R. By nature _belles_, but corrupted by your institutions.
N. And so we shall behold, in the title-page of a book of love-
epistles, by _J.J. Rousseau, Citizen of Geneva!_
R. No, not _Citizen of Geneva_. I shall not profane the name of my
country. I never prefix it, but to those writings by which I think it
will not be dishonoured.
N. Your own name is no dishonourable one, and you have some reputation
to lose. This mean and weak performance will do you no service. I wish
it was in my power to dissuade you; but if you are determined to
proceed, I approve of your doing it boldly and with a good grace. At
least this will be in character. But a propos; do you intend to prefix
your motto?
R. My bookseller asked me the same question, and I thought it so
humorous that I promised to give him the credit of it. No, Sir, I
shall not prefix my motto to this book; nevertheless, I am now less
inclined to relinquish it than ever. Remember that I thought of
publishing those letters at the very time when I wrote against the
theatres, and that a desire of excusing one of my writings, has not
made me disguise truth in the other. I have accused myself before
hand, perhaps, with more severity than any other person will accuse
me. He who prefers truth to fame, may hope to prefer it to life
itself. You say that we ought to be confident: I doubt whether that be
possible to man, but it is not impossible to act with invariable
truth. This I will endeavour to do.
N. Why then, when I ask whether you are the author of these letters,
do you evade the question?
R. I will not lie, even in that case.
N. But you refuse to speak the truth.
R. It is doing honour to truth to keep it secret. You would have less
difficulty with one who made no scruple of a lie. Besides, you know
men of taste are never mistaken in the pen of an author. How can you
ask a question which it is your business to resolve?
N. I have no doubt with regard to some of the letters; they are
certainly yours: but in others you are quite invisible, and I much
doubt the possibility of disguise in this case. Nature, who does not
fear being known, frequently changes her appearance; but art is often
discovered, by attempting to be too natural. These epistles abound
with faults, which the most arrant scribbler would have avoided.
Declamation, repetitions, contradictions, &c. In short, it is
impossible that a man, who can write better, could ever resolve to
write so ill. What man in his senses would have made that foolish Lord
B---- advance such a shocking proposal to Eloisa? Or what author would
not have corrected the ridiculous behaviour of his young hero, who
though positively resolved to die, takes good care to apprize all the
world of his intention, and finds himself at last in perfect health?
Would not any writer have known that he ought to support his
characters with accuracy, and vary his stile accordingly, and he would
then infallibly have excelled even nature herself?
I have observed that in a very intimate society, both stile and
characters are extremely similar, and that when two souls are closely
united, their thoughts, words, and actions will be nearly the same.
This Eloisa, as she is represented, ought to be an absolute
enchantress; all who approach her, ought immediately to resemble her;
all her friends should speak one language; but these effects are much
easier felt than imagined: and even if it were possible to express
them, it would be imprudent to attempt it. An author must be governed
by the conceptions of the multitude, and therefore all refinement is
improper. This is the touch-stone of truth, and in this it is that a
judicious eye will discover real nature.