Here it was that I plainly discovered; in the purity of the air, the

true cause of that returning tranquility of soul, to which I had been

so long a stranger. This impression is general, though not universally

observed. Upon the tops of mountains, the air being subtle and pure,

we respire with greater freedom, our bodies are more active, our minds

more serene, our pleasures less ardent, and our passions much more

moderate. Our meditations acquire a degree of sublimity from the

grandeur of the objects around us. It seems as if, being lifted above

all human society, we had left every low, terrestrial, sentiment

behind; and that as we approach the aethereal regions, the soul

imbibes something of their eternal purity. One is grave without being

melancholy, peaceful, but not indolent, pensive yet contented: our

desires lose their painful violence, and leave only a gentle emotion

in our hearts. Thus the passions which in the lower world are man’s

greatest torment, in happier climates contribute to his felicity. I

doubt much whether any violent agitation, or vapours of the mind,

could hold out against such a situation, and I am surprized that a

bath of the reviving and wholesome air of the mountains is not

frequently prescribed both by physic and morality.

_Quì non palazzi, non teatro o loggia,

Ma’n lor vece un’ abete, un faggio, un pino

Trà l’erba verde e’l bel monte vicino

Levan di terra al Ciel nostr’ intelletto._

Imagine to yourself all these united impressions; the amazing variety,

magnitude and beauty of a thousand stupendous objects; the pleasure of

gazing at an entire new scene, strange birds, unknown plants, another

nature, and a new world. To these even the subtilty of the air is

advantageous; it enlivens their natural colours, renders every object

more distinct, and brings it nearer to the eye. In short, there is a

kind of supernatural beauty in these mountainous prospects which

charms both the senses and the mind into a forgetfulness of one’s self

and of every thing in the world.

I could have spent the whole time in contemplating these magnificent

landskips, if I had not found still greater pleasure in my

conversation with the inhabitants. In my observations you will find a

slight sketch of their manners, their simplicity, their equality of

soul, and of that peacefulness of mind, which renders them happy by an

exemption from pain, rather than by the enjoyment of pleasure. But

what I was unable to describe, and which is almost impossible to be

conceived, is their disinterested humanity, and hospitable zeal to

oblige every stranger whom chance or curiosity brings to visit them.

This I myself continually experienced, I who was entirely unknown, and

who was conducted from place to place only by a common guide. When, in

the evening, I arrived in any hamlet at the foot of a mountain, each

of the inhabitants was so eager to have me lodge at his house, that I

was always embarrassed which to accept; and he who obtained the

preference seemed so well pleased that, at first, I supposed his joy

to arise from a lucrative prospect. But I was amazed, after having

used the house like an inn, to find my host not only refuse to accept

the least gratuity, but offended that it was offered. I found it

universally the same. So that it was true hospitality, which, from its

unusual ardour, I had mistaken for avarice. So perfectly disinterested

are this people, that during eight days, it was not in my power to

leave one dollar among them. In short, how is it possible to spend

money in a country where the landlord will not be paid for his

provisions, nor the servant for his trouble, and where there are no

beggars to be found? Nevertheless, money is by no means abundant in

the upper Valais, and for that very reason the inhabitants are not in

want; for the necessaries of life are plentiful, yet nothing is sent

out of the country; they are not luxurious at home, nor is the peasant

less laborious. If ever they have more money they will grow poor? and

of this they are so sensible that they tread upon mines of gold which

they are determined never to open.

I was at first greatly surprized at the difference between the customs

and manners of these people and those of the lower Valais; for in the

road through that part of the country to Italy, travellers pay dearly

enough for their passage. An inhabitant of the place explained the

mystery. The strangers, says he, which pass through the lower Valais

are chiefly merchants, or people that travel in pursuit of gain; it is

but just that they should leave us a part of their profit; and that we

should treat them as they treat others; but here our travellers meet

with a different reception, because we are assured their journey must

have a disinterested motive: they visit us out of friendship, and

therefore we receive them as our friends. But indeed our hospitality

is not very expensive; we have but few visitors. No wonder, I replied,

that mankind should avoid a people, who live only to enjoy life, and

not to acquire wealth and excite envy. Happy, deservedly happy,

mortals! I am pleased to think that one must certainly resemble you in

some degree, in order to approve your manners and taste your

simplicity.

What I found particularly agreeable whilst I continued among them was

the natural ease and freedom of their behaviour. They went about their

business in the house, as if I had not been there; and it was in my

power to act as if I were the sole inhabitant. They are entirely

unacquainted with the impertinent vanity of _doing the honours of the

house_, as if to remind the stranger of his dependence. When I said

nothing, they concluded I was satisfied to live in their manner; but

the least hint was sufficient to make them comply with mine, without

any repugnance or astonishment. The only compliment which they made

me, when they heard that I was a Swiss, was that they looked upon me

as a brother, and I ought therefore to think myself at home. After

this, they took but little notice of me, not supposing that I could

doubt the sincerity of their offers, or refuse to accept them whenever

they could useful. The same simplicity subsists among themselves: when

the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between

them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are

seated at the same table with their master; the same liberty reigns in

the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the

state.

They never deprived me of my liberty, except when at table: indeed it

was always in my power to avoid the repast; but, being once seated, I

was obliged to sit late, and drink much. What a Swiss, and not drink!

so they would exclaim. For my own part, I confess, I am no enemy to

good wine, and that I have no dislike to a chearful glass; but I

dislike compulsion. I have observed that deceitful men are generally

sober, and that peculiar reserve at table frequently indicates a

duplicity of soul. A guileless heart is not afraid of the unguarded

eloquence and affectionate folly which commonly precede drunkenness;

but we ought always to avoid the excess. Yet even that was sometimes

impossible among these hearty Valaisians, their wine being strong, and

water absolutely excluded. Who could act the philosopher here, or be

offended with such honest people? In short, I drank to shew my

gratitude, and since they refused to take my money, I made them a

compliment of my reason.

They have another custom, not less embarrassing, which is practised

even in the houses of the magistrates themselves; I mean that of their

wives and daughters standing behind one’s chair, and waiting at table

like so many servants. This would be insupportable to the gallantry of

a Frenchman, especially as the women of this country are in general so

extremely handsome that one can hardly bear to be attended by the

maid. You may certainly believe them beautiful, since they appeared so

to me; for my eyes have been accustomed to Eloisa, and are therefore

extremely difficult to please.

As for me, who pay more regard to the manners of the people with whom

I reside, than to any rules of politeness, I received their services

in silence, and with a degree of gravity equal to that of Don Quixote

when he was with the Duchess. I could not however help smiling now

and then at the contrast between the rough old grey-beards at the

table, and the charming complexions of the fair attendant nymphs, in

whom a single word would excite a blush, which rendered their beauty

more glowing and conspicuous. Not that I could admire the enormous

compass of their necks, which resemble, in their dazzling whiteness

only, that perfect model which always formed in my imagination (for

though veiled, I have sometimes stolen a glance) that celebrated

marble which is supposed to excel in delicate proportion the most

perfect work of nature.

Be not surprized to find me so knowing in mysteries which you so

carefully conceal: it happens in spite of all your caution; one sense

instructs another. Notwithstanding the most jealous vigilance, there

will always remain some friendly interstice or other, through which

the sight performs the office of the touch. The curious, busy eye

insinuates itself with impunity under the flowers of a nosegay,

wanders beneath the spreading gauze, and conveys that elastic

resistance to the hand which it dares not experience.

_Parte appar deble mamme acerbe e crude,

Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta;

Invida, ma s’ agli occhi il varco chiude,

L’amoroso pensier gia non arresta._

I am also not quite satisfied with the dress of the Valaisian ladies:

their gowns are raised so very high behind, that they all appear round

shouldered; yet this, together with their little black coifs, and

other peculiarities of their dress, has a singular effect, and wants

neither simplicity nor elegance. I shall bring you one of their

compleat suits, which I dare say will fit you; it was made to the

finest shape in the whole country.

But whilst I traversed with delight these regions which are so little

known, and so deserving of admiration, where was my Eloisa? Was she

banished my memory? Forget my Eloisa! Forget my own soul! Is it

possible for me to be one moment of my life alone, who exist only

through her? O no! our souls are inseparable, and, by instinct, change

their situation together according to the prevailing state of mine.

When I am in sorrow, she takes refuge with yours, and seeks

consolation in the place where you are; as was the case the day I left

you. When I am happy, being incapable of enjoyment alone, they both

attend upon me, and our pleasure becomes mutual: thus it was during my

whole excursion. I did not take one step without you, nor admire a

single prospect without eagerly pointing its beauties to Eloisa. The

same tree spread its shadow over us both, and we constantly reclined

against the same flowery bank. Sometimes as we sat I gazed with you at

the wonderful scene before us, and sometimes, on my knees I gazed with

rapture on an object more worthy the contemplation of human

sensibility. If I came to a difficult pass, I saw you skip over it

with the activity of the bounding doe. When a torrent happened to

cross our path, I presumed to press you in my arms, walked slowly

through the water, and was always sorry when I reached the opposite

bank. Every thing in that peaceful solitude brought you to my

imagination; the pleasing awfulness of nature, the invariable serenity

of the air, the grateful simplicity of the people, their constant and

natural prudence, the unaffected modesty and innocence of the sex, and

every object that gave pleasure to the eye or to the heart, seemed

inseparably connected with the idea of Eloisa.

O divine maid! I often tenderly exclaimed, that we might spend our

days in there unfrequented mountains, unenvied and unknown! Why can I

not here collect my whole soul into thee alone, and become, in turn,

the universe to Eloisa! Thy charms would then receive the homage they

deserve; then would our hearts taste without interruption the

delicious fruit of the soft passion with which they are filled: the

years of our long elysium would pass away untold, and when the frigid

hand of age should have calmed our first transports, the constant

habit of thinking and acting from the same principle would beget a

lasting friendship no less tender than our love, whose vacant place

should be filled by the kindred sentiments which grew and were

nourished with it in our youth. Like this happy people, we would

practice every duty of humanity, we would unite in acts of

benevolence, and at last die with the satisfaction of not having lived

in vain.

Hark----it is the post. I will close my letter, and fly to receive

another from Eloisa. How my heart beats? Why was I roused from my

reverie? I was happy at least in idea. Heaven only knows what I am to

be in reality.

Letter XXIV. To Eloisa.

I sit down to give you an immediate answer to that article of your

letter concerning the stipend; thank God, it requires no reflection.

My sentiments, my Eloisa, on this subject, are these.

In what is called honour, there is a material distinction between that

which is founded on the opinion of the world, and that which is

derived from self esteem. The first is nothing but the loud voice of

foolish prejudice, which has no more stability than the wind; but the

basis of the latter is fixed in the eternal truth of morality. The

honour of the world may be of advantage with regard to fortune but as

it cannot reach the soul, it has no influence on real happiness. True

honour, on the contrary, is the very essence of felicity; for it is

that alone inspires the permanent interior satisfaction which

constitutes the happiness of a rational being. Let us, my Eloisa,

apply these principles to your question, and it will be soon resolved.

To become an instructor of philosophy, and like the fool in the fable,

receive money for teaching wisdom, will appear rather low in the eyes

of the world, and, I own, has something in it ridiculous enough. Yet,

as no man can subsist merely of himself, and as there can be nothing

wrong in eating the fruit of one’s labour, we will regard this opinion

of mankind as a piece of foolish prejudice, to which it would be

madness to sacrifice our happiness. I know you will not esteem me the

less on this account, nor shall I deserve more pity for living upon

the talents I have cultivated.

But, my Eloisa, there are other things to be considered. Let us leave

the multitude and look a little into ourselves. What shall I in

reality be to your father, in receiving from him a salary for

instructing his daughter? Am I not from that moment a mercenary, a

hireling, a servant? and do I not tacitly pledge my faith for his

security, like the meanest of his domestics? Now what has a father to

lose of greater value than his only daughter, even though she were not

an Eloisa? and what should the man do who had thus pledged his faith

and sold his service? Ought he to stifle the flame within his breast?

Ah! Eloisa, that you know to be impossible: or should he rather

indulge this passion, and wound, in the most sensible part, the man

who has an undoubted right to his fidelity? In this case I behold a

perfidious teacher, trampling under foot every sacred bond of society,

[9] a seducer, a domestic traitor, whom the law hath justly condemned

to die. I hope Eloisa understands me. I do not fear death, but the

ignominy of deserving it, and my own contempt.

When the letters of your name’s sake and Abelard fell into your hands,

you remember my opinion of the conduct of that priest. I always pitied

Eloisa; she had a heart made for love: but Abelard seemed to deserve

his fate, as he was a stranger both to love and virtue. Ought I then

to follow his example? What wretch dares preach that virtue which he

will not practise? Whosoever suffers himself to be thus blinded by his

passions, will soon find himself punished in a loathing for those very

sensations to which he sacrificed his honour. There can be no pleasure

in any enjoyment which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to

sink in our estimation the object of our love. Abstract the idea of

perfection, and our enthusiasm vanishes: take away our esteem, and

love is at an end. How is it possible for a woman to honour a man who

dishonours himself? and how can he adore the person who was weak

enough to abandon herself to a vile seducer? Mutual contempt therefore

is the consequence; their very passions will grow burthensome, and

they will have lost their honour without finding happiness.

But how different, my Eloisa, is it with two lovers of the same age,

influenced by the same passion, united by the same bonds, under no

particular engagements, and both in possession of their original

liberty. The most severe laws can inflict no other punishment, than

the natural consequences of their passion: their sole obligation is to

love eternally; and if there be in the world some unhappy climate

where men’s authority dares to break such sacred bonds, they are

surely punished by the crimes that must inevitably ensue.

These, my ever prudent and virtuous Eloisa, are many reasons; they are

indeed but a frigid commentary on those which you urged with so much

spirit and energy in one of your letters; but they are sufficient to

shew you how entirely I am of your opinion. You remember that I did

not persist in refusing your offer, and that notwithstanding the first

scruples of prejudice, being convinced that it was not inconsistent

with my honour, I consented to open the box. But in the present case,

my duty, my reason, my love, all speak too plainly to be

misunderstood. If I must chose between my honour and Eloisa, my heart

is prepared to resign her. Oh I love her too well to purchase her at

the price of my honour!

Letter XXV. From Eloisa.

You will easily believe, my dear friend, how extremely I was

entertained with the agreeable account of your late tour. The elegance

of the detail itself, would have engaged my esteem, even though its

author had been wholly a stranger; but its coming from you, was a

circumstance of additional recommendation. I could, however, find in

my heart to chide you for a certain part of it, which you will easily

guess, though I could scarce refrain from laughing at the ridiculous

finesse you made use of to shelter yourself under Tasso. Have you

never really perceived the wide difference that should be made between

a narration intended for the view of the public, and that little

sketch of particulars which is solely to be referred to the inspection

of your mistress. Or is love, with all its fears, doubts, jealousies,

and scruples, to have no more regard paid to it than the mere

decencies of good breeding are entitled to? Could you be at a moment’s

loss to conceive that the dry preciseness of an author must be

displeasing, where the passionate sentiments of inspiring tenderness

were expected? And could you deliberately resolve to disappoint my

expectations? But I fear I have already said too much on a subject

which perhaps had better been entirely passed over. Besides, the

contents of your last letter have so closely engaged my thoughts, that

I have had no leisure to attend to the particulars of the

former. Leaving then, my dear friend, the Valais to some future

opportunity, let us now fix our attention on what more immediately

concerns ourselves; we shall find sufficient matter of employment.

I very clearly foresaw what your sentiments would be, and indeed the

time we have known each other, had been spent to little purpose, if

now our conjectures were vague or uncertain. If virtue ever should

forsake us, be assured, it will not, cannot be in those instances,

which require resolution and resignation. [10] When the assault is

violent, the first step to be taken is, resistance; and we shall ever

triumph, I hope, so long as we are forewarned of our danger. A taste

of careless security is the most to be dreaded, and we may be taken by

sap, e’er we perceive that the citadel is attacked. The most fatal

circumstance of all, is the continuance of misfortunes; their very

duration makes them dangerous to a mind that might bear up against the

sharpest trials and most vigorous sudden onsets; it may be worn out by

the tedious pressure of inferior sufferings, and give way to the

length of those afflictions which have quite exhausted its

forbearance. This struggle, my dear friend, falls to our lot. We are

not called upon to signalize ourselves by deeds of heroism, or

renowned exploits; but we are bound to the more painful task of

supporting an indefatigable resistance, and enduring misfortunes

without the least relaxation.

I foresaw but too well the melancholy event. Our happiness is passed

away like a morning cloud, and our trials are beginning without the

least prospect of any alteration for the better. Every circumstance is

to me an aggravation of my distress, and what at other times would

have passed unheeded and unobserved, now serves but too plainly to

increase my dismay: my body sympathises with my mind in distressed

situation, the one is as languid and spiritless as the other is

alarmed and apprehensive. Involuntary tears are ever stealing down my

cheeks, without my being sensible of any immediate cause of sorrow. I

do not indeed foresee any very distressful events, but I perceive,

alas, too well, my fondest hopes blasted, my most sanguine

expectations continually disappointed, and what good purpose can it

serve to water the leaves, when the plant is decayed and withered at

the root.

I feel myself unable to support your absence; I feel, my dear friend,

that I can never live without you, and this is a fresh subject to me

of continual apprehensions. How often do I traverse the scenes which

were once the witness of our happy interviews; but, alas! you are no

where to be found. I constantly expect you at your usual time; but

time comes and goes without your return. Every object of my senses

presents a new monument, and every object, alas! reminds me that I

have lost you. Whatever your sufferings may be in other respects, you

are exempted however from this aggravation. Your heart alone is

sufficient to remind you of my unhappy absence. Oh, if you did but

know what endless pangs these fruitless expectations, there impatient

longings perpetually occasion, how they imbitter and increase the

torments I already feel, you would, without hesitation, prefer your

condition to mine.

If indeed I might give vent to my sad tale, and trust the tender

recital of my numberless woes to the kind bosom of a faithful friend,

I should in some sort be eased of my misfortunes. But even this relief

is denied me, except when I find an opportunity to pour a few tender

sighs into the compassionate bosom of my cousin: but in general I am

constrained to speak a language quite foreign to my heart, and to

assume an air of thoughtless gaiety, when I am ready to sink into the

grave.

_Sentirsi, Oh Dei, morir,

E non poter mai dir,

Morir mi Sento!_

A farther circumstance of distress, if any thing more distressful can

yet be added, is that my disorder is continually increasing. I have of

late thought so gloomily, that I seldom now think otherwise; and the

more anxiety I feel at the remembrance of our past pleasures, the more

eagerly do I indulge myself in the painful recollection. Tell me, my

dear, dear friend, if you can tell me by experience, how nearly allied

love is to this tender sorrow, and if disquiet and uneasiness itself

be not the cement of the warmest affections?

I have a thousand other things to say, but first I would fain know,

precisely where you are. Besides, this train of thinking has awakened

my passion, and indeed rendered me unfit for writing any more. Adieu,

my dear, and though I am obliged to lay down my pen, be assured, I can

never think of parting with you.

Billet.

As this comes to your hands by a waterman, an entire stranger to me, I

shall only say at present, that I have taken up my quarters at

_Meillerie_, on the opposite shore. I shall now have an opportunity of

seeing at least the dear place, which I dare not approach.

Letter XXVI. To Eloisa.

What a wonderful alteration has a short space of time produced in my

affairs! The thoughts of meeting, delightful as they were, are now too

much allayed with disquieting apprehensions. What should have been the

object of my hopes is now, alas! become the subject of my fears, and

the very spirit of discernment, which on most occasions is so useful,

now serves but to dismay, to disquiet and torment me. Ah, Eloisa! too

much sensibility, too much tenderness, proves the bitterest curse

instead of the most fruitful blessing: vexation and disappointment are

its certain consequences. The temperature of the air, the change of

the seasons, the brilliancy of the sun, or thickness of the fogs, are

so many moving springs to the unhappy possessor, and he becomes the

wanton sport of their arbitration: his thoughts, his satisfaction, his

happiness, depend on the blowing of the winds, and the different

points of east or west can throw him off his bias, or enliven his

expectations: swayed as he is by prejudices, and distracted by

passions, the sentiments of his heart find continual opposition from

the axioms of his head. Should he perchance square his conduct to the

undeniable rule of right, and set up truth for his standard, instead

of profit and convenience, he is sure to fall a martyr to the maxims

of his integrity; the world will join in the cry, and hunt him down as

a common enemy. But supposing this not the case, honesty and

uprightness, though exempted from persecution, are neither the

channels of honour, nor the road to riches; poverty and want are their

inseparable attendants; and man, by adhering to the one, necessarily

attaches himself to the inheritance of the other; and by this means he

becomes his own tormentor. He will search for supreme happiness,

without taking into the account the infirmities of his nature. Thus

his affections and his reason will be engaged in a perpetual warfare,

and unbounded ideas and desires must pave the way for endless

disappointments.

This situation, dismal as it is, is nevertheless the true one, in

which the hard fate of my worldly affairs, counteracted by the

ingenuous and liberal turn of my thoughts, have involved me, and which

is aggravated and increased by your father’s contempt and your own

milder sentiments, which are at once both the delight and disquiet of

my life. Had it not been for thee, thou fatal beauty, I could never

have experienced the insupportable contrast between the greatness of

my soul, and the low estate of my fortune. I should have lived

quietly, and died contented in a situation that would have been even

below notice. But to see you without being able to possess you; to

adore you, without raising myself from my obscurity; to live in the

same place, and yet be separated from each other, is a struggle, my

dearest Eloisa, to which I am utterly unequal. I can neither renounce

you, nor get the better of my cruel destiny; I can neither subdue my

desires, nor better my fortune.

But, as if this situation itself were not sufficiently tormenting, the

horrors of it are increased by the gloomy succession of ideas ever

present to my imagination. Perhaps too, this is heightened by the

nature of the place I live in; it is dark, it is dreadful; but then it

suits the habit of my soul; and a more pleasant prospect of nature

would reflect little comfort on the dreary view within me. A ridge of

barren rocks surrounds the coast, and my dwelling is still made more

dismal, by the uncomfortable face of winter. And yet, Eloisa, I am

sensible enough that if I were once forced to abandon you, I should

stand in need of no other abode, no other season.

While my mind is distracted with such continual agitations, my body

too is moving as it were in sympathy with those emotions. I run to and

fro and get upon the rocks, explore my whole district, and find every

thing as horrible without, as I experience it within. There is no

longer any verdure to be seen, the grass is yellow and withered, the

trees are stripped of their soilage, and the north-eastern blast heaps

snow and ice around me. In short, the whole face of nature appears as

decayed to my outward senses, as I myself from within am dead to hope

and joy.

Amidst this rocky coast, I have found out a solitary cleft from whence

I have a distinct view of the dear place you inhabit. You may easily

imagine how I have feasted on this discovery, and refreshed my sight

with so delightful a prospect. I spent a whole day in endeavouring to

discern the very house, but the distance, alas, is too great for my

efforts; and imagination was forced to supply what my wearied sight

was unable to discover. I immediately ran to the curate’s, and

borrowed his telescope, which presented to my view, or at least to my

thoughts, the exact spot I desired. My whole time has been taken up

ever since in contemplating those walls, that inclose the only source

of my comfort, the only object of my wishes: notwithstanding the

inclement severity of the season, I continue thus employed from day

break until evening. A fire made of leaves and a few dry sticks

defends me in some measure from the intenseness of the cold. This

place, wild and uncultivated as it is, is so suited to my taste, that

I am now writing to you in it, on a summit which the ice has separated

from the rock.

Here, my dearest Eloisa, your unhappy lover is enjoying the last

pleasure that perhaps he may ever relish on this side the grave. Here,

in spite of every obstacle, he can penetrate into your very chamber.

He is even dazzled with your beauty, and the tenderness of your looks

reanimates his drooping soul; nay he can wish for those raptures which

he experienced with you in the grove. Alas! it is all a dream, the

idle phantom of a projecting mind. Pleasing as it is, it vanishes like

a vision, and I am soon forced to awake from so agreeable a delirium;

and yet, even then, I have full employment for my thoughts. I admire

and revere the purity of your sentiments, the innocence of your life;

I trace out in my mind the method of your daily conduct, by comparing

it with what I formerly well knew in happier days, and under more

endearing circumstances; I find you ever attentive to engagements,

which heighten your character: need I add that such a view most

movingly affects me. In the morning I say to myself, she is just now

awaking from calm and gentle slumbers, as fresh as the early dew, and

as composed as the most spotless innocence, and is dedicating to her

Creator a day, which she determines shall not be lost to virtue. She

is now going to her mother, and her tender heart is feeling the soft

ties of filial duty; she is either relieving her parents from the

burthen of domestic cares, soothing their aged sorrows, pitying their

infirmities, or excusing those indirections in others, which she knows

not how to allow in herself. At another time, she is employing herself

in works of genius or of use, storing her mind with valuable

knowledge, or reconciling the elegancies of life to its more sober

occupations. Sometimes I see a neat and studied simplicity set off

those charms which need no such recommendations, and at others, she is

consulting her holy pastor, on the circumstances of indigent merit.

Here she is aiding, comforting, relieving the orphan or the widow;

there she is the entertainment of the whole circle of her friends, by

her prudent and sensible conversation. Now she is tempering the gaiety

of youth, with wisdom and discretion: and some few moments (forgive me

the presumption) you bestow on my hapless love. I see you melted into

tears at the perusal of my letters, and can perceive, it is thy

devoted lover is the subject of the lines you are penning, and of the

passionate discourse between you and your cousin. O Eloisa, Eloisa!

shall we never be united? Shall we never live together? can we, can we

part for ever? No, be that thought quite banished from my soul. I

start into the phrenzy at the very idea, and my distempered mind

hurries me from rock to rock. Involuntary sighs and groans betray my

inward disorder; I roar out like a lioness robbed of her young. I can

do every thing but lose you; there is nothing, nothing, I would not

attempt for you, at the risk of my life.

I had wrote thus far, and was waiting an opportunity to convey it,

when your last came to my hands from Sion. The melancholy air it

breathes, has lulled my griefs to rest. Now, now am I convinced of

what you observed long ago, concerning that wonderful sympathy between

lovers. Your sorrow is of the calmer, mine of the more passionate

kind, yet though the affection of the mind be the same, it takes its

colour in each from the different channels through which it runs; and

indeed it is but natural, that the greatest misfortunes should produce

the most disquieting anxieties; but why do I talk of misfortunes? They

would be absolutely insupportable. No, be assured, my Eloisa, that the

irresistible decree of heaven has designed us for each other. This is

the first great law we are to obey, and it is the great business of

life, to calm, sooth, and sweeten it while we are here. I see, and

lament it too, that your designs are too vague and inconclusive for

execution. You seem willing to conquer insurmountable difficulties,

while at the same time you are neglecting the only feasible methods:

an enthusiastic idea of honour has supplanted your reason, and your

virtue is become little better than an empty delirium.

If indeed it were possible for you to remain always as young and

beautiful as you are at present, my only wish, my only prayer to

heaven would be, to know of your continual happiness, to see you once

every year, only once, and then spend the rest of my time in viewing

your mansion from afar, and in adoring you among the rocks. But

behold, alas, the inconceivable swiftness of that fate which is never

at rest. It is constantly pursuing, time flies hastily, the

opportunity is irretrievable, and your beauty, even your beauty is

circumscribed by very narrow limits of existence: it must some time or

other decay and wither away like a flower, that fades before it was

gathered. In the mean time, I am consuming my health, youth, strength,

in continual sorrow, and waste away my years in complaining. Think, oh

think, Eloisa, that we have already lost some time; think too that it

will never return, and that the case will be the same with the years

that are to come, if we suffer them to pass by neglected and

unimproved. O fond, mistaken fair! you are laying plans for a futurity

at which you may never arrive, and neglecting the present moments,

which can never be retrieved. You are so anxious, and intent on that

uncertain hereafter, that you forget that in the mean while, our

hearts melt away like snow before the sun. Awake, awake, my dearest

Eloisa, from so fatal a delusion! Leave all your concerted schemes,

the wanton sallies of a fruitful fancy, and determine to be happy.

Come, my only hope, my only joy! to thy fond expecting lover’s arms:

come and re-unite the hitherto divided portions of our existence.

Come, and before heaven, let us solemnly swear to live and die for

each other. You have no need, I am sure, of any encouragement, any

exhortations, to bear up against the fear of want. Though poor,

provided we are happy, what a treasure will be in our possession! but

let us not so insult either the dignity or the humanity of the

species, as to suppose that this vast world cannot furnish an Asylum

for two unfortunate lovers. But we need not despair while I have

health and strength; the bread earned by the sweat of my brow will be

more relishing to you, than the most costly banquet that luxury could

prepare. And indeed can any repast, provided and seasoned by love, be

insipid? Oh my angel, if our happiness were sure to last us but one

day, could you cruelly resolve, to quit this life, without tasting it?

One word more, and I have done. You know, Eloisa, the use which was

formerly made of the rock of Leucatia; it was the last sad refuge of

disappointed lovers. The place I am now in, and my own distressed

situation, bear but too close a resemblance. The rock is craggy, the

water deep, and I am in despair.

Letter XXVII. From Clara.

I have been lately so distracted with care and grief, that it is with

much difficulty I have been able to summon sufficient strength for

writing. Your misfortunes and mine are now at their utmost crisis. In

short, the lovely Eloisa is very dangerously ill, and ere this can

reach you, may perhaps be no more. The mortification she underwent in

parting with you, first brought on her disorder, which was

considerably increased by some very interesting discourse she has

since had with her father. This has been still heightened by

circumstances of additional aggravation, and as if all this were too

little, your last letter came in aid, and compleatd, alas, what was

already scarce supportable. The perusal of it affected her so

sensibly, that after a whole night of violent agitations and cruel

struggles, she was seized with a high fever which has increased to

such a degree, that she is now delirious. Even in this situation she

is perpetually calling for you, and speaks of you with such emotions

as plainly point out, that you alone are the object of her more sober

thoughts. Her father is kept out of the way as much as possible, which

is no inconsiderable proof that my aunt suspects the truth. She has

even asked me, with some anxiety, when you intended to return? so

entirely does her concern for her daughter outweigh every other

consideration! I dare say she would not be sorry to see you here.

Come then, I intreat you, as soon as you possibly can. I have hired a

man and boat to transmit this to you; he will wait your orders, and

you may come with him. Indeed if you ever expect to see our devoted

Eloisa alive, you must not lose an instant.

Letter XXVIII. From Eloisa to Clara.

Alas, my dear Clara, how is the life you have restored me imbittered

by your absence. What satisfaction can there be in my recovery, when I

am still preyed upon by a more violent disorder? Cruel Clara! to leave

me, when I stand most in need of your assistance. You are to be absent

eight days, and perhaps by that time my fate will be determined, and

it will be out of your power to see me any more. Oh if you did but

know his horrid proposals, and the manner of his stating them! to

elope----to follow him----to be carried off----What a wretch! But

of whom do I complain, my heart, my own base heart has said a thousand

times more than ever he has mentioned. Good God, if he knew all! Oh it

would hasten my ruin----I should be hurried to destruction, be forced

to go with him----I shudder at the very thought.

But has my father then sold me? Yes, he has considered his daughter as

his merchandize, and consigned her with as little remorse, as he would

a bale of goods. He purchases his own ease and quiet, at the dear

price of all my future comfort, nay of my life itself----for I see

but too well, I can never survive it. Barbarous, unnatural,

unrelenting father! Does he deserve?----But why do I talk of

deserving? he is the best of fathers, and the only crime I can alledge

against him, is his desire of marrying me to his friend. But my

mother, my dear mother, what has she done? Alas, too much; she has

loved me too much, and that very love has been my ruin.

What shall I do, Clara? What will become of me? Hans is not yet come.

I am at a loss how to convey this letter to you. Before you receive

it, before you return----perhaps a vagabond, abandoned, ruined and

forlorn. It is over, it is over: the time is come. A day----an hour

----perhaps a moment----but who can resist their fate?----Oh

wherever I live, wherever I die, whether in honour or dishonour, in

plenty or poverty, in pleasure or in despair, remember, I beseech you,

your dear, dear friend. But misfortunes too frequently produce changes

in our affections. If ever I forget you, mine must be altered indeed!

Letter XXIX. From Eloisa to Clara.

Stay, stay, where you are! I intreat, I conjure you, never never think

of returning, at least, not to me. I ought never to see you more; for

now, alas, I can never behold you as I ought. Where wert thou my

tender friend, my only safeguard, my guardian angel? When thou

withdrewest, ruin instantly ensued. Was that fatal absence of yours so

indispensable, so necessary, and couldest thou leave thy friend in the

most critical time of danger? What an inexhaustible fund of remorse

hast thou laid up for thyself by so blameable a neglect! It will be as

bitter, as lasting, as my unhappy sorrows. Thy loss is indeed as

irretrievable as my own, and it were equally difficult to gain another

friend as worthy of yourself, as alas! it is impossible to recover my

innocence.

Ah! what have I said? I can neither speak nor yet be silent; and to

what purpose were my silence, when my very sorrows would cry out

against me? And does not all created nature upbraid me with my guilt?

Does not every object before me remind me of my shame? I will, I must

pour my whole soul into thine, or my poor heart will burst. Canst thou

hear all this, my secure and careless friend, without applying some

reproaches at the least to thyself? Even thy faith and truth, the

blind confidence of thy friendship, but above all thy pernicious

indulgencies, have been the unhappy instruments of my destruction.

What evil genius could inspire you to invite him to return; him, alas!

who is now the cruel author of my disgrace? And am I indebted to his

care for a life, which he has since made insupportable by his cruelty?

Inhuman as he is, let him fly from me for ever, and deny himself the

savage pleasure, of being an eye witness of my sorrows. But why do I

rave thus? He is not to be blamed, I alone am guilty. I alone am the

author of my own misfortunes, and should therefore be the only object

of anger and resentment. But vice, new as it is to me, has already

infected my very soul; and the first dismal effect of it is displayed

in reviling the innocent.

No, no, he was ever incapable of being false to his vows. His virtuous

soul disdains the low artifice of imposing upon credulity, or of

injuring her he loves. Doubtless, he is much more experienced in the

tender passions than I ever was, since he found no difficulty to

overcome himself, and I alas fell a victim to my unruly desires. How

often have I been a witness of his struggles and his victory, and when

the violence of his transports seemed to get the better of his reason,

he would stop on a sudden, as if awed and checked by virtue, when he

might have led on to certain triumph. I indulged myself too much in

beholding so dangerous an object. I was afflicted at his sighs, moved

with his intreaties, and melted with his tears; I shared his anxieties

when I thought I was only pitying them. I have seen him so affected,

that he seemed ready to faint at my feet. Love alone might perhaps

have been my security; but compassion, O my Clara! has fatally undone

me.

Thus my unhappy passion assumed the form of humanity, the more easily

to deprive me of the assistance of my virtue. That very day he had

been particularly importunate and pressed me to elope with him. This

proposal, connected as it was with the misery and distress of the best

of parents, shocked my very soul; nor could I think with any patience,

of thus imbittering their comforts. The impossibility of ever

fulfilling our plighted troth, the necessity there was of concealing

this impossibility from him, the regret which I felt at deceiving so

tender and passionate a lover, after having flattered his

expectations; all these were dreadful circumstances which lessened my

resolution, increased my weakness, blinded and subdued my reason. I

was then either to kill my parents, discard my lover, or ruin myself:

without knowing what I did, I resolved on the latter; and forgetting

every thing else, thought only of my love. Thus one unguarded minute

has betrayed me to endless misery. I am fallen into the abyss of

infamy from whence there is no return, and if I am to live, it is only

to be wretched.

However, while I am here, sorrow shall be my only comfort. You, my

dearest friend, are my only resource; oh do not, do not leave me! and

since I am lost to the sweets of love, oh never take from me the

delicacy of friendship. I have lost all pretensions, but my situation

makes it requisite, my distresses now demand it. If you cannot esteem,

you may at least pity so wretched a creature. Come then, my dear

Clara, and open thy whole heart, that I may pour in my complaints,

receive thy friend’s tears, and shield, oh shield me from myself!

Convince me, by the kind continuance of your soothing friendship, that

I am not so entirely forsaken.

Letter XXX. The Answer.

Oh my dear, dear friend, what have you done! you who were the praise

of every parent, and the envy of every child! What a mortal blow has

virtue itself received through your means, who were the very pattern

of discretion! But what can I say to you in so dreadful a situation?

Can I think of aggravating your sorrows, and wounding a heart already

opprest with grief; or can I give you a comfort, which, alas! I want?

Shall I reflect your image in all the dismal colours of your present

distress, or shall I have recourse to artifice, and remind you, not of

what you are, but of what you ought to be? Do thou, most holy and

unspotted friendship, steal thy soft veil over all my awakened senses,

and mercifully remove the sight of those disasters, thou wert unable

to prevent!

You know I have long feared the misfortune you are bewailing. How

often have I foretold it, and alas, how often been disregarded? Do you

blame me then for having trusted you too much to your own heart? Oh

doubt not but I would have betrayed you, if even that could have been

made the means of your preservation; but I knew better than yourself

your own tender sensations. I perceived but too plainly that death or

ruin were the melancholy alternatives; and even when your

apprehensions made you banish your lover, the only matter then in

question, was whether you should despair, or he be recalled. You will

easily believe how dreadfully I was alarmed, when I found you

determined as it were against living, and just on the verge of death.

Charge not then your lover, nor accuse yourself of a crime of which I

alone am guilty, since I foresaw the fatal effects, and yet did not

prevent them.

I left you indeed against my inclination, but I was cruelly forced to

it. Oh could I have foreseen the near approach of your destruction, I

would have put every thing to the hazard sooner than have complied.

Though certain as to the event, I was mistaken as to the time of it. I

thought your weakness and your distemper a sufficient security during

so short an absence, and forgot indeed the sad dilemma you was so soon

to experience. I never considered that the weakness of your body left

your mind more defenceless in itself, and therefore more liable to be

betrayed. Mistaken as I was, I can scarce be angry with myself, since

this very error is the means of saving your life. I am not, Eloisa, of

that hardy temper which can reconcile me to thy loss as thou wert to

mine. Had I indeed lost you, my despair would have been endless; and,

unfeeling as it may seem, I had rather you should live in sorrow, I

had almost said in disgrace, than not live at all.

But my dear, my tender friend, why do you cruelly persist in your

disquietude? Wherefore should your repentance exceed your very crime,

and your contempt fall on the object which least of all deserves it,

yourself? Shall the weakness of one unguarded moment be attended with

so black a train of baleful consequences? And are not the very dangers

you have been struggling with, a self-evident demonstration of the

greatness of your virtue? You lose yourself so entirely in the thought

of your defeat, that you have no leisure to consider the triumphs by

which it was preceded. If your trials have been sharper, your

conquests more numerous, and your resistance more frequent, than those

who have escaped, have not you then, I would ask, done more for virtue

than they? If you can find no circumstances to justify, dwell on those

at least, which extenuate and excuse you. I myself am a tolerable

proficient in the art of love, and though my own temper secures me

against its violent emotions, if ere I could have felt such a passion

as yours was, my struggles would have been much fainter, my surrender

more easy, and more dishonourable. Freed as I have been from the

temptation, it reflects no honour on my virtue. You are the chaster of

the two, though perhaps the more unfortunate.

You may perchance be offended that I am so unreserved; but unhappily

your situation makes it necessary. I wish from my soul, what I have

said were not applicable to you; for I detest pernicious maxims, more

than bad actions. [11] If the deed were not already done, and I could

have been so base to write, and you to read and hear these axioms, we

both of us must be numbered in the wretched class of the abandoned.

But as matters stand at present, my duty as your friend requires this

at my hands, and you must give me the hearing, or you are lost, lost

for ever. For you still possess a thousand rare endowments which a

proper esteem of yourself can alone cultivate and preserve. Your real

worth will ever exceed your own opinion of it.

Forbear then giving way to a self disesteem more dangerous and

destructive than any weakness of which you could be guilty. Does true

love debase the soul? No: nor can any crime, which is the result of

that love, ever rob you of that enthusiastic ardour for truth and

honour, which so raised you above yourself? Are there not spots

visible in the sun? How many amiable virtues do you still retain,

notwithstanding one error, one relaxation in your conduct? Will it

make you less gentle, less sincere, less modest, less benevolent? Or

will you be less worthy of all our admiration, of all our praise? Will

honour, humanity, friendship, and tender love, be less respected by

you, or will you cease to revere even that virtue with which you are

no longer adorned. No, my dear, my charming Eloisa, thy faithful Clara

bewails and yet adores thee; she is convinced that you can never fail

admiring what you may be unable to practise. Believe me, you have much

yet to lose, before you can sink to a level with the generality of

females.

After all, whatever have been your failings, you yourself are still

remaining. I want no other comfort, I dread no other loss than you.

Your first letter shocked me extremely, and would have thrown me into

despair, had I not been kindly relieved, at the same time, by the

arrival of your last. What! and could you leave your friend, could you

think of going without me? You never mention this, your greatest

crime. It is this you should blush at, this too you should repent of.

But the ungrateful Eloisa neglects all friendship, and thinks only of

her love.

I am extremely impatient till I see you, and am continually repining

at the slow progress of time. We are to stay at Lausanne six days

longer; I shall then fly to my only friend, and will then either

comfort or sympathize, wipe away, or share her sorrows. I flatter

myself I shall be able to make you listen, rather to the soothing

tenderness of friendship, than the harsh language of reflection. My

dear cousin, we must bewail our misfortunes, and pour out our hearts

to each other in silence; and, if possibly by dint of future exemplary

virtue, bury in oblivion the memory of a failing which can never be

blotted out by our tears.

Letter XXXI. To Eloisa.

What an amazing mystery is the conduct and sentiments of the charming

Eloisa! Tell me I beseech you, by what surprizing art you alone can

unite such inconsistent counteracting emotions? Intoxicated as I am

with love and delight, my soul is overwhelmed with grief and with

despair. Amidst the most exquisite pleasures, I feel the most

excruciating anxieties; nay the very enjoyment of those pleasures is

made the subject of self accusation, and the aggravation of my

distress. Heavens! what a torment to be able to indulge no one

sensation but in a perpetual struggle of jarring passions; to be ever

allaying the soothing tenderness of love, with the bitter pangs of

rigorous reflection! A state of certain misery were a thousand times

preferable to such doubtful disquietudes. To what purpose is it, alas,

that I myself have been happy, when your misfortunes can torment me

much more sensibly than my own? In vain do you attempt to disguise

your own sad feelings, when your eyes will betray what your heart

labours to conceal; and can those expressive eyes hide any thing from

love’s all penetrating sight? Notwithstanding your assumed gaiety, I

see, I see the cankering anxiety; and your melancholy, veiled, as you

may think, by a smile, affects me the more sensibly.

Surely you need no longer disguise any thing from me! While I was in

your mother’s room yesterday, she was accidentally called out, and

left me alone. In the mean time, I heard sighs that pierced my very

soul. Could I, think you, be at a loss to guess the fatal cause? I

went up to the place from which they seemed to proceed, and on going

into your chamber, perceived the goddess of my heart, sitting on the

floor, her head reclining on a couch, and almost drowned in tears. Oh!

had my blood thus trickled down, I should have felt less pain. Oh how

my soul melted at the sight! Remorse stung me to the quick. What had

been my supremest bliss, became my excruciating punishment. I felt

only then for you, and would have freely purchased with my life, your

former tranquility. I would fain have thrown myself at your feet,

kissed off your falling tears, and burying them at the bottom of my

heart, have died or wiped them away for ever; but your mother’s return

made me hasten back to my post, and obliged me to carry away your

griefs, and that remorse which can never end but in my death.

Oh how am I sunk and mortified by your grief! How you must despise me

if our union is the cause of your own self-contempt, and if what has

been the utmost of my bliss, proves the destruction of your peace! Be

more just to yourself, my dearest Eloisa, and less prejudiced against

the sacred ties which your own heart approved. Have you not acted in

strict conformity to the purest laws of nature? Have you not

voluntarily entered into the most solemn engagements? Tell me then,

what you have done, that all laws divine, as well as human, will not

sufficiently justify? Is there any thing wanting to confirm the sacred

tie, but the mere formal ceremony of a public declaration? Be wholly

mine, and you are no longer to blame. O my dear, my lovely wife, my

tender and chaste companion, thou soother of all my cares, and object

of all my wishes, oh think it not a crime to have listened to your

love; but rather think it will be one to disobey it for the future. To

marry any other man, is the only imputation you can fix on your

unimpeached honour. Would you be innocent, be ever mine. The tie that

unites us is legal, is sacred. The disregarding this tie should be the

principal object of your concern. Love from henceforward can be the

only guardian of your virtue.

But were the foundation of your sorrows ever so just, ever so

necessary, why am I robbed of my property in them? Why should not my

eyes too overflow and share your grief? You should have no one pang

that I ought not to feel, no one anxiety that ought not to share. My

heart then, my jealous heart, but too justly reproaches you for every

single tear you pour not into my bosom. Tell me, thou cold dissembling

fair, is not every secret of this kind an injury to my passion? Do you

so soon forget the promise you so lately made! Oh if you loved as I

do, my happiness would comfort you as much as your concern affects me,

and you would feel my pleasures as I share your anxieties.

But alas! you consider me as a poor wretch whose reason is lost amidst

the transports of delight. You are frightened at the violence of my

joy, and compassionate the extravagance of my delirium, without

considering that the utmost strength of human nature is not proof

against endless pleasures? How, think you, can a poor weak mortal

support the ineffable delights of infinite happiness? How do you

imagine he can bear such ecstatic raptures without being lost to every

other consideration. Do not you know that reason is limited, and that

no understanding can command itself at all times, and upon all

occasions? Pity then, I beseech you, the distraction you occasion, and

forgive the errors you, yourself have thrown me into. I own freely to

you I am no longer master of myself. My soul is absorbed totally in

yours. However it may affect me in other respects, it fits me at least

for the reception of your griefs, and the participation of your

sorrows. Oh my dearest Eloisa! no longer conceal any thing from your

other self.

Letter XXXII. Answer.

There was a time, my dear friend, when the stile of our letters was as

easy to be understood as the subject of them was agreeable and

delightful; animated as they were with the warmth of a generous

passion, they stood in need of no art to elevate, no colourings of a

luxuriant fancy to heighten them. Native simplicity was their best,

their only character. That time, alas, is now no more, it is gone

beyond the hope of a return; and the first melancholy proof that our

hearts are less interested, is, that our correspondence is become less

intelligible.

You have been an eye-witness of my concern, and fondly therefore

imagine you can discover its true source. You endeavour to relieve me

by the mere force of elocution, and while you are thinking to delude

me, are yourself the dupe of your own artifice. The sacrifice I have

made to my passion is a great one indeed; yet great as it is, it

provokes neither my sorrow nor my repentance. But I have deprived this

passion of its most engaging circumstances; ah there’s the cause! that

virtue which enchanted every thing around it, is itself vanished like

a dream. Those inexpressible transports which at once gave both vigour

to our affections, and purity to our desires, are now no more. We have

made pleasure our sole pursuit, and neglected happiness has bid adieu

to us for ever. Call but to mind those Halcyon days, when the fervency

of our passion bore a proportion to its innocence, when the violence

of our affections gave us weapons against itself; then, the purity of

our intentions could reconcile us to restraint, while with comfort we

reflected, that even these restraints served to heighten our desires.

Compare those charming times with our present situation. Violent

emotions, disquieting fears, endless suspicions, perpetual alarms, are

the melancholy substitutes of our former gay companions. Where is that

zeal for prudence and discretion which inspired every thought,

directed every action, and sweetened and refined the delicacy of our

love? Is the passion itself altered, or rather are not we most

miserably changed? Our enjoyments were formerly both temperate and

lasting; they are now degenerated into transports, resembling rather

the fury of madness than the caresses of love. A pure and holy flame

once lived in our hearts, but now we are sunk into mere common lovers,

through a blind gratification of sensual indulgencies. We can now

think ourselves sufficiently happy, if jealousy can give a poignancy

to those pleasures, which even the very brutes can taste without it.

This, my dear friend, is the subject which nearly concerns us both,

and which indeed pains me more on your account than my own. I say

nothing of the distress which is more immediately mine. Your

disposition, tender as it is, can sufficiently feel it: consider the

shame of my present situation, and if you still love me, give a sigh

to my lost honour. My crime is unatonable, my tears then I should hope

will be as lasting as my dishonour. Do not you then, who are the cause

of this sorrow, seek to deprive me of this also. My only hope is

founded in its continuance. Hard as my lot is, it would be still more

deplorable if I could ever be comforted. The being reconciled to

disgrace is the last, worst state of the abandoned.

I am but too well acquainted with all the circumstances of my

condition, and yet amidst all my horror, all my grief, I have one

comfort left: it is the only one, but it is solid, it is pleasing.

You, my dear friend, are its constant object; and since I dare no

longer consider myself, I take the greater satisfaction in thinking of

you. The great share of self esteem which you, alas, have taken from

me, is now transferred entirely to yourself; and what should have been

your crime, is with me your apology, and endearment. Love, even that

fatal love which has proved my destruction, is become the material

circumstance in your favour. You are exalted while I am abased; nay,

my very abasement is the cause of your exaltation. Be henceforward

then my only hope. Your business is to justify my crime by your

conduct. Excuse it at least by your virtuous demeanor. May your

deserts prove a covering to my disgrace, and let the number of your

virtues make the loss of mine less sensible to my view. Since I am no

longer any thing, be thou my whole existence. The only honour I have

left is solely centered in thee; and while thou in any degree art

respected, I can never be wholly despised or rejected.

However sorry I may be for the quick recovery of my health, yet my

artifice will no longer stand me in any stead. My countenance will

soon give the lie to my pretences, and I shall no longer be able to

impose on my parents a feigned indisposition. Be quick then in taking

the steps we have agreed on; before I am forced to resume my usual

business in my family. I perceive but too plainly, that my mother is

suspicious, and continually watches us. My father, indeed, seems to

know nothing of the matter. His pride has been hitherto our security.

Perhaps he thinks it impossible, that a mere common tutor can be in

love with his daughter. But after all, you know his temper. If you do

not prevent him, he will you; do not then through a fond desire of

gaining your usual access, banish yourself entirely from the

possibility of a return. Take my advice and speak to my mother in

time. Pretend a multiplicity of engagements, in order to prevent your

teaching me any longer; and let us give up the satisfaction of such

frequent interviews that we may make sure, at least, of meeting

sometimes. Consider, if you are once shut out, it is for ever; but if

you can resolve to deny yourself for a time, you may then come when

you please, and in time and by management may repeat your visits

often, without any fear of suspicion. I will tell you this evening

some other schemes I have in view for our more frequent meeting, and

you will then be convinced that that _constant_ cousin, whom we used

so grievously to detest, will now be very useful to two lovers, whom

in truth she ought never to have left alone.

Letter XXXIII. From Eloisa.

Ah! my dear friend, what a miserable asylum for lovers is a crowded

assembly! What inconceivable torment, to see each other under the

restraints of what is called good breeding! Surely absence were a

thousand times more supportable! Is calmness and composure compatible

with such emotions? Can the lover be self-consistent, or with what

attention can he consider such a number of objects, when one alone

possesses his whole soul? When the heart is fired, can the body be at

rest? You cannot conceive the anxiety I felt, when I heard you were

coming. Your name seemed a reproach to me, and I could not help

imagining that the whole company’s attention was fixed upon me alone.

I was immediately lost, and blushed so exceedingly, that my cousin,

who observed me, was obliged to cover me with her fan, and pretend to

whisper me in the ear. This very artifice, simple as it was, increased

my apprehensions, and I trembled for fear they should perceive it. In

short, every the most minute circumstance was a fresh subject for

alarm; never did I so fully experience the truth of that well known

axiom, that a guilty conscience needs no accuser.

Clara pretended to observe that you was equally embarrassed, uncertain

what to do, not daring either to advance or retire, to take notice of

me or not, and looking all around the room to give you a pretence, as

she said, to look, at last, on me. As I recovered from my confusion by

degrees, I perceived your distress, till, by Mrs. Belon’s coming up to

you, you was relieved.

I perceive, my dear friend, that this manner of living, which is

imbittered with so much constraint, and sweetened with so little

pleasure, is not suited to us. Our passion is too noble to bear

perpetual chains. These public assemblies are only fit for those who

are strangers to love, or who can with ease dispense with ceremony. My

anxieties are too disquieting, and your indiscretions too dangerous; I

cannot always have a Mrs. Belon to make a convenient diversion. Let us

return, let us return to that calm state of life from whence I have so

inadvertently drawn you. It was that situation which gave rise and

vigour to our passion; perhaps too it may be weakened by this

dissipated manner of living. The truest passions are formed and

nourished in retirement. In the busy circle of the world there is no

time for receiving impressions, and even, when received, they are

considerably weakened by the variety of avocations which continually

occur. Retirement too best suits my melancholy, which like my love can

be supported only by thy dear image. I had rather see you tender and

passionate in my heart, than under constraint and dissipation in an

assembly. There may perhaps come a time, when I shall be forced to a

much closer retreat. O that that time were already come! Common

prudence, as well as my own inclinations, require that I should inure

myself betimes to habits which necessity may demand. Oh, if the crime

itself could produce the cause of its atonement! The pleasing hope of

being one day----but I shall inadvertently say more than I am willing

on the design I have in view. Forgive me this one secret, my dear

friend; my heart shall never conceal any thing that would give you

pleasure: yet you must, for a time, be ignorant of this. All I can say

of it at present is, that love, which was the occasion of our

misfortunes, ought to furnish us with relief. You may reason and

comment upon this hint as much as you please; but I positively forbid

all questions.

Letter XXXIV. The Answer.

_No, non vedrete mai

Cambiar gl’ affeti mici,

Bei lumi onde imparai

A sospirar d’amor._

How greatly am I indebted to dear Mrs. Belon for the pleasure she

procured me! Forgive me, my dearest Eloisa, when I tell you, that I

even dared to take some pleasure in your distress, and that your very

anxiety afforded me most exquisite delight. Oh, what raptures did I

feel at those stolen glances, that downcast modesty, that care with

which you avoided meeting my eyes! What then, think you, was the

employment of your too, too happy lover? Was he indeed converting with

Mrs. Belon? Did you really think so, my lovely Eloisa? Oh, no,

enchanting fair! he was much more worthily employed. With what an

amazing sympathy did my heart share each emotion of thine! With what a

greedy impatience did I explore the beautiful symmetry of thy person!

Thy love, thy charms, entirely filled my whole soul, which was hardly

able to contain the ravishing idea. The only allay to all this

pleasure was, that I feasted at your expense, and felt the tender

sensations which you, alas, was absolutely unable to participate. Can

I tell one word that Mrs. Belon said to me? Could I have told it at

the very time she was speaking? Do I know what answers I made? or did

she understand me at all? But indeed how could she comprehend the

discourse of one who spoke without thinking, and answered without

conceiving the question.

_Com’ buom, che par ch’ ascolti, e nulla intende._

I appeal to the event for a confirmation. She has since told all the

world, and perhaps you among the rest, that I have not common sense;

but what is still worse, not a single grain of wit, and that I am as

dull and foolish as my books. But no matter how she thinks, or what

she says of me. Is not Eloisa the sole mistress of my fate, and does

not she alone determine my future rank and estimation? Let the rest of

the world say of me what they think proper; myself, my understanding,

and my accomplishments, all absolutely depend on the value you are

pleased to fix on them.

Be assured, neither Mrs. Belon, nor any superior beauty, could ever

delude my attention from Eloisa. If after all this, you still doubt my

sincerity, and can injure my love and your own charms so much as still

to suspect me, pray tell me, how I became acquainted with every minute

particular of your conduct? Did not I see you shine among the inferior

beauties, like the sun among the stars, that were eclipsed by your

radiance? Did not I see the young fellows hovering about your chair,

and buzzing in your ear? Did not I perceive you singled out from the

rest of your sex to be the only object of universal admiration? Did

not I perceive their studied assiduities, their continual compliments,

and your cold and modest indifference, infinitely more affecting than

the most haughty demeanor you could possibly have assumed? Yes, my

Eloisa, I saw the effect produced by the sight of your snowy delicate

arm, when you pulled off your glove; I saw too that the young stranger

who picked it up seemed tempted to kiss the charming hand that

received it. And did not I see a still bolder swain, whose steady

stare obliged you to add another pin to your tucker? All this may

perhaps convince you I was not so absent as you imagine; not that I

was the least jealous; for I know your heart was not cast in such a

mold as to be susceptible of every passion: nor will you, I hope,

think otherwise of mine.

Let us then return to that calm, blest retirement, which I quitted

with such regret. My heart finds no satisfaction in the tumultuous

hurry of the world. Its empty tinsel pleasures dispose it only to

lament the want of more substantial joys the more feelingly, and make

it prefer its own real sufferings to the melancholy train of continual

disappointments. Surely, Eloisa, we may attain much more solid

satisfaction, in any situation, than under our present restraint. And

yet you seem to forget it. To be so near each other for a whole

fortnight without meeting! Oh, it is an age of time to an enamoured

enraptured heart! Absence itself would be infinitely more supportable.

Tell me to what end you can make use of a discretion, which occasions

more misfortunes than it is able to prevent? Of what importance can it

be to prolong a life, in which every succeeding moment brings fresh

punishment? Were it not better, yes surely a thousand times, to meet

once more at all events, and then submit to our fate with resignation.

I own freely, my dear friend, I would fain know the utmost of the

secret you conceal. There never was a discovery that could interest me

so deeply: but all my endeavours are in vain. I can however be as

silent as you would wish, and repress my forward curiosity. But may I

not hope soon to be satisfied? Perhaps you are still in the castle-

building system. Oh thou dear object of my affections! surely now it

is high time to improve all our schemes into reality.

P. S. I had almost forgot to tell you that M. Roguin made me the offer

of a company in the regiment he is raising for the king of Sardinia. I

was highly pleased at this brave man’s signal mark of his esteem, and

thanking him for his kindness, told him, the shortness of my sight,

and great love of a studious and sedentary life, unfitted me for so

active an employment. My love can claim no great share in this

sacrifice. Every one in my opinion owes his life to his country, which

therefore he should not risk in the service of those princes to whom

he is no ways indebted; much less is he at liberty to let himself out

for hire, and turn the noblest profession in the world into that of a

vile mercenary. These maxims I claim by inheritance from my father;

and happy enough should I be, could I imitate him as well in his

steady adherence to his duty, and love to his country. He never would

enter into the service of any foreign prince, but in the year 1712,

acquired great reputation in fighting for his country: he served in

many engagements, in one of which he was wounded, and at the battle of

Wilmerghen was so fortunate as, in the fight of general Sacconex, to

take a standard from the enemy.

Letter XXXV. From Eloisa.

I could never think, my dear friend, that what I hinted of Mrs. Belon

in jest could have excited so long or so serious an explanation. An

over eagerness in one’s own defence is sometimes productive of the

very reverse of its intention, and fixes a lasting suspicion instead

of removing or lightening the accusation. The most trifling incidents,

when attended to minutely, immediately grow up into events of

importance. Our situation indeed secures us from making this case our

own; for our hearts are too busy to listen to mere punctilios; though

all disputes between lovers on points of little moment, have too often

a much deeper foundation than they imagine.

I am rather glad however of the opportunity which this accident has

given me, of saying somewhat to you on the subject of jealousy; a

subject which, alas, but too nearly concerns me. I see, my dear

friend, by the similitude of our tempers and near alliance of our

dispositions, that love alone will be the great business of our lives:

and surely when such impressions as we feel have been once made, love

must either extinguish or absorb every other passion. The least

relaxation in our passion must inevitably produce a most dangerous

lethargy: a total apathy, an indifference to every enjoyment, and a

disrelish of every present comfort would very soon take place if our

affections were once cooled, and indeed life itself would then become

a burthen. With respect to myself, you cannot but perceive, that the

present transports of my passion could alone veil over the horror of

my disastrous situation, and the sad alternative proposed to my

choice, is the extravagance of love, or a death of despair. Judge then

if after this I am able to determine a point on which the happiness or

misery of my future life so absolutely depends.

If I may be allowed to know any thing of my own temper and

disposition, though I am oftentimes distracted with violent emotions,

it is but seldom that their influence can hurry me into action. My

sorrows must have preyed on my heart for a long time before I could

ever be prevailed on to discover the source of them to their author;

and being firmly persuaded that there can be no offence without

intention, I would much rather submit to a thousand real subjects of

complaint than ever come to an explanation. A disposition of this kind

will neither easily give way to suspicion, nor be anxiously concerned

at the jealousy of others. Oh, shield me, gracious heaven, from the

tormenting pangs of causeless jealousy! I am fully assured that your

heart was made for mine and for no other; but self-deceit is of all

others the most easy imposition: a transient liking is often mistaken

for a real passion, as it is difficult to distinguish the effects of

sudden fancy from the result of a sincere and settled affection. If

you yourself can doubt your own constancy without any reason, how

could you blame me were I capable of mistrusting you? But that way

leads to misery. So cruel a doubt as that would imbitter the remainder

of my life. I should sigh in secret without complaining, and die an

inconsolable martyr to my passion.

But let me intreat you to prevent a misfortune, the idea of which

shocks my very soul. Swear to me, my dear, dear friend! but not by

love, for lover’s oaths are never made but with intention to be

broken; but swear by the sacred name of honour, which you highly

revere, that I shall ever be the confident of your inmost thoughts,

the repository of all your secrets, the witness of all your emotions,

and if perchance, (which gracious heaven avert!) if any change should

take place in your affections, swear moreover that you will instantly

inform me of so interesting a revolution. Think not to excuse yourself

by alleging, that such a change is impossible. I believe, I hope, nay,

I am well assured of your sincerity; oblige me, however, and prevent

all false alarms; take from me the possibility of doubting, and secure

my present peace. To hear my fate from you, how hard soever it might

be, were much better than through ignorance of the truth to be

perpetually exposed to the tortures of imaginary evils. Some comfort,

some alleviation of my sorrows would arise from your remorse; though

my affections must cease, you would necessarily become the partner of

my griefs: and even my own anxiety, when poured into your breast,

would seem less distracting.

’Tis on this account, my dear friend, that I congratulate myself more

especially on the fond choice of my heart; that honour strengthens and

confirms the bond which affection first begun; and that my security

depends not on the violence of passion, but the more sober and settled

dictates of principle: ’tis this which cements, at the same time that

it ensures, the affections; ’tis this virtue that must reconcile us to

our woes. Had it been my sad misfortune to have fixed my affections on

a lover void of principle, even supposing those affections should

continue unchangeable, yet what security should I have of the

continuance of his lover? By what methods could I silence those

perpetual misgivings that would be ever rising in my mind, and in what

manner could I be assured that I was not imposed on, either by his

artifice or my own credulity? But thou, my dear, my honourable friend,

who hast no dark designs to cover, no secret frauds to practise, thou

wilt, I am well assured, preserve the constancy thou hast vowed. You

will never be shamed out of your duty, through the false bashfulness

of owning an infidelity, and when you can no longer love your Eloisa,

you will frankly tell her----yes, you will say, my Eloisa I do not----

I cannot; indeed I cannot, finish the sentence.

What do you think of my proposal? I am sure it is the only one I can

think of to pluck up jealousy by the root. There is a certain

delicacy, a tender confidence which persuades me to rely so entirely

on your sincerity, as to make me incapable of believing any accusation

which came not from your own lips. These are the good effects I expect

from your promise; for though I should easily believe, that you are as

fickle as the rest of your sex, yet I can never be persuaded, that you

are equally false and deceitful, and however I might doubt of the

constancy of your affections, I can never bring myself to suspect your

honour. What a pleasure do I feel in taking precautions in this

matter, which I hope will always be useless, and to prevent the very

possibility of a change, which I am persuaded will never happen! Oh

how delightful is it to talk of jealousy to so faithful a lover! If I

thought you capable of inconstancy I should not talk thus. My poor

heart would not be so discreet in the time of so much danger, and the

least real distrust would deprive me of the prudence necessary for my

security.

This subject, _honoured master_, may be more fully discussed this

evening; for your two _humble scholars_ are to have the honour of

supping with you at my uncle’s. Your learned commentaries on the

Gazette have raised you so highly in his esteem, that no great

artifice was wanting to persuade him to invite you. The daughter has

put her harpsicord in tune, the father has been poring over Lamberti,

and I shall perhaps repeat the lesson I first learnt in Clarens grove.

You who are a master of every science must adapt your knowledge and

instructions to our several capacities. Mr. Orbe (who is invited you

may be sure) has had notice given him to prepare a dissertation on the

nature of the king of Naples’s future homage; this will give us three

an opportunity of going into my cousin’s apartment. There, vassal, on

thy knees, before thy sovereign mistress, thy hands clasped in hers,

and in the presence of her chancellor, thou shalt vow truth and

loyalty on every occasion; I do not say eternal love, because that is

a thing which no one can absolutely promise; but truth, sincerity, and

frankness are in every one’s disposal; to these therefore thou shalt

swear. You need not vow eternal fealty; but you must and shall vow to

commit no act of felonious intention, and at least to declare open war

before you shake off the yoke. This done, you shall seal it with an

embrace and be owned and acknowledged for a true and loyal knight.

Adieu, my dear friend; the expectations I have formed of this evening

have given me all these spirits. I shall be doubly blessed to see you

a partaker of my joy.

Letter XXXVI. From Eloisa.

Kiss this welcome letter, and leap for joy at the news I am going to

tell you: but be assured that though my emotions should prove less

violent, I am not a whit less rejoiced. My father being obliged to go

to Bern on account of a law suit, and from thence to Soleure for his

pension, proposes to take my mother along with him, to which she is

the more willing to consent, as she hopes to receive benefit from the

journey and change of air. They were so obliging as to offer to take

me along with them. I did not think proper to say all I thought on the

occasion; but their not being able to find convenient room for me made

them change their intentions with respect to my going, and they are

now all endeavouring to comfort me for the disappointment. I was

obliged to assume a very melancholy air, as if almost inconsolable;

and, ridiculous as it is, I have dissembled so long, that I am

sometimes apt to fancy I feel a real sorrow.

I am not however to be absolutely my own mistress while my parents are

absent, but to live at my uncle’s; so that during the whole time I

shall be always with my _constant_ cousin. My mother choses to leave

her own woman behind; Bab, therefore, will be considered as a kind of

governess to me. But we need not be very apprehensive of those whom we

have no need either to bribe or to trust, but who may be easily got

rid of whenever they grow troublesome, by means of any trifling

allurement.

You will readily conceive, I dare say, what opportunities we shall

have of meeting during their absence; but our discretion must furnish

those restraints, which our situation has taken off for a while, and

we must then voluntarily submit to that reserve, to which at present

we are obliged by sad necessity. You must, when I am at my cousin’s,

come no oftener than you did before, for fear of giving her offence,

and I hope there will be no need of reminding you of the assiduous

respect and civility, which her sex and the sacred laws of hospitality

require; and that you yourself will sufficiently consider what is due

to the friendship that gives an asylum to your love. I know your eager

disposition; but I am convinced, at the same time, that there are

bounds which can restrain it. Had you never governed your violence by

the known laws of honour, you had not been troubled at present with

any admonitions, at least with none from me.

But why that downcast look, that louring air? why repine at the

restraints which duty prescribes? Be it thy Eloisa’s care to sooth and

soften them. Had you ever cause to repent of having listened to my

advice? Near the flowery banks of the head of the river _Vevey_ there

stands a solitary hut, which serves sometimes as a shelter to

sportsmen, and surely may also shelter lovers. Hard by the mansion

house which belongs to Mr. Orbe are several thatched dairy houses

sufficiently remote, which may serve to cover love and pleasure, ever

the truest friends to rustic simplicity. The prudent milkmaids will

keep the secret; for they have often need of secrecy. The streams

which water the adjoining meadows are bordered with flowering shrubs,

and charming shady groves, while at some little distance the thickness

of the neighbouring wood seems to promise a more gloomy and secluded

retreat.

_Al bel seggio riposto, ombroso e fosco,

Ne mai pastori appressan, ne bifolci._

In this delightful place, no vestiges are seen of human toil, no

appearance of studied and laborious art; every object around presents

only a view of the tender care of nature, our common mother. Here

then, my dear friend, we shall be only under nature’s directions, and

know no other laws but hers. At Mr. Orbe’s invitation, Clara has

already persuaded her father to take the diversion of hunting for two

or three days in this part of the world, and to carry the two

inseparables with him. These inseparables have others likewise closely

connected with them, as you know but too well. The one assuming the

character of master of the house, will consequently do the honours,

while the other with less parade will do the honours of a dairy-house,

and this rural hut dedicated to love, will be to them the temple of

Gnidus. To succeed the more effectually in this charming project,

there will be wanting a little previous contrivance, which may be

easily settled between us, and the very consideration of which will

form a part of those pleasures they are intended to produce. Adieu, my

dear life! I leave off abruptly for fear of being surprized. The heart

of thy devoted Eloisa anticipates, alas, too eagerly the pleasures of

the dairy-house.

P. S. Upon second thoughts, I begin to be of opinion that we may meet

every day without any great danger; at my cousin’s every other day,

and in the field on every intermediate one.

Letter XXXVII. From Eloisa.

They left me this very morning; my tender father and still fonder

mother, took leave of me but just now, overwhelming their beloved

daughter (too unworthy, alas, of all their affection) with repeated

caresses. For my own part, indeed, I did not feel much reluctance at

this separation! I embraced them with an outward appearance of

concern, while my ungrateful and unnatural heart was leaping within me

for joy. Where, alas, is now that happy time, when I led an innocent

life under their continual observation, when my only joy was their

approbation, my only concern their absence or neglect? Behold now the

melancholy reverse! Guilty and fearful as I now am, the very thought

of them gives me pain, and the recollection of myself makes me blush

with confusion. All my virtuous ideas now vanish away like a dream,

and leave in their stead empty disquietudes and barren remorse, which,

bitter as they are, are nevertheless insufficient to lead me to

repentance. These cruel reflections have brought on all that sorrow,

which the taking leave of my parents was unable to effect. And yet

immediately on their departure, I felt an agony of grief. While Bab

was setting the things to rights, I went into my mother’s room as it

were mechanically, without knowing what I did, and seeing some of her

cloaths lying scattered about, I took them up one by one, kissed them

and bathed them with my tears. This vent to my anxiety afforded me

present ease, and it was some comfort to me to reflect, that I was

still awake to nature’s soft emotions, and that her gentle fires were

not entirely extinguished in my soul. In vain, cruel tyrant! dost thou

seek to subject this weak and tender heart, to thy absolute dominion:

notwithstanding all thy fond illusions, it still retains the

sentiments of duty, still cherishes and reveres parental rights, much

more sacred than thy own.

Forgive me, my dear friend, these involuntary emotions, nor imagine

that I carry these reflections farther than I ought. Love’s soft

moments are not to be expected amidst the tortures of anxiety. I

cannot conceal my sufferings from you, and yet I would not overwhelm

you with them; nay, you must know them, though not to share, yet to

soften them. But into whose bosom dare I pour them, if not into,

thine? Are not you my faithful friend, my prudent counselor, my tender

comfort? Have not you been fostering in my soul the love of virtue,

when, alas! that virtue itself was no longer within me? How often

should I have sunk under the pressure of my afflictions had not thy

pitying hand relieved me from my sorrows, and wiped away my tears? It

is your tender care alone supports me. I dare not abuse myself while

you continue to esteem me, and I flatter myself, that if I were indeed

contemptible, none of you would or could so honour me with your

regard. I am flying to the arms of my dear cousin, or rather to the

heart of a tender sister, there to repose the load of grief with which

I am oppressed. Come thither this evening, and contribute to restore

to me that peace and serenity, of which I have long been deprived.

Letter XXXVIII. To Eloisa.

No, Eloisa, it is impossible! I can never bear to see you every day,

if I am always to be charmed in the manner I was last night. My

affection must ever bear proportion to the discovery of your beauties,

and you are an inexhaustible source of endless wonder and delight,

beyond my utmost hopes, beyond my most sanguine expectations! What a

delicious evening to me was the last! What amazing raptures did I

feel! O enchanting sorrow! How infinitely doth the pleasing languor of

a heart softened by concern, surpass the boisterous pleasures, the

foolish gaiety, and the extravagant joy with which a boundless passion

inspires the ungovernable lover! O peaceful bliss! never, never shall

thy pleasing idea be torn from my memory! Heavens, what an enchanting

sight! it was extasy itself, to see two such perfect beauties embrace

each other so affectionately; your face reclined upon her breast,

mixing your tender tears together, and bedewing that charming bosom,

just as heaven refreshes a bed of new blown flowers. I grew jealous of

such a friendship, and thought there was some thing more interesting

in it than even in love itself. I was grieved at the impossibility of

consoling you, without disturbing you at the same time by the violence

of my emotion. No, nothing, nothing upon earth is capable of exciting

so pleasing a sensation as your mutual caresses. Even the sight of two

lovers would have been less delightful.

Oh how could I have admired, nay, adored your dear cousin, if the

divine Eloisa herself had not taken up all my thoughts! You throw, my

dearest angel, an irresistible charm on every thing that surrounds

you. Your gown, your gloves, fan, work, nay every thing that was the

object of my outward senses, enchanted my very soul; and you yourself

compleatd the enchantment. Forbear, forbear, my dear, dear Eloisa, nor

deprive me of all sensation, by making my enjoyment too exquisite. My

transports approach so nearly to phrenzy, that I begin to be

apprehensive I shall lose my reason. Let me, at least, be sensible of

my felicity; let me at least have a rational idea of those raptures,

which are more sublime, and more penetrating, than my glowing

imagination could paint. How can you think yourself disgraced? This

very thought is a sure proof that your senses likewise are affected.

Oh, you are too perfect for frail mortality! I should believe you to

be of a more exalted purer species, if the violence of my passion did

not clearly evince, that we are of a kindred frame. No human being

conceives your excellence; you are unknown even to yourself; my heart

alone knows and can estimate its Eloisa. Were you only an idol of

worship, could you have been enraptured with the dull homage of

admiring mortals? Were you only an angel, how much you would lose of

your real value!

Tell me, if you can, how such a passion as mine is capable of

increasing? I am ignorant of the means, yet am but too sensible of the

fact. You are indeed ever present with me, yet there are some days in

which thy beautiful image is peculiarly before me, and haunts me as it

were with such amazing assiduity that neither time nor place can

deprive me of the delightful object. I even believe you left it with

me in the dairy-house, at the conclusion of your last letter. Since

you mentioned that rural spot, I have been continually rambling in the

fields, and am always insensibly led towards the same place. Every

time I behold it, it appears still more enchanting.

_Non vide il mondo si leggiadri rami,

Ne mosse’l vento mai si verdi frondi._

I find the country more delightful, the verdure fresher and livelier,

the air more temperate and serene than ever I did before; even the

feathered songsters of the sky seem to tune their tender throats with

more harmony and pleasure; the murmuring rills invite to love-

inspiring dalliance, while the blossoms of the vine regale me from

afar with the choicest perfumes. Some secret charm enlivens every

object, or raises my sensations to a more exquisite degree. I am

tempted to imagine that even the earth adorns herself to make a

nuptial bed for your happy lover, worthy of the passion which he

feels, and the goddess he adores. O, my Eloisa, my dearer better half!

let us immediately add to these beauties of the spring, the presence

of two faithful lovers. Let us carry the true sentiments of pleasures

to places which comparatively afford but an empty idea of it. Let us

animate all nature which is absolutely dead without the genial warmth

of love. Am I yet to stay three days, three whole days? Oh what an age

to a fond expecting lover! Intoxicated with my passion, I wait that

happy moment with the most melancholy impatience. Oh how happy should

we be, if heaven would annihilate those tedious intervals which retard

the blissful moment!

Letter XXXIX. From Eloisa.

There is not a single emotion of your heart, which I do not share with

the tenderest concern. But talk no more of pleasures, whilst others,

who have deserved much better than either of us, are suffering under

the pressure of the severest afflictions. Read the inclosed, and then

be composed if you can. I indeed, who am well acquainted with the good

girl who wrote it, was not able to proceed without shedding tears of

sorrow and compassion. The recollection it gave me of my blameable

negligence, touched my very soul, and, to my bitter confusion, I

perceive but too plainly, that a forgetfulness of the principal points

of my duty, has extended itself to all those of inferior

consideration. I had promised this poor child to take care of her; I

recommended her to my mother, and kept her in some degree under my

continual inspection: but, alas! when I became unable to protect

myself, I abandoned her too, and exposed her to worse misfortunes than

even I myself have fallen into. I shudder to think that had I not been

roused from my carelessness, in two days time my ward would have been

ruined; her own indigence, and the snares of others, would have

ruined, for ever ruined, a modest and discreet girl, who may hereafter

possibly prove an excellent parent. O, my dear friend! can there be

such vile creatures upon earth, who would extort from the depth of

misery what the heart alone should give? That any one can submit to

receive the tender embraces of love from the arms of famine itself!

Can you be unmoved at my Fanny’s filial piety, at the integrity of her

sentiments, and the simplicity of her innocence? But are you not

affected with the uncommon tenderness of the lover, who will sell even

himself to assist his poor mistress? Would not you think yourself too

happy to be the instrument of uniting a couple so well formed for each

other? If we, alas, (whose situation so much resembles theirs) do not

compassionate lovers who are united by nature, but divided by

misfortunes, where else can they seek relief with a probability of

success? For my own part, I have determined to make some amends for my

neglect, by contributing my utmost endeavours to unite these two young

people. Heaven will, I hope, assist the generous undertaking, and my

success may prove a good omen to us. I desire, nay, conjure you, by

all that is good and dear to you, to set out for Neufchatel the very

moment you receive this, or to-morrow morning at farthest. You will

then go to Mr. Merveilleux, and try to obtain the young man’s release;

spare neither money nor intreaties. Take Fanny’s letter along with

you. No breast, that is not absolutely void of all sentiments of

humanity, can read it without emotion. In short, whatever money it may

cost, whatever pleasure of her own it may defer, be sure not to return

without an entire free discharge for Claudius Anet; if you do, you may

be assured, I shall never enjoy a single moment’s satisfaction during

the remainder of my life.

I am aware that your heart will be raising many objections to the

proposal I have made; but can you think, that I have not foreseen all

those objections? Yet, notwithstanding them all, I repeat my request;

for virtue must either be an empty name, or it requires of us some

mortifying self-denials. Our appointment, my friend, my dear, dear

friend, though lost for the present, may be made again and again. A

few hours of the most agreeable intercourse vanish like a flash of

lightening; but when the happiness of an honest couple is in your

power, think, only think, what you are preparing for hereafter, if you

neglect the opportunity; on the use then of the present time, depends

an eternity of contentment or remorse. Forgive such frequent

repetitions, they are the overflowings of my zeal. I have said, more

than was necessary to any honest man, and an hundred times too much to

my dear friend. I well know how you abominate that cruel turn of mind

which hardens us to the calamities of others. You yourself have told

me a thousand times, that he is a wretch indeed who scruples giving up

one day of pleasure to the duties of humanity.

Letter XL. From Fanny Regnard to Eloisa.

Honoured Madam,

Forgive this interruption, from a poor girl in despair, who being

ignorant what to do, has taken the liberty of addressing herself to

your benevolence; for you, Madam, are never weary of comforting the

afflicted, and I am so unfortunate, alas, that I have tired all but

God Almighty, and you, with my complaints. I am very sorry I was

obliged to leave the mistress you had been so kind to put me

apprentice to, but on my mother’s death, (which happened this winter)

I was obliged to return home to my poor father, who is confined to his

bed by the palsy.

I have never forgotten the advice you gave my mother, to try to settle

me with some honest man, who might be of use to the family. Claud

Anet (formerly in your father’s service) is a very sober discreet

person, master of a good trade, and has taken a liking to me. Having

been already so much indebted to your bounty, I did not dare to apply

to you for any farther assistance, so that he has been our only

support during the whole winter. He was to have married me this

spring, and indeed had set his heart on it; but I have been so teased

for three years rent due last Easter, that not knowing where to get so

much money, the young man listed at once in M. Marveilleux’s company,

and brought me all the money he had received for enlisting. M.

Merveilleux stays at Neufchatel about a week longer, and Claud Anet is

to set out in three or four days with the rest of the recruits. So

that we have neither time nor money to marry, and he is going to leave

me without any help. If, through your interest or the Baron’s, five or

six weeks longer might be given us, we would endeavour in that time

either to get married, or repay the young man his money. But I am sure

he can never be prevailed on to take the money again.

I received this morning some great offers from a very rich gentleman,

but thank God, I have refused them. He told me, he would come again

to-morrow to know my mind; but I desired him not to give himself so

much trouble, and that he knew it already. By God’s assistance, he

shall have the same answer to-morrow. I might indeed apply to the

parish; but one is so despised after that, that my misfortunes are

better than such a relief, and Claud Anet has too much pride to think

of me after this. Forgive the liberty I have taken; you are the only

person I could think of, and I feel so distressed, that I can write no

more about it.

I am,

Your humble servant to command.

Fanny Regnard.

Letter XLI. The Answer.

I have been wanting in point of memory, and you Fanny have been

deficient in your confidence in me; in short, we have both of us been

to blame, but I am the most inexcusable. However, I shall now

endeavour to repair the injury which my neglect may have occasioned.

Bab, the bearer of this, has orders to satisfy your more immediate

wants, and will be with you again to-morrow, for fear the gentleman

should return. My cousin and I propose calling on you in the evening;

for I know you cannot leave your poor father alone, and indeed I shall

be glad of this opportunity, to inspect your economy a little.

You need not be uneasy on Claud Anet’s account; my father is from

home, but we shall do all we can towards his immediate release. Be

assured, that I will neither forget you, nor your generous lover.

Adieu, my dear, and may God ever bless you. I think you much in the

right for not having recourse to public charity. Such steps as those,

are never to be taken, while the hearts and purses of benevolent

individuals are open, and accessible.

Letter XLII. To Eloisa.

I have received your letter, and shall set out this instant. This is

all the answer I shall make. O Eloisa! how could you cruelly suppose

me possessed of such a selfish unfeeling heart? But you command, and

shall be obeyed. I would rather die a thousand times, than forfeit

your esteem.

Letter XLIII. To Eloisa.

I arrived at Neufchatel yesterday morning, and on enquiry was told,

that M. Merveilleux was just gone into the country. I followed him

immediately, but as he was out a hunting all day, I was obliged to

wait till the evening, before I could speak with him. I told him the

cause of my journey, and desired he would set a price on Claud Anet’s

discharge; to which he raised a number of objections. I then

concluded, that the most effectual method of answering them, would be

to increase my offers, which I did in proportion as his difficulties

multiplied. But finding, after some time, that I was not likely to

succeed, I took my leave, having previously desired the liberty to

wait on him the next morning; determined in my own mind not to stir

out of the house a second time, till I had obtained my request, by

dint of larger offers, frequent importunity, or in short by whatever

means I could think most effectual. I arose early next morning to put

this resolution in practice, and was just going to mount my horse,

when I received a note from M. Merveilleux with the young man’s

discharge, in due form and order. The contents of the note were these.

“Inclosed, Sir, is the discharge, you request. I denied it to your

pecuniary offers, but have granted it in consideration of your

charitable design, and desire you would not think that I am to be

bribed into a good action.”