_The following Dialogue was originally intended as a Preface to_
Eloisa;_ but its form and length permitting me to prefix to that Work
only a few extracts from it, I now publish it entire, in hopes that it
will be found to contain some useful hints concerning Romances in
general. Besides, I thought it proper to wait till the Book had taken
its chance, before I discussed its inconveniences and advantages,
being unwilling either to injure the Bookseller, or supplicate the
indulgence of the Public._
The following Account of this Work is taken from the _Journal des
Sçavans_ for June 1761, Printed at Paris.
This work is a strange, but memorable monument of the eloquence of the
passions, the charms of virtue, and the force of imagination.
Unfeeling spirits may, as long as they please, remark and exaggerate
the faults of which the author does not scruple to accuse himself in
his two most singular prefaces; they may arraign him for frequent want
of taste, call his stile unequal and incorrect, his sentiments too
refined, and his paradoxes inexplicable; they may complain that his
notes are ludicrous and misplaced, as they frequently break in upon a
tender sentiment, a pathetic situation, and that in general they are
nothing more than an anticipated parody on the objections, whether
just or groundless, which the author seems to expect from certain
critics; they may even attempt to undermine the foundation of the
work, and accuse the author of cold prolixity in his description of
the peace and happiness of Clarens, after the violent agitation of
those grand movements by which it is preceded; they may be shocked
with the useless and abortive passion of Clara for St. Preux, the
negotiation begun concerning their marriage, the impenetrable,
obscure, and consequently uninteresting amours of Lord B---- in Italy;
they may think the author extravagant in the general choice of his
events; but whatever may be the present and future judgment of the
public,
_Ut cumque ferent ea facta minores,
Vincet Amor._
What heart can be unaffected with the dangers, the misfortunes, the
weakness, and the virtues of Eloisa? Who can possibly be insensible to
the ardor of her lover, the vigilant, active, and impatient friendship
of Clara, the noble and encouraging protection of Lord B----, the
unshaken wisdom of Wolmar, and all these characters moved by the most
extraordinary springs? Who can resist those torrents of pathetic
language which penetrate the inmost soul, and so tyrannically command
our tears; those master-strokes of simplicity which open the recesses
of the human heart, and excite the pleasure of weeping sensibility?
How can we help admiring his talent of giving life to every object, of
transporting the reader in the middle of the scene, and engaging him
as a party in every action, by the happy choice of incidents, and if I
may be allowed the expression, by the use of words the most identical
to the things intended to be described? Can there be a reader who is
not enamoured of the soul of Eloisa? Can there be a reader who does
not feel the loss of her as if she were his own, and who does not join
in the general mourning at Clarens, and the despair of Clara on the
death of her friend?
A common author would have satisfied himself with giving us, once for
all, a beautiful picture of his heroine, in which he would have shewn
us, in one general point of view, the accomplishment of every duty,
and the expansion of every sentiment, by loading our imagination with
all the particular applications of this virtuous principle to every
single event. Mr. Rousseau, on the contrary, in one continued adion,
always before our eyes, displays his Eloisa fulfilling without study,
and without the least confusion, all the duties of a wife, a friend, a
daughter, a mother, and mistress of a family; so that we behold her
constantly employed in these several situations, without confounding
the rights of any of them; without favouring one at the expense of the
other. He does not relate her actions, but makes her perform them in
our sight, and by that means renders those things real, which in
recital would appear hyperbolical, romantic, and incredible.
In the great number of different pictures which the author has here
collected, whether he paints the respectable simplicity of Valesian
manners, the brilliant corruption of great cities, the restricted
impatience of expecting love, the wildness of despair, or the pathetic
regret of a generous passion after an extraordinary sacrifice;
whether, in the interesting scene of Meillerie, he displays all the
eloquence of genius, and every tender emotion of the heart; whether
excited by the plausibility of logic he collects his whole strength
to destroy the sophisms of false honour; whether Virtue herself
thunders with her respectable and sublime voice against the crime of
suicide justified by eloquence; we always find his manner properly
adapted both to the subject and to the speaker, which renders the
illusion compleat.
Almost every trial which the soul can experience is represented either
in the principal or accessory situations, or in the reflections. In
short, the human soul is here penetrated and displayed in every point
of view; so that every sensible heart may be certain of beholding
itself in this mirror.
The nature and form of this work will not allow of a regular extract.
It consists entirely of a gradual unfolding of ideas and sensations
which admit of no analysis, and which can be pursued only in the work
itself. The author in the catastrophe imitates the happy artifice of
the artist who painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia. Eloisa dies; they
weep round her ashes. The author paints this universal grief; he
paints the silent but sincere affliction of her husband, the affecting
stupor of the father, the extravagant sorrow of her friend: and now
the despair of her lover remains to be described; but that was
inexpressible: the author wisely draws a veil before him, and leaves
the rest to our imagination.
The picture of Eloisa dying can be compared only to the scene of
Alcestes expiring, in Euripides.
Upon the whole, it were needless to say how much this work deserves to
be read, since the eagerness of the Public hath already sufficiently
prevented us. We cannot better express our approbation of a
performance in which even vice itself breathes an air of virtue, than
in the words of Eloisa, who in speaking of Lord B---- says, was there
ever a man without faults who possessed great virtues? And in like
manner we ask, whether there was ever a work without blemish which
might boast of such penetrating and sublime beauties?