You will easily conceive by your own satisfaction, what joy I must

have felt. But why is it not as compleat as it ought to be? I cannot

possibly avoid going to thank, and indeed to reimburse M. Merveilleux,

and if this visit, necessary as it is, should retard my return a whole

day, as I am apprehensive it will, is he not generous at my expense?

But no matter: I have done my duty to Eloisa, and am satisfied. Oh

what a happiness it is thus to reconcile benevolence to love! to unite

in the same action the charms of conscious virtue, with the soft

sensations of the tendered affection. I own freely, Eloisa, that I

began my journey, full of sorrow and impatience; I even dared to

reproach you with feeling too much the calamities of others, while you

remained insensible to my sufferings, as if I alone of all created

beings had been unworthy your compassion. I thought it quite barbarous

in you, after having disappointed me of my sweetest hopes, thus

unnecessarily and wantonly as it were to deprive me of a happiness

which you had voluntarily promised. All these secret repinings are now

happily changed into a fund of contentment, and solid satisfaction, to

which I have hitherto lived a stranger. I have already enjoyed the

recompense you bade me expect; you spake from experience. Oh! what an

amazing kind of empire is yours, which can convert even disappointment

into pleasure, and cause the same satisfaction in obeying you, as

could result from the greatest self-gratification! Oh my dearest,

kindest Eloisa, you are indeed an angel; if any thing could be wanting

to confirm the truth of this, your unbounded empire over my soul would

be a sufficient confirmation. Doubtless it partakes much more of the

divine nature, than of the human; and who can resist the power of

heaven? And to what purpose should I cease to love you, since you must

ever remain the object of my adoration?

P. S. According to my calculation we shall have five or six days to

ourselves before your mother returns. Will it be impossible for you

during this interval to undertake a pilgrimage to the dairy-house?

Letter XLIV. From Eloisa.

Repine not, my dear friend, at this unexpected return. It is really

more advantageous to us than you can possibly imagine, and indeed,

supposing our contrivances could have effected what our regard to

appearance has induced us to give up, we should have succeeded no

better. Judge what would have been the consequence, had we followed

our inclinations. I should have gone into the country but the very

evening before my mother’s return, should have been sent for them

thence, before I could have possibly given you any notice, and must

consequently have left you in the most dreadful anxiety; we should

have parted just on the eve of our imaginary bliss, and the

disappointment would have been cruelly aggravated by the near approach

of our felicity. Besides, notwithstanding the utmost precautions we

could have taken, it would have been known that we were both in the

country; perhaps too, they might have heard that we were together, it

would have been suspected at least, and that were enough. An imprudent

avidity of the present moment, would have deprived us of every future

resource, and the remorse for having neglected such an act of

benevolence, would have imbittered the remainder of our lives.

Compare then, I beseech you, our present situation with that I have

been describing. First, your absence has been productive of several

good effects. My Argus will not fail to tell my mother, that you have

been but seldom at my cousin’s. She is acquainted with the motives of

your journey; this may probably prove a means of raising you in her

esteem, and how think you, can they conceive it possible that two

young people who have an affection for each other should agree to

separate, at the very time they are left most at liberty? What an

artifice have we employed to destroy suspicions which are but too well

founded! The only stratagem in my opinion consistent with honour, is

the carrying our discretion to such an incredible height, that, what

is in reality the utmost effort of self-denial, may be mistaken for a

token of indifference. How delightful, my dear friend, must a passion

thus concealed be to those who enjoy it! Add to this the pleasing

consciousness of having united two despairing lovers, and contributed

to the happiness of so deserving a couple. You have seen my Fanny;

tell me, is not she a charming girl? Does not she really deserve every

thing you have done for her? Is not she too beautiful and too

unfortunate to remain long unmarried, without some disaster? And do

you think that Claud Anet, whose natural good disposition has

miraculously preserved him during three years service, could have

resolution to continue three years more without becoming as

perfidious, and as wretched as all those of that profession? Instead

of that, they love, and will be united, they are poor, and will be

relieved; they are honest, and will be enabled to continue so; for my

father has promised them a competent provision. What a number of

advantages then has your kindness procured to them, and to ourselves;

not to mention the additional obligations you have conferred on me?

Such, my friend, are the certain effects of sacrifices to virtue;

which, though they are difficult to perform, are always grateful in

remembrance. No one ever repented of having performed a good action.

I suppose, you will say, with the _constant_, that all this is mere

_preaching_, and indeed it is but too true that I no more practise

what I preach than those who are preachers by profession. However, if

my discourses are not so elegant, I have the satisfaction to find that

mine are not so entirely thrown away as theirs. I do not deny it, my

dear friend, that I would willingly add as many virtues to your

character, as a fatal indulgence to love has taken away from mine; and

Eloisa herself having forfeited my regard, I would gladly esteem her

in you. Perfect affection is all that is required on your part, and

the consequence will flow easy and natural. With what pleasure ought

you to reflect, that you are continually increasing those obligations,

which love itself engages to pay!

My cousin has been made privy to the conversation you had with her

father, about M. Orbe, and seems to think herself as much indebted to

you, as if we had never been obliged to her in our lives. Gracious

heaven, how every particular incident contributes to my happiness! How

dearly am I beloved, and how I am charmed with their affection!

Father, mother, friend and lover, all conspire in their tender concern

for my happiness, and notwithstanding my eager endeavours to requite

them, I am always either prevented or outdone. It should seem, as if

all the tenderest feelings in nature verged towards my heart, whilst

I, alas, have but one sensation to enjoy them.

I forgot to mention a visit you are to receive to-morrow morning. ’Tis

from L. B---- lately come from Geneva, where he has resided about

eight months; he told me he had seen you at Sion, in his return from

Italy. He found you very melancholy, but speaks of you in general

in the manner you yourself would wish, and in which I have long

thought. He commended you so a propos to my father yesterday, that

he has prejudiced me already very much in his favour: and indeed his

conversation is sensible, lively and spirited. In reciting heroic

actions, he raises his voice, and his eyes sparkle as men usually do

who are capable of performing the deeds they relate. He speaks also

emphatically in matters of taste, especially of the Italian music which

he extols to the very skies. He often reminded me of my poor brother.

But his lordship seems not to have sacrificed much to the graces; his

discourse in general is rather nervous than elegant, and even his

understanding seems to want a little polishing.

Letter XLV. To Eloisa.

I was reading your last letter, the second time, only, when Lord B----

came in. But as I have so many other things to say, how can I think of

his lordship? When two people are entirely delighted and satisfied

with each other, what need is there of a third person? However since

you seem to desire it, I will tell you what I know of him. Having

passed the Semplon, he came to Sion, to wait for a chaise which was to

come from Geneva to Brigue; and as want of employment often makes men

seek society, we soon became acquainted, and as intimate, as the

reserve of an Englishman, and my natural love of retirement, would

permit. Yet we soon perceived, that we were adapted to each other;

there is a certain union of souls which is easily discernable. At the

end of eight days, we were full as familiar, as we ever were

afterwards, and as two Frenchmen would have been in the same number of

hours. He entertained me with an account of his travels; and knowing

he was an Englishman, I immediately concluded he would have talked of

nothing but pictures or buildings. But I was soon pleased to find,

that his attention to the politer arts had not made him neglect the

study of men and manners: yet whatever he said on those subjects of

refinement was judicious, and in taste, but with modesty and

diffidence. As far as I could perceive, his opinions seemed rather

founded on reflection, than science, and that he judged from effects,

rather than rules, which confirmed me in my idea of his excellent

understanding. He spake to me of the Italian music with as much

enthusiasm as he did to you, and indeed gave me a specimen of it; his

valet plays extremely well on the violin, and he himself tolerably on

the violencello. He picked out what he called some very affecting

pieces, but whether it was by being unused to it, or that music,

which is so soothing in melancholy, loses all its soft charms when

our grief is extreme, I must own I was not much delighted; the melody

was agreeable, but wild, and without the least expression.

Lord B---- was very anxious to know my situation. I accordingly told

him, as much as was necessary for him to know. He made an offer of

taking me with him into England, and proposed several advantages,

which were no inducements to me in a country where Eloisa was not. He

had formerly told me that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva,

the summer at Lausanne and that he would come to Vevey before he

returned into Italy.

Lord B---- is of a lively hasty temper, but virtuous and steady. He

piques himself on being a philosopher, and upon those principles which

we have frequently discussed. But I really believe his own disposition

leads him naturally to that which he imagines the effect of method and

study, and that the varnish of stoicism, which he glosses over all his

actions, only covers the inclination of his heart.

I do not know what want of polish you have found in his manner; it is

really not very engaging, and yet I cannot say there is any thing

disgusting in it. Though his address is not so easy and open as his

disposition, and he seems to despise the trifling punctilios of

ceremony, yet his behaviour in the main is very agreeable: though he

has not that reserved and cautious politeness, which confines itself

alone to mere outward form, and which our young officers learn in

France, yet he is less solicitous about distinguishing men and their

respective situations at first sight, than he is assiduous in paying a

proper degree of respect to every one in general. Shall I tell you the

plain truth? Want of elegance is a failing which women never overlook,

and I fear that in this instance, Eloisa has been a woman for once in

her life.

Since I am now upon a system of plain dealing, give me leave to assure

you, my pretty preacher, that it is to no purpose that you endeavour

to invalidate my pretensions, and that sermons are but poor food for a

famished lover. Think, think of all the compensations you have

promised, and which indeed are my due; but though every thing you have

said is exceeding just and true, one visit to the dairy-house would

have been a thousand times more agreeable.

Letter XLVI. From Eloisa.

What, my friend, still the dairy-house? Surely this dairy house sits

heavy on your heart. Well, cost what it will, I find you must be

humoured. But is it possible you can be so attached to a place you

never saw, that no other will satisfy you? Do you think that Love, who

raised Armida’s palace in the midst of a desert, cannot give us a

dairy-house in the town? Fanny is going to be married, and my father,

who has no objection to a little parade and mirth, is resolved it

shall be a public wedding. You may be sure there will be no want of

noise and tumult, which may not prove unfavourable to a private

conversation. You understand me. Do not you think it will be charming

to find the pleasures we have denied ourselves in the effect of our

benevolence?

Your zeal to apologize for Lord B---- was unnecessary, as I was never

inclined to think ill of him. Indeed how should I judge of a man, with

whom I spent only one afternoon? or how can you have been sufficiently

acquainted with him in the space of a few days? I spoke only from

conjecture; nor do I suppose that you can argue on any better

foundation: his proposals to you are of that vague kind of which

strangers are frequently lavish, from their being easily eluded, and

because they give them an air of consequence. But your character of

his Lordship is another proof of your natural vivacity, and of that

ease with which you are prejudiced for or against people at first

sight. Nevertheless, we will think of his proposals more at leisure.

If love should favour my project, perhaps something better may offer.

O, my dear friend, patience is exceeding bitter; but its fruits are

most delicious!

To return to our Englishman, I told you he appeared to have a truly

great and intrepid soul; but that he was rather sensible than

agreeable. You seem almost of the same opinion, and then, with that

air of masculine superiority, always visible in our humble admirers,

you reproach me with being a woman once in my life; as if a woman

ought ever to belie her sex.

Have you forgot our dispute, when we were reading your _Republic of

Plato_, about the moral distinction between the sexes? I have still

the same difficulty to suppose there can be but one common model of

perfection for two beings so essentially different. Attack and

defence, the impudence of the men, and female modesty, are by no means

effects of the same cause as the philosophers have imagined; but

natural institutions which may be easily accounted for, and from which

may be deduced every other moral distinction. Besides, the designs of

nature being different in each, their inclinations, their perceptions

ought necessarily to be directed according to their different views:

to till the ground, and to nourish children, require very opposite

tastes and constitutions. A higher stature, stronger voice and

features, seem indeed to be no indispensable marks of distinction; but

this external difference evidently indicates the intention of the

Creator in the modification of the mind. The soul of a perfect woman

and a perfect man ought to be no more alike than their faces. All our

vain imitations of your sex are absurd; they expose us to the ridicule

of sensible men, and discourage the tender passions we were made to

inspire. In short, unless we are near six foot high, have a bass

voice, and a beard upon our chins, we have no business to pretend to

be men.

What novices are you lovers in the art of reproaching! You accuse me

of a fault which I have not committed, or of which, however, you are

as frequently guilty as myself; and you attribute it to a defeat of

which I am proud. But in return for your plain dealing, suffer me to

give you my plain and sincere opinion of your sincerity. Why then, it

appears to be a refinement of flattery, calculated, under the disguise

of an apparent freedom of expression, to justify to yourself the

enthusiastic praises which, upon every occasion, you are so liberally

pleased to bestow on me. You are so blinded by my imaginary

perfections, that you can discover no real ones to excuse your

prepossessions in my favour.

Believe me, my friend, you are not qualified to tell me my faults. Do

you think the eyes of love, piercing as they are, can discover

imperfect? No, ’tis a power which belongs only to honest friendship,

and in that your pupil Clara is much your superior. Yes, my dear

friend, you shall praise me, admire me, and think me charming and

beautiful and spotless. Thy praises please without deceiving me I know

it to be the language of error and not of deceit; that you deceive

yourself, but have no design to deceive me. O how delightful are the

illusions of love! and surely all its flattery is truth; for the heart

speaks, though the judgment is silent. The lover who praises in us

that which we do not possess, represents our qualities truly as they

appear to him; he speaks a falsity without being guilty of a lie; he

is a flatterer without meanness, and one may esteem without believing

him.

I have heard, not without some little palpitation, a proposal to

invite two philosophers to-morrow to supper. One is my Lord B----, and

the other a certain sage whose gravity hath sometimes been a little

discomposed at the feet of a young disciple. Do you know the man? If

you do, pray desire that he will to-morrow preserve the philosophic

decorum a little better than usual. I shall take care to order the

young damsel to cast her eyes downward, and to appear in his as little

engaging as possible.

Letter XLVII. To Eloisa.

Malicious girl! Is this the circumspection you promised? Is it thus

you spare my heart, and draw a veil over your charms? How often did

you break your engagement! First, as to your dress; for you were in an

undress, though you well know that you are never more bewitching.

Secondly, that modest air and sweetness in your manner so calculated

for the gradual display of all your graces. Your conversation more

refined, more studied, more witty than usual, which made every one so

uncommonly attentive, that they seemed impatiently to anticipate every

sentence you spoke. That delightful air you sung below your usual

pitch, which rendered your voice more enchantingly soft, and which

made your song, though French, please even Lord B----. Your down-cast

eyes, and your timid glances which pierced me to the soul. In a word,

that inexpressible enchantment which seemed spread over your whole

person to turn the brains of the company, even without the least

apparent design. For my part, I know not how to manage; but if this is

the method you take to be _as little engaging as possible_, I assure

you, however, it is being infinitely too much so for people to retain

their senses in your company.

I doubt much whether the poor English philosopher has not perceived a

little of the same influence. After we had conducted your cousin home,

seeing us all in high spirits, he proposed that we should retire to

his lodgings and have a little music, and a bowl of punch. While his

servants were assembling, he never ceased talking of you; but with so

much warmth, that, I confess, I should not hear his praise from your

lips with as much pleasure as you did from mine. Upon the whole, I am

not fond of hearing any body speak of you, except your cousin. Every

word seems to deprive me of a part of my secret, or my pleasure, and

whatever they say appears so suspicious, or is so infinitely short of

what I feel, that I would hear no discourse upon the subject but my

own.

It is not that, like you, I am at all inclined to jealousy: no, I am

better acquainted with the soul of my Eloisa; and I have certain

sureties that exclude even the possibility of your inconstancy. After

your protestations, I have nothing more to say concerning your other

pretenders; but this Lord, Eloisa----equality of rank----your

father’s prepossession----In short, you know my life is depending. For

heaven’s sake, deign to give me a line or two upon this subject: one

single word from Eloisa, and I shall be satisfied for ever.

I passed the night in attending to, and playing, Italian music; for

there were some duets, and I was forced to take a part. I dare not yet

tell you what effect it had on me; but I fear, I fear, the impression

of last night’s supper influenced the harmony, and that I mistook the

effect of your enchantment for the power of music. Why should not the

same cause which made it disagreeable at Sion, gave it a contrary

effect in a contrary situation? Are not you the source of every

affection of my soul, and am I proof against the power of your magic?

If it had really been the music which produced the enchantment, every

one present must have been affected in the same manner; but whilst I

was all rapture and extasy, Mr. Orbe sat snoring in an armed chair,

and when I awoke him with my exclamations, all the praise he bestowed

was to ask, whether your cousin understood Italian.

All this will be better explained to-morrow; for we are to have

another concert this evening. His Lordship is determined to have it

compleat, and has sent to Lausanne for a second violin, who, he says,

is a tolerable hand. On my part, I shall carry some French _scenes_

and cantatas.

When I first returned to my room I sunk into my chair, quite exhausted

and overcome; for want of practice I am but a poor rake: but I no

sooner took my pen to write to you, than I found myself gradually

recover. Yet I must endeavour to sleep a few hours. Come with me; my

sweet friend, and do not leave me whilst I slumber but whether thy

image brings me pain or pleasure, whether it reminds me, or not, of

Fanny’s wedding, it cannot deprive me of that delightful moment, when

I shall awake and recollect my felicity.

Letter XLVIII. To Eloisa.

Ah! my Eloisa, how have I been entertained! What melting sounds! what

music! delightful source of sensibility and pleasure! Lose not a

moment; collect your operas, your cantatas, in a word all your French

music; then make a very hot fire, and cast the wretched, stuff into

the flames: be sure you stir it well, that, cold as it is, it may once

at least send forth a little warmth. Make this sacrifice to the God of

taste, to expiate our mutual crime in having profaned your voice with

such doleful psalmody, and so long mistaking a noise that stunned our

ears for the pathetic language of the heart. How entirely your worthy

brother was in the right; and in what unaccountable ignorance have I

lived, concerning the productions of that charming art! It gave me but

little pleasure, and therefore I thought it naturally impotent.

music, I said, is a vain sound, that only flatters the ear, and makes

little or no impression upon the mind. The effect of harmonic sounds

is entirely mechanical or physical; and what have these to do with

sentiment? Why should I expect to be moved with musical chords more

than with a proper agreement of colours? But I never perceived, in the

accents of melody applied to those of language, the secret but

powerful unison between music and the passions. I had no idea that

the same sensations which modulate the voice of an orator, gives the

singer a still greater power over our hearts, and that the energic

expression of his own feelings is the sympathetic cause of all our

emotion.

This lesson I was taught by his lordship’s Italian singer, who, for a

musician, talks pretty sensibly of his own art. Harmony, says he, is

nothing more than a remote accessory in imitative music; for,

properly speaking, there is not in harmony the least principle of

imitation. Indeed, it assures the intonations, confirms their

propriety, and renders the modulation more distinct; it adds force to

the expression and grace to the air. But from melody alone proceeds

that invincible power of pathetic accents over the soul. Let there be

performed the most judicious succession of chords, without the

addition of melody, and you would be tired in less than a quarter of

an hour; whilst on the contrary, a single voice, without the

assistance of harmony, will continue to please a considerable time. An

air, be it ever so simple, if there be any thing of the true pathos in

the composition, becomes immediately interesting; but, on the

contrary, melody without expression will have no effect, and harmony

alone can never touch the heart.

In this, continued he, consists the error of the French with regard to

the power of music. As they can have no peculiar melody in a language

void of musical accent, nor in their uniform and unnatural poetry,

they have no idea of any other effect than that of harmony and a loud

voice, which instead of softening the tones, renders them more

intolerably noisy; nay they are even so unfortunate in their

pretensions, that they suffer the very harmony they expect to escape

them; for in order to render it more compleat, they sacrifice all

choice, they no longer distinguish the powers and effects of

particular tones, their compositions are overcharged, they have spoilt

their ears, and are become insensible to every thing but noise: so

that, in their opinion, the finest voice is that which roars the

loudest. Having no original stile or taste of their own, they have

always followed us heavily and at a great distance, and since their,

or rather our Lulli, who imitated the operas which were then quite

common in Italy, we have beheld them, thirty or forty years behind us,

copying, mutilating and spoiling our ancient compositions, just as

other nations do by their fashions. Whenever they boast of their

_chansons_, they pronounce their own condemnation; for if they could

express the passions, they would not set wit to music: but because

their music is entirely incapable of any expression, it is better

adapted to _chansons_ than operas, and ours is more fit for the latter

because it is extremely pathetic.

He then repeated a few Italian scenes without singing, made me

sensible of the harmony between the music and the words in the

recitative, between the sentiment and the music in the airs, and in

general the energy which was added to the expression by the exact

measure and the proper choice of chords. In short, after joining to my

knowledge of the Italian, the most perfect idea in my power of the

oratorial and pathetic emphasis, namely the art of speaking to the ear

and to the heart in an inarticulate language, I sat down and gave my

whole attention to this enchanting music, and, by the emotions I felt,

soon perceived that there is a power in the art infinitely beyond what

I imagined. It is impossible to describe the voluptuous sensation

which imperceptibly stole upon me. It was not an unmeaning succession

of sounds, as in our musical recitals. Every phrase imprest my brain

with some new image, or conveyed a fresh sensation to my heart. The

pleasure did not stop at the ear; it penetrated my soul. The

performance, without any extraordinary effort, seemed to flow with

charming facility; and the performers appeared to be all animated by

one soul. The singer, who was quite master of his voice, expressed,

with ease, all that the music and the words required. Upon the whole,

I was extremely happy to find myself relieved from those heavy

cadences, those terrible efforts of the voice, that continual combat

between the air and the measure which in our music so seldom agree,

and which is not less fatiguing to the audience than the musician.

But when, after a succession of agreeable airs, they struck into those

grand pieces of expression, which, as they paint, excite the more

violent passions, I every moment lost the idea of music, song,

imitation; and imagined I heard the real voice of grief, rage,

despair. Sometimes methought I saw a weeping disconsolate mother, a

lover betrayed, a furious tyrant, and the sympathy was frequently so

powerful that I could hardly keep my seat. I was thus affected,

because I now fully conceived the ideas of the composer, and therefore

his judicious combination of sounds acted upon me with all its force.

No, Eloisa, it is impossible to feel those impressions by halves; they

are excessive or not at all; one is either entirely insensible or

raised to an immoderate degree of enthusiasm: either it is an

unintelligible noise, or an impetuosity of sensation that hurries you

along, and which the soul cannot possibly resist.

Yet I had one cause of regret throughout the whole: it was, that any

other than my Eloisa should form sounds that were capable of giving me

pleasure, and to hear the most tender expressions of love from the

mouth of a wretched eunuch. O my lovely Eloisa! can there be any kind

of sensibility that belongs not to us? Who is there that can feel and

express better than we, all that can possibly be exprest or felt by a

soul melting into tenderness and love? Where are those who in softer

and more pathetic accents could pronounce the _Cor mio_, the _Idolo

amato_? Ah! what energy would our hearts add to the expression, if

together we should ever sing one of those charming duets which draw

such delicious tears from one’s eyes! I conjure you to taste this

Italian music as soon as possible, either at home or with your cousin.

Lord B---- will order his people to attend when and where you shall

think proper. With your exquisite sensibility, and more knowledge than

I had of the Italian declamation, one single essay will raise you to a

degree of enthusiasm at least equal to mine. Let me also persuade you

to take a few lessons of this virtuoso: I have begun with him this

morning. His manner of instruction is simple, clear, and consists more

in example than precept. I already perceive that the principal

requisite is to feel and mark the _time_, to observe the proper

emphasis, and instead of swelling every note, to sustain an equality

of tone; in short to refine the voice from all that French bellowing,

that it may become more just, expressive and flexible. Yours, which is

naturally so soft and sweet will be easily reformed, and your

sensibility will soon instruct you in that vivacity and expression,

which is the soul of Italian music.

_E ’l cantar che nell’ animo si sente._

Leave then, for ever leave, that tedious and lamentable French sing-

song, which bears more resemblance to the cries of the cholic than the

transports of the passion; and learn to breathe those divine sounds

inspired by sensation, which only are worthy of your voice, worthy of

your heart, and which never fail to charm and fire the soul.

Letter XLIX. From Eloisa.

You know, my dear friend, that I write to you by stealth, and in

continual apprehension of a surprize. Therefore, as it is impossible

for me to write long letters, I must confine myself to those parts of

yours which more especially require answering, or to supply what was

left unsaid in our conversations, which, alas, are no less clandestine

than our interchange of letters: at least I shall observe this method

to day; your mentioning Lord B---- will make me neglect the rest.

And so you are afraid to lose me, yet you talk to me of singing!

surely this were sufficient cause for a quarrel between two people who

were less acquainted. No, no, you are not jealous it is evident: nor

indeed will I be so; for I have dived into your heart, and perceive

that which another might mistake for indifference, to be absolute

confidence. O what a charming security is that which springs from the

sensibility of a perfect union! Hence it is, I know, that from your

own heart you derive your good opinion of mine; and hence it is you

are so entirely justified, that I should doubt your affection, if

you were more alarmed.

I neither know nor care whether Lord B---- has any other regard for me

than all men have for girls of my age. But of what consequence are his

sentiments of the matter? Mine and my father’s are the only proper

subjects of enquiry and these are both the same as they were with

regard to the two pretended pretenders, of whom you say you will say

nothing. If his exclusion and theirs will add to your repose, rest

satisfied. How much soever we might think ourselves honoured in the

addresses of a man of his Lordship’s rank, never, with her own or her

father’s consent, would Eloisa D’Etange become Lady B----. Of this you may

be very certain: not that you are hence to conclude that he was ever

thought of in that light. I am positive you are the first person who

supposed that he has the least inclination for me. But be that as it

will, I know my father’s sentiments as well as if he had already

declared them. Surely this is sufficient to calm your fears; at least

it is as much as it concerns you to know. The rest is matter of mere

curiosity, and you know I have resolved that it shall not be

satisfied. You may reproach me as you please with reserve, and pretend

that our concerns and our interest are the same. If I had always been

reserved, it would now have been less important. Had it not been for

my indiscretion in repeating to you some of my fathers words, you

would never have retired to Meillerie, you would never have written

the letter which was the cause of my ruin, I should still have

possessed my innocence, and might yet have aspired to happiness. Judge

then, by my sufferings for one indiscretion, how I ought to dread the

commission of another! You are too violent to have any prudence. You

could with less difficulty conquer your passions than disguise them.

The least suspicion would set you mad, and the most trivial

circumstance would confirm all your suspicions. Our secrets would be

legible in your face, and your impetuous zeal would frustrate all my

hopes. Leave therefore to me the cares of love, and do you preserve

its pleasures only. You surely have no reason to complain with this

division: acquiesce, and be convinced that all you can possibly

contribute to the advancement of our felicity, is, not to interrupt

it.

But, alas! what avail my precautions now? Is it for me to be cautious

how I step, who am already fallen headlong down the precipice, or to

prevent the evils with which I am already oppressed? Ah wretched girl!

is it for thee to talk of felicity? Was ever happiness compatible with

shame and remorse? Cruel, cruel fate! neither to be able to bear nor

to repent of my crime; to be beset by a thousand terrors, deluded by a

thousand hopes, and not even to enjoy the horrible tranquility of

despair. The question is not now of virtue and resolution, but of

fortune and prudence. My present business is not to extinguish a flame

which ought never to expire, but to render it innocent, or to die

guilty. Consider my situation, my friend, and then see whether you

dare depend upon my zeal.

Letter L. From Eloisa.

I refused to explain to you, before we parted yesterday, the cause of

that uneasiness you remarked in me, because you were not in a

condition to bear reproof. In spite, however, of my aversion to

explanations, I think I ought to do it now, to acquit myself of the

promise I then made you.

I know not whether you may remember your last night’s unaccountable

discourse and strange behaviour; for my part, I shall remember them

too long for your honour or my repose; indeed they have hurt me too

much to be easily forgotten. Similar expressions have sometimes

reached my ears from the street; but I never thought they could come

from the lips of any worthy man. Of this however I am certain, there

are no such in the lover’s dictionary, and nothing was farther from my

thoughts than that they should ever pass between you and me. Good

heaven! what kind of love must yours be, thus to season its delights!

It is true, you were flushed with wine, and I perceive how much one

must over-look in a country where such excess is permitted. It is for

this reason I speak to you on the subject; for you may be assured

that, had you treated me in the same manner when perfectly sober, it

should have been the last opportunity you should ever have had.

But what alarms me most on your account is, that the conduct of men in

liquor is often no other than the image of what passes in their hearts

at other times. Shall I believe that, in a condition which disguises

nothing, you discovered yourself to be what you really are? What will

become of me if you think this morning as you did last night? Sooner

than be liable to such insults, I had rather extinguish so gross a

passion, and lose for ever a lover who, knowing so little how to

respect his mistress, deserves so little of her esteem.

Is it possible that you who should delight in virtuous sentiments,

should have fallen into that cruel error, and have adopted the notion,

that a lover once made happy need no longer pay any regard to decorum,

and that those have no title to respect whose cruelty is no longer to

be feared. Alas, had you always thought thus, your power would have

been less dreadful, and I should have been less unhappy. But mistake

not, my friend; nothing is so pernicious to true lovers as the

prejudices of the world; so many talk of love and so few know what it

is, that most people mistake its pure and gentle laws for the vile

maxims of an abject commerce, which, soon satiated, has recourse to

the monsters of imagination, and, in order to support itself, sinks

into depravity.

Possibly I may be mistaken; but it seems to me that true love is the

chastest of all human connections; and that the sacred flame of love

should purify our natural inclinations, by concentring them in one

object. It is love that secures us from temptation, and makes the

whole sex indifferent, except the beloved individual.

To a woman indifferent to love, every man is the same, and all are

men; but to her whose heart is truly susceptible of that refined

passion, there is no other man in the world but her lover. What do I

say? Is a lover no more than a man? He is a being far superior! There

exists not a man in the creation with her who truly loves: her lover

is more, and all others are less; they live for each other, and are

the only beings of their species. They have no desires; they love. The

heart is not led by, but leads, the senses, and throws over their

errors the veil of delight. There is nothing obscene but in lewdness

and its gross language. Real love, always modest, seizes not

impudently its favours, but steals them with timidity. Secrecy,

silence, and a timorous bashfulness heighten and conceal its delicious

transports; its flame purifies all its caresses, while decency and

chastity attend even its most sensual pleasures. It is love alone that

knows how to gratify the desires without trespassing on modesty. Tell

me, you who once knew what true pleasures were, how can a cynic

impudence be consistent with their enjoyment? Will it not deprive that

enjoyment of all its sweetness? Will it not deface that image of

perfection that represents the beloved object? Believe me, my friend,

lewdness and love can never dwell together; they are incompatible. On

the heart depends the true happiness of those who love; and where love

is absent, nothing can supply its place.

But, supposing you were so unhappy as to be pleased with such immodest

discourse, how could you prevail on yourself to make sure of it so

indifferently, and address her who was so dear to you, in a manner in

which a virtuous man certainly ought to be ignorant? Since when is it

become delightful to afflict the object one loves? and how barbarous

is that pleasure which delights in tormenting others? I have not

forgotten that I have forfeited the right I had to be respected: but

if I should ever forget it, is it you that ought to remind of it? Does

it belong to the author of my crime to aggravate my punishment? Ought

he not rather to administer comfort? All the world may have reason to

despise me, but you have none. It is to you I owe the mortifying

situation to which I am reduced; and surely the tears I have shed for

my weakness call upon you to alleviate my sorrow, I am neither nice

nor prudish. Alas, I am but too far from it; I have not been even

discreet. You know too well, ungrateful as you are, that my

susceptible heart can refuse nothing to love. But, whatever I may

yield to love, I will make no concessions to any thing else; and you

have instructed me too well in its language to be able to substitute

one so different in its room. No terms of abuse, not even blows could

have insulted me more than such demonstrations of kindness. Either

renounce Eloisa, or continue to merit her esteem. I have already told

you I know no love without modesty; and, how much soever it may cost

me to give up yours, it will cost me still more to keep it at so dear

a price.

I have yet much to say on this subject; but I must here close my

letter, and defer it to another opportunity. In the mean time, pray

observe one effect of your mistaken maxims regarding the immoderate

use of wine. I am very sensible your heart is not to blame; but you

have deeply wounded mine; and, without knowing what you did, afflicted

a mind too easily alarmed, and to which nothing is indifferent that

comes from you.

Letter LI.

There is not a line in your letter that does not chill the blood in my

veins; and I can hardly be persuaded, after twenty times reading, that

it is addressed to me. Who I? Can I have offended Eloisa? Can I have

profaned her beauties? Can the idol of my soul, to whom every moment

of my life I offer up my adorations, can she have been the object of

my insults? No, I would have pierced this heart a thousand times

before it should have formed so barbarous a design. Alas! you know but

little of this heart that flies to prostrate itself at your feet; a

heart anxious to contrive for thee a new species of homage, unknown to

human beings. Ah! my Eloisa, you know that heart but little, if you

accuse it of wanting towards you the ordinary respect which even a

common lover entertains for his mistress. Is it possible I can have

been impudent and brutal? I, who detest the language of immodesty, and

never in my life entered into places where it is held! But that I

should repeat such discourse to you; that I should aggravate your just

indignation! Had I been the most abandoned of men, had I spent my

youth in riot and debauchery, had even a taste for sensual and

shameful pleasures found a place in the heart where you reside, tell

me, Eloisa, my angel, tell me, how was it possible I could have

betrayed before you that impudence, which no one can have but in the

presence of those who are themselves abandoned enough to approve it.

Ah, no! it is impossible. One look of yours had sealed my lips and

corrected my heart. Love would have veiled my impetuous desires

beneath the charms of your modesty; while in the sweet union of our

souls their own delirium only would have led the senses astray. I

appeal to your own testimony, if ever in the utmost extravagance of an

unbounded passion, I ceased to revere its charming object. If I

received the reward of my love, did I ever take an advantage of my

happiness, to do violence to your bashfulness? If the trembling hand

of an ardent but timid lover hath sometimes presumed too far, did he

ever with brutal temerity profane your charms? If ever an indiscreet

transport drew aside their veil, though but for a moment, was not that

of modesty as soon substituted in its place? Unalterable as the

chastity of your mind, the flame that glows in mine can never change.

Is not the affecting and tender union of our souls sufficient to

constitute our happiness? Does not in this alone consist all the

happiness of our lives? Have we a wish to know, or taste of any other?

And canst thou conceive that this enchantment can be broken? How was

it possible for me to forget in a moment all regard to chastity, to

our love, my honour, and that invincible reverence and respect which

you must always inspire even in those by whom you are not adored? No;

I cannot believe it. It was not I that offended you? I have not the

least remembrance of it; and, were I but one instant culpable, can it

be that my remorse should ever leave me? No, Eloisa, some demon,

envious of happiness, too great for a mortal, has taken upon him my

form to destroy my felicity.

Nevertheless, I abjure, I detest a crime which I must have committed,

since you are my accuser, but in which my will had no part. How do I

begin to abhor that fatal intemperance, which once seemed to me

favourable to the effusions of the heart, and which has so cruelly

deceived mine! I have bound myself, therefore, by a solemn and

irrevocable vow, to renounce wine from this day, as a mortal poison.

Never shall that fatal liquor again touch my lips, bereave me of my

senses, or involve me in guilt to which my heart is a stranger. If I

ever break this solemn vow, may the powers of love inflict on me the

punishment I deserve! May the image of Eloisa that instant forsake my

heart, and abandon it for ever to indifference and despair!

But, think not I mean to expiate my crime by so slight a

mortification. There is a precaution and not a punishment. It is from

you I expect that which I deserve; nay, I beg it of you to console my

affliction. Let offended love avenge itself and be appeased to punish

without hating me, and I will suffer without murmuring. Be just and

severe; it is necessary, and I must submit; but if you would not

deprive me of life, you must not deprive me of your heart.

Letter LII. From Eloisa.

What! my friend renounce his bottle for his mistress! This is indeed a

sacrifice! I defy any one to find me a man in the four cantons more

deeply in love than your-self. Not but there may be found some young

frenchified petit-maîtres among us that drink water through

affectation; but you are the first Swiss that ever love made a water-

drinker, and ought to stand as an example for ever in the lover’s

chronicle of your country. I have even been informed of your abstinent

behaviour, and have been much edified to hear that, being to sup last

night with M. de Vueillerans, you saw six bottles go round after

supper without touching a drop; and that you spared your water as

little as your companions did their wine. This state of self-denial

and penitence, however, must have lasted already three days, and in

three days you must have abstained from wine at least for six meals.

Now to the abstinence for six meals, observed through fidelity, may be

added six others, through fear, six through shame, six through habit,

and six more through obstinacy. How many motives might be found to

prolong this mortifying abstinence, of which love alone will have all

the credit? But can love condescend to pride itself in merit, to which

it hath no just pretensions?

This idle raillery may possibly be as disagreeable to you, as your

stuff the other night was to me: it is time, therefore, to stop its

career. You are naturally of a serious turn, and I have perceived ere

now that a tedious scene of trifling hath heated you as much as a long

walk usually does a fat man; but I take nearly the same vengeance of

you as Henry the fourth took of the duke of Maine: your sovereign also

will imitate the clemency of that best of kings. In like manner, I am

afraid lest, by virtue of your contrition and excuses, you should in

the end make a merit of a fault so fully repaired; I will therefore

forget it immediately, lest by deferring my forgiveness too long it

should become rather an act of ingratitude than generosity.

With regard to your resolution of renouncing your bottle for ever; it

has not so much weight with me as perhaps you may imagine; strong

passions think nothing of these trifling sacrifices, and love will not

be satisfied with gallantry. There is besides more of address

sometimes than resolution, in making for the present moment an

advantage of an uncertain futurity, and in reaping before hand the

credit of an eternal abstinence, which may be renounced at pleasure.

But, my good friend, is the abuse of every thing that is agreeable to

the senses inseparable from the enjoyment of it? Is drunkenness

necessarily attached to the taste of wine? and is philosophy so cruel

or so useless, as to offer no other expedient to prevent the

immoderate use of agreeable things than that of giving them up

entirely?

If you keep true to your engagement, you deprive yourself of an

innocent pleasure, and endanger your health in changing your manner of

living: on the other hand, if you break it, you commit a double

offence against love; and even your honour will stand impeached. I

will make use therefore on this occasion of my privilege; and do not

only release you from the observance of a vow, which is null and void,

as being made without my consent; but do absolutely forbid you to

observe it beyond the term I am going to prescribe. On Tuesday next my

Lord B---- is to give us a concert. At the collation I will send you a

cup about half full of a pure and wholesome nectar; which it is my

will and pleasure that you drink off in my presence, after having

made, in a few drops, an expiatory libation to the graces. My penitent

is permitted afterwards to return to the sober use of wine, tempered

with the chrystal of the fountain; or as your honest Plutarch has it,

moderating the ardors of Bacchus by a communication with the nymphs.

But to our concert on Tuesday; that blunderer Regianino has got it

into his head that I am already able to sing an Italian air, and even

a duo with him. He is desirous that I should try it with you; in

order to shew his two scholars together; but there are certain tender

passages in it dangerous to sing before a mother, when the heart is of

the party: it would be better therefore to defer this trial of our

skill to the first concert we have at our cousin’s. I attribute the

facility with which I have acquired a taste for the Italian music to

that which my brother gave me for their poetry; and for which I have

been so well prepared by you, that I perceive easily the cadence of

the verse: and, if may believe Regianino, have already a tolerable

notion of the true _accent_. I now begin every lesson by reading some

passages of Tasso, or some scene of Metastasio; after this, he makes

me repeat and accompany the recitative, so that I seem to continue

reading or speaking all the while; which I am pretty certain could

never be the case in the French music. After this I practise, in

regular time, the expression of true and equal tones; an exercise

which the noise I had been accustomed to, rendered difficult enough.

At length we pass on to the air, wherein he demonstrates that the

justness and flexibility of the voice, the pathetic expression, the

force and beauty of every part, are naturally affected by the

sweetness of the melody and precision of the measure; insomuch that

what appeared at first the most difficult to learn need hardly be

taught me. The nature of the music is so well adapted to the sound of

the language, and of so refined a modulation, that one need only hear

the bass and know how to speak, to decypher the melody. In the Italian

music all the passions have distinct and strong expressions: directly

contrary to the drawling, disagreeable tones of the French, it is

always sweet and easy, while at the same time lively and affecting;

its smallest efforts produce the greatest effects. In short, I find

that this music elevates the soul without tearing the lungs, which is

just the music I want. On Tuesday then, my dear friend, my preceptor,

my penitent, my apostle, alas! what are you not to me? Ah! why should

there be only one title wanting!

P. S. Do you know there is some talk of such another agreeable party

on the water, as we made two years ago, in company with poor Chaillot?

How modest was then my subtle preceptor! How he trembled when he

handed me out of the boat? Ah! the hypocrite! He is greatly changed.

Letter LIII. From Eloisa.

Thus every thing conspires to disconcert our schemes, every thing

disappoints our hopes, every thing betrays a passion which heaven

ought to sanctify! And are we always to be the sport of fortune, the

unhappy victims of delusive expectation? Shall we still pant in

pursuit of pleasure without ever attaining it? Those nuptials, which

we so impatiently expected, were first to have been celebrated at

Clarens; but the bad weather opposed it, and the ceremony was

performed in town: however we had still some hopes of a private

interview; but we were so closely beset by officious importunity, that

it was impossible for us both to escape at the same instant. At last a

favourable opportunity offers, but we are again disappointed by the

cruelest of mothers, and that which ought to have been the moment of

our felicity went near to have proved our destruction. Nevertheless, I

am so far from being abashed by these numberless obstacles, that they

serve but to inflame my resolution. I know not by what new powers I am

animated, but I feel an intrepidity of soul to which I have been

hitherto ignorant; and if you are inspired with the same spirit this

evening, this very evening I will perform my promises, and discharge

at once all the obligations of love.

Weigh this affair maturely, and consider well at what rate you

estimate your life; for the expedient I am going to propose may

probably lead us to the grave. If thou art afraid, read no farther;

but if thy heart shrinks no more at the point of a sword than formerly

at the precipice of Meillerie, mine shares the danger and hesitates no

longer. Be attentive.

Bab, who generally lies in my chamber, has been ill there three days,

and though I offered to attend her, she is removed in spite of me; but

as she is now somewhat better, possibly to-morrow she may return. The

stairs, which lead to my mother’s apartment and mine, are at some

distance from the room where they sup, and, at that hour, the rest of

the house, except the kitchen, is entirely uninhabited. The darkness

of the night will then favour your progress through the streets

without the least risk of being observed, and you are not unacquainted

with the house.

I believe I have said enough to be understood. Come this afternoon to

Fanny’s; I will there explain the rest, and give the necessary

instructions: but if that should be impossible, you will find them in

writing, in the old place, to which I consign this letter. The subject

is too important to be trusted with any person living.

O! I see the violent palpitation of thy heart! How I feel thy

transports! No, no, my charming friend, we will not quit this short

existence without having, for a moment, tasted happiness. Yet remember

that the fatal moment is environed with the horrors of death! That the

way to bliss is extremely hazardous, its duration full of perils, and

your retreat beyond measure dangerous; that if we are discovered, we

are inevitably lost, and that to prevent it fortune must be uncommonly

indulgent. Let us not deceive ourselves: I know my father too well to

doubt that he would not instantly pierce your heart, or that even I

should not be the first victim to his revenge; for certainly he would

shew me no mercy, nor indeed can you imagine that I would lead you

into dangers to which I myself were not exposed.

Remember also that you are not to have the least dependence on your

courage; it will not bear a thought: I even charge you very expressly,

to come entirely unarmed; so that your intrepidity will avail you

nothing. If we are surprized; I am resolved to throw myself into thy

arms, to grasp thee to my heart, and thus to receive the mortal blow,

that they may part us no more; so shall my exit be the happiest moment

of my life.

Yet I hope a milder fate awaits us; it surely is our due, and fortune

must at last grow weary of her injustice. Come then, soul of my heart,

life of my life, come and be re-united to thyself. Come, under the

auspices of love, and receive the reward of thy obedience and thy

sacrifices. O come and confess, even in the bosom of pleasure, that

from the union of hearts, proceed its greatest delights.

Letter LIV. To Eloisa.

Am I then arrived?----how my heart flutters, in entering this asylum

of love! Yes, Eloisa, I am now in your closet: I am in the sanctuary

of my soul’s adored. The torch of love lighted my steps, and I passed

through the house unperceived----Delightful mansion! happy place!

once the scene of tenderness and infant love suppressed! These

conscious walls have seen my growing, my successful passion, and will

now a second time behold it crowned with bliss: witness of my eternal

constancy, be witness also of my happiness, and conceal for ever the

transports of the most faithful and most fortunate of men.

How charming is this place of concealment! Every thing around me

serves to inflame the ardour of my passion. O Eloisa, this delightful

spot is full of thee, and my desires are kindled by every footstep of

thine. Every sense is at once intoxicated with imaginary bliss. An

almost imperceptible sweetness, more exquisite than the scent of the

rose, and more volatile than that of the Iris, exhales from every

part. I fancy I hear the delightful sound of your voice. Every part of

your scattered dress presents to my glowing imagination the charms it

has concealed. That light head dress, which is adorned by those bright

locks it affects to hide, that simple elegant dishabille, which

displays so well the taste of the wearer; those pretty slippers that

fit so easily on your little feet; these stays, which encircle and

embrace your slender----Heavens, what a charming shape! how the top

of the stomacher is waved in two gentle curves? luxurious sight! the

whalebone has yielded to their impression----delicious impression!

let me devour it with kisses! O Gods! how shall I be able to bear? Ah!

methinks I feel already a tender heart beat softly under my happy

hand; Eloisa, my charming Eloisa, I see, I feel thee at every pore. We

now breathe the same air. How thy delay inflames and torments me! My

impatience is insupportable. O, come, Eloisa, fly to my arms, or I am

undone! How fortunate it was to find pen, ink and paper! By expressing

what I feel, I moderate my extasy, and give a turn to my transports

by attempting to describe them.

Ha! I hear a noise----Should it be her inhuman father? I do not

think myself a coward----but death would terrify me just now. My

despair would be equal to the ardour which consumes me. Grant me, good

heaven! but one more hour to live, and I resign the remainder of my

life to thy utmost rigour. What impatience! what fears! what cruel

palpitation! Ah! the door opens! It is she, it is Eloisa! I see her

enter the chamber and lock the door. My heart, my feeble heart, sinks

under its agitation. Let me recover myself, and gather strength to

support the bliss that overwhelms me!

Letter LV. To Eloisa.

O let us die, my sweet friend! let us die, thou best beloved of my

heart! How shall we hereafter support an insipid life, whose pleasures

we have already exhausted? Tell me, if you can, what I experienced

last night? give me an idea of a whole life spent in the same manner,

or let me quit an existence which has nothing left that can equal the

pleasures I have tasted.

I had tasted bliss, and formed a conception of happiness. But, alas! I

had only dreamt of true pleasure, and conceived only the happiness of

a child! My senses deceived my unrefined heart; I sought supreme

delight in their gratification; and I find that the end of sensual

pleasures is but the beginning of mine. O thou choice master piece of

nature’s works! divine Eloisa! to the ecstatic possession of whom all

the transports of the most ardent passion hardly suffice! Yet it is

not those transports I regret the most. Ah! no: deny me, if it must be

so, those intoxicating favours, for the enjoyment of which I would

nevertheless die a thousand deaths, but restore me all the bliss which

does not depend on them, and it will abundantly exceed them. Restore

me that intimate connection of souls, which you first taught me to

know, and have so well instructed me to taste. Restore to me that

delightful languor, accomplished by the mutual effusions of the heart.

Restore to me that enchanting slumber that lulled me in your breast!

Restore to me the yet more delicious moments when I awake, those

interrupted sighs, those melting tears, those kisses slowly, sweetly

impressed in voluptuous languishment; let me hear those soft, those

tender complaints, amidst whose gentle murmurs you pressed so close

those hearts which were made for each other.

Tell me, Eloisa, you, who ought from your own sensibility to judge so

well of mine, do you think I ever tasted real love before? My

feelings, are greatly changed, since yesterday; they seem to have

taken a less impetuous turn; but more agreeable, more tender, and more

delightful. Do you remember that whole hour we spent, in calmly

talking over the circumstances of our love, and of the fearful

consequences of what might happen hereafter, by which the present

moment was made the more interesting? That short hour in which a

slight apprehension of future sorrow rendered our conversation the

more affecting? I was tranquil, and yet was near my Eloisa. I adored

her, but my desires were calm. I did not even think of any other

felicity than to perceive your face close to mine, to feel your breath

on my cheek, and your arm about my neck. What a pleasing tranquillity

prevailed over all my senses! How refined, how lasting, how constant

the delight! The mind possessed all the pleasure of enjoyment, not

momentary, but durable. What a difference is there between the

impetuous sallies of appetite, and a situation so calm and delightful!

It is the first time I have experienced it in your presence; and judge

of the extraordinary change it has effected. That hour I shall ever

think the happiest of my life, as it is the only one which I

could wish should have been prolonged to eternity. Tell me then,

Eloisa, did I not love you before, or have I ceased to love you since?

If I cease to love you! What a doubt is that? Do I cease to exist or

does my life not depend more on the heart of Eloisa than my own?

I feel, I feel you are a thousand times more dear to me than ever; and

I find myself enabled, from the slumber of my desires, to love you

more tenderly than before. My sentiments, it is true, are less

passionate, but they are more affectionate, and are of different

kinds: without loosing any thing of their force, they are multiplied;

the mildness of friendship moderates the extravagance of love; and I

can hardly conceive any kind of attachment which does not unite me to

you. O my charming mistress! my wife! my sister! my friend! By what

name shall I express what I feel, after having exhausted all those

which are dear to the heart of man?

Let me now confess a suspicion which, to my shame and mortification, I

have entertained; it is that you are more capable of love than myself.

Yes, my Eloisa, it is on you that my life, my being depends: I revere

you with all the faculties of my soul; but yours contains more of

love. I see, I feel, that love hath penetrated deeper into your heart

than mine. It is that which animates your charms, which prevails in

your discourse, which gives to your eyes that penetrating sweetness,

to your voice such moving accents: it is that which your presence

alone imperceptibly communicates to the hearts of others, the tender

emotions of your own. Alas! How far am I from such an independent

state of love! I seek the enjoyment, and you the love, of the beloved

object: I am transported, and you enamoured; not all my transports are

equal to your languishing softness; and it is in such sensations as

yours, only that supreme felicity consists. It is but since yesterday

that I have known such refined pleasure. You have left me something of

that inconceivable charm peculiar to yourself; and I am persuaded that

your sweet breath hath inspired me with a new soul. Haste then, I

conjure you, to compleat the work you have begun. Take from me all

that remains of mine, and give me a soul entirely yours. No, angelic

beauty, celestial mind, no sentiments but such as yours can do honour

to your charms. You alone are worthy to inspire a perfect passion; you

alone are capable of feeling it. Ah! give me _your_ heart, my Eloisa,

that I may love you as you deserve?

Letter LVI. From Clara to Eloisa.

I have a piece of information for my dear cousin, in which she will

find herself a little interested. Last night there happened an affair

between your friend and Lord B---- which may possibly become serious.

Thus it was, as I had it from Mr. Orbe, who was present, and who gave

me the following account this morning.

Having supped with his Lordship, and entertained themselves for a

couple of hours with their music, they sat down to chat and drink

punch. Your friend drank only one single glass mixt with water. The

other two were not quite so sober; for though Mr. Orbe declares he was

not touched, I intend to give him my opinion of that matter some other

time. You naturally became the subject of their conversation; for you

know this Englishman can talk of no body else. Your friend, who did

not much relish his Lordship’s discourse, seemed so little obliged to

him for his confidence, that at last, my Lord, slushed with liquor,

and piqued at the coldness of his manner, dared to tell him, in

complaining of your indifference, that it was not so general as might

be imagined, and that those who were silent had less reason to

complain. You know your friend’s impetuosity: he instantly took fire,

repeated the words with great warmth and insult, which drew upon him

the _lie_, and, they both flew to their swords. Lord B----, who was

half seas over, in running gave his ancle a sudden twist which obliged

him to stagger to a chair. His leg began immediately to swell, and

this more effectually appeased their wrath than all Mr. Orbe’s

interposition. But as he continued attentive to what past, he observed

your friend, in going out, approach his Lordship, and heard him

whisper: _As soon as you are able to walk, you will let me know it, or

shall take care to inform myself----You need not give yourself that

trouble,_ said the other with a contemptuous smile, _you shall know it

time enough----We shall see,_ returned your friend, and left the

room. Mr. Orbe when he delivers this letter, will tell you more

particularly. It is your prudence that must suggest the means of

stifling this unlucky affair. In the mean time, the bearer waits your

commands, and you may depend on his secrecy.

Pardon me, my dear, my friendship forces me to speak: I am terribly

apprehensive on your account. Your attachment can never continue long

concealed in this small town; it is indeed a miraculous piece of good

fortune, considering it is now two years since it begun, that you are

not already the public talk of the place. But it will very soon

happen, if you are not extremely cautious. I am convinced your

character would long since have suffered, if you had been less

generally beloved; but the people are so universally prejudiced in

your favour, that no one dares to speak ill of you for fear of being

discredited and despised. Nevertheless every thing must have an end;

and must I fear that your mystery draws near its period; I have great

reason to apprehend that Lord B----’s suspicions proceed from some

disagreeable tales he has heard. Let me intreat you to think seriously

of this affair. The watch-man has been heard to say, that, some time

ago, he saw your friend come out of your house at five o’clock in the

morning. Fortunately he himself had early intelligence of this report

and found means to silence the fellow; but what signifies such

silence? It will serve only to confirm the reports that will be

privately whispered to all the world. Besides, your mother’s

suspicions are daily increasing. You remember her frequent hints. She

has several times spoke to me in such bitter terms, that if she did

not dread the violence of your father’s temper, I am certain she would

already have opened her mind to him; but she is conscious that the

blame would fall chiefly on herself.

It is impossible I should repeat it too often; think of your safety

before it be too late. Prevent those growing suspicions, which nothing

but his absence can dispel: and indeed, to be sincere with you, under

what pretext can he be supposed to continue here? Possibly in a few

weeks more his removal may be to no purpose. If the least circumstance

should reach your father’s ear, you will have cause to tremble at the

indignation of an old officer, so tenacious of the honour of his

family, and at the petulance of a violent youth. But we must first

endeavour to terminate the affair with Lord B----, for it were in vain

to attempt to persuade your friend to decamp, till that is in some

shape accomplished.

Letter LVII. From Eloisa.

I have been informed, my friend, of what has passed between you and my

Lord B----; and from a perfect knowledge of the fact, I have a mind to

discuss the affair, and give you my opinion of the conduct you ought

to observe on this occasion, agreeable to the sentiments you profess,

and of which I suppose you do not make only an idle parade.

I do not concern myself whether you are skilled in fencing, nor

whether you think yourself capable of contending with a man who is

famous all over Europe for his superior dexterity in that art, having

fought five or six times in his life, and always killed, wounded, or

disarmed his man. I know that in such a case as yours, people consult

not their skill, but their courage; and that the fashionable method to

be revenged of a man who has insulted you, is to let him run you

through the body. But let us pace over this _wise_ maxim; you will

tell me that your honour and mine are dearer to you than life. This,

therefore, is the principle on which we must reason.

To begin with what immediately concerns yourself. Can you ever make it

appear in what respect you were personally offended by a conversation

that related solely to me? We shall see presently whether you ought on

such an occasion to take my cause upon yourself: in the mean time, you

cannot but allow that the quarrel was quite foreign to your own honour

in particular, unless you are to take the suspicion of being beloved

by me as an affront. I must own you have been insulted; but then it

was after having begun the quarrel yourself by an atrocious affront;

and, as I have had frequent opportunities, from the many military

people in our family, of hearing these horrible questions debated, I

am not to learn that one outrage committed in return to another does

not annul the first, and that he who receives the first insult is the

only person offended. It is the same in this case, as in a rencounter,

where the aggressor is only in fault: he who wounds and kills another

in his own defence, is not considered as being guilty of murder.

To come now to myself; we will agree that I was insulted by the

conversation of my Lord B----, although he said no more of me than he

might justify. Do you know what you are about in defending my cause

with so much warmth and indiscretion? You aggravate his insults; you

prove he was in the right; you sacrifice my honour to the false

punctilios of yours, and defame your mistress to gain at most the

reputation of a good swords-man. Pray tell me what affinity there is

between your manner of justifying me and my real justification? Do you

think that to engage in my behalf with so much heat is any great proof

that there are no connections between us? And that it is sufficient to

shew your courage to convince the world you are not my lover? Be

assured, my Lord B----’s insinuations are less injurious to me than

your conduct. It is you alone who take upon yourself, by this bustle

to publish and confirm them. He may, perhaps, turn aside the point of

your sword in conflict; but never will my reputation, nor perhaps my

being, survive the mortal blow you meditate.

These reasons are too solid to admit of a reply; but I foresee you

will oppose custom to reason; you will tell me there is a fatality in

some things which hurries us away in spite of ourselves; that we can,

in no case whatever, bear the lie; and that, when an affair is gone a

certain length, it is impossible to avoid fighting or infamy. We will

examine into the validity of this argument.

Do not you remember a distinction you once made, on an important

occasion, between real and apparent honour? Under which of these

classes shall we rank that in question? For my part, I cannot see

that it will even admit of a doubt. What comparison is there between

the glory of cutting another’s throat, and the testimony of a good

conscience? And of what importance is the idle opinion of the world,

set in competition with true honour, whose foundation is rooted in the

heart? Can we be deprived of virtues we really possess by false

aspersions of calumny? Does the insult of a drunken man prove such

insults deserved? Or does the honour of the virtuous and prudent lie

at the mercy of the first brute he meets? Will you tell me that

fighting a duel shews a man to have courage, and that this is

sufficient to efface the dishonour, and prevent the reproach, due to

all other vices? I would ask you, what kind of honour can dictate such

a decision? Or what arguments justify it? On such principles a knave

need only fight, to cease to be a knave; the assertions of a liar

become true when they are maintained at the point of the sword; and,

if you were even accused of killing a man, you have only to kill a

second, to prove the accusation false. Thus virtue, vice, honour,

infamy, truth, and falsehood, all derive their existence from the

event of a duel: a gallery of small arms is the only court of justice;

there is no other law than violence, no other argument than murder:

all the reparation due to the insulted, is to kill them, and every

offence is equally washed away by the blood of the offender or the

offended. If wolves themselves could reason, would they entertain

maxims more inhuman than these? Judge yourself, from the situation you

are in, whether I exaggerate their absurdity? What is it you resent?

That the lie has been given you on an occasion wherein you actually

asserted a falsehood. Do you think to destroy the truth, by killing

him you would punish for having told it? Do you consider that, in

risking the success of a duel, you call heaven to witness the truth of

a lie, and impiously bid the supreme disposer of events to support the

cause of injustice, and give the triumph to falsehood? Does not such

absurdity shock you? Does not such impiety make you shudder? Good God!

what a wretched sense of honour is that, which is less afraid of vice

than reproach; and will not permit that another should give us the

lie, which our own hearts had given us before?

Do you, who would have every one profit by their reading, make use of

yours: see if you can find one instance of a challenge being given,

when the world abounded with heroes? Did the most valiant men of

antiquity ever think of revenging private injuries by personal combat?

Did Caesar send a challenge to Cato, or Pompey to Caesar, for their

many reciprocal affronts? Or was the greatest warrior of Greece

disgraced, because he put up the threats of being cudgelled? Manners,

I know, change with the times; but are they all equally commendable?

Or is it unreasonable to enquire whether those of any times are

agreeable to the dictates of true honour? This is not of a fickle or

changeable nature: true honour does not depend on time, place or

prejudice; it can neither be annihilated nor generated anew; but has

its constant source in the heart of the virtuous man, and in the

unalterable rules of his conduct. If the most enlightened, the most

brave, the most virtuous people upon earth had no duels, I will

venture to declare it not an institution of honour, but a horrid and

savage custom worthy its barbarous origin. It remains for you to

determine whether, when his own life or that of another is in

question, a man of real honour is to be governed by the mode of the

times, or if it be not a greater instance of his courage to despise

than follow it. What do you think he would do in places where a

contrary custom prevails? At Messina or Naples he would not challenge

his man, but wait for him at the corner of a street, and stab him in

the back. This is called bravery in those countries, where honour

consists in killing your enemy, and not in being killed by him

yourself. Beware then of confounding the sacred name of honour with

that barbarous prejudice, which subjects every virtue to the decision

of the sword, and is only adapted to make men daring villains! Will it

be said this custom may be made use of as a supplement to the rules of

probity? Wherever probity prevails, is not such a supplement useless?

And what shall be said to the man who exposes his life, in order to be

exempted from being virtuous? Do you not see that the crimes, which

shame and a sense of honour have not prevented, are screened and

multiplied by a false shame and the fear of reproach? It is this fear

which makes men hypocrites and liars: it is this which makes them

embrue their hands in the blood of their friends, for an indiscreet

word, which should have been forgotten, for a merited reproach too

severe to be borne. It is this which transforms the abused and fearful

maid into an infernal fury: It is this which arms the hand of the

mother against the tender fruit of----I shudder at the horrible

idea, and give thanks at least to that being who searcheth the heart,

that he hath banished far from mine a sense of that horrid honour,

which inspires nothing but wickedness, and makes humanity tremble.

Look into yourself, therefore, and consider whether it be permitted

you to make a deliberate attempt on the life of a man, and expose

yours to satisfy a barbarous and fatal notion, which has no foundation

in reason or nature. Consider whether the sad reflection of the blood

spilt on such occasions can cease to cry out for vengeance on him who

has spilt it. Do you know any crime equal to wilful murder? If

humanity also be the basis of every virtue, what must be thought of

the man, whose blood-thirsty and depraved disposition prompts him to

seek the life of his fellow-creature? Do you remember what you have

yourself said to me, against entering into foreign service? Have you

forgot that a good citizen owes his life to his country, and has not a

right to dispose of it, without the permission of its laws, and much

less in direct opposition to them? O my friend, if you have a sincere

regard for virtue, learn to pursue it in its own way, and not in the

ways of the world. I will own some slight inconvenience may arise from

it; but is the word virtue no more to you than an empty sound? and

will you practise it only when it costs you no trouble? I will ask,

however, in what will such inconvenience consist? In the whispers of a

set of idle or wicked people, who seek only to amuse themselves with

the misfortunes of others, and to have always some new tale to

propagate. A pretty motive, truly, to engage men to cut each other’s

throats! If the philosopher and man of sense regulate their behaviour,

on the most important occasions of life, by the idle talk of the

multitude, to what purpose is all their parade of study, if they are

at last no better than the vulgar? Dare you not sacrifice your

resentment to duty, to esteem, to friendship, for fear it should be

said you are afraid of death? Weigh well these circumstances, my good

friend, and I am convinced you will find more cowardice in the fear of

that reproach than in the fear of death. The braggard, the coward,

would, at all hazards, pass for brave men.

_Ma verace valor, ben che negletto,

E’ di se stesso a fe freggio assai chiaro._

He, who affects to meet death without fear, is a liar. All men fear to

die; it is a law with all sensible Beings, without which every species

of mortals would soon be destroyed. This fear is the simple emotion of

nature, and that not in itself indifferent, but just and conformable

to the order of things. All that renders it shameful, or blameable,

is, that it may sometimes prevent us from well doing, and the proper

discharge of our duty. If cowardice were to no obstacle to virtue, it

would never be vicious. Whoever is more attached to life than his

duty, I own, cannot be truly virtuous; but can you, who pique yourself

on your judgment, explain to me what sort of merit there is in braving

death in order to be guilty of a crime?

What though it be true, that a man is despised who refuses to fight;

which contempt is most to be feared, that of others for doing well, or

that of ourselves for having acted ill? Believe me, he, who has a

proper esteem for himself, is little sensible to the unjust reproach

cast on him by others, and is only afraid of deserving it. Probity and

virtue depend not on the opinion of the world, but on the nature of

things; and though all mankind should approve of the action you are

about, it would not be less shameful in itself. But it is a false

notion, that to refrain from it, though a virtuous motive, would be

bringing yourself into contempt. The virtuous man, whose whole life is

irreproachable, and who never betrayed any marks of cowardice, will

refuse to stain his hands with blood, and will be only the more

respected for such refusal. Always ready to serve his country, to

protect the weak, to discharge his duty on the most dangerous

occasions, and to defend in every just and reasonable cause whatever

is dear to him, at the hazard of his life, he displays throughout the

whole of his conduct that unshaken fortitude, which is inseparable

from true courage. Animated by the testimony of a good conscience, he

appears undaunted; and neither flies from, nor seeks, his enemy. It is

easily observed that he fears less to die than to act basely; that he

dreads the crime, but not the danger. If at any time the mean

prejudices of the world raise a clamour against him, the conduct of

his whole life is his testimony, and every action is approved by a

behaviour so uniformly irreproachable.

But do you know what makes this moderation so painful to the

generality of men? It is the difficulty of supporting it with

propriety. It is the necessity they lie under of never impeaching it

by an unworthy action: for if the fear of doing ill does not restrain

men in one case, why should it in another, where that restraint may be

attributed to a more natural motive? Hence, it is plain, it does not

proceed from virtue, but cowardice; and it is with justice that such

scruples are laughed at, as appear only in cases of danger. Have you

not observed that persons, captious and ready to affront others, are,

for the most part, bad men, who, for fear of having the contempt in

which they are universally held publicly exposed, endeavour to screen,

by some _honourable_ quarrels, the infamy of their lives? Is it for

you to imitate such wretches as these? Let us set aside men of a

military profession, who fell their blood for pay, and who, unwilling

to be degraded from their rank, calculate from their interest what

they owe to their honour, and know to a shilling the value of their

lives. Let us, my friend, leave these gentlemen to their fighting.

Nothing is less honourable than that honour about which they make such

a noise; and which is nothing more than an absurd custom, a false

imitation of virtue, which prides itself in the greatest crimes. Your

honour is not in the power of another: it depends on yourself, and not

on the opinion of the world; its defence is neither in the sword nor

the buckler, but in a life of integrity and virtue; a proof of greater

courage than to brave death in a duel.----

On these principles you may reconcile the encomiums I have always

bestowed on true valour, with the contempt I have as constantly

expressed for the base pretenders to magnanimity. I admire men of

spirit, and hate cowards; I would break with a pusillanimous lover,

who should betray the want of a proper resolution in cases of danger,

and think with all the rest of my sex, that the ardours of true

courage heighten those of love. But, I would have such courage exerted

only on lawful occasions, and not an idle parade made of it when it is

unnecessary, as if there was some fear of not having it ready when it

should be called for. There are cowards who will make one effort to

exert their courage, that they may have a pretence to avoid danger the

rest of their lives. True courage is more constant and less impetuous;

it is always what it ought to be, and wants neither the spur nor the

rein; the man of real magnanimity carries it always about him; in

fighting he exerts it against his enemy; in company against

back-biting and falsehood, and on a sick bed against the attacks of

pain and the horrors of death. That fortitude of mind which inspires

true courage is always exerted; it places virtue out of the reach of

events, and does not consist in braving danger, but in not fearing it.

Such, my friend, is the merit of that courage I have often commended,

and which I would admire in you. All other pretences to bravery are

wild, extravagant, and brutal; it is even cowardice to submit to them;

and I despise as much the man who runs himself into needless danger,

as him who turns his back on what he ought to encounter.

If I am not much mistaken, I have now made it clear, that, in this

your quarrel with Lord B----, your own honour is not at all concerned;

that you are going to compromise mine by drawing your sword to avenge

it; that such conduct is neither just, reasonable, nor lawful; that it

by no means agrees with the sentiments you profess, but belongs only

to bad men, who make use of their courage as a supplement to virtues

they do not possess, or to officers that fight not for honour but

interest; that there is more true courage in despising than adopting

it, that the inconveniences to which you expose yourself by rejecting

it are inseparable from the practice of our duty, and are more

apparent than real; in fine, that men who are the most ready to recur

to the sword, are always those of the most suspicious characters. From

all which I conclude, that you cannot either give or accept a

challenge on this occasion, without giving up at once the cause of

reason, virtue, honour, and Eloisa. Canvas my arguments as you please,

heap sophism on sophism, as you will, it will be always found that a

man of true courage is not a coward, and that a man of virtue cannot

be without honour. And I think I have demonstrated as clearly that a

man of true courage despises, and a man of virtue abhors, duelling.

I thought proper, my friend, in so serious and important an affair, to

speak to you only in the plain language of reason, and to represent

things simply as they are. If I would have described them as they

appear to me, and engaged the passions and humanity in the cause, I

should have addressed you in a different stile. You know that my

father had the misfortune, in his youth, to kill his antagonist in a

duel: that antagonist was his friend; they fought with regret, but

were obliged to it by that absurd notion of a point of honour. That

fatal blow which deprived the one of life, robbed the other of his

piece of mind for ever. From that time has the most cruel remorse

incessantly preyed on his heart; he is often heard to sigh and weep in

private: his imagination still represents to him the fatal steel pushed

by his cruel hand into the breast of the man he loved; his slumbers

are disturbed by the appearances of his pale and bleeding friend: he

looks with terror on the mortal wound; he endeavours to stop the blood

that flows from it; he is seized with horror, and cries out, will this

corpse never cease pursuing me? It is five years since he lost the

only support of his name, and hope of his family; since when, he has

reproached himself with his death, as a just judgment from heaven,

which avenged on him the loss of that unhappy father, whom he deprived

of an only son.

I must confess that all this, added to my natural aversion to cruelty,

fills me with such horror at duels, that I regard them as instances of

the lowest degree of brutality into which mankind can possibly

descend. I look upon those, who go chearfully to a duel, in no other

light than as wild beasts going to tear each other to pieces; and, if

there remains the least sentiment of humanity within them, I think the

murdered less to be pitied than the murderer. Observe those men who

are accustomed to this horrid practice; they only brave remorse by

stifling the voice of nature; they grow by degrees cruel and

insensible; they sport with the lives of others, and their punishment

for having turned a deaf ear to humanity, is to lose at length every

sense of it. How shocking must be such a situation? Is it possible you

can desire to be like them? No, you were never made for such a state

of detestable brutality: be careful of the first step that leads to

it; your mind is yet undepraved and innocent: begin not to debase it,

at the hazard of your life, by an attempt that has no virtue, a crime

that has no temptation, and a point of honour founded only on

absurdity.

I have said nothing to you of your Eloisa; she will be a gainer, no

doubt, by leaving your heart to speak for her. One word, only one

word, and I leave her to you. You have sometimes honoured me with the

endearing name of wife; perhaps I ought at this time to bear that of

mother. Will you leave me a widow before we are legally united?

P. S. I make use of an authority in this letter, which no prudent man

ever resisted. If you refuse to submit to it, I have nothing farther

to say to you: but think of it well before hand. Take a week’s time

for reflection, and to meditate on this important subject. It is not

for any particular reason I demand this delay, but for my own

pleasure. Remember, I make use only on this occasion of a right; which

you yourself have given me over you, and which extends at least to

what I now require.

Letter LVIII. From Eloisa to Lord B----.

I have no intention in writing to your Lordship, to accuse or complain

of you; since you are pleased to affront me, I must certainly be the

offender, though I may be ignorant of my offence. Would any gentleman

seek to dishonour a reputable family without a cause? Surely no:

therefore satisfy your revenge, if you believe it just. This letter

will furnish you with an easy method of ruining an unhappy girl, who

can never forgive herself for having offended you, and who commits to

your discretion that honour which you intend to blast. Yes, my Lord,

your imputations were just: I have a lover, whom I sincerely love; my

heart, my person, are entirely his, and death only can dissolve our

union. This lover is the very man whom you honour with your

friendship, and he deserves it, because he loves you and is virtuous.

Nevertheless, he must perish by your hand. Offended honour, I know,

can be appeased only by a human sacrifice. I know that his own courage

will prove his destruction. I am convinced, that in a combat in which

you have so little to fear, his intrepid heart will impatiently rush

upon the point of your sword. I have endeavoured to restrain his

inconsiderate ardour, by the power of reason; but alas! even whilst I

was writing, I was conscious of the inutility of my arguments: What

opinion soever I may have of his virtue, I do not believe it so

sublime as to detach him from a false point of honour. You may safely

anticipate the pleasure you will have in piercing the heart of your

friend: but be assured, barbarous man, that you shall never enjoy that

of being witness to my tears and my despair. No, I swear by that

sacred flame which fills my whole heart, that I will not survive, one

single day, the man for whom alone I breathe! Yes, Sir, you will reap

the glory of having, in one instant, sent to the grave two unhappy

lovers, whose offence was not intentional, and by whom you were

honoured and esteemed.

I have heard, my Lord, that you have a great soul and a feeling heart:

if these will allow you the peaceful enjoyment of your revenge, heaven

grant, when I am no more, that they may inspire you with some

compassion for my poor, disconsolate parents, whose grief for their

only child will endure for ever.

Letter LIX. From Mr. Orbe to Eloisa.

I snatch the first moment, my dear cousin, in obedience to your

commands, to render an account of my proceedings. I am this instant

returned from my visit to Lord B---- who is not yet able to walk

without a support. I gave him your letter, which he opened with

impatience. He shewed some emotion whilst he was reading; he paused;

read it a second time, and the agitation of his mind was then more

apparent. When he had done, these were his words: _You know, Sir, that

affairs of honour have their fixt rules which cannot be dispensed

with. You were a witness to what passed in this. It must be regularly

determined. Chuse two of your friends, and give yourself the trouble

to return with them hither to-morrow morning, and you shall then know

my resolution._ I urged the impropriety of making others acquainted

with an affair which had happened among ourselves. To which he hastily

replied: _I know what ought to be done, and shall act properly. Bring

your two friends, or I have nothing to say to you._ I then took my

leave and have ever since racked my brain ineffectually to penetrate

into his design. Be it as it will, I shall see you this evening, and

to-morrow shall act as you may advise. If you think it proper that I

should wait on his lordship with my attendants, I will take care to

chuse such as may be depended on, at all events.

Letter LX. To Eloisa.

Lay aside your fears, my gentle Eloisa; and from the following recital

of what has happened, know and partake of the sentiments of your

friend.

I was so full of indignation when I received your letter, that I could

hardly read it with the attention it deserved. I should have made fine

work in attempting to refuse it: I was then too rash and

inconsiderate. You may be in the right, said I to myself, but I will

never be persuaded to put up an affront injurious to my Eloisa.----

Though I were to lose you, and even die in a wrong cause, I will never

suffer any one to shew you less respect than is your due; but, whilst

I have life, you shall be revered by all that approach you, even as my

own heart reveres you. I did not hesitate, however, on the week’s

delay you required: the accident which had happened to Lord B----, and

my vow of obedience concurred, in rendering it necessary. In the mean

time, being resolved agreeable to your commands to employ that

interval in meditating on the subject of your letter, I read it over

again and again, and am reflecting on it continually; not with a view,

however, to change my design, but to justify it.

I had it in my hand this morning, perusing again, with some uneasiness

of mind, those too sensible and judicious arguments that made against

me, when somebody knocked at the door of my chamber. It was opened,

and immediately entered Lord B----, without his sword, leaning on his

cane; he was followed by three gentlemen, one of whom I observed to be

Mr. Orbe. Surprized at a visit so unexpected, I waited silently for

the consequence; when my Lord requested of me a moment’s audience and

begged leave to say, and do, as he pleased without interruption. You

must, says he, give me your express permission: the presence of these

gentlemen, who are your friends, will excuse you from any supposed

indiscretion. I promised without hesitation not to interrupt him;

when, to my great astonishment, his Lordship immediately fell upon his

knee. Surprized at seeing him in such an attitude, I would have raised

him up; but, after putting me in mind of my promise, he proceeded in

the following words. “I am come, Sir, to make an open retraction of

the abuse, which, when in liquor, I uttered in your company. The

injustice of such behaviour renders it more injurious to me than to

you; and therefore I ought publicly to disavow it. I submit to

whatever punishment you please to inflict on me, and shall not think

my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. Then, grant me the

pardon I ask, on what conditions you think fit, and restore me your

friendship.” My Lord, returned I, I have the truest sense of your

generosity and greatness of mind, and take a pleasure in

distinguishing between the discourse which your heart dictates, and

that which may escape you when you are not yourself: let that in

question be for ever forgotten, I immediately raised him, and, falling

into my arms, he cordially embraced me. Then, turning about to the

company, “Gentlemen, said he, I thank you for your complaisance. Men

of honour, like you,” added he, with a bold air and resolute tone of

voice, “know that he who thus repairs the injury he has done, will not

submit to an injury from any man. You may publish what you have seen.”

He then invited all of us to sup with him this evening, and the

gentlemen left us. We were no sooner alone, than his lordship embraced

me again, in a more tender and friendly manner; then, taking me by the

hand, and seating himself down by me, happy man! said he, may you long

enjoy the felicity you deserve! The heart of Eloisa is yours, may you

be both.----What do you mean, my Lord? said I, interrupting him; have

you lost your senses? No, returned he, smiling, but I was very near

losing them, and it had perhaps been all over with me, if she who took

them away, had not restored them. He then gave me a letter that I was

surprized to see written by a hand, which never before wrote to any

man but myself. What emotions did I feel in its perusal. I traced the

passion of an incomparable woman who would make a sacrifice of herself

to save her lover; and I discovered Eloisa. But when I came to the

passage, wherein she protests she would never survive the most

fortunate of men, how did I not shudder at the dangers I had escaped!

I could not help complaining that I was loved too well, and my fears

convinced me you are mortal. Ah! restore me that courage of which you

have deprived me! I had enough to set death at defiance, when it

threatened only myself, but I shrunk when my better half was in

danger.

While I was indulging myself in these cruel reflections, I paid little

attention to his lordship’s discourse; till I heard the name of

Eloisa. His conversation gave me pleasure as it did not excite my

jealousy. He seemed extremely to regret his having disturbed our

mutual passion and your repose; he respects you indeed beyond any

other woman in the world; and, being ashamed to excuse himself to you,

begged me to receive his apology in your name, and to prevail on you

to accept it. “I consider you, says he, as her representative, and

cannot humble myself too much to one she loves; being incapable,

without having compromised the affair, to address myself personally to

her, or even mention her name to you.” He frankly confessed to me he

had entertained for you those sentiments, which every one must do who

looks too intensely on Eloisa; but that his was rather a tender

admiration than love; that he had formed neither hope nor pretension:

but had given up all thoughts of either, on hearing of our

connections; and that the injurious discourse which escaped him was

the effect of liquor, and not of jealousy. He talked of love like a

philosopher, who thinks his mind superior to the passions; but, for my

part, I am mistaken if he has not already felt a passion, which will

prevent any other from taking deep root in his breast. He mistakes a

weakness of heart for the effect of reason; but I know that to love

Eloisa, and be willing to renounce her, is not among the virtues of

human nature.

He desired me to give him the history of our amour, and an account of

the causes which prevented our happiness. I thought that, after the

explicitness of your letter, a partial confidence might be dangerous

and unreasonable. I made it therefore compleat, and he listened to me

with an attention that convinced me of his sincerity. More than once I

saw the tears come into his eyes, while his heart seemed most tenderly

affected: above all, I observed the powerful impressions which the

triumphs of virtue made on his mind; and I please myself in having

raised up for Claud Anet a new protector, no less zealous than your

father. When I had done, there are neither incidents nor adventures,

said he, in what you have related; and yet the catastrophe of a

Romance could not equally affect me; so well is a want of variety

atoned for by sentiments; and of striking actions supplied by

instances of a virtuous behaviour. Yours are such extraordinary minds

that they are not to be guided by common rules: your happiness is not

to be attained in the same manner, nor is it of the same species with

that of others. They seek power and pre-eminence; you require only

tenderness and tranquillity. There is blended with your affections a

virtuous emulation, that elevates both; and you would be less

deserving of each other if you were not mutually in love. But love, he

presumed to say, will one day lose its power (forgive him, Eloisa,

that blasphemous expression, spoken in the ignorance of his heart) the

power of love, said he, will one day be lost, while that of virtue

will remain. Oh my Eloisa! may our virtues but subsist as long as our

love! Heaven will require no more.

In fine, I found that the philosophical inflexibility of his nation

had no influence over the natural humanity of this honest Englishman;

but that his heart was really interested in our difficulties. If

wealth and credit can be useful to us, I believe we have some reason

to depend on his service. But alas! how shall credit or riches operate

to make us happy?

This interview, in which we did not count the hours, lasted till

dinner time; I ordered a pullet for dinner, after which we continued

our discourse. Among other topics, we fell upon the step his lordship

had taken, with regard to myself in the morning; on which I could not

help expressing my surprize at a procedure so solemn and uncommon.

But, repeating the reasons he had already given me, he added, that to

give a partial satisfaction was unworthy a man of courage: that he

ought to make a compleat one or none at all; lest he should only

debase himself without making any reparation; and lest a concession

made involuntarily, and with an ill grace, should be attributed to

fear. Besides, continued he, my reputation is established; I can do

you justice without incurring the suspicion of cowardice; but you, who

are young and just beginning the world, ought to clear yourself so

well of the first affair you are engaged in as to tempt no one to

involve you in a second. The world is full of those artful cowards,

who are upon the catch, as one may say, to taste their man; that is,

to find out some greater coward than themselves to shew their valour

upon. I would save a man of honour, like you, the trouble of

chastising such scoundrels; I had rather, if they want a lesson, that

they should take it of me than you: for one quarrel, more or less, on

the hands of a man, who has already had many, signifies nothing;

whereas it is a kind of disgrace to have had but one, and the lover of

Eloisa should be exempt from it.

This is, in abstract, my long conversation with Lord B----; of which I

thought proper to give you an account, that you might prescribe the

manner in which I ought to behave to him.

As you ought now to be composed, chase from your mind, I conjure you,

those dreadful apprehensions which have found a place there for some

days past. Think of the care you should take in the uncertainty of

your present condition. O should you soon give me life in a third

being! Should a charming pledge----Too flattering hope! Dost thou

come again to deceive me? I wish! I fear! I am lost in perplexity! Oh!

Thou dearest charmer of my heart, let us live but to love, and let

heaven dispose of us, as it may?

P. S. I forgot to tell you that my Lord offered me your letter, and

that I made no difficulty of taking it; thinking it improper that it

should remain in the hands of a third person. I will return it you the

first time I see you: for, as to myself, I have no occasion for it; it

is deeply engraven in my heart.

Letter LXI. From Eloisa.

Bring my Lord B---- hither to-morrow, that I may throw myself at his

feet, as he has done at yours. What greatness of mind! What

generosity! Oh how little, do we seem, compared to him! Preserve so

inestimable a friend as you would the apple of your eye. Perhaps he

would be less valuable, were he of a more even temper; was there ever

a man without some vices who had great virtues?

A thousand distresses of various kinds had sunk my spirits to the

lowest ebb; but your letter has rekindled my extinguished hopes. In

dissipating my fears, it has rendered my anxiety the more supportable.

I feel now I have strength enough to bear up under it. You live, you

love me; neither your own nor the blood of your friend has been spilt,

and your honour is secured; I am not then compleatly miserable.

Fail not to meet me to-morrow. I never had so much reason for seeing

you, nor so little hope of having that pleasure long. Farewell, my

dear friend, instead of saying let us live but to love, you should

have said alas! let us love that we may live.

Letter LXII. From Clara.