotion had affected

us all three, and that the delightful influence of her expansive heart

diffused itself around, and triumphed over insensibility itself.

We were thus disposed when that silent scene began, of which I just

now spoke: you may judge, that it was not the consequence of coldness

or chagrin. It was first interrupted by the little management of the

children; who, nevertheless, as soon as we left off speaking,

moderated their prattle, as if afraid of disturbing the general

silence. The little teacher was the first that lowered her voice, made

signs to the others, and ran about on tip toe, while their play became

the more diverting by this light constraint. This scene, which seemed

to present itself in order to prolong our tenderness, produced its

natural effect.

_Ammutiscon le lingue, e parlan l’alme._

How many things may be said without opening one’s lips! How warm the

sentiments that may be communicated, without the cold interposition of

speech! Eloisa insensibly permitted her attention to be engaged by the

same object. Her eyes were fixed on the three children; and her heart,

ravished with the most enchanting extasy, animated her charming

features with all the affecting sweetness of maternal tenderness.

Thus given up to this double contemplation, Wolmar and I were

indulging our reveries, when the children put an end to them. The

eldest, who was diverting himself with the prints, seeing the counters

prevented his brother from being attentive, took an opportunity, when

he had piled them up, to give them a knock and throw them down on the

floor. Marcellin fell a crying; and Eloisa, without troubling herself

to quiet him, bid Fanny pick up the counters. The child was

immediately hushed; the counters were nevertheless not brought him,

nor did he begin to cry again as I expected. This circumstance, which

however was nothing in itself, recalled to my mind a great many

others, to which I had given no attention; and when I think of them, I

don’t remember ever to have seen children, with so little speaking to,

give so little trouble. They hardly ever are out of their mother’s

sight, and yet one can hardly perceive they are in company. They are

lively and playful, as children of their age should be, but never

clamorous or teizing; they are already discreet, before they know what

discretion is. But what surprizes me most, is, that all this appears

to be brought about of itself; and that, with such an affectionate

tenderness for her children, Eloisa seems to give herself so little

concern about them. In fact, one never sees her very earnest to make

them speak or hold their tongues, to make them do this or let that

alone. She never disputes with them; she never contradicts them in

their amusements: so that one would be apt to think she contented

herself with seeing and loving them; and that when they have passed

the day with her, she had discharged the whole duty of a mother

towards them.

But, though this peaceable tranquility appears more agreeable in

contemplation than the restless solicitude of other mothers, yet I was

not a little surprized at an apparent indolence, so little agreeable

to her character. I would have had her even a little discontented,

amidst so many reasons to the contrary; so well doth a superfluous

activity become maternal affection! I would willingly have attributed

the goodness of the children to the care of the mother; and should

have been glad to have observed more faults in them, that I might have

seen her more solicitous to correct them.

Having busied myself with these reflections a long time in silence, I

at last determined to communicate them to her. I see, said I, one day,

that heaven rewards virtuous mothers, in the good disposition of their

children; but the best disposition must be cultivated. Their education

ought to begin from the time of their birth. Can there be a time more

proper to form their minds, than when they have received no impression

that need to be effaced? If you give them up to themselves in their

infancy, at what age do you expect them to be docile? While you have

nothing else to teach them, you ought to teach them obedience. Why,

returned she, do my children disobey me? That were difficult, said I,

as you lay no commands upon them. On this she looked at her husband

and laughed; then, taking me by the hand, she led me into the closet,

that we might converse without being heard by the children.

Here, explaining her maxims at leisure, she discovered to me, under

that air of negligence, the most vigilant attention of maternal

tenderness. I was a long time, said she, of your opinion with regard

to the premature instruction of children; and while I expected my

first child, was anxious concerning the obligations I should soon have

to discharge. I used often to speak to Mr. Wolmar on that subject.

What better guide could I take than so sensible an observer, in whom

the interest of a father was united to the indifference of a

philosopher? He fulfilled, and indeed surpassed my expectations. He

soon made me sensible, that the first and most important part of

education, precisely that which all the world neglects, [78] is that

of preparing a child to receive instruction.

The common error of parents, who pique themselves on their own

knowledge, is to suppose their children capable of reasoning as soon

as they are born, and to talk to them as if they were grown persons

before they can speak. Reason is the instrument they use, whereas

every other means ought first to be used in order to form that reason;

for it is certain, that, of all the knowledge which men acquire, or

are capable of acquiring, the art of reasoning is the last and most

difficult to learn. By talking to them, at so early an age, in a

language they do not understand, they learn to be satisfied with mere

words; to talk to others in the same manner; to contradict every thing

that is said to them; to think themselves as wise as their teachers:

and all that one thinks to obtain by reasonable motives, is in fact

acquired only by those of fear or vanity.

The most consummate patience would be wearied out, by endeavouring to

educate a child in this manner: and thus it is that, fatigued and

disgusted with the perpetual importunity of their children, their

parents, unable to support the noise and disorder they themselves have

given rise to, are obliged to part with them, and to deliver them over

to the care of a master; as if one could expect in a preceptor more

patience and good-nature than in a father.

Nature, continued Eloisa, would have children be children before they

are men. If we attempt to pervert that order, we produce only forward

fruit, which has neither maturity nor flavour, and will soon decay; we

raise young professors and old children. Infancy has a manner of

perceiving, thinking and feeling, peculiar to itself. Nothing is more

absurd than to think of substituting ours in its stead; and I would as

soon expect a child of mine to be five foot high, as to have a mature

judgment, at ten years old.

The understanding does not begin to form itself till after some years,

and when the corporeal organs have acquired a certain confidence. The

design of nature is therefore evidently to strengthen the body, before

the mind is exercised. Children are always in motion; rest and

reflection is inconsistent with their age; a studious and sedentary

life would prevent their growth and injure their health; neither their

body nor mind can support restraint. Shut up perpetually in a room

with their books, they lose their vigour, become delicate, feeble,

sickly, rather stupid than reasonable; and their minds suffer, during

their whole lives, for the weakness of their bodies.

But, supposing such premature instruction were as profitable as it is

really hurtful to their understandings, a very great inconvenience

would attend the application of it to all indiscriminately, without

regard to the particular genius of each. For, besides the constitution

common to its species, every child at its birth possesses a peculiar

temperament, which determines its genius and character; and which it

is improper either to pervert or restrain; the business of education

being only to model and bring it to perfection. All these characters

are, according to Mr. Wolmar, good in themselves: for nature, says he,

makes no mistakes. [79] All the vices imputed to malignity of

disposition are only the effect of the bad form it hath received.

According to him, there is not a villain upon earth, whose natural

propensity, well directed, might not have been productive of great

virtues; nor is there a wrong-head in being, that might not have been

of use to himself and society, had his natural talents taken a certain

bias; just as deformed and monstrous images are rendered beautiful and

proportionable, by placing them in a proper point of view. Every

thing, says he, tends to the common good in the universal system of

nature. Every man has his place assigned in the best order and

arrangement of things; the business is to find out that place, and not

to disturb such order. What must be the consequence then of an

education begun in the cradle, and carried on always in the same

manner, without regard to the vast diversity of temperaments and genius

in mankind? Useless or hurtful instructions would be given to the

greater part, while at the same time they are deprived of such as

would be most useful and convenient; nature would be confined on every

side, and the greatest qualities of the mind defaced, in order to

substitute in their place mean and little ones, of no utility. By

using indiscriminately the same means with different talents, the one

serves to deface the other, and all are confounded together. Thus,

after a great deal of pains thrown away in spoiling the natural

endowments of children, we presently see those transitory and

frivolous ones of education decay and vanish, while those of nature,

being totally obscured, appear no more: and thus we lose at once what

we have pulled down, and what we have raised up. In a word, in return

for so much pains indiscreetly taken, all these little prodigies

become wits without sense, and men, without merit, remarkable only for

their weakness and insignificancy.

I understand your maxims, said I to Eloisa; but I know not how to

reconcile them with your own opinion on the little advantage arising

from the display of the genius and natural talents of individuals,

either respecting their own happiness or the real interests of

society. Would it not be infinitely better to form a perfect model of

a man of sense and virtue, and then to form every child by education

after such a model, by animating one, retraining another, by

regulating its passions, improving its understanding, and thus

correcting nature?----Correcting nature! says Mr. Wolmar, interrupting

me, that is a very fine expression; but before you make use of it,

pray reply to what Eloisa has already advanced.

The most significant reply, as I thought, was to deny the principle on

which her arguments were founded; which I accordingly did. You

suppose, said I, that the diversity of temperament and genius, which

distinguish individuals, is the immediate work of nature; whereas

nothing is less evident. For, if our minds are naturally different,

they must be unequal; and if nature has made them unequal, it must be

by endowing some, in preference to others, with a more refined

perception, a greater memory, or a greater capacity of attention. Now,

as to perception and memory, it is proved by experience, that their

different degrees of extent or perfection are not the standard of

genius and abilities; and as to a capacity of attention, it depends

solely on the force of the passions by which we are animated; and it

is also proved that all mankind are by nature susceptible of passions,

strong enough to excite in them that degree of attention necessary to

a superiority of genius.

If a diversity of genius, therefore, instead of being derived from

nature, be the effect of education; that is to say, of the different

ideas and sentiments, which objects excite in us during our infancy,

of the various circumstances in which we are engaged, and of all the

impressions we receive; so far should we be from waiting to know the

character of a child before we give it education, that we should, on

the contrary, be in haste to form its character by giving it a proper

education.

To this he replied, that it was not his way to deny the existence of

any thing, because he could not explain it. Look, says he, upon those

two dogs in the court-yard. They are of the same litter; they have

been fed and trained together; have never been parted; and yet one of

them is a brisk, lively, good-natured, docible cur; while the other is

lumpish, heavy, cross-grained, and incapable of learning any thing.

Now their difference of temperament, only, can have produced in them

that of character, as the difference of our interior organization

produces in us that of our minds: in every other circumstance they

have been alike.----Alike! interrupted I; what a vast difference may

there not have been, though unobserved by you? How many minute objects

may not have acted on the one, and not on the other! How many little

circumstances may not have differently affected them, which you have

not perceived! Very pretty indeed, says he; so, I find you reason like

the astrologers; who, when two men are mentioned of different fortune

yet born under the same aspect, deny the identity of circumstances. On

the contrary, they maintain, that, on account of the rapidity of the

heavenly motions, there must have been an immense distance between the

themes, in the horoscope, of the one and the other; and that, if the

precise moment of their births had been carefully noted, the objection

had been converted into a proof.

But, pray, let us leave these subtilties, and confine ourselves to

observation. This may teach us, indeed, that there are characters

which are known almost at the birth, and children that may be studied

at the breast of their nurses: but these are of a particular class,

and receive their education in beginning to live. As for others, who

are later known, to attempt to form their genius before their

characters are distinguished, is to run a risk of spoiling what is

good in their natural dispositions, and substituting what is worse in

its place. Did not your master Plato maintain, that all the art of

man, that all philosophy could not extract from the human mind what

nature had not implanted there; as all the operations in chemistry are

incapable of extracting from any mixture more gold than is already

contained in it? This is not true of our sentiments or our ideas; but

it is true of our disposition or capacity of acquiring them. To change

the genius, one must be able to change the interior organization of

the body; to change a character, one must be capable of changing the

temperament on which it depends. Have you ever heard of a passionate

man’s becoming patient and temperate, or of a frigid methodical genius

having acquired a spirited imagination? For my own part, I think it

would be just as easy to make a fair man brown, or a blockhead a man

of sense. ’Tis in vain then to attempt to model different minds by one

common standard. One may restrain, but we can never change them: one

may hinder men from appearing what they are, but can never make them

really otherwise; and, though they disguise their sentiments in the

ordinary commerce of life, you will see them reassume their real

characters on every important occasion. Besides, our business is not

to change the character, and alter the natural disposition of the

mind, but, on the contrary, to improve and prevent its degenerating;

for by these means it is, that a man becomes what he is capable of

being, and that the work of nature is compleatd by education. Now,

before any character can be cultivated, it is necessary that it should

be studied; that we should patiently wait its opening; that we should

furnish occasions for it to display itself; and that we should forbear

doing any thing, rather than doing wrong. To one genius it is

necessary to give wings, and to another shackles; one should be

spurred forward, another reined in; one should be encouraged, another

intimidated; sometimes it should be checked, and at others assisted.

One man is formed to extend human knowledge to the highest degree; to

another it is even dangerous to learn to read. Let us wait for the

opening of reason; it is that which displays the character, and gives

it its true form: it is by that also it is cultivated, and there is no

such thing as education before the understanding is ripe for

instruction.

As to the maxims of Eloisa, which you think opposite to this doctrine,

I see nothing in them contradictory to it: on the contrary, I find

them, for my own part, perfectly compatible. Every man at his birth

brings into the world with him, a genius, talents and character

peculiar to himself. Those, who are destined to live a life of

simplicity in the country, have no need to display their talents in

order to be happy: their unexerted faculties are like the gold mines

of the Valais, which the public good will not permit to be opened. But

in a more polished society, where the head is of more use than the

hands, it is necessary that all the talents nature hath bestowed on

men should be exerted; that they should be directed to that quarter,

in which they can proceed the furthest; and above all, that their

natural propensity should be encouraged by every thing which can make

it useful. In the first case, the good of the species only is

consulted; every one acts in the same manner; example is their only

rule of action; habit their only talent; and no one exerts any other

genius than that which is common to all: Whereas in the second case we

consult the interest and capacity of individuals; if one man possess

any talent superior to another, it is cultivated and pursued as far as

it will reach; and if a man be possessed of adequate abilities, he may

become the greatest of his species. These maxims are so little

contradictory, that they have been put in practice in all ages.

Instruct not therefore the children of the peasant, nor of the

citizen, for you know not as yet what instruction is proper for them.

In every case let the body be formed, till the judgment begins to

appear: then is the time for cultivation.

All this would seem very well, said I, if I did not see one

inconvenience, very prejudicial to the advantages you promise yourself

from this method; and this is, that children, thus left to themselves,

will get many bad habits, which can be prevented only by teaching them

good ones. You may see such children readily contract all the bad

practices they perceive in others, because such examples are easily

followed, and never imitate the good ones, which would cost them more

trouble. Accustomed to have every thing, and to do as they please on

every occasion, they become mutinous, obstinate and intractable.----

But, interrupted Mr. Wolmar, it appears to me that you have remarked

the contrary in ours, and that this remark has given rise to this

conversation. I must confess, answered I, this is the very thing which

surprizes me. What can she have done to make them so tractable? What

method hath she taken to bring it about? What has she substituted

instead of the yoke of discipline? A yoke much more inflexible,

returned he immediately, that of necessity: but, in giving you an

account of her conduct, you will be better able to comprehend her

views. He then engaged Eloisa to explain her method of education;

which, after a short pause, she did in the following manner.

“Happy, my dear friend, are those who are well-born! I lay not so

great a stress as Mr. Wolmar does on my own endeavours. I doubt much,

notwithstanding his maxims, that a good man can ever be made out of a

child of a bad disposition and character. Convinced, nevertheless, of

the excellence of his method, I endeavoured to regulate my conduct, in

the government of my family, in every respect agreeable to him. My

first hope is, that I shall never have a child of a vicious

disposition; my second, that I shall be able to educate those God has

given me, under the direction of their father, in such a manner, that

they may one day have the happiness of possessing his virtues. To this

end I have endeavoured to adopt his rules by giving them a principle

less philosophical, and more agreeable to maternal affection; namely

to make my children happy. This was the first prayer of my heart after

I was a mother, and all the business of my life is to effect it. From

the first time I held my eldest son in my arms, I have reflected that

the state of infancy is almost a fourth part of the longest life; that

men seldom pass through the other three fourths; and that it is a

piece of cruel prudence to make that first part uneasy, in order to

secure the happiness of the rest, which may never come. I reflected,

that during the weakness of infancy, nature had oppressed children in

so many different ways, that it would be barbarous to add to that

oppression the empire of our caprices, by depriving them of a liberty

so very much confined, and which they were so little capable of

abusing. I resolved, therefore, to lay mine under as little constraint

as possible; to leave them to the free exertion of all their little

powers; and to suppress in them none of the emotions of nature. By

these means I have already gained two great advantages; the one, that

of preventing their opening minds from knowing any thing of

falsehood, vanity, anger, envy, and in a word of all those vices which

are the consequences of subjection, and which one is obliged to have

recourse to, when we would have children do what nature does not

teach: the other is, that they are more at liberty to grow and gather

strength, by the continual exercise which instinct directs them to.

Accustomed, like the children of peasants, to expose themselves to the

heat and cold, they grow as hardy; are equally capable of bearing the

inclemencies of the weather; and become more robust as living more at

their ease. This is the way to provide against the age of maturity,

and the accidents of humanity. I have already told you, that I dislike

that destructive pusillanimity, which, by dint of solicitude and care,

enervates a child, torments it by constant restraint, confines it by a

thousand vain precautions, and, in short, exposes it during its whole

life to those inevitable dangers it is thus protected from but for a

moment; and thus, in order to avoid catching a few colds while

children, men lay up for themselves consumptions, pleurisies, and a

world of other diseases.

What makes children, left thus to themselves, acquire the ill habits

you speak of, is that, not contented with their own liberty, they

endeavour to command others; which is owing to the absurd indulgence

of too many fond mothers, who are to be pleased only by indulging all

the fantastical desires of their children. I flatter myself, my

friend, that you have seen in mine nothing like the desire of command

and authority, even over the lowest domestic; and that you have seen

me countenance as little the false complaisance and ceremony used to

them. It is in this point, that I think I have taken a new and more

certain method to make my children at once free, easy, obliging and

tractable and that on a principle the most simple in the world, which

is, by convincing them they are but children.

To consider the state of infancy in itself, is there a being in the

universe more helpless or miserable; that lies more at the mercy of

every thing about it; that has more need of pity and protection, than

an infant? Does it not seem, that, on this account, the first noise

which nature directs it to make is that of crying and complaint? Does

it not seem, that nature gives it an affecting and tender appearance,

in order to engage every one who approaches it, to assist its

weakness, and relieve its wants? What, therefore, can be more

offensive, or contrary to order, than to see a child pert and

imperious, commanding every one about him, and assuming impudently the

tone of a master over those who, should they abandon him, would leave

him to perish? Or can any thing be more absurd than to see parents

approve such behaviour, and encourage their children to tyrannise over

their nurses, till they are big enough to tyrannise over the parents

themselves?

As to my part, I have spared no pains to prevent my son’s acquiring

the dangerous idea of command and servitude, and have never given him

room to think himself attended more out of duty than pity. This point

is, perhaps, the most difficult and important in education; nor can I

well explain it, without entering into all those precautions which I

have been obliged to take, to suppress in him that instinctive

knowledge, which is so ready to distinguish the mercenary service of

domestics from the tenderness of maternal solicitude.

One of my principal methods has been, as I have just observed, to

convince him of the impossibility of his subsisting at his age,

without our assistance. After which I had no great difficulty to shew

him, that, in receiving assistance from others, we lay ourselves under

obligations to them, and are in a state of dependence; and that the

servants have a real superiority over him, because he cannot do

without them, while he, on the contrary, can do them no service: so

that instead of being vain of their attendance, he looks upon it with

a sort of humiliation, as a mark of his weakness, and ardently wishes

for the time, when he shall be big and strong enough to have the

honour of serving himself.”

These notions, I said, would be difficult to establish in families,

where the father and mother themselves are waited on like children;

but in this, where every person has some employment allotted him, even

from the master and mistress to the lowest domestic; where the

intercourse between them apparently consists only of reciprocal

services, I do not think it impossible: but I am at a loss to conceive

how children, accustomed to have their real wants so readily

satisfied, can be prevented from expecting the same gratification of

their imaginary wants or humours; or how it is that they do not

sometimes suffer from the humour of a servant, who may treat their

real wants as imaginary ones.

“Oh, my friend, replied Mrs. Wolmar, an ignorant woman may frighten

herself at any thing, or nothing. But the real wants of children, as

well as grown persons, are very few; we ought rather to regard the

duration of our ease than the gratifications of a single moment. Do

you think, that a child, who lies under no restraint, can suffer so

much from the humour of a governess, under the eye of its mother, as

to hurt it? You imagine inconveniencies, which arise from vices

already contracted, without reflecting that my care has been to

prevent such vices from being contracted at all. Women naturally love

children; and no misunderstanding would arise between them, except

from the desire of one to subject the other to their caprices. Now

that cannot happen here, neither on the part of the child, of whom

nothing is required, nor on that of the governess, whom the child has

no notion of commanding. I have in this acted directly contrary to

other mothers, who in appearance would have their children obey the

domestics, and in reality require the servants to obey the children:

here neither of them command nor obey; but the child never meets with

more complaisance, from any person, than he shews for them. Hence,

perceiving that he has no authority over the people about him, he

becomes tractable and obliging; in seeking to gain the esteem of

others, he contracts an affection for them in turn: this is the

infallible effect of self-love; and from this reciprocal affection,

arising from the notion of equality, naturally result those virtues,

which are constantly preached to children, without any effect.

I have thought, that the most essential part in the education of

children, and which is seldom regarded in the best families, is to

make them sensible of their inability, weakness and dependence, and,

as my husband called it, the heavy yoke of that necessity which nature

has imposed on our species; and that, not only in order to shew them

how much is done to alleviate the burthen of that yoke, but especially

to instruct them betimes in what rank providence has placed them, that

they may not presume too far above themselves, or be ignorant of the

reciprocal duties of humanity.

Young people, who from their cradle have been brought up in ease and

effeminacy, who have been caressed by every one, indulged in all their

caprices, and have been used to obtain easily every thing they

desired; enter upon the world with many impertinent prejudices, of

which they are generally cured by frequent mortifications, affronts

and chagrin. Now I would willingly spare my children this second kind

of education, by giving them, at first, a just notion of things. I had

indeed once-resolved to indulge my eldest son in every thing he

wanted, from a persuasion that the first impulses of nature must be

good and salutary: but I was not long in discovering, that children,

conceiving from such treatment that they have a right to be obeyed,

depart from a state of nature almost as soon as born; contracting our

vices from our example, and theirs by our indiscretion. I saw, that if

I indulged him in all his humours, they would only increase by such

indulgence; that it was necessary to stop at some point, and that

contradiction would be but the more mortifying, as he should be less

accustomed to it: but that it might be less painful to him, I began to

use him to it by degrees; and in order to prevent his tears and

lamentations, I made every denial irrecoverable. It is true, I

contradict him as little as possible, and never without due

consideration. Whatever is given or permitted him, is done

unconditionally and at the first instance; and in this we are

indulgent enough: but he never gets any thing by importunity, neither

his tears nor intreaties being of any effect. Of this he is now so

well convinced, that he makes no use of them; he goes his way on the

first word, and frets himself no more at seeing a box of sweetmeats

taken away from him, than at seeing a bird fly away, which he would be

glad to catch; there appearing to him the same impossibility of having

the one as the other; and so far from beating the chairs and tables,

that he dares not lift his hand against those who oppose him. In every

thing that displeases him, he feels the weight of necessity, the

effect of his own weakness, but never----excuse me a moment, says she,

seeing I was going to reply; I foresee your objection and am coming to

it immediately.

The great cause of the ill humour of children is the care which is

taken either to quiet or to aggravate them. They will sometimes cry

for an hour, for no other reason in the world than because they

perceive we would not have them. So long as we take notice of their

crying, so long have they a reason for continuing to cry; but they

will soon give over of themselves, when they see no notice is taken of

them: for, old or young, nobody loves to throw away his trouble. This

is exactly the case with my eldest boy, who was once the most peeviest

little bawler, stunning the whole house with his cries; whereas now

you can hardly hear there is a child in the house. He cries, indeed,

when he is in pain; but then it is the voice of nature, which should

never be restrained; and he is again hushed as soon as ever the pain

is over. For this reason I pay great attention to his tears, as I am

certain he never sheds them for nothing: and hence I have gained the

advantage of being certain when he is in pain and when not; when he is

well and when sick; an advantage which is lost with those who cry out

of mere humour, and only in order to be appeased. I must confess,

however, that this management is not to be expected from nurses and

governesses: for, as nothing is more tiresome than to hear a child

cry, and as these good women think of nothing but the time present,

they do not foresee, that by quieting it to day, it will cry the more

tomorrow. But what is still worse, this indulgence produces an

obstinacy which is of more consequence as the child grows up. The very

cause that makes it a squawler at three years of age, will make it

stubborn and refractory at twelve, quarrelsome at twenty, imperious

and insolent at thirty, and insupportable all its life.

I come now to your objection, added she, smiling. In every indulgence

granted to children, they can easily see our desire to please them,

and therefore they should be taught to suppose we have reason for

refusing or complying with their requests. This is another advantage

gained by making use of authority, rather than persuasion, on every

necessary occasion. For, as it is impossible they can always be blind

to our motives, it is natural for them to imagine that we have some

reason for contradicting them, of which they are ignorant. On the

contrary, when we have once submitted to their judgment, they will

pretend to judge of every thing; and thus become cunning, deceitful,

fruitful in shifts and chicanery, endeavouring to silence those who

are weak enough to argue with them: for, when one is obliged to give

them an account of things above their comprehension, they attribute

the most prudent conduct to caprice, because they are incapable of

understanding it. In a word, the only way to render children docile

and capable of reasoning, is not to reason with them at all; but to

convince them, that it is above their childish capacities; for they

will always suppose the argument in their favour, unless you can give

them good cause to think otherwise. They know very well that we are

unwilling to displease them, when they are certain of our affection;

and children are seldom mistaken in this particular: therefore, if I

deny any thing to my children, I never reason with them; I never tell

them why I do so or so; but I endeavour, as much as possible, that

they should find it out; and that even after the affair is over. By

these means they are accustomed to think that I never deny them any

thing without a sufficient reason, though they cannot always see it.

On the same principle it is, that I never suffer my children to join

in the conversation of grown persons, or foolishly imagine themselves

upon an equality with them, because they are permitted to prattle. I

would have them give a short and modest answer, when they are spoke

to, but never to speak of their own head, or ask impertinent questions

of persons so much older than themselves, to whom they ought to shew

more respect.”

These, interrupted I, are very rigid rules, for so indulgent a mother

as Eloisa. Pythagoras himself was not more severe with his disciples.

You are not only afraid to treat them like men, but seem to be fearful

lest they should too soon cease to be children. By what means can they

acquire knowledge more certain and agreeably, than by asking questions

of those who know better than themselves? What would the Parisian

ladies think of your maxims, whose children are never thought to

prattle too much or too long: they judge of their future

understanding, by the nonsense and impertinence they utter when young?

That may not be amiss, Mr. Wolmar will tell me, in a country where the

merit of the people lies in chattering, and a man has no business to

think, if he can but talk. But I cannot understand how Eloisa, who is

so desirous of making the lives of her children happy, can reconcile

that happiness with so much restraint; nor amidst so much confinement,

what becomes of the liberty with which she pretends to indulge them.

“What, says she, with impatience, do we restrain their liberty, by

preventing them from trespassing on ours? And cannot they be happy,

truly, without a whole company’s sitting silent to admire their

puerilities? To prevent the growth of their vanity is a surer means to

effect their happiness: for the vanity of mankind is the source of

their greatest misfortunes, and there is no person so great or so

admired, whose vanity has not given him much more pain than pleasure.

[80]

What can a child think of himself, when he sees a circle of sensible

people listening to, admiring, and waiting impatiently for, his wit,

and breaking out in raptures at every impertinent expression? Such

false applause is enough to turn the heart of a grown person; judge

then what effect it must have upon that of a child. It is with the

prattle of children, as with the predictions in the Almanac. It would

be strange, if amidst such a number of idle words, chance did not now

and then jumble some of them into sense. Imagine the effect which such

flattering exclamations must have on a simple mother, already too much

flattered by her own heart. Think not, however that I am proof against

this error, because I expose it. No, I see the fault, and yet am

guilty of it. But, if I sometimes admire the repartees of my son, I do

it at least in secret. He will not learn to become a vain prater, by

hearing me applaud him; nor will flatterers have the pleasure, in

making me repeat them, of laughing at any weakness.

I remember one day, having company, I went out to give some necessary

orders, and on my return found four or five great blockheads busy at

play with my boy; they came immediately to tell me, with great

rapture, the many pretty things he had been saying to them, and with

which they seemed quite charmed. Gentlemen, said I, coldly, I doubt

not but you know how to make puppets say very fine things; but I hope

my children will one day be men, when they will be able to act and

talk of themselves; I shall then be always glad to hear what they have

said and done well. Seeing this manner of paying their court did not

take, they since play with my children, but not as with Punchinello;

and to say the truth, they are evidently better, since they have been

less admired.

As to their asking questions, I do not prohibit it indiscriminately. I

am the first to tell them to ask, softly, of their father or me, what

they desire to know. But I do not permit them to break in upon a

serious conversation, to trouble every body with the first piece of

impertinence that comes into their heads. The art of asking questions

is not quite so easy as may be imagined. It is rather that of a

master, than of a scholar. The wise know and enquire, says the Indian

proverb, but the ignorant know not even what to enquire after. For

want of such previous instruction, children, when at liberty to ask

questions as they please, never ask any but such as are frivolous and

answer no purpose, or such difficult ones whose solution is beyond

their comprehension. Thus, generally speaking, they learn more by the

questions which are asked of them, than from those which they ask of

others.

But were this method, of permitting them to ask questions, as useful

as it is pretended to be, is not the first and most important science

to them, that of being modest and discreet? and is there any other

that should be preferred to this? Of what use then is an unlimited

freedom of speech to children, before the age at which it is proper

for them to speak? Or the right of impertinently obliging persons to

answer their childish questions? These little chattering querists ask

questions, not so much for the sake of instruction, as to engage one’s

notice. This indulgence, therefore, is not so much the way to instruct

them, as to render them conceited and vain; an inconvenience much

greater, in my opinion, than the advantage they gain by it: for

ignorance will by degrees diminish, but vanity will always increase.

The worst that can happen from too long a reserve, will be, that my

son, when he comes to years of discretion, will be less fluent in

speech, and may want that volubility of tongue, and multiplicity of

words, which he might otherwise have acquired: but when we consider

how much the custom of passing away life in idle prattle, impoverishes

the understanding, this happy sterility of words appears rather an

advantage than otherwise. Shall the organ of truth, the most worthy

organ of man, the only one whose use distinguishes him from the

brutes, shall this be prostituted to no better purposes than those,

which are answered as well by the inarticulate sounds of other

animals? He degrades himself even below them, when he speaks and says

nothing; a man should preserve his dignity, as such, even in his

lightest amusements. If it be thought polite to stun the company with

idle prate, I think it a much greater instance of true politeness to

let others speak before us; to pay a greater deference to what is

said, than to what we say ourselves; and to let them see we respect

them too much, to think they can be entertained by our nonsense. The

good opinion of the world, that which makes us courted and caressed by

others, is not obtained so much by displaying our own talents, as by

giving others an opportunity of displaying theirs, and by placing our

own modesty as a foil to their vanity. You need not be afraid that a

man of sense, who is silent only from reserve and discretion, should

ever be taken for a fool. It is impossible in any country whatever,

that a man should be characterised by what he has not said, or that he

should be despised for being silent.

On the contrary, it may be generally observed, that people of few

words impose silence on others who pay an extraordinary attention to

what they say, which gives them every advantage of conversation. It is

so difficult for the most sensible man to retain his presence of mind,

during the hurry of a long discourse; so seldom that something does

not escape him, that he afterwards repents of, that it is no wonder if

he chuses to suppress what is pertinent, to avoid the risk of talking

nonsense.

But there is a great difference between six years of age and twenty;

my son will not be always a child, and in proportion as his

understanding ripens, his father designs it shall be exercised. As to

my part, my task does not extend so far. I may nurse children, but I

have not the presumption to think of making them men. I hope, says

she, looking at her husband, this will be the employment of more able

heads. I am a woman and a mother, and know my place and my duty; and

hence, I say again, it is not my duty to educate my sons, but to

prepare them for being educated.

Nor do I any thing more in this than pursue the system of Mr. Wolmar,

in every particular; which, the farther I proceed, the more reason I

find to pronounce excellent and just. Observe my children,

particularly the eldest; have you ever seen children more happy, more

chearful, or less troublesome? You see them jump, and laugh, and run

about all day, without incommoding any one. What pleasure, what

independence, is their age capable of, which they do not enjoy, or

which they abuse? They are under as little restraint in my presence,

as when I am absent. On the contrary, they seem always at more liberty

under the eye of their mother, than elsewhere; and, though I am the

author of all the severity they undergo, they find me always more

indulgent than any body else: for I cannot support the thought of

their not loving me better than any other person in the world. The

only rules imposed on them in our company, are those of liberty

itself, viz they must lay the company under no greater restraint, than

they themselves are under; they must not cry louder than we talk; and

as they are not obliged to concern themselves with us, they are not to

expect our notice. Now, if ever they trespass against such equitable

rules as these, all their punishment is, to be immediately sent away;

and I make this a punishment, by contriving to render every other

place disagreeable to them. Setting this restriction aside, they are,

in a manner, quite unrestrained; we never oblige them to learn any

thing; never tire them with fruitless corrections; never reprimand

them for trifles; the only lessons which are given them being those of

practice. Every person in the house, having my directions, is so

discreet and careful in this business, that they leave me nothing to

wish for; and, if any defect should arise, my own assiduity would

easily repair it.

Yesterday, for example, the eldest boy, having taken a drum from his

brother, set him a crying. Fanny said nothing to him, at the time; but

about an hour after, when she saw him in the height of his amusement,

she in her turn took it from him, which set him a crying also. What,

said she, do you cry for? You took it just now, by force, from your

brother, and now I take it from you; what have you to complain of? Am

not I stronger than you? She then began to beat the drum, as if she

took pleasure in it. So far all went well, till sometime after, she

was going to give the drum to the younger, but I prevented her, as

this was not acting naturally, and might create envy between the

brothers. In losing the drum, the youngest submitted to the hard law

of necessity; the elder, in having it taken from him, was sensible of

his injustice: both knew their own weakness, and were in a moment

reconciled.”

A plan, so new, and so contrary to received opinions, at first

surprized me. By dint of explanation, however, they at length

represented it in an admirable light, and I was made sensible that the

path of nature is the best. The only inconvenience, which I find in

this method, and which appeared to me very great, was to neglect the

only faculty which children possess in perfection, and which is only

debilitated by their growing into years. Methinks, according to their

own system of education, that the weaker the understanding, the more

one ought to exercise and strengthen the memory, which is then so

proper to be exercised. It is that, said I, which ought to supply the

place of reason; it is enriched by judgment. [81] The mind becomes

heavy and dull by inaction. The seed takes no root in a soil badly

prepared, and it is a strange manner of preparing children to become

reasonable, by beginning to make them stupid. How! stupid! cried Mrs.

Wolmar immediately. Do you confound two qualities so different, and

almost contrary, as memory and judgment? As if an ill-digested and

unconnected lumber of things, in a weak head, did not do more harm

than good to the understanding. I confess, that, of all the faculties

of the human mind, the memory is the first which opens itself, and is

the most convenient to be cultivated in children: but which, in your

opinion, should be preferred, that which is most easy for them to

learn, or that which is most important for them to know? Consider the

use which is generally made of this aptitude, the eternal constraint

to which they are subject in order to display their memory, and then

compare its utility to what they are made to suffer. Why should a

child be compelled to study languages he will never talk, and that

even before he has learnt his own tongue? Why should he be forced

incessantly to make and repeat verses he does not understand, and

whose harmony all lies at the end of his fingers; or be perplexed to

death with circles and triangles, of which he has no idea; or why

burthened with an infinity of names of towns and rivers, which he

constantly mistakes, and learns anew every day? Is this to cultivate

the memory to the improvement of the understanding, or is all such

frivolous acquisition worth one of those many tears it costs him? Were

all this, however, merely useless, I should not so much complain of

it; but is it not pernicious to accustom a child to be satisfied with

mere words? Must not such a heap of crude and indigested terms and

notions be injurious to the formation of those primary ideas with

which the human understanding ought first to be furnished? And would

it not be better to have no memory at all, than to have it stuffed

with such a heap of literary lumber, to the exclusion of necessary

knowledge!

If nature has given to the brain of children that softness of texture,

which renders it proper to receive every impression, it is not fit for

us to imprint the names of sovereigns, dates, terms of art, and other

insignificant words of no meaning to them while young, nor of any use

to them as they grow old: but it is our duty to trace out betimes all

those ideas which are relative to the state and condition of humanity,

those which relate to their duty and happiness, that they may serve to

conduct them through life in a manner agreeable to their being and

faculties. The memory of a child may be exercised, without poring over

books. Every thing he sees, every thing he hears, catches his

attention, and is stored up in his memory: he keeps a journal of the

actions and conversation of men, and from every scene that presents

itself, deduces something to enrich his memory. It is in the choice of

objects, in the care to shew him such only as he ought to know, and to

hide from him those of which he ought to be ignorant, that the true

art of cultivating the memory consists.

You must not think, however, continued Eloisa, that we entirely

neglect that care on which you think so much depends. A mother, if she

is the least vigilant, holds in her hands the reins over the passions

of her children. There are ways and means to excite in them a desire

of instruction; and so far as they are compatible with the freedom of

the child, and tend not to sow in him the seeds of vice, I readily

employ them, without being chagrined if they are not attended with

success: for there is always time enough for knowledge, but not a

moment should be lost in forming the disposition. Mr. Wolmar lays,

indeed, so great a stress on the first dawnings of reason, that he

maintains, though his son should be totally ignorant at twelve years

old, he might know not a whit the less at fifteen; without considering

that nothing is less necessary than for a man to be a scholar, and

nothing more so than for him to be just and prudent. You know that our

eldest reads already tolerably well. I will tell you how he became

fond of it; I had formed a design to repeat to him, from time to time,

some fable out of la Fontaine, and had already begun, when he asked me

one day, seriously, if ravens could talk. I saw immediately the

difficulty of making him sensible of the difference between fable and

falsehood, and laying aside la Fontaine, got off as well as I could,

being from that moment convinced that fables were only proper for

grown persons, and that simple truth only should be repeated to

children. In the room of la Fontaine, therefore, I substituted a

collection of little interesting and instructive histories, taken

mostly from the bible; and, finding he grew attentive to these tales,

I composed others as entertaining as possible, and applicable to

present circumstances. These I wrote out fair, in a fine book

ornamented with prints, which I kept locked up, except at the times of

reading. I read also but seldom, and never long at a time, repeating

often the same story, and commenting a little, before I passed on to

another. When I observed him particularly intent, I pretended to

recollect some orders necessary to be given, and left the story

unfinished just in the most interesting part, laying the book down

negligently, and leaving it behind me. I was no sooner gone than he

would take it up, and go to his Fanny or somebody else, begging them

to read the remainder of the tale; but as nobody was at his command,

and every one had his instructions, he was frequently refused. One

would give him a flat denial, another had something else to do, a

third muttered it out very low and badly, and a fourth would leave it

in the middle, just as I had done before. When we saw him heartily

wearied out with so much dependence, somebody intimated to him, to

learn to read himself, and then he need not ask any body, but might

turn it over at pleasure. He was greatly delighted with the scheme;

but, where should he find any one obliging enough to instruct him?

This was a new difficulty, which we took care, however, not to make

too great. In spite of this precaution, he was tired out three or four

times; but of this I took no other notice, than to endeavour to make

my little histories the more amusing, which brought him again to the

charge with so much ardour, that though it is not six months since he

began to learn, he will be very soon able to read the whole

collection, without any assistance.

It is in this manner I endeavour to excite his zeal and inclination,

to attain such knowledge as requires application and patience; but

though he learns to read, he gets no such knowledge from books, for

there is no such in the books he reads, nor is the application to it

proper for children. I am desirous also of furnishing their heads with

ideas, and not with words; for which reason I never set them to get

any thing by heart.

Never! said I, interrupting her, that is saying a great deal. Surely

you have taught him his prayers and his catechism! There you are

mistaken, she replied. As to the article of prayers, I say mine, every

morning and evening, aloud in the nursery, which is sufficient to

teach them, without obliging them to learn. As to their catechism,

they know not what it is. What! Eloisa! your children never learn

their catechism! No, my friend, my children do not learn their

catechism. Indeed! said I, quite surprized, so pious a mother!----I

really do not comprehend you. Pray what is the reason they do not

learn it? The reason is, said she, that I would have them some time or

other believe it: I would have them be Christians. I understand you, I

replied; you would not have their faith consist in mere words; you

would have them believe, as well as know, the articles of their

religion; and you judge very prudently that it is impossible for a man

to believe what he does not understand. You are very difficult, said

Mr. Wolmar, smiling; pray, were you a Christian by chance? I

endeavour to be one, answered I, resolutely. I believe all that I

understand of the Christian religion, and respect the rest, without

rejecting it. Eloisa made me a sign of approbation, and we resumed the

former subject of conversation; when, after explaining herself on

several other subjects, and convincing me of her active and

indefatigable maternal zeal, she concluded by observing, that her

method exactly answered the two objects she proposed, namely, the

permitting the natural disposition and character of her children to

discover themselves, and empowering herself to study and examine it.

My children, continued she, lie under no manner of restraint, and yet

cannot abuse their liberty. Their disposition can neither be depraved

nor perverted; their bodies are left to grow, and their judgments to

ripen at ease and leisure: subjection debases not their minds nor does

flattery excite their self-love; they think themselves neither

powerful men nor enslaved animals, but children happy and free. To

guard them from vices, not in their nature, they have in my opinion, a

better preservative than lectures which they would not understand, or

of which they would soon be tired. This consists in the good behaviour

of those about them; in the good conversation they hear, which is so

natural to them all, that they stand in no need of instruction; it

consists in the peace and unity of which they are witnesses; in the

harmony which is constantly observed, and in the conduct and

conversation of every one around them. Nursed hitherto in natural

simplicity, whence should they derive those vices, of which they have

never seen the example? Whence those passions they have no opportunity

to feel, those prejudices which nothing they observe can impress? You

see they betray no bad inclination; they have adopted no erroneous

notions. Their ignorance is not opinionated, their desires are not

obstinate; their propensity to evil is prevented, nature is justified,

and every thing serves to convince me, that the faults we accuse her

of, are not those of nature but our own.

It is thus that, given up to the indulgence of their own inclinations,

without disguise or alteration, our children do not take an external

and artificial form, but preserve exactly that of their original

character. It is thus that character daily unfolds itself to

observation, and gives us an opportunity to study the workings of

nature, even to her most secret principles. Sure of never being

reprimanded or punished, they are ignorant of lying or concealing any

thing from us; and in whatever they say, whether before us or among

themselves, they discover, without restraint, whatever lies at the

bottom of their hearts. Being left at full liberty to prattle all day

long to each other, they are under no restraint before me. I never

check them, enjoin them to silence, or indeed pretend to take notice

of what they say, while they talk sometimes very blameably, though I

seem to know nothing of the matter. At the same time, however, I

listen to them with attention, and keep an exact account of all they

say and do; for these are the natural productions of the soil which we

are to cultivate. A naughty word in their mouths is a plant or seed

foreign to the soil, sown by the vagrant wind: should I cut it off by

a reprimand, it would not fail ere long to shoot forth again. Instead

of that, therefore, I look carefully to find its root, and pluck it

up. I am only, said she, smiling, the servant of the gardener; I only

weed the garden, by taking away the vicious plants: it is for him to

cultivate the good ones.

It must be confessed also that with all the pains I may take, I ought

to be well seconded to succeed, and that such success depends on a

concurrence of circumstances, which is perhaps to be met with no where

but here. The knowledge and discretion of a sensible father are

required, to distinguish and point out in the midst of established

prejudices, the true art of governing children from the time of their

birth; his patience is required to carry it into execution, without

ever contradicting his precepts by his practice; it is necessary that

one’s children should be happy in their birth, and that nature should

have made them amiable; it is necessary to have none but sensible and

well disposed servants about one, who will not fail to enter into the

design of their matter. One brutal or servile domestic would be enough

to spoil all. In short, when one thinks how many adventitious

circumstances may injure the best designs, and spoil the best-

concerted projects, one ought to be thankful to Providence for every

thing that succeeds, and to confess that wisdom depends greatly on

good fortune. Say rather, I replied, that good fortune depends on

prudence. Don’t you see that the concurrence of circumstances, on

which you felicitate yourself, is your own doing, and that every one

who approaches you is, in a manner, compelled to resemble you? O ye

mothers of families! when you complain that your views, your

endeavours, are not seconded, how little do you know your own power!

Be but what you ought, and you will surmount all obstacles; you will

oblige every one about you to discharge their duty, if you but

discharge yours. Are not your rights those of nature? In spite of the

maxims or practice of vice, these will be always respected by the

human heart. Do you but aspire to be women and mothers, and the most

gentle empire on earth will be also the most respectable.

In the close of our conversation Eloisa remarked that her task was

become much easier since the arrival of Harriot. It is certain, said

she, I should have had less trouble if I would have excited a spirit

of emulation between the brothers. But this step appeared to me too

dangerous; I chose, therefore, rather to take more pains, and to run

less risk. Harriot has made up for this; for, being of a different

sex, their elder, fondly beloved by both, and very sensible for her

age, I make a kind of governess of her, and with the more success, as

her lessons are less suspected to be such.

As to herself, her education falls under my care; but the principles

on which I proceed are so different, as to deserve particular

explanation. Thus much, at least, I can say of her already, that it

will be difficult to improve on the talents nature has given her, and

that her merit is equal to her mother’s, if her mother could possible

have an equal.

We now, my Lord, expect you every day here, so that this should be my

last letter. But I understand the reason of your stay with the army,

and tremble for the consequence. Eloisa is no less uneasy, and desires

you will oftener let her hear from you; conjuring you, at the same

time, to think how much you endanger the peace of your friends, by

exposing your person. For my part, I have nothing to say to you on

this subject. Discharge your duty; the advice of pusillanimity is as

foreign from my heart as from yours. I know too well, my dear B----,

the only catastrophe worthy of you, is, to lose your life in the

service and for the honour of your country; but ought you not to give

some account of your days to him, who has preserved his only for your

sake?